《Purple Days (ASOIAF)》


 Prologue: A Confused Hound.

    Blurb: 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 both 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!).Edit: Now with[/hide] a TvTropes page!


    Also on AH.com, though needs an account.


    Russian translation.


    Ukrainian translation.


    -.PD.-


    Prologue: A Confused Hound.


    Please note, this prologue was written almost 3 years ago, and the direction of this story (and thankfully my writing skills) have gone in different and, to my mind, better directions since then, directions that make shoehorning this prologue ahead a pain. As such, this prologue is NON-CANON to Purple Days, pending a rewrite. The themes visited here will be abundant in the chapters to come though, and the premise is still obviously the same.


    Sandor "the hound" Clegane had the shittiest job in Kings Landing if you asked him. Watching the arrogant little shit tormenting his little brothers, acting like he was already the godsdamned king already and mewling back to his mother at the first sign of trouble. Not that he really minded, it was more of an annoyance for him. After all, his prospects serving the Lannisters were good, the killing was good, and one day the little shit would be King.


    And, it wasn''t as if this job didn''t have its benefits. As Prince Joffrey''s Sworn Shield, it was his duty to follow him everywhere, which had let him enjoy the sight of the little shit being chastised and punished for acting like an idiot. It had been yesterday, 3 days after Jon Arryn''s death. Joffrey had refused to go to the North, shouting something about "Not wanting to even touch the northern savages", and things had only degenerated from there. Robert had been ready to strike the Prince, but a warning glare from Cercei had stopped him, instead throwing his cup of wine angrily to the floor and ordering Sandor to take Joffrey back to his room without supper. And so he had grabbed the little shit and dragged him back to his room, kicking and screaming at the "Injustice".


    Maybe the prospect of him being King one day was not a good idea after all¡­


    Sandor was about to continue with his internal ramblings, basking in the morning sunlight from the nearby window when a sudden, muffled scream reached him through the door¡­ from prince Joffreys room. He was probably screaming in rage at someone or something yet again¡­ though it was rare for him to do it in the morning¡­ Sandor didn''t even doubt for a moment his course of action, he was no Knight, no Lord, but he did still take his duty seriously.


    He busted into the room, drawing his sword and looking for assassins when he spotted Joffrey on the floor, breathing heavily, clutching his throat while he vomited bile over the floor.


    Must be poison, thought the hound, though it was strange, the prince had not eaten anything last night, and he had seen no servants going through the door. He quickly sheathed his sword as he helped Joffrey up, ready to take him to a Maester.


    In retrospect, it was then when things really stopped making sense to the Hound.


    "I''m okay Sandor, I''m okay" he said as he sat on his bed, taking deep breaths. The prince''s face was filled with despair, anger, sadness, loss and self-loathing all in quick succession. He grabbed his head, and took one last deep breath. "You''d think I would get used to this by now¡­ but it never gets any better" He snorted. "Not that I don''t deserve it¡­"


    The Hound''s stared at him, confused. He never calls me Sandor, he thought. Whatever indigestion had the Prince in this state, he didn''t want to touch it with a ten foot pole. Joffrey finally snapped out of his trance, letting his hands fall to his lap. "Clegane" He said as he nodded to him, "We''ve got work to do."


    With that said, he quickly stepped to his wardrobe, impatiently searching between all the fine robes and princely attires, finally getting out what he wanted. It was a set of riding leathers, hardy and confortable, but without any of the jewels and lions the Prince always favored. Without even calling for his servants as was his want, he quickly dressed himself, and strolled outside, only barely pausing by his bed chest and taking his dagger. He doesn''t even know how to use the godsdamned thing, thought the hound. Oblivious of his thoughts, Joffrey strapped the leather belt and sheath to his waist, quick as lightning and with no conscious thought, like a veteran.


    "Come on Hound" he said, with none of the usual viscous pettiness he so constantly used when referring to lesser people (which in his mind was all of them but his mother) as he walked out into the hallway.


    Suddenly left alone in the little shits room, Sandor quickly snapped out of his befuddlement and raced out, taking his place to Joffreys South-East. Watching the Prince was like watching another boy¡­ no, another man. He walked erect, with a confident stride that spoke of victory, but also of the struggle and loss that accompanied it¡­ It was no longer the arrogant strutting. Sandor didn''t know how to put it exactly, but, in a word, the Prince had overnight, somehow become a man.


    He strode briskly, like a man with a mission, briefly acknowledging the servants as he passed by them, full of trays of food or bundles of fresh clothes. Trays of food and bundles of clothes that barely managed not to hit the floor in a scandalous manner when the prince actually addressed the servants.


    "Arrel, Darrik" Said Joffrey, giving the befuddled servants carrying a large bucket of water a nod and a small smile, he didn''t even notice their confusion as he strode on, mind driven by some bizarre and obscure objective.


    Strange Joffrey, as Sandor was calling him in his head, had a plan. That much the Hound knew. He briefly stopped at intersections of hallways in the Red Keep, looking at each hallway, thinking as if trying to remember something, then continuing on. "Darrin" He muttered distantly as he acknowledged the queens chamber boy, deep in thought at yet another intersection. The Hound quickly reached out and prevented the chamber boy from falling over from the shock and more than a little fear. Usually, when the prince acknowledged your existence it was not a good omen. That, the smallfolk servants of the red keep had agreed unanimously years ago.


    Yet again, Joffrey didn''t even seem to notice that anything regarding his actions was supremely uncommon, and Sandor didn''t think this was all part of a deliberate cruel joke¡­ the little shit didn''t have the patience for it.


    After a minute standing in the hallway, way longer than at the other intersections, Joffrey finally decided and headed West. "This one, I think" he muttered. What he found however, was clearly not part of "The Plan" (It had acquired Capital Letters in Sandors head after the fourth hallway.)


    In front of Joffrey, was Princess Myrcella, eying him with a deep wariness and suspicion arising from years of torment. Joffrey didn''t seem to notice though; he seemed to be shaking slightly. "Myrcella" he whispered, a strangled, sad sound that Sandor didn''t think she heard. What happened next shocked the Hound again, even more so than all the other strange things happening today. Joffrey stepped forward and actually hugged Myrcella, clinging to her like a drowning sailor hugs some flotsam. Now, Sandor was no expert in family relations, he admitted that much to himself, but Joffrey seemed genuinely shaken and happy, maybe even joyful to see her. "I''m sorry, I''m so sorry¡­" He said, his mumbling muffled by his sisters hair.


    Myrcella however, didn''t have Sandor''s iron proof fa?ade. She was pale and shacken, white as pigeon drops and stiff as a board. She was probably expecting the other shoe to drop now, so to speak. Joffrey at last seemed to realize what was going on, and haltingly, almost against his will, separated from her. He looked at her face, then looked back towards Sandor, and slowly shook his head, as if to clear it. "My pardon Sister, I confused you with someone else" he said, trying and failing to sound cruel and disdainful, pulling a sad facsimile of his usual cruel and arrogant smirk.


    It didn''t fool Sandor, and it seemed neither did Myrcella. For Sandor that weak acting only served to permanently seal the idea in his head that SOMETHING was definitely WRONG. He had to fight the urge to draw his sword, his danger sense screaming at him at the sheer uncanniness of it all.


    The thing that stopped him for now was the Prince''s eyes, full of loss and self-loathing. He quickly continued on down the hallway, frequently wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Sandor could see they were wet.


    "We took a wrong turn Clegane, it was to the right" He said, more to himself than to the Hound as they reached another intersection and turned right this time. Sandor just followed him, mute and with his sword hand in the pommel. They finally stopped right besides the next intersection. Here, Joffrey peeked down the hallway, only to quickly retract his head and take a deep breath. It looked like he was psyching himself up for something. Finally, after about 4 minutes of this, he finally looked at the hound and looked at him in the eyes, "Clegane, whatever I say, don''t do or say anything, understood?" He said it with such a force of will, as if he expected no other answer, that dumbly nodding was the only thing the Hound could do. "This is a terrifying glimpse of the king he could be" The hound thought to himself.


    Then, Joffrey let out a long sight, and breathed for a final time. He then took off to the hallway, arrogantly strutting through it. Sandor followed him as he desperately tried to remember where they were on the Red Keep after all the turns. Almost as they reached the corner, Joffrey bumped with Lord Baelish. "Watch where you''re going!!" he screeched, and then stopped when he saw who he was talking to. "Ah! Lord Baelish, I was looking for my uncle Renly but maybe I can trust you too" Joffrey said as he looked up at Baelish.


    Baelish looked at Joffrey, a benevolent and curious smile adorning his face. "Trust me with what, my Prince?" he asked. "Arresting Varys of course! I want the traitorous bastard in the black cells now, he poisoned Lord Arryn!" he told him with his distinctly annoying twang, or at least tried too. It was a decent performance at non strange Joffrey, but he could see his heart was not in it. He gave the acting 6 out of 10.


    Lord Baelish looked frozen for a brief moment, then he recovered and unleashed his signature smile. "Ah, an interesting theory my Prince, but we can''t move against the Master of Whispers without evidence to back up your claim."


    Joffrey looked between annoyed and doubtful, and he seemed to think for a bit before he said "I will trust you with this Baelish, but don''t you dare betray me with this or I will have you executed." He said it not as a threat, but as a fact. He had started with the bluster but had naturally, towards the end become a simple statement of intent, something that apparently Joffrey didn''t want as Baelish was suddenly looking a bit doubtful with this whole endeavor, inspecting Joffrey more seriously this time.


    Strange Joffrey seemed to sense that Baelish was doubting his act with this faux pass, and quickly added "I have the evidence, and if you help me my Grandfather will shower you with gold" he said, reinforcing it with his nasal twang. It had looked a little forced, he didn''t know if Baelish would buy it.


    The na?ve statement didn''t seem to affect Lord Balish''s chain of thought, though it did serve to relax him somewhat to the boy. "He''s acting you idiot, he''s planning something" The hound thought to himself, but didn''t say anything. Baelish seemed to be struggling with himself, thinking about the possibilities and the outcomes and looking shrewdly at the Prince. Joffrey on the other hand looked totally like his usual self, looking back at the Mockingbird with a disdainful expression and a mounting incredulity that he wouldn''t be obeyed.


    Finally, it seemed the chance was too good for whatever schemes Baelish had planning, and finally nodded. "Can you show me the evidence? If its good we can get rid of Varys¡­ permanently" Said Baelish, struggling to contain a predatory grin at the sudden opportunity.


    Joffrey only seemed to think about it for a second before he nodded. "Where?" he simply asked. "I have a place where even Vary''s Little Birds won''t see us¡­ there''s a passage below the Royal library, past the cupboard that gives way to the red keep''s southern cliff, we can meet there."


    "Then do so" The Prince mewed more than commanded as he turned around and continued strutting down the hallway, Sandor in tow. He was liking this less and less¡­


    It was a brief journey to the Library, where Joffrey seemed to take a random, blank scroll from Grand Maester Pycell unoccupied study. He rolled it up and proceeded all the way down towards a hidden passage below the library, just as Baelish had predicted. Strange Joffrey hadn''t uttered a word to Clegane as he walked down the humid cave, towards the sound of the sea. He could already see the distant waves crashing downwards in a swirling vortex of fury. It was a long way down.


    There, finally, he turned around to face Sandor. "Clegane, stay in the shadows and watch that Baelish doesn''t bring any men. Unless he does, do nothing." He commanded. He mutely nodded again, despite his gut telling him to just get out of this.


    So, as Sandor settled himself on the side of the cave, beneath its great shadows, Joffrey stood at the cliffs edge, watching the waves. When he heard footseps down the path, Joffrey turned around and sneered. "Baelish, what took you so long!" he mewled.


    Lord Baelish smoothly reached him, offering his all-knowing smirk again. "I came as fast as I could after verifying the Eunuch''s whereabaouts, my prince. It seems he has not fled the Red Keep yet" he told him. "Good" Said Joffrey as he gave him the blank scroll "Here''s your evidence".


    Baelish took another step forward so that he could read it with the light of the day that filtered through the cave''s opening. He quickly lowered it however. "Whats --UGH" he grunted, as¡­ Joffrey extracted the dagger he had stabbed in Lord Baelish''s stomach. He barely had time to grunt again as a second after it had gone out, it came back in as Joffrey stabbed him again and again, each time with more fury and relish. "Fifty-fity Littlefucker, its always fifty fifty with you. Luckily, this time Fate has smiled upon me." He told him as he kept stabbing him in the gut again and again. Baelish seemed transfixed at what was happening. He opened his mouth to say something but found he couldn''t. Hell, Sandor knew something shady was going to happen, but he hadn''t been prepared for this. "You just can''t seem to resist the temptation of your greatest rival in the game gone" Joffrey said as he cleaned his knife on Lord Baelish''s thigh, who was now on his knees. "Goodby Petyr" Said Joffrey as he kicked him and sent him over the edge of the cliff, down towards the turbulent Narrow Sea.


    Joffrey looked downward, making sure Baelish was dead, then, slowly, the fury and relish that had taken him as he stabbed Baelish time and again seemed to seep out of him. He looked at his hands, which weren''t even trembling. He seemed to be eying them with a resigned disgust, and, Sandor suspected, a burst of self-loathing so hard he was surprised the Prince wasn''t vomiting again.


    He approached Sandor from the spot of the murder, sheathing his now clean dagger. "Its okay Clegane, he was the one who really poisoned Lord Arryn, or so involved in the plot it makes no difference. He was a wild dog--" he paused for a second "¡ªno offence intended. And a danger to the Realm. We shall all be better for it" he said as he stepped ever closer to him.


    Sandor kept his grip on the pommel. He couldn''t care less about the "Littlefucker" as Strange Joffrey had called him. He was wary not because of his murder, but because it was now apparent that Joffrey was not the same person that had gone to sleep last night. And now, looking at his eyes, he thought the boy had aged a thousand years on his sleep.


    If he was going to do anything about it, it would have to be now. He had just been witness to the murder of a Lord, and there was no telling what Strange Joffrey would do now. Sandor thought for a few moments, and Joffrey seemed content to let him.


    Finally, he grunted. "You try any shite like that again without telling me first and I''ll go straight to Robert, and screw all the gold in the Westerlands."


    Joffrey seemed satisfied with that answer, and nodded as if he was expecting it. "Good, thank you Sandor." He said while he walked away, back towards the Red Keep.


    The hound just shook his head. "Something tells me this is only the beginning".


    --PD¡ª


    Strange Joffrey had helped his servants stowing his stuff on board the chests and then on top the carriages. In truth Joffrey had done more to pack his stuff than the rest of the servants combined. They had been too shocked at the changed entity that was Joffrey, and had ended up packing less than a third themselves, which had of course made them even more scared in fear of retribution by the until last night cruel prince. Sandor wasn''t surprised though, not after the shit he had seen inside that cave. Sandor had resigned himself from it all, and had decided to watch everything as if it was all an incredibly interesting and insane mummers show.


    Strange Joffrey''s reaction to the King and Queen were interesting. With the Queen there was no sight of his usual mewlings, and he seemed unresponsive to her spoiling him. He did smile at her and the affection behind his hug had been both simple and real, which had left Cercei slightly disconcerted. His reaction to the King however, was even more different from the usual. Before today, and for the last years, King Robert and his Son had barely spoken to each other, considering they were family. Now though, he found them idly chatting about different types of warhammers and how to use them, a subject Strange Joffrey seemed to know about a lot, to his Father''s surprise. There was a distance however. Joffrey''s smile didn''t seem to reach his eyes, and he always looked a bit sad and disappointed after a small chat with Robert, which anyway were not quite so frequent.


    The preparations took three more days before the whole caravan was finally ready to depart Kings Landing, and 3 more because of the search for Lord Baelish. In that time, Strange Joffrey acted (for his now changed personality) relatively normal. However, on the eve of the third day, Sandor had accompanied him to the Royal Armory.


    The guards on duty had been surprised to see him there, as Joffrey generally didn''t bother them besides coming in here once a year to mess with a crossbow. They were even more surprised when Joffrey saluted them like old friends, names and all. They quickly unlocked the door and one of them accompanied the prince toward the weapon racks. Sandor thought he would have stopped by the crossbows¡­ he should have known better. He made a beeline for an arming sword that seemed to suit his height perfectly, and then took a well-crafted one handed axe, which he put on his belt. "You know how to use that thing?" Sandor asked, against his better judgment. Joffrey seemed to take it in good humour. "Want to test them out in the yard later?" he asked him with a knowing smile. Sandor could only nod and curse his big mouth.


    Finally, Joffrey led him and the guard towards a door in the back of the room, were several odd knickknacks that didn''t fit in the other categories were stowed. "I wouldn''t worry with this one''s m''prince, these haven''t been catalogued by the Master-at-Arms since the Mad King." Said the guard, eying the rusted morning stars and a couple of weird, broken, curbed swords.


    "Exactly, Theo. Imagine the treasures that could be buried in here!" Said Joffrey, amused as he dove right into the huge pile of junk. Sandor had the sinking suspicion the Prince knew exactly what was in that pile. After more than 10 minutes of searching, in which Joffrey repeatedly denied the guards offer to summon some servants to help with the task, he finally found what he was looking for.


    It was 2 sets each of 6¡­ throwing blades? Joffrey seemed happy, but not surprised to have found them, strapping the 2 sets to his riding leathers, one on his left side, and one on his right. "Did you know a Qohorik Merchant gifted this set to the Mad King, only for him to toss the poor sod into the black cells? Kings can be very fickle¡­" he said the last part mostly to himself, rubbing his face again before diving again in the pile of junk. Sandor would have asked him if he knew how to use the throwing knives, but then again had no intention in being a target for a "demonstration".


    Then, to everyone''s surprise, after 2 more minutes of searching, took out a Valyrian steel dagger. He promptly took its sheath and placed it on his belt, below his left throwing set and opposite to his axe. The arming sword he strapped it across his back.


    Sandor would have expected the sight of Prince Joffrey armed to the teeth and spoiling for battle an amusing one. It was not. Joffrey walked back and forth, tensing his muscles, accommodating the whole set as if he knew what he was doing. Finally, he nodded to himself. "I''m good, let''s go Clegane. Thank you Theo". He said, handing the guard a silver stag and promptly exiting the room.


    The guard stared at Sandor, incredulous. "Don''t ask me" he huffed, hurrying after his prince.


    -PD-


    Joffrey made good on his promise. They squared off in the training yard the next morning, clegane using a tourney sword instead of a training one to Joffreys insistence. He was armed with tourney arming sword.


    At the Master-At-Arms signal they charged. Sandor initially went at it slow, not wanting to leave the prince a cripple and his head on a pike above Maegor''s holdfast.


    That had been a mistake. In two moves Joffrey had him at his feet. "Come on Clegane, I promise not to maim myself." He said, reading his thoughts. With a grunt and a huff, the hound was back up, and he was not going to hold off now. At the signal, they clashed again, and to Sandor''s mounting disbelief, Joffrey was holding his own against him. He appeared to weave back and forth, attacking the joints in his armor with his arming sword, leaving painful bruises, attacking like lighting, not leaving room for Sandor to think. After withstanding the hurricane for hours, or it could have been minutes, the attacks started to come in slower as the prince''s body simply wasn''t used to this kind of punishment. Sandor was winning 5 bouts to 4, until the prince locked his blade with his in closed combat, jamming it with his own blade while he stomped hard on Cleganes feet. The entire maneuver took him by surprise, and his sword was snatched away from him, giving Strange Joffrey his victory. In the end it was a draw, 5 to 5. S?a??h the N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Prince Joffrey was a mess of sweat, ample bruises and hard breathing, but had an uncharacteristic smile on his face. "Ah Sandor, you''re always the best for getting back in shape" he gasped beteween breaths. One of his eyes was slowly growing smaller, pressed by the bruises around him, and he was bleeding from his sheen. Sandor cursed himself at the sight of blood.


    Joffrey however could have cared less, in fact it seemed he hadn''t even noticed it. He took a big gulp of water from his waterskin, "AAAAhhhh, A good fight Clegane, I really needed that." He told him. "I didn''t know you were so good" Sandor huffed, himself tired after the intense beating. It was strange, there were several moments that Joffrey should have pressed his advantage to win several of the bouts he had eventually lost. That could easily be attributed to lack of skill to detect them, but Sandor had seen Joffreys eyes. They had been looking straight at the spot that would have guaranteed him a victory, but he hadn''t taken them. Had he thrown some of the bouts? Why?


    The mystery that was Strange Joffrey seemed to intensify by the day, and the next events only made it grew.


    "JOFFREY!!" Screamed a female voice as a red figure dashed through the courtyard, and started calling for a Maester. It was Cercei.


    Shit. I''m dead. Was the only thought that crossed through Sandors head when the Queen looked at him with infinite rage. "Arrest him now!" she screamed as she pointed at him. Several of the redclokes that had been entranced watching the fight suddenly snapped out of it and moved towards Clegane, following their Queens orders.


    "Absolutely not! GUARDS, HOLD!" Shouted Joffrey. His voice carried across the courtyard like thunder, absolutely devoid of the old nasal twang and mewliness that had been so natural from the little shit. It was a command issued as if in the battlefield, the tone perfect for carrying itself through the song of steel and death.


    The guards stopped in their tracks. Technically the Queen outranked the Prince, but all their instincts were telling them to OBEY. That gave Joffrey the time he needed. "Mother" he said as he turned to face her. "I''m completely fine, I was just having a friendly bout with the Hound."


    "Friendly Bout?! You''re bleeding!" She said as she looked at his sheen. "Oh" Said Joffrey as he looked downwards, "Its just a scratch" He said. Cercei seemed dumbfounded, and Joffrey took the opportunity to lean closely and whisper something into her ear. It couldn''t have been more than two sentences, but the Queens expression went from enraged to considering, then a slowly building pride. "Well said my son" she said as she stood up. "But this is enough for today, and I still want Grand Maester Pycell to check that wound" she said as she, with one final glare towards the hound, left. "As you were" she ordered from the red keeps main gate, almost as an afterthought. The redcloakes visibly relaxed and backed off, eager not to tangle with the Hound and for a bad reason too¡­ besides, they had been having just too much fun with the bouts.


    -.PD.-


    When the search for Lord Baelish was called off, the caravan finally set out of Kings Landing, heading North. The rescue parties had started looking more like hunting parties, fueled by recent rumors about Lord Baelish''s involvement in the death of John Arryn. Rumors that coincidentally started amongst the Prince''s serving staff, Sandor noted wrily.


    The Prince had been busy those days. He had asked permission from his Mother to gather an official retinue for his to command. He didn''t know what he had said to her, but it had worked. The prince barely had permission when he stormed through the red keep, searching for a few servants by name, about 3 or so. He then did the same in the barracks and got a hold of 6 red cloaks. None of them had known the Prince, but you wouldn''t have known that from him. He greeted them as old friends and made it clear that he just expected all of them to do their duties as to the best of their abilities.


    The caravan settled into a steady routine as they journeyed north. The Prince and him would train in the morning, though never as hard as the first time, mainly focusing on fitness training as Strange Joffrey''s technique was excellent and somewhat unpredictable. It appeared to rely more on speed, agility and endurance than raw power, and it seemed to combine elements from regular knightly combat, water dancing, street brawling, and other influences he could not really pin point¡­ excluding one: His own. That particular revelation was like a brick to Sandors head. Joffreys footing seemed somewhat grounded in the Hounds own style, and his fighting style was liberally peppered with dirty moves that Clegane had thought up himself.


    He had taken more wine than usual that night¡­


    The subject of the Prince''s change in demenour had basically dominated the rumor mills amongst the soldiers and servants, and especially, to the Queens amusing disapproval, the imp. After training they would help his retinue packing everything and ride out. The Prince seemed to dislike the carriage, though somedays he would ride there with the Queen and his brother and sister. He rarely came out of it very happy. Sandor supposed it was because of the weariness with which his brother and sister regarded him, though that started to decrease by the time they crossed the neck. 3 weeks into the journey Joffrey would often ride his horse alongside the carriage, jesting and teasing Myrcella and often Tommen too, but with not a hint of cruelness, and even sometimes playing games with them on the stops.


    But that was later. The first week of travel Joffrey mainly rode with Tyrion, debating ideas and concepts that were admittedly beyond the Hounds understanding. He still remembered the imp''s first interaction with Strange Joffrey.


    "Uncle! Good to see you haven''t started your drinking binge without me!" he said as he just strolled into the imps tent the first day of the trip.


    "Nephew!" The imp smiled, though it didn''t reach his eyes. "I''ve got plenty of arbor gold here if you want to join in." he said, hefting a gold-yellow bottle. The imp eyed Joffrey warily but disguised it much better than Myrcella had a week ago. Joffrey didn''t know or didn''t care, as usual. He sat on a nearby stool as the imp served him some arbor gold in a cup. "Thank you Uncle. Robert won''t let me drink more than one cup, more than a little hypocritical if you ask me" He said, not gulping but slowly savoring the fine vintage "Clegane, don''t just stand there, grab a stool and get some wine" the prince ordered him.


    "I''m glad you like it. So, what can I do for you Nephew" Said the Imp as he handed a cup to Sandor. That seemed to take a bit of wind from Joffrey''s sails. He gave an uncanny self-depreciating smile, and snorted a short laugh. "Everyone reacts the same¡­" He said as he downed the cup with one gulp. As Tyrion refilled it, he continued. "What if I don''t want anything¡­ What if I just want some conversation with the smartest man in Westeros?". There was silence as Tyrions surprise manifested itself on the jug, spilling some of the wine in the prince''s boot. He didn''t seem to mind though. "Ah, where are my manners. Tyrion, for being a little shit towards you, I gift you this." He simply said, handing him a boxy looking bundle after he downed the refill in one go again.


    Tyrion was mute as he opened the package, not that Sandor blamed him. It was very amusing to see different people''s reactions to Strange Joffrey. "Into the Dragonpit: My experiences tending the Targeryen Dragons, by Grand Maester Mellos." The imp read out loud. "I believe you have been searching for that tome for quite some time uncle." Said Joffrey, sipping from his cup.


    "I¡­ I did nephew. You have my thanks for this. It must be the first time in a hundred years this book''s been read" he said as he stowed it away in his travel trunk. Joffrey snorted, "More like two days". The imp looked up in sheer disbelief "You''ve red it?"


    "Aye, my favorite part is when he talks about cleaning the scales themselves. Did you know they used specially made copper implements for it?" Joffrey said, extending his cup for a refill. "No, no I didn''t" Said Tyrion, more to himself than his audience as he absentmindedly poured some more wine into the Princes cup.


    Sandor looked down into his cup.


    It was already empty.


    "Ah, fuck it. Might as well" He thought as he motioned the imp with his cup.


    -.PD.-


    So, after training the caravan moved on, stopped for lunch where the prince dined with his family, then it was on the road again. In the evening the prince would talk with the imp about all manner of things, from books and tactics to rumors and politics. The prince seemed to genuinely enjoy the conversation, mostly letting Tyrion talk but adding insightful comments from time to time. The imp started enjoying it too, after the ice had been broken.


    It was by the fifth day of the first week however, that something that was definitely part of "The Plan" occurred. They had passed the Ivy Inn a day before, and the caravan was still somewhat settling itself on its rhythm. Joffrey had not started with training that morning, however.


    "Wake up Clegane, we''ve got a long day before us" he said as he shook the hound awake. Sandor didn''t know what hour it was, but the sun wasn''t even peeking through the horizon. He rubbed his eyes and almost batted away the Prince when something hot touched his hand. "Calm down Clegane, its just hot tea. He said as he went out of the tent. Clegane just shook his head and gulped the entire burning liquid in one swoop. He was instantly awake.


    He followed Joffrey out, were he had already saddled up both their horses. "Mount up and follow me" he said he passed the camp sentries and rode into the night. Cursing, Clegane mounted his horse and bolted after him.


    They rode through a small dirt path for a couple of hours before arriving at a sleepy village next to the God''s eye lake. Joffrey effortlessly navigated between the alleyways and stopped at the dock, securing his horse and jumping on a nearby row boat. "Come on Clegane! We haven''t got all day!... or night¡­ whatever." He said. Sandor just got in as fast as he could, curse the kid.


    As soon as he was in they set out, Joffrey manning both paddles. He offered a switch but Joffrey would have none of it. "Clegane, my endurance is so bad that if we had a battle tomorrow I would probably die. So I''ll take whatever exercise I can get!" he said with a snort of dark humor.


    Against his better wishes, the hound found himself talking "Probably" he said. Joffrey harrumphed "Not probably, definitively". They spent some time like that, rowing in a somewhat companionable silence interspread with small, sarcastic banter. "I guess we are not going fishing. So were exactly are you taking us¡­ Joffrey" (He insisted he called him like that.) "I''m awful at fishing" Joffrey said, shaking his head. "No, we are going to the isle of faces." At that, Clegane remained silent. Why here? As with all questions regarding Strange Joffrey, the questions only led to more questions.


    When they made landfall, Joffrey tied the boat to a conveniently placed tree, and set out, Clegane following him.


    They found a small dirt trail that let them deeper into the island. With each step Sandor took, the moonlight was harder to see. The foliage seemed to grow from all around them and weirwood trunks the size of horses dotted the pathway, each of them with its own face. Angry, sad, joyful, prideful, scared, happy. All possible human emotions had been painstakingly carved into them, tree after tree, the faces watched them. Sandor suddenly stopped. "Joffrey, we are being followed." He said, his hand slowly finding his way to his swords pommel. Joffrey seemed unconcerned however. "I know" he said as he set out again.


    They walked like that for another 10 minutes before they were finally stopped. A group of men was barring the way. They had long wooden staffs and wore ragged cloaks made of leaves. "What do you seek, stranger." Said the one in front. Sandor had been ready to draw his sword by now, but Joffrey put a hand on it and gave him a warning glance. He then took a step forward and nodded towards the speaker. "I am Prince Joffrey of houses Baratheon and Lannister. I come to speak with the keeper." He said.


    The men seemed to confer between themselves before they all nodded in unison, and made a tunnel between themselves. "Then go, Prince Joffrey of houses Baratheon and Lannister". The prince didn''t wait, with a curt nod a whispered thank you, he was through, Clegane in toe. He almost expected to have to say some bullshit like Sandor of house clegane or something, but without a word he was through.


    When they passed the men, they reached a clearing where a monstrous weirwood stood, its face simply indescribable. In front of its face stood a small man, maybe even a boy or a girl. When her face turned to them and caught a stray ray of moonlight, Clegane froze.


    It was a girl alright. It was fucking children of the forest. Her features were very rounded, and her eyes were comparatively big and expressive, they stood further apart than a humans.


    As Clegane froze, Joffrey kept walking like he was just getting some extra bread from the kitchens. Eventually he stopped at about 7 meters from it. She said something in a raspy language he couldn''t understand. He knew it definitely wasn''t valyrian or its descendant branches though, that he knew for sure.


    He knew he had to stop being surprised, but he coudnt avoid his jaw falling off when Joffrey knelt and said something in the very language the Children had spoken. He said it very slow, it was almost solemn. The Children seemed vaguely surprised when he was done, and she nodded towards the men behind them, who quickly took off in three different directions.


    Joffrey and the Children spoke for about half an hour, and then she was gone, calmly walking through the shrubbery and underbrush as it if was nothing. Joffrey then spent some time alone, touching the great heart tree with his bare hand. He seemed to be breathing very slowly, and when he opened his eyes he looked like he had shed a hundred years. He had a relaxed smile as he sat on one of the branches and motioned Clegane to sit with him.


    "Did you know that the Greenseers could talk with each other through the heart trees of weirwood forests?" He asked him. Clegane just shook his head "Where you talking with someone right now?" he asked him, willing to believe anything by now. The question seemed to take Joffrey by surprised as he suppressed a snort and a laugh "Unfortunately I''m no Greenseer, Clegane. It would make things much easier though." He said as he looked up towards the first rays of sunlight. "No, I just like the sound of the trees and leaves scuttling about with the wind. The small warmth of the weirwood trunks, the way even the animals of the forest somehow stay quiet around them¡­ I find they help¡­ center me." he closed his eyes then. "The Northmen say you can hear the voices of the old gods near the heart trees. Do you feel them Clegane?" he asked him without looking. Sandor closed his eyes, trying to listen to what the prince had said. The silence was kind of eerie, the way a slow, barely perceptible wind flowed through the clearing, the slow beating of the branches swaying. The weirwood tree branch he sat upon was oddly warm too. The wind sometimes took up speed, sometimes slowed down¡­ it was almost like¡­ someone was¡­--


    A loud thunk snapped him out of his pseudo-trance as he jumped up in alarm, only to find the men from before in three groups, each lowering an old but big, worn looking chest to the ground. Joffrey only opened his eyes once all three chests were on the ground. "Thank you" he told them as they nodded in return and went back to the forest.


    Sandor had just had enough. "Joffrey, what the hell did you tell the¡­ Children?!" he asked him with a glare. Joffrey seemed to think for a second or two before he nodded.


    He spoke as he stood up and went to the closest chest. "Keeper, I am Joffrey of Clan Lannister. The ancient enemy awakens once more. Keeper, in the name of the realms of men, I ask you to honor the pact."


    He stood in front of one of the chests as Sandor cleared his now dry throat. "What enemy?" he managed to get out.


    "The White Walkers" he said as he opened the chest. It was full of dragonglass weaponry, carved with the runes of the first men.


    -.PD.-


    After three trips, the hound and Joffrey had managed to carry all three chests towards their carriage. Just in time too, the caravan had been ready to go when they arrived with the third chest. When they had just finished loading, Tyrion had come around from behind the carriage, looking at the chests curiously. "Just what did you find in the forest, nephew?" he asked Joffrey. "Dragonglass weaponry capable of killing White Walkers, uncle." He told him as a matter of fact, not missing a beat and not even looking from the ropes he was tying around them. "Ha! I''m sure they''ll work on grumpkins and snarks too" Said Tyrion, though the jest sounded a bit shaken to Sandor''s ears.


    "Not that I could judge" Thought Sandor despairingly as he took a big gulp from his wineskin.


    -.PD.-


    The rest of the Journey North had been quite ordinary compared to that. At one point past Darry Robert had heard rumors of bandits and had taken a full 3 days to "hunt" them down. To his surprise Joffrey had accompanied him the full 3 days, but instead of talking with the king, he constantly looked at his uncle the Kingslayer, as if deciding whether to speak to him or not. In the end there were no bandits, only scared peasants, and the only conversation between the kingslayer and Joffrey was when both of them had been trying to fix the queens carriage, which broke down often.


    About three weeks later, they had reached Winterfell .


    -.PD.-


    As soon as Winterfell was within sight, the King and his party broke into a gallop, leaving the Queens wheel house and the rest of the convoy behind. Joffrey took after him in his own horse, Sandor hard behind him. When they reached Winterfells gate King Robert, who was already greeting Lord Stark''s household, turned back in surprise. "Ah, and this is my son Joffrey, Ned. Come on boy! This is the man who helped me win the rebellion, show him respect!" Robert bellowed. If Joffrey had offered some of his usual pettiness in that moment Sandor though Robert would have smashed him. He shouldn''t had to worry. Clegane had been living more than a month in the constant presence of Strange Joffrey, and he prided in the fact he could discern his expression better than anyone here. What happened next was definitely interesting.


    Joffrey got off his horse and greeted Stark, grabbing his forearm and nodding with a deeper respect and admiration he had ever shown his father, or in fact anyone Sandor knew. "Lord Eddard" he said, his voice strange.


    Lord Stark had looked a bit nonplussed at this, but greeted him back all the same. Joffrey saluted Lady Stark and then moved down the line of assembled Stark children, greeting each one of them in a different way, noted Clegane. Lord Starks first born, Robb, he shook his hand with respect, briefly exchanging a word or two Sandor couldn''t hear from where he was. At the sight of the beautiful redhead however, Joffrey''s features lightened up considerably, his smile reaching the relaxed state he had only otherwise seen in the weirwood grove. Lady Sansa was already turning a shade of red that complemented her hair, and it only deepened when Joffrey took her hand and gently kissed it. Lady Sansa seemed ready to faint at this, and fortunately the prince moved on to the next in line. Silly bird, thought Sandor, though Joffrey''s expression had been too genuine to be faked, he was sure of that.


    The next one was quite curious indeed. Joffrey seemed to eye the smaller girl with a mix of amusement and respect, before quickly taking her hand, kissing it, muttering "Lady Arya" before quickly moving to the next in line. Quite curious.


    The smaller kid he mushed his head and told him some kind of jape, which made the little one laugh, Rickon, if Sandor was not mistaken, something about a fleeing animal that just couldn''t get it in his head to run in a zig zag pattern.


    The other brother, Bran, he greeted amicably enough, with only a flash of ¡­guilt? Lingering in his features before he smoothed his face once again.


    The rest of the party was just now reaching the gates. It was going to be a long day, thought Sandor.


    -.PD.-


    The next week in Winterfell was an interesting environment for the study of Strange Joffreyness.


    With Lord Stark he frequently discussed about the old gods, sometimes inviting the Imp with him. Though often times Joffrey would walk alone with Lord Stark into the godswood of winterfell, pointing at the branches and speaking solemn words. With Bran and Rickon he didn''t interact too much beyond always scolding the first if he saw him climbing, and one time convincing him to let him teach the kid how to use throwing knives instead of continuing on one of his climbs.


    The spars in the training yard would often be against Rob or even Lord Starks bastard Jon Snow, who Joffrey frequently insisted accompanied them whenever they did anything. At the feast of the first night Joffrey had remarked aloud that it was strange he couldn''t spot Lord Stark''s second son, Jon. In the subsequent awkward silence Lady Catelyn had explained he was actually outside, preferring the fresh air. To that Joffrey had exclaimed that Jon must be a damn fool for missing such a great feast, and proceeded to go outside and somehow manhandle the Stark bastard inside, seating him beside him and continue eating and speaking as if nothing had been wrong, mostly talking to Jon about swords. Everyone else had been silent for about ten seconds, after which King Robert had exploded with laughter and shouted "MORE WINE!" after which things continued on as normal and angry Cercei found a kindred soul within angry Catelyn. Sometimes Joffrey collected Tyrion so that Jon and him could both speak to the imp between bouts in the yard. "The Broken Knights" Joffrey called the trio, to his great amusment.


    Robb he treated pretty much as Jon but without the closer familiarity. The most interesting ones were the sisters however. Whenever Strange Joffrey started to get too tense, he would walk Sansa through the castle and the forest. Whenever he was with her the relaxed smile from the isle of Faces would return, he would hold her hand like a lifeline and let her do most of the talking, with him gently interrupting from time to time, but mostly just going with the flow.


    More questions, par for the course with Strange Joffrey.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had made a bold announcement a couple of nights before the caravan was due back south. He had marched up to Lord Stark in the middle of a feast, me and the rest of his retinue carrying the three chests behind us.


    "Lord Stark, If I could? This will be short." He said. Lord Stark looked bewildered by the sudden appearance of the chests, but gave the go ahead all the same. The dining hall was quiet as Joffrey projected his voice to carry.


    "The men of the Nights Watch and the entire North have for millennia defended the northern frontiers of our 7 kingdoms. It has been a long watch, spanning thousands of years, yet with little gratitude from us Southrons."


    He stepped down from the dais and opened one of the chests. "It is because of this, and as a token of my appreciation, and really the appreciation of the whole South, that I''d like to give each Lord and Lady of the North, their sons and daughters, and the men from the Nights watch, a ceremonial dragonglass weapon." There where quiet, if somewhat approving murmurs at this. He continued as he shrewdly took a dragonglass dagger and let it shine beneath the light of the torches. His voice acquired a hard edge, a distinctive force, as he said his last piece. "Legends and Myths tells us these where one of the few weapons that could even hurt the dreaded white walkers, and that means the Watchers and Northmen of the Age of Heroes carried this hallowed blades with them. It would be an honor for all our Kingdoms if they were to return to such ancient tradition."


    "Lord Stark, would you accept this gift in the name of the North?" He asked him as sudden silence fell before the great feast.


    Lord Stark seemed to have a hard time repressing an approving smile as he stood up and proclaimed in a booming voice "I Lord Eddard Stark, Warden and Lord Paramount of the North, accept this beautiful gift in the name of all Northmen" He solemnly proclaimed.


    The crowd in the feasting hall barely waited a second after Lord Eddard accepted before breaking in wild cheers and applaus, mostly from the Northern hosts. All their starks and, really all the inhabitants of Winterfell were applauding madly, most of all little Arya, which, it seemed would now technically own her own dragonglass dagger.


    On the southern side, however, the reception was more contested. It was a mix of befuddlement and indifference, with exceptions like King Robert clapping wildly and proudly looking at his son, and Cercei''s demure clapping that didn''t hide a vaguely disapproving frown.


    Sandor just smiled, not even shaking his head, and clapped like any Northman. Being around Strange Joffrey guaranteed you something. You were never bored.


    And best of all, Joffrey was to have one of his walks with Lord Stark tomorrow morning, so he wouldn''t be needed. He thought about that for a while before downing his ale and shouting for another one.


    He shouldn''t have bothered, the Northman beside him practically chugged his own ale at Sandor, while heartily palming his back.


    Strange Joffrey, never go away.


    -.PD.-


    It happened when I least expected it, of course. So many things run like clockwork, time and again, both in Westeros and Essos.


    Wildlings were not one of them.


    "RAIDERS!!!" Shouted one of the Stark guards before he took an arrow to the throat.


    Ned and I had been "scouting" the wolfswood, talking about the old gods how they spoke to one in the heart trees if one just strained to listen. This time Ned had taken me for "the walk" way earlier than usual. Usually, getting Ned to defrost around me was the Others own task, sometimes literally, but in this life, Ned had quickly gotten used to his idea of walking about the wolfswood, trading ideas about ruler ship and duty, stories about the war, tips about raising children. Anything and everything. Mostly though, they walked in silence, playing the game of listening for the sounds of the wildlife, though not their presence, rather, their absence. When the forest was quiet, it usually meant there was a weirwood heart tree nearby. When that happened, they would find it, and try to listen to the old gods. Ned, as always, had found it a good idea and a profound spiritual journey.


    They had been alone, save for 3 winterfell men-at-arms and 2 of his redcloak retinue, Barret and Orland. The possibility of a wilding raid this far south had been negligle¡­


    They had stopped, noting the lack of sound. "Must be one nearby" said Ned, quietly as was his want. "I''m not so sure" I said, working through my staggering memories, searching for this location in the wolfswood. We were about 40 minutes walking distance to the north west¡­ past the great tree to the south¡­ then¡­


    I was sure.


    There wasn''t supposed to be any Heart trees around here.


    "RAIDERS!!!" Shouted one of the Stark guards before he took an arrow to the throat.


    A chorus of wilding screams erupted all around us as more than a dozen wildings rose from the floor and charged right at us. There was barely time to get our weapons out before they were upon us, and barely any time to think.


    "FOR WINTERFELL!!!" Roared Ned, taking out his longsword as he cut down one of the widlings.


    "FOR THE LIVING!!!!" I Roared as I took my hand axe and Whitebane, the perfect combination for a wight and White Walker attack. However, they would serve just fine against unarmored wildlings. I quickly gave myself to the frenzy as I parried blows with the long, beautiful valyrian steel dagger that was Whitebane, sometimes even cutting the wildling weapons in half. They never saw the steel axe that cleaved their skulls, so concerned and greedy they were over whitebane''s glossy white shine.


    For the Living, I thought, amused. I have been fighting the godsdamned white walkers too much time for my sanity. The wild melee quickly sorted itself out, with everyone except Nedd and me dead.


    "I think that was the last of them" Said Ned as he took deep breaths, looking shaken. I had been about to respond when I saw an archer behind Ned. "NED WATCH OUT!" I shouted tossing him to the ground at the same time a loud THUNG broke the silence of the forest.


    "Ow" I said, dumbly staring at the shaft protruding from my chest. I quickly snapped out of it as the archer took another arrow from the quiver. "No" I said as I grabbed a throwing knife from the only set I was carrying.


    The second arrow pinned my hand to my chest, only millimeters away from the throwing knive. "You''ve got to be kidding me" I muttered. It had to be a lucky shot. I looked back to the archer, he was staring dumbly at me before snapping out of it and going for another arrow. I grunted as I grabbed a throwing knive with my other hand and threw it towards the bastard. He barely managed to fire a third arrow before the knife flew true and took him in the eye.


    The third arrow got to me a millisecond after he went down. It impacted with a loud thud, though it curiously didn''t hurt as much as the others. Hmm, how about that.


    I fell on my knees, my blood pooling around me. I was about to fall chest first on top of the ground when Ned grabbed me. My head felt numb and wobbly, and some strange sort of buzz surrounded my extremities. "Hold on your grace!" said Ned as he slowly reclined me on the ground.


    The buzz was now quite loud, though not annoying, more like soothing. "Hold on Prince Joffrey" Ned seemed desperate, he must have figured out the wounds were fatal.


    "Oh.. Ned¡­ Must you¡­ always¡­ be so.. for..mal.." I struggled to say. I had to spit the blood that had been blocking my airways to speak well again.


    I needed to say something to Ned, something very important¡­ what was it..?


    "Ned¡­ Ned¡­ you''ve been.. like a Father to me" I coughed more blood. The purple would be coming for me soon. I had to be quick, I didn''t know why it was so important, but I had to say it. "I.. would have gone insane¡­ if after all this time¡­ you hadn''t been there¡­" the buzz was so loud I couldn''t hear his voice anymore. He seemed confused¡­ why? It was all so obvious¡­ "What I''m trying¡­ what ¡­ I ¡­loved you like a father that.. unlike him.. you where there¡­ for.... me¡­..."


    Old gods please... old gods please let me die¡­


    There was only darkness, but I could already feel the sour, pungent smell of the Strangler coming for me.


    I''ve paid for my sins a thousand times over¡­ There''s nothing else I can do.... I cant beat them¡­


    I started to choke. It was always the same, always the same. I could remember my second life, gods, how stupid and naive I had been¡­..


    Gasping for air in the darkness, I remembered¡­ I remembered my second life.


    -.PD.-


    He gasped, trying to claw his throat, purple filling his entire vision, as his throat crunched and collapsed upon itself. He needed air. He needed air. He NEEDED AIIIIRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP.


    I slid down the floor and vomited, the stench of disgusting vile clogging my airways. Taking deep breaths I tried to stand up as someone steadied me¡­


    I had died.


    My traitorous uncle had poisoned me in my own wedding! THE FUCKING TRAITOR.


    As my mysterius helper took me up, I looked at who he really was. The fucking Hound! Another fucking traitor that had abandoned me in my hour of need. They were specters, coming to torment me in the afterlife! I shoveled him as I run and run and run. I didn''t see were I was going until I bursted into the courtyard, were my Father---


    What.


    My Father was out in the courtyard, mounting his horse, ready to go on one of his stupid hunts.


    Beside him were people.. people that should be dead¡­


    There was a small patch of water on the courtyard, probably remnants from some rain. I took steps towards it, hesitantly, until I saw my face in the reflection. I was younger¡­ I ¡­had somehow come back in time¡­


    The reality of the situation was overwhelming.


    Then, I started laughing. And laughing. And laughing. I cackled like a maniac in front of the entire courtyard.


    I knew what was to come, and the TRAITOURS would fucking PAY!!! I WILL have ALL their HEADS!!!!!!!


    -.PD.-


    Hello SB! You may be familiar with the basic premise of this from Duesal_bladesinger''s excellent "Return of the King". I came up with the idea independently but never got around to write anything with it until I saw his take on it and inspired me, so kudos to him! Read it if you haven''t!


    Joffrey is in some deep shit, he just doesent know it. To eventually save the world it will take cunning, strength, carisma, skill, sheer force of will and MOST OF ALL a SHIT TONNE of character development.

 Chapter 2: Dealing with Future Traitors.

    Updaaaaate!Chapter Two: Dealing with Future Traitors.


    Joffrey had been escorted out to his room, despite his strident orders and incessant mewlings, and had finally been sedated by Grand Maester Pycell with milk of the poppy.


    When Joffrey had awoken he hadn''t been pleased to say the least, but he had decided to bide his time for the day¡­ and plan.


    There were two traitors that had ensured the downfall of Joffreys righteous reign. His evil uncle, Tyrion, and the Starks, particularly the wolf barbarian Robb Stark. The Arch-traitor Eddard Stark would die anyway at his command, but Robb Stark had made a mokery of his reign, winning victory after victory against the incompetent commanders of his family. Take those two out, and his Baratheon uncles would waste each other, leaving him to pick apart the winner like last time, and his reign would be unchallenged.


    Easy.


    But now he had to deal with the closest traitor, the freaking imp.


    Plan decided, the next day Joffrey went to Pycell''s study and found the doddering fool reading from some parchments. "Grand Maester" He commanded his attention.


    Pycell took an eternity lifting his chin to face him "Ahh, My Prince, I trust you are feeling better today?" He asked haltingly and almost in a whisper. How could someone so weak and frail hold the position of Grand Maester?


    "Yes yes, but that''s not what I''m here for today. You see Pycell, I was reading a story the other day about a man who got poisoned, and I''d like to know the poisons name. Its effects were like having one''s throat¡­" Here Joffrey staggered a bit. "Crushed, it wouldn''t let him breath¡­" Joffrey took some deep breaths before continuing "Do you understand?"


    Pycell looked at him vacantly, until he finally nodded. "Aye, It sounds like The Strangler, my prince."


    The Strangler.


    A shudder crossed Joffrey body. So that was its name¡­ the name of his killer.


    "Show it to me" He commanded. If he didn''t know any better he would a sworn Pycell was staring at him shrewdly, but the moment passed and his face deflated once more. "Of course my prince" he said as he stood up, went to a nearby cupboard and took out a small vial with a black-prurplish liquid. "This is it. Skilled alchemists in Essos can even make it in a solid, inactive state." He said as he showed him the vial.


    Joffrey eyed the vial greedily. But he wouldn''t take it now, that would be obvious. "Thank you Maester" He said as he took off, hiding his sadistic grin.


    -.PD.-


    The wait was almost too much for Joffrey, but he made it to the night, savoring the eventual, ironic death of the imp in his mind time and again. Finally at midnight, he got off his bed, still clothed, and took off in direction of the Grand Maester study. His unfaithful hound followed him. He would have ordered him killed already because of his betrayal, if he wasn''t so useful as a sworn shield¡­ for now.


    They got up to the tower and right to the Maesters study. There was only one problem.


    It was locked.


    Joffrey gave it a kick with all his force, only for him to rebound off and crash into the floor, clutching his knee and barely managing not to sob. "Hound.. I¡­ Take down the door!" He commanded.


    His unfaithful hound looked at him askance. "DO IT! Your Prince commands it!" he commanded once more. He would have the rabid dog flogged if he didn''t comply, but that would delay his plans for the imp¡­


    The hound snorted. "Fine, on your head be it." He said, resigned as he shouldered the heavy door. It took 3 times to finally break the lock, and the rightful King was in. Joffrey quickly went to the cupboard Pycell had shown him, and took the flask. "You''ll die like you wanted me to, treacherous imp" he muttered as he came down the stairs.


    They found two guards jogging up, probably to see what the noise was all about. "Return to your posts" he commanded them. The two guards looked between them, then back to their rightful King. "But m''prince, we heard¡ª" "I COMMAND you get back to your posts! Do I have to flog you to make you understand?!" Joffrey almost yelled at them. The guards seem to look at each other, probably cowering in fear, before excusing themselves and going back down.


    Joffrey kept going, straight to the Imp''s solar. "Wait outside Hound." He said as he entered without knocking, hoping to startle the traitor.


    "Nephew?" asked Tyrion, clearly startled. He was comfortably laying in a long chair in front of his desk, reading a book like always, surrounded by candles and a half full bottle of Dornish red. "Uncle" Said Joffrey, briefly savouring Tyrions surprise before taking a seat opposite to him. Oh if only he knew...


    "What can I do for you at this late hour? Shouldn''t you be in bed?" Tyrion asked him. Joffrey seethed with anger. He dares to insult his future king!?. He had to take deep breathes again to hold himself in check. Only the prospect of imminent revenge served to sooth him. "I''ve decided you shall keep me company now, uncle." He told him.


    The imp seemed a bit wary at this, eying him carefully. There was a minute or two of uncomfortable silence in which Joffrey twirled his fingers, trying to think something to say. Finally, the imp spoke. "Well then, I guess I better give you a cup, you didn''t take it from me though." He said as he refilled both his cup and an empty one.


    Perfect.


    They drunk from their cups, the silence heavier with each passing moment. Finally Joffrey made his move. "Uncle, what are those books?" He asked him. The imp seemed startled by the question, turning back to his small library behind him. Joffrey fumbled with the vial, trying to leave only a few drops, but his clumsiness ensured the whole contents of it were spilled on the cup. He sat back up quickly. "Well, yes¡­ they are books¡­ where you thinking about one in particular?" asked his uncle as he turned back towards him. "Uhh, No." He said. The imp raised an eyebrow, and grabbed his cup, looking at it curiusly. He then gave him a suspicious look after settling it down. The imp suddenly looked behind Joffrey, "Did you bring more people Nephew?" he asked puzzled.


    No no no if someone else came the plan would be ruined! He looked backwards, but spotted no one, the door was still closed. He sighed with relief as he turned back to the imp. "There''s no one there uncle, but enough of this!" It was time to end this. "A toast, for the Lannisters!".


    The imp was staring at him incredulous, before downing his cup in one fell swoop. "Aye, for the Lannisters¡­ Nephew".


    YEEESSS!!! Joffrey downed his cup too, though the wine was remarkably sour for his taste, he couldn''t care less, the traitor would die and he would see it with his own eyes. He could already fel the excitement take him, the same kind of excitement that seem to fulfill him, propel him when he dissected small rats, or later when he practiced his aim on the crossbow with the smallfolk.


    His uncle was staring at him, bemused. Joffrey let his cruel smile break out as he savored the moment.


    The Imp eyed him carefully as Joffrey coughed once, then twice, three times.


    "I know this flavor" He thought in mounting horror. He started grasping his throat, trying to get some air, but failing as his throat started to collapse upon itself.


    The imp''s bemused smirk seemed to seep out of him like rainwater. "Just what the hells were you going to feed me?!" He asked in a panic as he got from his seat.


    Joffrey couldn''t answer, he slid down his chair, convulsing on the floor, his hands tearing at his throat.


    "Oh no oh no oh no" Said Tyrion as he run towards Joffrey grabbing at his throat but clearly not knowing what to do.


    "HELP! Someone call the Grand Maester!" Tyrion shouted in a panic.


    Joffrey''s vision was turning black, but the pain was not like last time, last time when all was near black, the pain had started to fade away¡­ but here it was only growing stronger, it was as if his throat was a snake coiling upon itself, shredding his neck.


    The last thing he saw was the hound bursting into the room, trying to help the imp before shaking his head.


    "Shit... The Queen will have your head for this, imp."


    "But¡ªbut¡ªJoffrey was the one ---I--¡­" The imps panicky defense was the last thing he heard.


    Darkness


    Purple


    Pain


    Please¡­ AAAAAIIIIIIRRRRRR


    Joffrey had never felt such pain in his life.


    Help¡­


    -.PD.-


    He was throwing up on the floor¡­ again?


    He struggled as the Hound helped him up, and sat him on his bed. Joffrey shook his head, looking at his hands. He was¡­ alive again..? He had been killed and resurrected again?!


    Joffrey let that thought percolate throughout his head for a while. As the Hound arrived again, this time with the Grand Maester in tow, one thought dominated Joffrey''s mind.


    I''m Immortal.


    I''m fucking Immortal.


    He didn''t see it, but both the Grand Maester and the Hound were looking at his sadistic smile with differing levels of wariness.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey didn''t know why, but it seemed he had all the time in the world. If he was killed he would just come back again, and kill the ones that killed him, simple.


    With that in mind, Joffrey sat on his bed, pondering his plans. Trying to kill the Imp in such a convoluted way had been¡­ not the best idea he''d ever had. Besides, he could just wait until he was king, then he could just order him behead, or better yet, force fed the Strangler.


    Joffrey''s chain of thought was interrupted by an unwonted shiver.


    Well he would see how the imp would die, but that would come later. There was one person however who wouldn''t be in his grasp when he was crowned. The Arch-Traitor''s son, Robb.


    His last plan had failed because it was too complicated, he would go at it simple this time. He could hardly wait for the caravan to depart North¡­


    -.PD.-


    The journey North had been as boring and tedious as he remembered, possibly even more so. By the Neck, he could hardly restrain himself, wanting to shoot at every smallfolk farmer they passed. As it was he had quietly sneaked away at night and dissected a few rabbits he had managed to "acquire" from a nearby farm. It had worked, a little.


    When they reached Winterfell his fat Father had already gone to the wolf bitch''s tomb or whatever, and the Lady Catelyn was introducing her children to the rest of the Lannisters.


    Joffrey barely managed not to slap the traitors useless daughter, Sansa. To think that he would be required to act the "courting prince" again made his stomach curl. But he would bear it, all for the revenge. After all, it wasn''t too far now.


    The spineless bitch had been the same as last time, wooing and cooing at whatever fake flattery left Joffrey''s mouth. Margaerey had been a much better at pleasing him, her words always the right ones, praising him as was her duty. She was even more beautiful than the Northern whore. If she imagined Sansa was Maergery it made his duty a tiny bit more bearable. In truth he could hardly wait until the Tyrells smashed Stannis forces and brought him his prize.


    He had not been as¡­ hostile Joffrey guessed was the word, this time around. He had kept up to his good graces and acted like Mother had wanted him to, though it had been hard, and maybe a few of the northerns doubted something¡­


    In any case, it had been worth it. He had been watching Robb and his bastard brother Jon in the training yard. He watched as the bout ended, surprisingly, in the bastards favour. The boys heartily shook each other''s hands, jesting and laughing. A sudden stab completely unexpected pain seemed to claw at Joffreys heart for a second. Why couldn''t he have a family like that?


    Bewildered, Joffrey shook his head. Just as it had come, the feeling was gone. It was time. S?a??h the N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Robb entered the armory a few meters away from the training yard. Jon was following close behind, but Joffrey got to Jon before he entered. "Jon¡­ Your Father wishes to speak to you" He told him. The bastard looked at him a bit confused. Belatedly, Joffrey realized he hadn''t spoken to him before¡­ ever. Seeing Jon''s doubt, Joffrey insisted. "He said it was urgent, something about¡­" think think "Arya, I think was her name?". At this Jon was instantly alert "Has something happened to her?!" he asked Joffrey, shaken. At his shrug Jon took off in the main keeps direction.


    Joffrey nodded to himself, grabbing the crossbow he had left stashed right next to the door.


    Inside, Robb had already removed his armor and was cleaning his sword. "I''ll get you next time Jon, you''ll see" Said Robb, still giving him his back as he continued to clean his sword. Joffrey checked around the armoury¡­ there was no one. The crossbow was already cocked, and he carefully aimed it at Robb as he slowly walked forward.


    Don''t screw this up, don''t screw this up. He thought as he steadily got closer. 8 meters. 7 meters¡­ 6 meters¡­


    "Whats going on Jon? Intimidated?" Laughed Robb as he stood up and turned around, freezing at the sight of Joffrey with a crossbow aimed at his heart.


    Robb looked at Joffrey.


    Joffrey looked at Robb.


    The distance was 5 meters.


    THUNG


    The Bolt impacted Robb just above the heart, sending him crashing down against the sword racks behind him. Sudden sadistical elation filled Joffrey to the core of his being as he reloaded.


    "You really thought you could plan your treason just like that? Young Wolf" He said his name with all the sneer he could muster. Robb was trying to speak, but no sound would come out of his mouth.


    "Die Traitor!" Whispered Joffrey with all his being as he fired again, this time the bolt hitting Robbs head, leaving it a bloody mess.


    "ROBB NOOOOOO!!!!" Someone screamed. Startled, Joffrey turned around to see the bastard of Winterfell staring at Robb''s body, then at Joffrey.


    Jon roared as he took a sword from the racks and charged him.


    "I command you to stop!!!" Joffrey shouted, to no effect.


    "I-I-Im the prince!!!" He screamed as he dropped the crossbow and fumbled for a sword. He would have to hold until the Hound found him!


    Jon reached him just as Joffrey took a sword. He parried the first blow. The second blow chopped off his sword hand.


    Joffrey stared in mild incomprehension as the stump squirted blood everywhere. He looked at it for maybe 2 seconds before the bastard rammed his sword through his chest. He tried spitting at him, but his body was unresponsive¡­. He had been defeated like an infant.


    He could hear distant screams as the darkness seem to take him¡­ and a pungent, sour smell seemed to take a hold of senses.


    No¡­ no¡­


    He hadn''t even died by the Strangler this time, but he could feel its effects, crushing his windpipe and twisting his neck like a coiled snake. Air burned in his lungs as he drowned again, the piercing, jagged pieces of his traquea stabbing him from the inside.


    PAIN.


    UNBEARABLE PAIN.


    The purple consumed him.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 3: The Red Wolf.

    Chapter 3: The Red Wolf.-.PD.-


    Joffrey found himself being shaken around by the Hound. "Snap out of it!" Said the Hound as Joffrey kept shaking and breathing like a drowning sailor. Very slowly, Joffrey regained his senses.


    The pain¡­ its gone¡­


    He took a deep, shuddering breath as he got back up into his bead, dismissing the Hound. He anxiously rubbed the spot where the bastards blade had impaled him. Defeated like an infant¡­ The humiliation¡­ killed by a freaking bastard¡­ Joffrey felt his hands start to shake, and a red rage started to fill him. With a roar, he grabbed a nearby vase and smashed it across the wall, screaming. A couple of pieces from the vase cut his hands, and they were now bleeding all over the floor. He stared at them, confused. He''s sudden rages were strange, coming and going at his anger or at the sight of blood¡­ or sometimes with no reason at all. The pure thought of the bastard driving his sword through his belly, however, drove that sudden insight out of his mind as the rage took him again. He tried to upend his bed chest, but only managed to briefly lift it before it came crashing down, leaving his fingers full of bruises.


    "AAh" he mewled as he lost his balance and fell on his rear. Tears started to form on his eyes as the memories from his death, particularly the long eternity of pain that was the purple. I haven''t cried in ages, now is not the time, he said to himself. As he successfully contained them, a single thought dominated his head as he stared at his bloody and torn hands.


    "I am weak¡­" He whispered. The feeling of despair gradually made its way to another feeling Joffrey had not had in ages. Determination.


    No.


    He stood up, went out, and looked at the Hound. "Hound, I want you to teach me how to fight" he said.


    The Hound looked dismayed.


    -.PD.-


    After a quick detour to the Training Armory, dawn saw Joffrey padded up from head to toe in training armor, and wielding a training arming sword. Joffrey had been a terrible swordsman since basically forever, he admitted that. That''s why he had preferred the simple elegance and killing power of the crossbow. But now, one thing had made itself clear in Joffrey''s mind. In the Game of Thrones, nobody gave a crap about bodyguards and sworn shields. Take those away, and even a fucking bastard woth a sword could bring down a king¡­ but not for long.


    Joffrey was sure that after a few lessons with the hound, he would be ready to stand on his own without the need of the incompetents that surrounded him.


    Shifting inside the padded suit, and already filled with perspiration from the morning sun, Joffrey gestured Clegane. "Hound, is this really necessary?! It stinks in here!" he told him as he shifted uncomfortably. He snorted. "If I lay a scratch on you the Queen will have my head, so yes. Besides, if not you''d be kneeling over in pain at every blow" he said.


    Awkwardly shifting the training arming sword, Joffrey nodded then. "Fine then, just get on with it." He told him. "Right, first you got to work with your footwork. Footwork is one of the most important parts of swordsmanship, you get that right, you''re on the right path."


    "Footwork?!" Joffrey said, disbelievingly. "Aye, now I''m going to do a series of slow attacks on you, and I want you to bloody parry em the best as you can to see how far back we need to start".


    Should have taken two crossbows to that fucking armory in Winterfell, thought Joffrey as he wiped a bit of sweat from his face. "I''m freaking ready Hound, just get on with it!" he commanded.


    The Hound rolled his eyes and attacked him.


    Okay, this is easy. He thought as he parried the blow. The next one caught him in the arm.


    "OOUUU" He screeched as he fell on the floor, frantically rubbing his arm while the Hound looked on in disbelief. "Did that actually hurt you?" He asked, actually raising one of his half burnt eyebrows. Joffrey was on the floor, swaying lightly while he rubbed his arm again and again. "What does it look like you stupid dog!? Of course it hurts!!!" he nearly screamed at him.


    The hound shook his head slowly, and let out a long sight as Joffrey stormed off back to the Red Keep.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey was running, running as fast as his feet could carry him. But every time he got away from him, he was back at the armory, full of swords everywhere and nowhere to run. The bastard appeared from the shadows, licking his long, bloody wolf fangs. "You shouldn''t have done that Joffrey" He said as he took a sword from the stands. "Stop! My Father is the King!" screamed Joffrey as he looked for a way out.


    There was none. Only walls upon walls full of swords.


    "You shouldn''t have done that Joffrey" repeated the abomination as it kept walking towards him. "M-m-m-my Gr-g-grand-fa-father c-can re-re-reward- you!" he mumbled as he was finally cornered.


    "Grab a sword, Lannister." The abomination told him. Joffrey took one of the swords on the stands, clutching it with all his might and swinging it threateningly towards it. "Get away!"


    "Winter is Coming!!!" Said the abomination as it swung his sword in a horizontal blow right at Joffrey''s neck. Joffrey tried to parry but his sword only moved slowly, at a snails pace, slowly gowing up and up and the speed of an ant. Joffrey struggled with all his strength, but it wouldn''t go any faster.


    "Too slow" Rasped the thing as it made a deep gash on Joffrey''s neck, going all the way to his torso. The pain, oddly enough, didn''t hurt so much.


    It was the purple that seemed to surround him that drove Joffrey mad with despair.


    NO! Please NOOO! NOT AGAIN!!! He could already feel his neck twisting¡ª


    He awoke with a gasp, half expecting to find vomit all over the floor and the Hounds judgmental looks, but¡­ it was just his traveling tent. Joffrey took some quick breaths, and looked down. He was drenched in sweat. He made himself a ball and stayed there, unable to sleep throughout the rest of the night. When morning came, he stepped outside to find the Hound guarding his tent door. "Ho-Hound" He said, shaken. "Let''s c-continue the training".


    Clegane nodded.


    After the whole morning doing baby slow exercises, learning the basic stuff that apparently every lords son knew by 7, Joffrey was finally out of that fucking suit. Even with all the padding he felt like he had been trampled on by a pack of horses. He had ridden on his mother''s wheelhouse, and had thought about tormenting Myrcella before sleep claimed him. He was just too fucking tired to care.


    He decided he was going to bide his time in his fourth life. There was no sense in rushing things. After all, Joffrey thought, things had mostly been going his way up to his wedding. So it was kind of stupid to mess up things now. Sure the ''Young Wolf'' made a mockery of his reign and had been scarily closed to ending his rule¡­ but he had eventually won, hadn''t he?


    Sometime past the Neck, when the cold wind blew and Joffrey felt weak beneath all his furs, alone in his tent, he would wonder if that decision hadn''t come about because the thought of facing the Stark brothers again made ice curl at his stomach.


    -.PD.-


    He spent his time in Winterfell mostly on his own, avoiding everyone, especially the Starks. When the imp came to make him give his sympathies to Lady Stark after Bran''s fall Joffrey barred the door to his chambers, and no about of eloquent ramblings by the imp would budge him.


    Finally the week was over and they returned South, moving again at a snail''s pace and with the arch-traitor and its daughters in tow. The sudden impulses flared up every time he looked at Lord Stark, and he had to breathe deeply to avoid cleaving open his stomach every time he saw him. The traitor was already plotting his usurpation, waiting for his Father to die. The very thought of him talking every morning with his Father made his blood boil. It should be HIM, his SON that the King should laugh with in the morning, take hunting, and share tales. ME!


    He swallowed his anger. Soon.


    When they arrived at the Red Keep Joffrey continued as usual with his routine, with a few changes. He redoubled his training with the hound, and tried to spend as little time with the useless Sansa as he could. He couldn''t avoid the occasional flare up around her even so though. Sometimes he would leave her shaking her head in confusion and sometimes with tears. It served to conserve his patience.


    The day his Father died the Arch traitor made his move, as expected. Slynt and Baelish led the goldcloakes into the throne room and Joffrey licked his lips in anticipation.


    His brave mother ripped the fake Will as always, and Slynt''s men butchered the Traitors guards as it was destined. "Don''t kill Lord Stark, take him to the black cells!" He said as he stood up, just to make sure. He wouldn''t be having the traitor go the easy way¡­ oh no. Not even like last time. He had something special planned for the Arch-Traitor.


    As his men took him to the black cells where he belonged, Joffrey swallowed triumph.


    At last¡­ I am King. No one can stop me now.


    The throne felt as powerful as ever, and he felt his body had been molded for it.


    Tonight¡­


    -.PD.-


    He had been planning this for over a week, all preparations had been made, from the plaza in front of Baelor''s Sept, to the instruments needed for tonight. The bloodlust had been growing within Joffrey, and it took his entire will not to start cutting up someone up as he silently went down the stairs, only accompanied by the torturers assistant. They stopped in front of the traitors cell, and Joffrey smiled.


    Stark squinted at the torch in Joffrey''s hand. "V-Varys?" He asked.


    "No, Lord Stark. Me" Said Joffrey, the light of his torch casting a macabre light on the array of knives and torture implements carried in a tray by the torturers assistant.


    "P-Prince Joffrey? If you''re going to kill me, just do it" He said as he struggled to look at the tray.


    "Oh no Stark, Not this time" He said as he opened the cell doors.


    -.PD.-


    When morning came in the plaza of Baelor''s Sept, the crowds had already assembled. Bellow Baelors statue, in the small platform that elevated them from the smallfolk filth, sat Joffrey and the rest of the Lannisters, Clegane, Ser Illyn Payne, the members of the small council and Sansa, all either sitting or standing, waiting for Stark to arrive from the cells. Joffrey sat in the middle of them all, waiting.


    This will teach them. No one will dare rebel after this, there will be peace. My Peace.


    Both the crowd and the nobles on the dais looked puzzled as instead of Lord Stark, the guards carried a small wheelbarrow towards the execution spot. Curiosity turned to bewilderment when the stench of the wheelbarrow reached them.


    Joffrey stood up. "People of King''s Landing!" Joffrey proudly declared. "Lord Eddard Stark plotted to take my rightful throne before my Father''s body was even cold, and now he has paid the price ALL traitors will pay in MY reign!" Mother was looking at him then at the wheelbarrow, trying to understand, and his uncle Jaime was making his way towards it while Sansa just looked confused.


    "BEHOLD!" He shouted with relish as he gestured the guards.


    The wheelbarrow was tilted a bit forward, and the blanked on top of it was revealed. Inside was Lord Stark''s body¡­ What remained of it. His body was chopped up in pieces, his face a rictus of horror and pain. Cuts and torn flesh run through the length of body in a gruesome display of the fate of traitors.


    A sudden sob, so full of anguish and despair that Joffrey turned to look around, filled the square. It was made all the more harrowing by the heavy silence that had descended all over the plaza. Sansa seemed to convulse, on her knees, grabbing her hair and screamed and screamed and screamed.


    So distracted was Joffrey by the screaming he didn''t see at first the wild grey thing that scuttled up the steps, passing between his surprised red cloak guards. "FATHEEEER!!!" Screamed¡­ Arya? Joffrey fumbled for his sword as the mad girl with some kind of small rapier dashed between or underfoot his useless, gaping kingsuards.


    The hound''s lessons was the only thing that saved him.


    He parried one, two blows. The third one was not looking so good for Joffrey, but fortunately, all he had needed was to buy time. The Hound ruthlessly swung his massive sword and almost cut the Arch traitors youngest in half. Blood was sprayed all over the dais as the crazy girl gaped at her slit belly before she toppled backwards.


    Joffrey looked around as he sheathed his sword but the overall reactions were¡­ not what he had been expecting. Cercei was looking at Starks body and then at Arya with her hand in her mouth, silent. The guards all around were shifting uneasily inside their armors, swiftly eying the corpse before looking back at the crowd. All around Baelors Sept there was silent, broken only by the wailing sobs of Sansa.


    His uncle Jaime seemed to snap out of it. "Guards! Form square! Back to the Red Keep now!" he started shoving red cloakes around until them got into some kind of box formation. Jaime approached Joffrey. He was going to grab him by the shoulder, but seemed to think better about it. "My King, we better leave now." He told him, with a look of¡­ disgust?!


    After the reveal of Starks body Joffrey had been looking back and forth in mild confusion, nonplussed by everyone''s else''s reaction. After Aryas attack he had shaken out of it, but as they moved through the road back to the Red Keep, the smallfolk scattering out of the way, Joffrey looked at his hands, shaking his head. Why had been everybody so shocked?! Was it not a fitting punishment for a traitor?


    When they were safely back to the Red Keep, a still weeping Sansa was taken to her rooms, now crying for the death of her sister too Joffrey guessed. His uncle Jaime and her Mother were speaking quickly between themselves.


    "Lord Stark¡­ tortured to death and his youngest daughter slain in front of the entirety of Kings Landing. The seven hells will freeze before the Northerns make peace with us" Said Jaime as he gave Joffrey an inscrutable look. "Then we will have to win then, wont we Jaime" Said a shaken Cercei as she squeezed his hand.


    She turned to Joffrey. "¡­Sweetie, aren''t you feeling a bit tired after today? I think you need some rest." She said, signaling some guards. Joffrey nodded silently as the storm of strange feelings inside him only grew.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had spent the next couple of days mainly on his bedchamber, thinking. When he remembered what he did to Lord Stark he felt a fierce satisfaction. But when he remembered the moment he revealed his deed to King''s Landing, the ominous silence and the awful, damned howling sob of Sansa, he felt nauseous. He wasn''t sure at what exactly, but he hadn''t eaten for about 3 days after that, chucking back out even mashed food. Sometimes, when he had been little, he remembered he had gotten through similar episodes after his first times experimenting with rats¡­


    The worst were the dreams. He would hear Sansa''s sobs and screams again and again at the same time he tortured Lord Stark in the black cells. She sat on the corner not begging him to stop, just sobbing and looking at every detail of his Father''s torture with her wide eyes. He tried to stop, if only to make her SHUT UP, but his hands continued on with his bloody work despite all that he tried. He would wake up with a deep pit in his belly, his bedsheets drenched in sweat and his pillow wet and salty.


    After about a week of this, Joffrey decided to confront Sansa, in a desperate effort to figure out what was going on.


    When he inquired about her, one of his guards shook his head in bewilderment. "The Lady Sansa m''prince?" He asked without meeting his eyes. "She managed to slay 2 guards with a kitchen knife before she was taken down trying to ''scape m''prince" he hurriedly said as he moved on with his duties.


    Joffrey was left paralised.


    So the useless, simpering bitch had a bit of courage after all. He thought, strangely shaken by the tale. He shook his head. What the fuck did it matter anyway? The rest of the Starks would die and the Tyrells would arrive in a couple of weeks with his future Queen. He just had to wait.


    His mother had been serving as hand while he had been¡­ indisposed. She seemed to be doing a good job at it, so she let her be. After all, the court was boring. Sometimes simpering smallfolk would come to the castle begging for this or that. Joffrey would have had them shot with arrows or made to dance to his amusement if he had been sitting in the throne¡­ probably.


    -.PD.-


    It seemed his handling of the Arch-Traitor and the deaths of the two Stark girls had somewhat¡­ backfired.


    The traitor Robb Stark, called "the Red Wolf" by friends and foes alike had skipped the Twins and rushed south, not even bothered by the siege of Riverrun. He had clashed against his Grandfather Tywin in a surprise attack over the Green Fork. Details were sketchy, but some kind of trap had been sprung and the enraged Northern army had fallen like a pack of bloodhounds upon the Westerland armies. It was rumored Robb had drowned Tywin himself on the red stained waters of the Green Fork, but that was unconfirmed. The only thing for certain as of a few days ago was that his granduncle Kevan had been leading the shattered Westerland remnants in a fighting retreat south, and that Jaime, who had just taken control of the troops in Riverrun, had lifted the siege and was dashing to rendezvous with them at Castle Darry.


    The war was suddenly in the balance¡­ but he would prevail. The traitor Robb was as stupid as he was blinded by his "Honour" that had gotten him killed the first time around, Joffrey was sure it would get him killed this time too.


    -.PD.-


    The war was turning desperate.


    The Red Wolf had surrounded and annihilated Kevan''s remnants, and 4 days later he had stolen a march from Jaime and conducted some kind of mid night ambush that had taken heavy casualties from both sides. Joffrey lacked the military understanding to judge whether it had been a stalemate or a defeat to the Lannisters, but his uncle Jaime had been steadily retreating south since then.


    His mother had sent Lord Baelish to woo the Tyrell''s at about the same time she had done so in his first life, so they should still arrive to smash Stannis in the rear and hopefully push the mad wolf back.


    He was not worried.


    The pit in his stomach continued to grow larger with each day.


    -.PD.-


    Uncle Jaime was dead. As the shattered remnants of his army reached King''s Landing the details started trickling in. There had been a decisive battle at the outskirts of Brindlewood that had shattered his army, though the Northmen had taken heavy casualties and their advance had been stopped indefinitely. His uncle had not gone down alone, however. Lord Umbers son the Smalljon, Lord Bolton, Lord Karstark, Robb''s wolf and Theon Greyjoy had fallen by his blade, and the filthy savages were nursing their wounds well beyond Hayford Castle, but still too close for comfort to King''s Landing.


    His Mother had been despondent at the news, and had locked herself in her room and would not come out, which left the business of ruling to him. It was an incredibly boring task that had Joffrey wishing for his crossbow, but for some reason he could not summon the will to call for it.


    The Red Keep had been steadily turning itself into a lonelier place as time went by. The traitorous Hound had abandoned Kings Landing 2 days after the debacle with Lord Stark and the imp was rumored to have gotten his head chopped off at Harrenhall''s Heart Tree. Both his brother and sister had boarded a merchant ship headed for Lannisport, away from the fighting a week ago. And now with Jaime dead and his Mother not responding to anything¡­ it was eerily quiet around here.


    Even the Imp''s sarcastic banter would have been better than the silence¡­ and maybe drive back the increasingly terrifying nightmares he''d been having in his room, atop a ghostly quiet tower.


    -.PD.-


    His was probably going to die.


    Stannis had been disembarking men after men, even more than last time for some reason, and his ships crossed the Blackwatter Rush with impunity, bombarding the cities defenders. With no one else to do it, Joffrey had gotten to the walls to lead the defense, for all the good it had done.


    He had run around the walls commanding his men to fight for their King, but it hadn''t done much good. Stannis men kept climbing the ladders, and the battering ram had already taken down the Mud gate and there were scattered reports of the defenders breaking and running.


    "Where are you going!? Fight! Fight for your King damnit!" Joffrey screeched. No one even looked at him as the men started to run, each time in larger panicked mobs.


    Just when everything was ready to go to the hells, a horn sounded in the distance.


    Stannis men outside the walls turned around in confusion, and got a face full of Reacher knights on their rear, proudly carrying the Banners from the houses of the Reach, most prominently the Tyrell Rose.


    Joffrey was exhausted, but so relieved he almost peed himself.


    Yes! Baelish had done it again!


    He got down from the walls, knocked around a bit by Stannis men who were fleeing back to their ladders and had lost all cohesion. He finally got off the wall and walked towards the gates, ready to meet the Tyrells like a warrior this time and not like a cowering child like last time. The Reacher knights were going at a full gallop, not even slowing down as they reached the destroyed gates.


    Typical Reachers, always trying to steal the glory for their fucking songs, thought Joffrey.


    The knights passed the gates. They were not stopping.


    With a bellow, they shouted.


    "For King Robb!!!"


    "The Reach and King Robb!!!"


    "Red Wolf! Red Wolf!"


    "For Renly!!!"


    "For Eddard!!!"


    Mixed with the knights of the reach was the Northern army, and it was coming straight to him through the main road, tossing torches towards nearby houses and slaughtering the shattered City Watch.


    He madly searched for a horse as the knights steadily got closer. "You! Escort your king to the Red Keep now!" He commanded two red cloaks who were fleeing the Northmen and Reachmen. The two guards looked at each other in disbelief. "Escort you to the Red Keep?! The Red Wolf will kill us all!!!" shouted one of the guards.


    Joffrey was going to offer all the gold in the treasury when the other guard, who looked a bit more rational, took a closer look at him.


    "The King you say?!" He all but shouted.


    "Yes yes! Now, the treasury--"


    "Wyll! If we give the King to the Red Wolf maybe we''ll be spared!!!" he said.


    The other guard suddenly looked at Joffrey considering. "Get him!" he said as they both rushed him.


    "Wha¡ª" Joffrey didn''t even have time to speak before the two red cloaks grabbed him with their strong arms and beat him senseless with their sword pommels.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey''s vision slowly cleared as he came back to his senses. He could hear screams in the distance, and the air tasted of¡­ ash¡­


    Joffrey shook his head, but it only made the pain worse. Trying to open his eyes, he saw it was bright everywhere, but the illumination was not coming from the sky, it was coming from all around him. Joffrey tried to shake his head once more before his eyes finally snapped opened.


    King''s Landing was burning.


    He got up, and found out he was in the dais beside the Sept of Baelor. He was surrounded by, must have been a thousand Northmen.


    Near him was Lord Baelish, clad in simple armor with his trademark smirk, accompanied by Lady Stark and Loras Tyrell, both looking quite somber, not saying a word. And all looking behind him.


    He turned around and found Robb Stark.


    He was not the Young Wolf.


    The Red Wolf had a strange, almost vacant stare as he seized him up. He was full of ash and covered in blood¡­ and he had a sword in his hand.


    A sword he wordlessly tossed at Joffrey''s feet. Joffrey slowly took it, taking the guard position the hound had taught him. The Red Wolf extended a hand to his left, and a fierce looking woman in armor came out of the crowd, giving him a one handed mace. "L-l-l-look¡­ m-m-m-my.." Joffrey blabbered as he tried to come up with someone who could help him. His uncle Jaime couldn''t threaten anyone, he was dead. His Father the King was dead. His Grandfather was dead. Not even the Imp''s poisoned words could help him now, he was dead too.


    The Red Wolf however, didn''t even seem to be hearing him. He was walking at a sedate pace towards Joffrey, swinging his mace slowly from side to side. Joffrey was utterly terrified.


    Despite the Red Wolf''s slow strides, he somehow seemed to close the gap in two seconds. Joffrey attacked first, trying to cleave his head in half. Robb parried the blow and head-butted him in the face, sending Joffrey stumbling back as blood freely flowed from his nose.


    Robb stopped for a second, and then without a word, continued walking, same pace as before.


    Joffrey got up, and swung again, this time to Robb''s side. The mace blocked it, and smashed Joffrey''s fingers with the counterblow. He dropped the sword as he mewled with pain, stumbling back, trying to get away from the Red Wolf. But Robb kept moving, never saying a word, not taking his terrifying, empty eyes off him. He quickly catched up with Joffrey and swung towards his thigh with unbelievable force. The blow made a loud CRACKas Joffrey tumbled down, crying in pain. He could see his femur sticking out of his leg, and blood was squirting out of it like a fountain. Before he could even think what to say, Robb swung again, breaking his left arm, and again, exploding his right hand as he sought to shove Robb away. The burning Sept of Baelor cast an otherworldly shadow as the Red Wolf tilted his head down, looking straight at him¡­


    "He¡ª¡­ traitor¡ª" CRACK, "I''m so---" CRACK "---plea--" CRACK. Joffrey''s speech got more incoherent each time the machine like arm of Robb Stark descended with its mace, each time striking a different place. A dozen cracks later Joffry was a bloody heap on the floor, his mouth a bloody ruin. He couldn''t speak anymore, his teeth had been crushed.


    Still the Red Wolf said nothing. He kneeled down over Joffrey, and grabbed his throat with both hands. He squeezed and squeezed with unrelenting force, his lifeless eyes never leaving Joffrey''s.


    Joffrey struggled in vain, trying to get away from those eyes but every time he tried the Red Wolf would turn Joffrey''s neck and face him again. All while he kept squeezing.


    He squeezed and squeezed and soon the Red Wolf''s eyes and everything else turned purple as his throat continued to be throttled, even as his windpipe shattered again and again and a sour pain filled every nerve in his body.


    -.PD.-


    ----------------------


    Yes, now the rains weep o''er his halls


    And not a soul to hear


    Wonder if the Red Wolf got a song too...


    Though I think ashes would take the place of the rain...


    Remember to comment!


    S?a??h the Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Interlude I: The Prince’s Condition.

    Interlude I: The Prince''s Condition.The Hound had been guarding Prince Joffrey''s bedchamber like a gods damned stool for several hours now. He walked a couple of circles in front of Joffrey''s door, shaking his stiff muscles, and popped his head over the nearby window.


    Aye, must be midday already. The little shit sure''s taking his time getting ready, thought Clegane. Though it did bother him that the prince had called no servants to aid him with his clothes. He swore the little shit was incapable of tying his own breeches.


    Must have overslept, the Queen will not be too happy with me If I just leave him in there.


    Making up his mind, the Hound knocked the door.


    When nothing happened he knocked harder. "Prince Joffrey, its getting late and the family will be dining soon!" he said as he tried to suppress a sight. Sometimes his job wisent too much different than a nanny or a septa¡­


    Still no answer.


    Bastard must still be asleep.


    He opened the door (fortunately Joffrey had not locked it) only to find the Prince still in bed, looking at him. Why haven''t he just answered? Thought the hound, exasperated.


    Suppressing a scowl, the Hound tried his best to sound entreating. It was really the best to do if the prince was in a sulking mood and you wanted him to cooperate. "Come on Prince Joffrey, its almost bloody midday, you must be starving." He said. There, that ought a do it. The little shit hadn''t eaten last night, after all, he must be starving.


    Joffrey didn''t even twitch. His eyes were fixed on a grey spot on the wall, which contained nothing out of the ordinary to Clegane''s eyes. "Prince Joffrey¡­ My Prince¡­? Joffrey SNAP OUT OF IT!" The Hound almost yelled the last one, out of patience as he snapped his fingers a meter off Joffreys face. With the loud snap of his fingers he finally got a reaction.


    Joffrey seemed to rock back slightly as he turned his eyes to Sandor. It was then Clegane discovered this was no usual sulking. Joffrey''s eyes didn''t focus on the Hound, they seemed to stare a mile beyond him. Joffrey blinked slowly, as if only just now recognizing the Hound.


    He blinked a few more times. Finally, he whispered "Go away" in a weak tone as he slowly turned the other way and cuddled under his sheets.


    "¡­Prince Joffrey?" asked the Hound, now confused. It made him remember¡­ bad times. It made him remember the empty stares of the smallfolk villagers that had been brutalized by his brother¡­ the Mountain.


    Whatever the reason, he''d better tell the royal family sooner rather than later, so as to not be dragged into the whole affair¡­


    -.PD.-


    I can hope ,can''t I? The hound thought morosely.


    "What do you mean he won''t join us, Clegane?" Asked Cercei, her tone frosty. Pretentious bitch, thought Sandor as he kept a straight face. Not that Robert would be bothered about it, in fact he''d probably laugh out loud and maybe even reward him if he said it out loud. No, it was his liege lord Tywin Lannister that restrained Sandor''s behavior.


    The King didn''t seem to care, his meal had started an hour ago with strong ales and was now devouring the pork with such primal joyfulness it made the Hound a little envious. "It appears the prince is not feeling so well." Said Sandor shrugging his big shoulders, not an easy fit in armor.


    The Prince''s siblings appeared to have taken the news with relief and more than a bit of happiness. They were now talking amongst each other and laughing at this or that.


    Suddenly the King stopped chewing through one of his pork chops, and stared at Clegane. Sandor stiffened with attention, even well past his prime King Robert could project obedience when he wanted to¡­ Not that that happened often. "You think he''s still sulking because of the North?!" Asked Robert, dangerously. Even though he still hadn''t swallowed some of the pork chop on his mouth, Sandor thought he still looked dangerous. "I really don''t know, Your Majesty." Said Sandor, warily.


    "We can''t have that, not after yesterday." Said the king as he washed down the last of the pork chop with ale, and stood up. He scoffed at Cercei''s warning glare, "Seven Hells woman, I''m not going to strike him. I''ll just shake his lazy bum." He said as he strode out of the small dining room, gesturing at Sandor to follow him. "Might as well learn how to do it!" he joked as he slapped Sandor on the back. He could feel the blow even past the partial plate that protected his back.


    They quickly made it to his room, but the door was already open. They entered and found various servants, cleaning and servicing the room, though keeping well aware of the bed. In it, Joffrey was snuggled in a fetus position, his hands under his armpits. His frame was remarkably immobile, except from the small, low intensity shiver attacks he would suffer randomly.


    "Well, what''s going on?!" Boomed the King. The servants all stopped what they were doing and kneeled. "Your Majesty, we just found him like this, and he didn''t object to us carrying out our duties as normal" Said the oldest of them, eyes firmly on the floor. The King nodded "Aye, you seem to be doing a good job of it." He gazed as Joffrey''s form, again stuck looking another spot on the wall, this time in the corner.


    "If this is about not going to the North again your mother won''t protect you, boy." He said as he stood in front of Joffrey. "Joffrey¡­ JOFFREY!" He bellowed at close range. The boy hadn''t even noticed, he was staring at the spot on the wall, muttering something under his breath. "¡­not the ¡­ no¡­ no¡­." He mumbled. For the first time since Sandor knew him, the King looked somewhat worried, eying Joffrey. "Son?" he asked softly. Whereas Robert''s bellow didn''t have any effect, this soft whisper seemed to rock Joffrey, he seemed to start shaking and clutched his father''s arm like a limpet. "Please¡­ don''t let him¡­" he whispered weakly. A few minutes passed as Robert awkwardly petted Joffrey''s hair, and soon he was asleep.


    -.PD.-


    "It seems an indigestion coupled with fever, most likely, your grace. In fact--" Pycell droned on, babbling about the Prince''s supposed Illness. Sandor promptly ignored him, and it seemed Robert had too. He grabbed the hound by the shoulder as he guided him a few meters back, leaving only the Queen listening with rapt attention and anxiousness to the Grand Maester.


    "A fever¡­ bollocks!" Snapped the King. "I''ve seen that look before, and it was not because of an ''indigestion''" he snorted indignantly. The hound nodded for him to go on. He didn''t know why the King was telling him this, but he guessed he needed someone to talk about this. Prince Joffrey''s¡­ condition was oddly unsettling, something the Hound suspected should not be seen in children.


    "I saw it after the Battle at the Trident, whole packs of men wandering about without their wits, looking at something as if it were leagues away, or staring at their bloodied hands in confusion. I don''t like this Clegane, not one bit." He said, shaking his head. S~?a??h the ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Clegane stood silent, wondering. Could some Targeryen loyalist have gotten to the prince between last night and today?


    He didn''t think so.


    -.PD.-


    Anyone would have been pretty traumatized after the last loop, but with Joffrey''s weak psyche... well, something was bound to break. Dont worrythough, I''m sure he''ll recover in time for more interesting developments... mostly anyway.

 Chapter 4: An Offering.

    Chapter 4: An Offering.The purple kept twisting and twisting¡­ is it never going to end? Thought Joffrey, seeing the Red Wolf''s eyes as they glowed through the purple. He tossed and turned, until it was warm again.


    Warmth¡­


    He thought he''d never feel it after¡­ -- S?a??h the ???el F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Those eyes¡­ he felt the rhythmic hammering of the war mace striking his body again and again.


    He shivered again as he grasped his bed sheets closer, trying to repulse the cold invaded his body again, seeping like the chill at Baelor''s Sept. Had it been raining? He thought it had. Or he could have been confused¡­ the rhythmic pounding of rain bore a strange resemblance with--- Crack¡­ Crack¡­ Crack¡­ He shivered again, and he thought he could feel the pounding starting again. It was strange, hadn''t he died? He was safe wasn''t he?!


    He was not sure¡­ Joffrey thought he could hear the Red Wolf prowling nearby¡­ ready to¡ª


    "JOFFREY!" Snapped the hound. He rocked back, trying to shield himself with a sword that wasn''t there.


    Of course¡­ I''m in my chambers. Joffrey was mildly relieved at that, he was safe now¡­ right?


    "Go away" He told the hound. He was not sure, better to stay here in the warmth, better to be safe than sorry. He retracted himself below the sheets, sheltering below their confortable weight.


    It wasn''t enough though. The shakes kept coming each time he remembered¡­ each time he.. Those vacant eyes¡­ gods please make him stop¡­ CRACK. Gods please no- CRACK gods pleaseCRACKhelpCRACKnoCRACKnoCRACK---


    "Son?" Said a sudden voice. It was his Father. Father¡­ He''d protect him!!!


    He struggled to move his limbs, which felt oddly heavy, and grasped him with all his might. "Please make him stop Father, please make him stop!" He tried to say, but he wasn''t too sure of what came out of his mouth¡­ and the shakes were coming again.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey didn''t know how much time had elapsed in this life. His perception about it seemed to alter depending on the day. His routine though remained fairly constant. His Mother would help him eat his breakfast, after which the servants would clean his body, slowly as any sudden movement would make him screech in terror. The hound would then take him to the Red Keep''s topmost tower on the Grand Maester''s orders, so he could benefit from the fresh air. He was not too much time up there though, he tried to hold as long as he could but sooner or later he was back in his room, covered up in his bed. Some afternoons he would go back out at, strangely, his Uncle Jaime''s behest. They would talk as they walked through the battlements¡­ well, Jaime talked, he just bobbed his head, glad that his voice was drowning the sound of King''s Landing burning to ash. Night was both his favorite and most terrifying time. He would lay on his bed, getting more agitated by the minute, anxiously waiting¡­


    Until she finally arrived. His Mother would pet his head and sing him meaningless songs, cuddled safe with him under the bed sheets¡­ it was the only way he could sleep.


    As the days and months passed by, Joffrey liked his new existence. Things had been¡­ complicated before¡­ painful. It was in this state of safety that reality came crashing back.


    His Mother was here again. She didn''t have to help him eat any more, Joffrey was capable of that now. It had been somewhat shameful now that he thought about it, not being able to eat one''s own supper¡­ Still, he appreciated it when she still came, it made him feel more¡­ focused, he guessed.


    "Joffrey, my son, I need you to get dressed now." She said as several, nervous looking servants entered and starting clothing him with his princely robes. Joffrey started breathing a bit more rapidly. "Mother¡­ W-What''s going on?" He asked her.


    She smiled as she touched his head. "Just some courtly business, we have to pass sentence on some criminals now, you see Joffrey?" She told him gently. Joffrey nodded dumbly as the Hound escorted him to a carriage by the Red Keep''s gate. He started to shake again as they departed through the crowded streets of King''s Landing. He hadn''t left the red Keep in¡­ Years, he was sure of it.


    As they came to a stop, the Hound escorted him up the steps to the¡­ dais above the plaza, right in front of Baelor''s Sept. Where Eddard Stark lied kneeling and chained. Oh no, it''s happening again.


    He wanted to scream, run away, but his traitorous legs and the Hound''s firm grip kept him going towards the makeshift throne.


    Everyone was there. The small council, the guards, his mother. Even Sansa and¡­ Bran Stark?! That shook him out of his cloud like trance, grounding him back to Planetos.


    The crowd was booing as Eddard Stark confessed his treason. "¡ªusurp the throne from my rightful King¡ª" Stark said as Joffrey franticly shook his head. What had happened last time?! His memory was sluggish and slow, but he remembered. Lord Stark''s death¡­ the disaster at the Green Ford¡­ the Red Wolf¡­ Crack.


    "In the name of King Joffrey, first of his name--" His mother was passing Lord Stark''s sentence! He jumped out of his throne. By the seven he had to stop this, lest the abomination get close to him again and King''s Landing burn to ash once more. "L-lord E-e-eddard Stark¡­" What to say what to say! Gods, couldn''t the traitorous bastard and his ilk just stay away?!!?


    That''s it!


    "B-by the l-love my F-father held for y-you¡­" He could feel his guts twitching at the thought of what he was about to do. Anything to get away from the Red Wolf.


    "¡­ I banish y-you and your family to the North, n-never to return again in y-y-y-your l-l-l-life" ¨Che finished lamely. His mother was already making his way to him, gesturing at the Red Cloaks to stop Lord Stark. The sight of his mother shamelessly countermanding his orders in plain sight brought a bit of his older self back, filled with wrath. "O-obey your K-king! Release Lord Stark and his f-family immediately!" He ordered. His startled guards obeyed their King, and Cercei was silent, lest the people see their King ordered about.


    Sansa cried with joy as she hugged a befuddled Lord Stark, Bran close behind, glaring at the Lannisters and trying to hold back tears. As a bewildered Lord Stark made its way through the booing smallfolk crowd, a small grey thing jumped him from the side. Eddard too started crying as he recognized the youngest Stark girl. Right, that was the one that almost killed me. He thought.


    "Hound, you are to make sure all the Starks leave King''s Landing and return North safely. Your King commands you!" he told him. The hound nodded warily, leaping out of the dais and following the Starks. That way the smallfolk or anybody else wouldn''t get any ideas.


    As everyone else made its way back to the Red Keep, he spotted his mother and his uncle speaking in hushed tones. He couldn''t hear them, but the familiar sight gave him chills. Hope the fucking Starks stay in the North¡­ as much as they deserve to die, its better this way.


    Yes, let his family mutter all they want. They didn''t know it but he''d just saved them from the Red Wolf.


    -.PD.-


    The next weeks Joffrey slowly came back to his older self. He even started to hold court occasionally, as boring and useless as that was. Still, there were fun moments. Like now for example, with this bard¡­ what was his name? He didn''t care anyway. The one that had jested about his Father and Mother, this time when he ended his performance he didn''t give him the choice between his hands and his tongue, he just ordered Ser Illyn to take to cut off his right hand. Served him right¡­ He chuckled at the pun as they carried away his broken form.


    He almost missed tormenting Sansa, but even the thought of her brought bad, Red flashbacks, so maybe it was all to the good.


    His grandfather Tywin had arrived and subsequently departed from King''s Landing last week. He was going to shred whichever of his traitorous Baratheon uncles survived the other one this time. He''d barely stopped by the Red Keep, but that hadn''t stopped his Grandfather from berating himlike he was some unruly child. The mere thought of that meeting threatened to bring that sadistic rage back.


    He had made him, his King, come to his new solar in the tower of the Hand, and he''d had the temerity to scold him!


    "Joffrey" he said as he somehow laid back on his chair but still managed to maintain a ramrod straight back. "I understand that you''ve had some difficult days even before your father died, but what you did to the Starks was utter idiocy." He said, his expression unmoving, impossible to determine. "I understand exiling Lord Stark, but your soft feelings lost us not only your betrothed, but two other valuable hostages. What if Lord Stark decides to march back south, but this time with an army down Moat Cailin?" His tone of voice had not changed throughout the whole thing, yet Joffrey could feel the disappointed frustration in waves as if it were a physical thing. "Grandfather--" he started, but Tywin had interrupted him as if he were nothing. "Your excuses don''t matter to me. Kevan is assembling another host at the Golden Tooth while I deal with the Baratheons here in the south. If the Starks move he''ll blockade the river crossings and buy time while I come back from the Stormlands."


    Joffrey had shooked with rage at this, he wanted to shout at the old bastard that he was the only reason he was not being drowned at the Green Fork at this very moment¡­ but¡­ this was where a revelation had hit Joffrey. He was scared of his Grandfather. The Lannister Patriarch seemed immune to his threats and commands, he seemed to dare him to order him incarcerated or harmed, and he was always so godsdamned confident and invulnerable. Intellectually, Joffrey knew that was not true. The bloated, drowned body on the Green Fork confirmed otherwise. But still¡­


    In the end, he said nothing, troubled by the bubbling thoughts that surrounded him as Tywin basically told him to behave and leave the tough choices to him. Besides¡­ Tywin had been right, Joffrey recognized. There was no reason they couldn''t have kept the Stark girls or the boy. In his other life it had been the torture of Lord Stark and the death of both his daughters that had unleashed the Red Wolf. Even in another life, the Red Wolf had got to him.


    Tywin departed to the Stormlands the next day, at the head of the Westerland''s Might.


    His recovery was not complete anyway, and his sleep was always troubled. Sometimes the servants would find him shaking or staring off into the abyss at random times, in hallways or even sometimes in the Iron throne itself, though no one was foolish enough to speak about it. Still, he often found himself remembering his last life before it went to the hells. He remembered Lord Starks look when he had been finishing his torture, cutting his chest out for the last few times. He had been nearly dead, and Joffrey was not sure if Lord Stark had been all there anymore, then he''d said it.


    "There''s¡­ something¡­ deeply wrong with you¡­ Joffrey" He had said it as if it were a basic fact, something obvious and immutable. He didn''t know why the statement had caused such a reaction, but he had rabidly stabbed Lord Stark¡­ must have been a dozen times. He had died then¡­ it had probably been the purpose behind that statement, to make him loose control and finally kill him.


    Yes, that must have been it¡­


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey shot another bolt at Pycell.


    He was already on his knees but he took on the chest all the same, knocking him on his back and landing on the Throne room''s floor. Why¡­ why must everything go wrong!!!


    He shouted in rage as he sat back on the Iron Throne, tossing the crossbow at the floor. I shouldn''t have done that, he was just the messenger. He shook his head as the belated thought reached him. The assembled courtiers were silent as he shouted at them. "OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!" He screamed.


    They filled out as mother gave him a guarded look and told the redcloaks to take Pycell''s body out. Not so invincible now are you Tywin! The thought should had pleased him, but in the present circumstances¡­


    The Crownland-reinforced Westerlands army had fallen like a pride of Lions amongst Renly''s summer knights. Tywin had bloodied and fought them back all the way to Storm''s End¡­ and total victory had been at hand.


    Things had apparently turned 5 days ago. Stannis had arrived on his fleet and disembarked behind the Lannister army, but that hadn''t been what broke them. No. His Grandfathers assassination had done that.


    They said Stannis had turned into a smoke demon and had stabbed Tywin right through the heart¡­ Witless idiots! How could they believe such things!!! Joffrey thought despairingly as he hit the iron throne, nicking him and spilling blood. He was about to call the Maester when he remembered what he had done to him.


    There''s something deeply wrong with you, Joffrey.


    He shook the errant thought out of his head.


    No matter. Stannis had attacked from the rear as the Lannister army had fallen to chaos, and then Renly had hit from the front¡­


    They had been decimated. That night, after the celebration someone had apparently done Stannis a favor and assassinated Renly. Dawn found him in his bed, stabbed. And so Stannis was leading his now combined army directly towards King''s Landing, not stopping for anything.


    Joffrey got out of his Throne and wrapped a Lannister cloak around his wound. He didn''t even care. What had he done wrong this time?!


    He stood out into the courtyard and saw his uncle Jaime departing with a handful of Redcloaks, speeding towards the rest of the Crownlands to gather what reinforcements he could. It was all he was going to get. The damned imp had said that if Stannis decided to storm the city, Kevan''s reinforcing army would not make it in time.


    Just his luck.


    -.PD.-


    Stannis apparently knew what he was doing. That much, Joffrey knew. The imp had talked him through as Stannis gradually took control of the city, first taking the gates, then shoving his cavalry through it (the Tyrells, ironically) and encircling pockets of defenders. Joffrey had to admit, the imp had excellent commentary, if only to take his mind off the whole thing and not shit his pants. Joffrey suspected the imp himself did it out of the same reason. His head would end up on a pike, same as his if Stannis won. And he was winning. The imp had taken Joffrey back to the Red Keep once two of the gates had fallen¡­ or well, he had tried. They were in one of those pockets that had been surrounded by the Tyrell cavalry.


    As Joffrey took his arming sword in a death grip, the imp gave him a jaunty salute. "Stannis seems ready to fuck us hard, friends!" He shouted, looking back at the assorted, terrified mix of Goldcloaks, Redcloaks and Crownlanders that were in the pocket with them. "Still, to my shame I''ve never seen a whorehouse giving out free fucks!" He said as he put on his helmet and got a strangled laugh out of the soldiers.


    "Let''s make em work for it!" He shouted as he charged¡­ the imp charged the cavalry with his battleaxe. The men let out a wary but defiant roar as they charged along with him, dragging Joffrey with them. At that moment he felt a bit of grudging respect for the imp¡­ and a bit of envy at his sheer bravery.


    "They say I''m half a man, then what does that make you?!" They said he had shouted in his first life when he rallied the fleeing Goldcloaks.


    Fuck him, the traitorous imp wasn''t going to be braver than him. Not in this life. Fuck.That.


    He shouted as he charged, now under his own power, trying to catch up to Tyrion. They crashed against the Tyrell blocking force with a vengeance, unseating them from their horses as both formations merged.


    His mind, well, the small part of his mind that wasn''t mad with fear, briefly imagined himself battling through his foes, killing droves before finding the commander of the unit and killing him in single combat¡­


    Not that he really thought that would happen. His previous lives had taught him a tiny bit of realism. Even with all the progress he had made under the Hound, Joffrey and his trusty arming sword found themselves throughout most of the skirmish fighting against a single dismounted Tyrell soldier. He looks young, thought a distant part of his mind as he parried, attacked and made sweeping ripostes. Joffrey didn''t know how much time he battled with the bastard, but after what must have been ages, he managed to sink in his sword through his belly, and take it out. The Tyrell soldier seemed to look at Joffrey''s bloodied sword in confusion before collapsing into the floor. Joffrey would have followed him down if he hadn''t been filled with bitter achievement.


    He was panting, dead tired, had numerous cuts and a huge slash on his thigh that just kept bleeding. All around him his men were dying, but they were taking some of the Tyrell''s down with them.


    He limped aimlessly for a few seconds before stumbling over something. To his surprise, it was the imp. He had a spear protruding from his chest, and seemed to be breathing haltingly. "Uncle" Said Joffrey as he sat beside him, the sound of men dying all around them. "Nephew¡­ do my eyes¡­ deceive me¡­ or did you¡­ just kill¡­ a man¡­ actually in defense¡­ of the realm" the imp asked him, haltingly, in between rasping breaths. "I think I did uncle¡­" Said Joffrey distracted, the bleeding on his leg was slowing down. The Imp gave a rasping chuckle, "Mayhaps¡­ after all¡­ we can¡­ make¡­ a full Lannister¡­ between ourselves." he said. The imp managed to get out a snorting laugh from Joffrey. He was going to berate the imp, but when he turned to face him again his eyes layed fixed, unmoving.


    Japing to his death. A fitting death for the imp¡­ not a bad one too. He tried to make a jape too, but he lost consciousness before he could think of one. He didn''t think it would have amused the purple anyway.


    -.PD.-


    Oddly enough, he didn''t feel the shattering agony that was the Metaphysical Strangler, instead, it was just a dull ache all throughout his body. I''m going to rest for a fucking week. Promised Joffrey as he opened his eyes.


    This was not his room.


    This was Baelor''s plaza.


    It had to be a nightmare¡­ It had to be.


    He tried to move, he couldn''t. He was tied to a¡­ pole? He struggled to get out of his bindings as men left stacks of hay and wood all around him. What the fucks going on?!


    A beautiful woman in a red dress seemed to lightly sway as she made her way through the wood. She carefully touched Joffrey''s cheek as she turned around to face someone behind her¡­ Stannis.


    "Stannis!! You fucking traitor!" Joffrey growled as he tried to get out of his binds. They didn''t seem to be listening to him. Stannis was grinding his teeth, mulling about something the red woman had just said.


    "Didn''t the Red God give you Renly, Stannis? Didn''t he give you Tywin? Didn''t he give you this city for you to take with your armies?" she said seductively as she slowly let her hands travel down his chest, touching only armor¡­ for the moment. "A bastard he may be, but he still holds the blood of kings" she whispered to his ear. "Imagine what I could do with the blood of the Kings of the Rock." She said, eying Joffrey almost with hunger.


    Had she¡­ What was she¡­ wh¡ª


    Stannis seemed to come to a decision, he turned to face him, and projected his voice to carry. All the men around the plaza seem to grow quiet as he spoke. "Joffrey Waters, for the crimes of being an impostor and a traitor, I, Stannis of House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rohynar and the First Men, King of the Seven kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die." He said as he turned and walked away, back to his men.


    At last, the realization hit Joffrey.


    They intend to burn me.


    One of the men tossed a torch to the pile, and a roaring bonfire was soon underway. Not like this prayed Joffrey to any god that could hear him. Please not like this.


    His screams echoed throughout Baelor''s plaza before the purple consumed him.


    -.PD.-


    ------

 Chapter 5: Retracing Your Steps.

    Chapter 5: Retracing Your Steps.Joffrey awoke as he thrashed along his bed, getting tangled on his bed sheets and rolling out into the floor. His muffled screaming brought the Hound crashing through the door and jumping on top of Joffrey with a dagger, trying to disentangle him from the bed sheets and his would be killer. "What the¡­" muttered Clegane as he slapped the screaming Joffrey hard, enough for him to focus on the Hound.


    As Joffrey took stock of his surroundings, he looked at his hands, slowly flexing them back and forth. "Thank you, Hound¡­" he whispered as he got up and sat on his bed, touching his now unblemished skin.


    He remembered as the searing agony of burning flesh gave way to the familiar torment of the purple.


    Everything goes so wrong no matter what I do¡­


    Perhaps that''s what I''m doing wrong, moving out of the travelled path.


    Joffrey nodded to himself as the Hound gave him a wary look. Better do everything exactly as last time¡­ every other path leads to certain death¡­ and the purple.


    He shivered at that last thought. The purple didn''t seem to get any bearable every time he died, in fact, Joffrey could swear it was sometimes worse. It pained him not to take action against confirmed traitors, but by now, there were few things Joffrey would have preferred to the godsdamned purple.


    -.PD.-


    The next days followed the course of his first life, something Joffrey was increasingly calling a ''standard course'' on his head. It seemed, for now, the only way to keeps things relatively stable for Joffrey and avoid releasing all seven hells of pain upon him. Westeros was slowly looking more and more like a deathtrap, were any false step could end in oh so painful death and an even worse metaphysical damnation after that. He would sometimes wonder how the hell he had made it as far as he did in his first life. Maybe that one had been the outlier, and the rest were the normal ones? That chain of thought threatened Joffrey''s sanity (as little as that remained), so he decided not to think too much about it.


    Deciding not to make any big changes around, the trip north went mainly as standard, excepting two details. The first one was arms training. In his last life he hadn''t been defeated exactly, but it had been a humiliating battle by any means. A King being held up for the entire fight by a single Tyrell soldier was simply unacceptable, besides, to make matters worse the wounds the soldier had inflicted on Joffrey before his death had likely been fatal¡­ had they not burned him later anyway¡­


    Joffrey shivered at the memory of the flames licking his skin as they got closer and closer¡­


    So he had taken arms training with the Hound again, and was making slow progress yet again, now lasting about 4 parries in a supposedly ''all out'' battle with the Hound, though Joffrey severely doubted the Hound fought him at his max in those sessions. Not that he complained, even using the whole ensemble of padded armor Joffrey still ended up feeling like shit and sore all over.


    The other thing he did was hold the occasional conversation with his traitorous uncle Tyrion. His older self would have been surprised and horrified, probably. Still, after having fought with him at the Fall of King''s Landing (well, rather the second Fall of King''s Landing, Tyrion had apparently gotten his head chopped off at Harrnehall''s heart tree by the Red Wolf before the first fall, so he hadn''t been there when¡­. Crack¡­ Crack¡­ Crack¡­)


    "Nephew?" asked his uncle, confused. Joffrey suddenly realized he was staring again at the tent''s side, and quickly shook his head. "Never mind that, you were telling me about the voyages beyond the Jade Sea?" he told him. The imp looked a bit curious for a bit, well, more curious than he had been before, but quickly kept talking about the explorers beyond the Jade Sea and how few if any survived the terrible monsters and diseases that prowled the end of the known world. The imp told surprisingly interesting and entertaining tales, both informative and fun, if you took the time to listen to him. Something that struck him quite hard as he tried to¡­ merge the two different understanding he had about his uncle.


    The sheer bravery he had displayed, how he had talked to him and kept him calm through Stannis''s attack. Those things had bothered Joffrey, so he had decided to get to know his uncle and would be murderer better. Instead, it had only deepened Joffrey''s questions. If he didn''t lambast and torment the imp and just sat and listened, Joffrey found out he had indeed a lot to say just about everything. Maybe the imp had been a Grand Maester in another life of his own?


    It only made his transformation from laid back, witty intellectual uncle to would be murderer and regicide that much more troubling. Joffrey had not made the imp dislike him that much¡­ had he?


    There''s something deeply wrong with you, Joffrey.


    He ignored Eddard Stark''s voice once more.


    -.PD.-


    He mostly spent his time in Winterfell on a repeat of past events, though it was surprisingly difficult. The consistent sneering and whining of his first life was a constant and fatiguing drain. After having been strangled multiple times, disemboweled by a sword, had every bone on his body shattered and then strangled again only to be burnt alive and strangled by some cosmic entity yet again¡­ some things he just didn''t feel were worth the effort. Still, to change the path meant certain death, so he soldiered on. He whined about using real swords to Ser Rodrik and Bran Stark yet again, though he did feel a bit of a hypocrite. He actually preferred his bouts with practice swords and fully armored in padded training armor. To train without them would leave Joffrey a swollen, suffering blob. And to do it with live steel was just¡­ idiotic.


    Bran Stark fell from the Broken Tower like always, and Joffrey guessed he''d had to send that assassin to try to kill him (and fail) again¡­ though the justification for that blunder seemed awfully stupid in hindsight¡­ he had been angry at Bran for¡­ showing off¡­?


    If he lived past his wedding this time, he would be sure to save his assassins for more pressing threats this time, Starks or not. Still, he was glad when they left Winterfell. Joffrey figured that he had killed or been killed by more than half of the Starks¡­ the whole lot of them were better off in their snowy hell. Sadly they still took the two girls south, and he had to again stumble upon Arya, torment a no name smallfolk kid, and be attacked in kind by the oversized wolf.


    -.PD


    Events played out, weeks went by¡­ and Stark made his move. In hindsight it was telling how choreographed the whole thing had been. The escalating tensions, dueling with his uncle Jaime on the streets, the death of his Father while hunting¡­ it was eerily, as if events had been guided just right to plunge his kingdoms into chaos and war¡­ Though he knew that was just an illusion. One wrong choice could (and had) spiral the whole thing out of control and he could end up beaten to death by a psychotic wolf or used as fuel for a pretty bonfire. Again, best not to risk it.


    He was assaulted by almost a kind of¡­ apathy? Everyone was dancing to the tune of destiny, and only he had the keys to change it. It should have made him feel as powerful as a god, but after all that had happened he just felt a crushing anxiety when he thought just how wrong things could go.


    As Stark entered the room followed by his retainers and Goldcloaks, Joffrey tried to remember what he had said.


    Everyone was solemnly staring at each other, hands on the pommels or spear shafts, slowly spreading their feet apart, ready for a sudden outbreak of violence¡­ and Joffrey cursed.


    "Kneel before your King, Lord Stark, and you will be able to return to your lands in the North in peace." Said her Mother dangerously.


    "I wish to be crowned in¡­" Damnit, had it been a fortnight or a week? Think damnit.


    Stark and his mother looked at him as he mulled it in his head.


    Fuuuuuck¡­ it hadn''t been a month¡­ right¡­? No, I''m sure¡­


    More and more faces turned his way as he scrounged his head in concentration. Nothing would go to hell if he just said the words wrong¡­ right?


    Crack¡­ Crack¡­Crack


    Stark was looking a bit nonplussed as Joffrey scrounged his head in intense concentration, and Ser Barristan looked behind him to see if he was okay.


    "mmmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa fuck it. A week." He said, at last.


    The long pause had kind of chilled the tension on the room, and the soldiers looked at each other ankwardly.


    Joffrey scratched his head. "I want to be crowned in a week?" He kind of asked, only to shake his head. "Argh! Damnit! It was a fortnight! Yeah, a fortnight!" he said. Stark looked at him strangely as he struggled to say his piece.


    "Well¡­ get on with it!" urged Joffrey. He hadn''t messed up¡­ had¡­he?


    Oh shit oh shit oh shit.


    Stark seemed to shake his head as he got a parchment out of his pocket. "Ser Barristan, no one in this room could doubt that you are a man of honor" he said as he handed him the letter.


    Yeeeeeeeeeeees!


    The Stark retainers died en mass as Joffrey sagged in relief on his Throne.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had to contain himself not to jump into a dance and song as he walked aimlessly throughout the lower reaches of the Red Keep. All good for now! And with a bit of luck the other houses of Westeros will follow their path and all will be as it should be, he thought as he kept walking past a rusted off flood gate near the tower of the Hand.


    There was suddenly movement behind him. In a blink, hard taught reflexes (mainly the desire not to end up stabbed in the back in the Battles of the Blackwater or the Falls of King''s Landing) made him turn around as he unsheathed his trusty arming sword.


    Behind him, the red, tear streaked face of Arya Stark eyed him in desperation, clutching some kind of short rapier¡­ that was covered in blood.


    Fuck you¡­ fate?


    Now all was going to go off the fucking rails.


    "I saw nothing if you saw nothing!" he told her as he took a step back, moving his hands in a pacifying manner. Please just go please just go please just go.


    Arya seemed to take a step back¡­ and then plunged right into Joffrey with a cat like scream.


    "Footwork" the Hound roared inside his head as Joffrey started parrying blows.


    Oh Shit¡­ Parry¡­ If she died would the¡­ Parry¡­ Red Wolf come calling¡­ Parry¡­


    Somehow, the last parry ended up with Joffrey batting her sword aside and punching her with all his strength in the face¡­ a favorite move by the Hound. She sailed sideways and smashed her head on a pole, falling to the ground unconscious.


    Well¡­ I''m truly fucked now.


    He tried to feel a pulse as the godsdamned imp of all people had showed him. She was alive. In the Red Keep. Another bargaining chip in the completely incompetent hands of his family¡­ They would sure find some absolutely important use for her in some way¡­


    They wouldn''t screw up yet again, would they?


    I''m so dead, whispered a voice in Joffrey''s head.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey paced back and forth in one of the shady, damp caves that dotted the Red Keep. You''d think the Targeryans would have plugged all the holes in their master fortress, he thought irreverently.


    He paced and he paced and he paced. "FUCK!.... SHIT!... TITS!" he said that last one channeling the imp.


    The grey mound in front of him shuffled as it moaned. A scraggly, dirty head popped out of it as she took stock of all the ropes tied around her.


    "You!" he said as he wheeled back to Arya. "Have you any idea what you''ve done! No?! Would you like getting used as kindling for Stannis''s coronation ceremony''s fire show?!" he shouted, channeling a somewhat budding sarcasm Joffrey had had absolutely no idea he possessed.


    "¡­uha?" Said Arya, eloquently. "Or maybe you''d like to be used as a nail holder while you get hammered like a fucking plank!" he screamed at her as he sat opposite, breathing hard.


    "uhm" grunted Arya, shuffling, probably trying to get out of the bindings.


    "Look you dumb Stark bitch! This is how it''s going to work! I''m going to cut you free, and you are going to do exactly what you were thinking about doing before you found me¡­ okay?!"He said, well, more like begged.


    "What¡­ I was going to do?" She asked lamely, shaking her head in confusion.


    "Yes! What you ¡­ you do remember what you were going to do, right?" asked Joffrey.


    "I-I just wanted to escape!" she said, glaring fiercely at him.


    He had changed things, if he just let her go now she could be captured before she leaves the Red Keep.


    Oh gods¡­


    -.PD.-


    The covered wagon creaked its way to the Red Keeps inner gate. "Hold!" Shouted one of the Red Cloaks as he stopped the horses and walked to the handler''s seat. "By order of the Queen Mother all traffic--- Your Grace?!" he asked, gobsmacked.


    "Let me pass in the name of your King¡­" ordered Joffrey from the driver''s seat, shaking his head.


    "K-King ¨CJoffrey! I hadn''t recognized you! Open the gates at once!" shouted the guard.


    Joffrey just shook his head again and sighted.


    -.PD.-


    I never actually learned how to handle a wagon. That particularly useful thought struck Joffrey as the wagon rumbled through King''s Landing, the horses completely out of control.


    If I die here, I fear the shame will be so big I won''t wake up again. He thought flippantly as vegetable vendors scrambled out of the way and the carriage crashed right into a fish stand.


    As fate would have it, Joffrey didn''t die, he was merely propelled forward and stamped against a nearby house''s wall.


    A group of angry smallfolks gathered around the carriage as Joffrey got up from the foor, nursing a broken arm that dangled uselessly. He stumbled his way to the back of the carriage. "Look, you can keep the horses, just SHUT UP!" he screamed at the fish stand''s owner. He should have skewered him instead like one of his fish, but if his first life had taught him anything was that smallfolks were always three insults and a sword blow away from a riot. He didn''t want a riot right now, thank you very much.


    He opened the back door of the carriage with his good hand and cut out Arya''s ropes with her own sword. "Just do¡­ what you think you should do¡­" Said Joffrey lamely as he tossed her the rapier and took a wary step back. Arya was looking dumbly at him "Why?" she simply said, a strange mix of gratitude and bewilderment. Her expression made Joffrey feel oddly proud of himself.


    "Just go" he said as he walked away. It felt good to be appreciated for once¡­


    Then he remembered what he needed to do to Lord Stark.


    He sighted then. She won''t be nearly as pleased when I chop off his head¡­


    Though Joffrey thought he would be. The blood that would come off the traitors head¡ª


    "There''s something deeply wrong with you, Joffrey" Whispered a moribund Lord Stark in his head. He shook the thought away.


    -.PD.-


    The same guard straightened as he opened the Red Keep''s gate¡­ and nearly closed it from horror as he saw his King.


    "Your Gra--?"


    "Not. A. Word." Said Joffrey as he limped past the gate, holding his useless arm and being generally miserable.


    This better be worth it. If it all goes to shit again I don''t know what I''ll do¡­


    -.PD.-


    Everyone was silent as the people awaited the verdict of their King. The shocking revelation, the treason of the late Kings best friend was incredible¡­


    Joffrey shuffled, nursing his now tied up arm, trying to take in his chair''s shade, and failing. The day was hot and Joffrey was silently smoldering in the midday heat.


    Everybody was staring at him. Oh, right, my part.


    "The King''s justice¡­" He started¡­ What had he said exactly¡­?


    Not this shit again.


    He sighted, tired. I just want to lay down¡­


    "The justice¡­ ah damn it. Ser Illyn, take his head." He ordered. He covered his ears in annoyance as Sansa screamed and fainted as Lord Stark''s head was cut off and his mother nattered as she tried to rush Lord Stark to stop the inevitable.


    Joffrey felt¡­


    Tired.


    "Let''s go Hound." He said as he stood up, heading to his horse.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey anxiously followed the Raven correspondence throughout the "War of the Five Kings" as it had been called shortly before he died in his first life. When Stannis came a knocking, Joffrey felt, for the first time, shame for his actions. When the runner arrived from the Red Keep, telling him his mother had sent for him, Joffrey struggled with what to do. "Joffrey, If you won''t fight for them, why should they fight for you?!" Exclaimed the Imp, gesticulating to the watching soldiers everywhere as wildfire explosions echoed through the city and the harbor.


    He didn''t care that much for the soldiers¡­ but he didn''t want to be seen as a coward. What happened last time¡­ had been awkward and shameful for the King of the Realm, being incapable of defending his own capital. But the alternative meant forging a new path¡­ and that had consequences.


    The fire consumed his body like it was firewood, eagerly leaping to his face---


    No, never again!


    "I¡­ I''m sorry uncle" He said, surprised he actually meant it. "Ser Boros, Ser Meryn, you will represent the King in battle¡­ Good luck." He said as he step down the stairs. He felt the soldier''s stares on his back as he moved with the runner back towards the Red Keep. He wanted to shout at them that this was the only path! He wanted to make them suffer for making him feel this way!


    I have to. It''s the only way to survive.


    -.PD.-


    When the Tyrell''s arrived (and didn''t start cutting down Goldcloaks) Joffrey exhaled in relief. Stannis had been routed, and the Lannisters had won. He had had to endure his Grandfather''s pompous entrance, but it was worth it. It was all worth it.


    Less enjoyable was the spectacle that followed next morning. Watching Tywin enter the Throne Room on his fucking horse again was almost more than he could bear. Why the horse? For all of his seriousness and harsh demeanor, his Grandfather had a flair for the dramatic and an ego bigger than said horse.


    As he entered, Joffrey proclaimed. "I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of his name, rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby proclaim my Grandfather, Tywin Lannister, Savior of the City, and Hand of the King!"


    That was a mouthful¡­ For all his prowess, Tywin hadn''t even helped that much in the counter attack. The Westerlands Army was still at Harrenhal, cowering on fear of the Young Wolf. It had been the Tyrells, and of course the imp that had turned the tide, not that anyone would admit that.


    As the arrogant bastard retreated with an amiable "Thank you, Your Grace", leaving horse shit all over the floor, Joffrey called Baelish and gifted him Harrenhall, same as last time. Joffrey was honestly surprised as to how someone could look so harmless yet possess so much influence. He hadn''t forgotten that in another life, Baelish had arranged a Tyrell alliance and marriage¡­ with the Red fucking Wolf.


    Best for him to stay out of the way and at Harrenhall then.


    The only silver lining in the whole deal was his prize, his Maergery. Of course, they had rehearsed all the show that followed, same as last time. Loras proclaimed that he wanted Joffrey to marry Maergery as his reward for aiding the Lannisters in their darkest hour. They made quite the spectacle for the courtiers as his mother and Grand Maester Pycell debated over the possibility of dropping Sansa''s betrothal with the consent of law and gods. And so, just like that, Joffrey had exchanged the mostly worthless, naive Sansa for the far more pleasant Maergery.


    -.PD.-


    The next days and weeks were much more pleasant with Maergery as his betrothed. Always saying the right thing, praising him, and bowing to the will of her King when appropriate. She was certainly the ideal queen, with both grace and beauty, and, unlike Sansa, she didn''t look like she was on the verge of crying every day.


    Though¡­ She did seem a bit insistent, trying to steer him away from some choices and into other ones. After some of their discussions Joffrey would find himself¡­ making a decision that he had not agreed on earlier. That bothered him a bit. Plus, he didn''t remember her being this way in his first life¡­ or did he? Had he somehow changed things even though he roughly followed the path this time?


    More questions¡­


    Events mostly preceded as standard, the Red Wedding, the flight of Stannis North, and other less notable events. The Red Wedding in particular was a stone of his back for Joffrey. Knowing the Red Wolf menace was gone for good made him almost forget the insolent ways of his grandfather. Almost.


    As the day of his wedding approached, Joffrey''s shakes, which had relegated themselves mostly to the background, started to come back more often. Dreams of burning alive and poisoned plagued his sleep, and his conversations with Maergery seemed only to make it worse. For some reason he was a bit more tense and stressed when he talked to her these days¡­


    -.PD.-


    Finally the big day arrived. Joffrey could barely keep his breakfast in his stomach as the guests presented their gifts and wished him their best. Joffrey however could see how they eyed Maergery with some kind of¡­ pity? When the guests noticed him looking at them they quickly turned away, eager to be out of his sight.


    The best gift, as always, was the magnificent Valyrian steel sword that had been recycled from the traitors arsenal. ¡­Widows Wail, as he had named her before and did so again now, was both beautiful and deadly. Joffrey remembered thinking it was a shame he hadn''t had it sooner to battle with it¡­ he knew better now. The battlefield was a horrid place where he hoped he never had to return again.


    When the imp presented him his book, Joffrey prepared himself to cut it to shreds all over again. "''The Lives of Four Kings'', Your Grace. A book every King should read." Said the imp, handing him the vast, embroided tome to the applause of the audience. As he stood up to cut it in half, Joffrey hesitated. The damned Imp''s wit and intellect was as sharp as valyran steel, that much Joffrey knew just by talking to him somewhat more often in this life. That made him more than a bit envious, to be smarter than the King¡­


    Respect and Envy¡­ wouldn''t old Joffrey be surprised. He thought somewhat sardonically. Fuck it, if he can read it, so can I.


    So he just smiled and nodded, taking in the book. He''d read it later, maybe there''d be something useful there after all, and if not he could always shred it later.


    The dinner proceeded almost the same as last time, Joffrey thought, though his memory of that day was far from perfect. He barely even touched his cup, only moistening his lips at most, his eyes never leaving the imp. Shit, need to torment him like last time. He had forgotten about that!


    As he emptied his wine cup on the imp, and continued to torment him in an unseemly manner, Joffrey felt the tiniest twinge of guilt, but ruthlessly suppressed it. This was the man that had killed him, after all.


    As the imp searched for the cup below the table, the giant cake arrived. Warily, conscious now of how close he had been on his first life of cutting his own hand with Widow''s Wail, he cut the cake. The pigeons that burst from it where a lot less impressive when you knew they''d come out¡­ though their bloodied remains¡­ seemed to energized Joffrey as he looked at them. As their blood soaked a bit of the cake, Joffrey felt pleased with himself.


    "There''s something deeply wrong with you Joffrey" Said a dead man in his head.


    "Shut up Stark!" He shouted, almost tossing the sword. The stunned silence from the crowd made him scowl as he turned back. Time to end the charade traitorous imp!


    "Imp, you are my cup bearer! Refill the cup!" he commanded. The imp looked humiliated and almost.. hurt? He didn''t remember that¡­ as he grabbed the cup that had been laid next to Olenna Tyrell, pouring the wine and holding it to him.


    Joffrey felt his breath quicken as the moment of his first death approached. Now was the moment of truth. Not accepting the cup, he stared at the imp.


    "You drink it" He said, icily, looking at the traitor in his eyes. The imp stared back at him, bewildered and wary.


    "DRINK IT!" He bellowed, setting his hand on his sword''s pommel.


    The imp knew he was going to die, Joffrey had to be prepared for anything, after all he admitted it freely, the imp was brave. It was possible he could even try to kill Joffrey right then and there once discovered. He should bring in his Kingsguard to hold him and make him¡ª


    "Certainly" He said with a forced smile. "I''ve never refused a free drink before!" he shouted as he downed the cup in one gulp.


    What the¡­


    Joffrey stared in shock as the Imp killed himself.


    "Uncle¡­ why?" He asked dumbly.


    He lifted his eyebrows "Why what?"


    So, I changed things, willingly or not. The imp probably plans to kill me at another time, and---


    Cough! The imp wheezed.


    "I didn''t remember Braavosi Amber being so sour!" he said as he wrinkled his nose.


    A slow, burning realization seared past his head as Joffrey watched his own uncle die.


    It hadn''t been him.


    ¡­ and coughed¡­ and coughed again and again as he stared at his hands in confusion. S?a??h th? N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    He was a scapegoat.


    He collapsed on the floor as his head turned an ugly purple and his hands scrabbled at his neck. People where already shouting, but unlike when Joffrey had died, no one was calling for help.


    Joffrey shook his head. "Someone bring the Grand Maester! Your King commands you!" he shouted. "U-uncle.. hold on!" he said uselessly as he stared helplessly. His uncle Jaime suddenly emerged from the crowd at a dead sprint and kneeled in front of the imp. "TYRION! WHERE''S THE GRAND MAESTER!" He bellowed with all his strength as he desperately shook the imp around.


    It was all useless. With one final gurgle, the imp lay dead.


    Joffrey stared around him as the courtiers and everyone else stared dumbly at the scene in front of them. Though no one except his uncle Jaime seemed too bothered by the death apart from its gruesomeness, in fact, his mother looked positively interested as she looked at the imp, then horrified when she looked at Joffrey and probably remembered he had been a handful away from suffering the same fate.


    Things were more complicated than he had thought¡­


    -.PD.-


    After a thorough checking of all the food and wine (only the wine on his cup had been found to be tainted) the celebrations resumed, albeit in a much more somber mood. There was no choice but to go no, the Affairs of the Kingdoms waited for no one said some of the more cynical courtiers. The fact that no one had even questioned that the wedding would continue on as planned spoke leagues as to what the nobility present thought of the Imp.


    Joffrey was still kind of processing it all as he tried to figure out who exactly wanted him dead. All those considerations however faded away as he was carried by the woman of the party to his bedding.


    He was promptly carried to his bedchambers and locked inside¡­ confronted with a naked, gorgeous Maergery, staring back demurely at him, hiding her lower parts coyly with her long legs.


    Gods¡­


    His mind blanked as he processed the sight. He had already seen a naked woman before¡­ a now strangely distasteful and pleasurable memory of a crossbow and a tied whore assaulted him¡­ He had never actually done the deed. He had preferred¡­ bloodier hobby''s. It was really a belated hindsight.


    Time to fix that.


    "Don''t be shy, Your Grace, your natural charm will surely transfer itself to the bed in no time" she told him as she patted the bed seductively.


    She sure has a way with words. Thought Joffrey as he breathed quicker.


    Damn, I need something to calm myself.


    He looked behind him and found a conveniently placed wine bottle. Suppressing shivers at the familiar memory, Joffrey praised fate in his mind. At last something goes my way.


    The bottle seemed new and sealed. It was a fine vintage of Dornish red with the best complements of Oberyn Martel in a letter beside it. He quickly skimmed the letter and left it in favor of the wine. Even so, he took a minuscule sip from it and savored it before discreetly spitting it out at the cup¡­


    Not even a trace of sour. It was even a bit spicy.


    Content, he downed the whole thing. He could already feel his nerves steading as he advanced on Maergery, and they started kissing.


    His heart beated away franticly as the kiss deepened, and both fell on the bed. This was even better than he had imagined!


    His hands started exploring away as his heart soared even higher. Thump. Thump. Thump.


    This¡­ this was what it meant to be King!


    Thump. Thump.ThumpThumpTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.


    His heart hammered away in a frenzy as they continued to mingle on the bed. This¡­. THUMP is THUMP not THUMP norm---


    THUMPTHUMPTHUMP


    Joffrey cried out as his heart beat seemed to reach such a velocity it was as if it was no longer beating, just one pulsing stream.


    Then it finally stopped.


    Silence.


    Joffrey screamed wordlessly as his heart stopped completely, and felt a deep, aching pain on his chest. "¡­Joffrey?" asked a flushed Maergery.


    This can''t be happening.


    He fell out of bed, clutching his chest with both hands. He couldn''t even speak as his body seemed on fire. "Joffrey!!" screamed Maergery.


    One of the Kingsguard ruptured through the door, and rushed Joffrey. As more and more people streamed in, Joffrey had one last thought as the purple creeped into his vision.


    I can''t believe I died a virgin again¡­


    His neck snapped and his throat collapsed in the purple void.


    He screamed into the abyss as the purple consumed him.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 6: Relief.

    Chapter 6: Relief.His lungs breathed liquid fire as his whole body twisted. His eyes were an agony of pain as his swollen skin seemed to crunch them in their sockets, and his nostrils imploded onto themselves in blood and purple.


    MAKE IT STOP.


    Joffrey felt the liquid inside his eyes pool down his cheeks as his body shuddered in rigor mortis, crouching in on itself as even his teeth were shattered against each other to pieces as the purple squeezed.


    STOP.


    Joffrey inhaled a lungful of air and vomited all over the floor.


    After emptying his stomach of bile, he supported his back on the bed''s side, fisting and relaxing his hands repeatedly.


    He rocked back and forwards for a bit as he weathered the increasingly violent shivers, each time shaking him harder than the last. I¡­ did it all. Same as before. But yet¡­ I still¡­ Still I failed¡­


    Everything I do¡­ S?a??h th? ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    His motion intensified as he felt tears welling in his eyes. Why do I keep dying?! Why do they keep bringing me back¡­ the pain¡­ oh gods make it stop¡­


    His mind flashed past a burning pyre, a shattering blow, a crushed windpipe, an agony of memories. And after every death, the sour embrace of the Strangler, each time getting possibly worse. He felt silent tears streaking down his cheeks as he grabbed his pillow and gave out a muffled scream. So many people¡­ so much death and for what?! For nothing!


    Stay the course or change things, it doesn''t matter!


    All the scheming and plotting, all the grand stratagems and armies¡­ they all meant nothing. My family means nothing, power means nothing. Anything I do, I''ll end up dead, back in the purple.


    His sanity threatened to snap as Joffrey contemplated a terrifying, soul crushing thought.


    No¡­


    What¡­


    What if¡­.


    What if this never stops¡­. What if I''m actually in the seven hells, and this is my punishment. Joffrey started to shake once more, he was hyperventilating.


    What if¡­ I''ll be here¡­ forever¡­ and ever¡­


    He breathed in and out every half second, shaking and rocking back and forth in the floor.


    The world seemed to shrink to a pinprick of vision.


    No rest¡­Death¡­ purple agony forever¡­ again and again and again and again and again---


    He couldn''t take it anymore. Joffrey rolled over his back, unconscious.


    -.PD.-


    In the end, Joffrey managed to hold on to his sanity¡­ barely. He had woken up in the same position he had fainted, and managed to calm himself. It was strange though, his appetite seemed to have been cut in half, and he needed to constantly be touching someone, anyone living to reassure himself he wasn''t alone in the seven hells. Even so, the faintest thought of dying or his past lives brought on an existential crisis and a bottomless pit of despair right in his chest, his stomach, his head, everywhere. Any time he found himself thinking about such things he quickly tried to distract himself as fast as he could.


    Even so he was slipping. The last one had been, thankfully, alone in the hallways. It had been dark at night, and he had passed too closely to a torch, which had brought on a flashback to Baelors Plaza as the fire licked his face and he contemplated starting again and dying again and that this would never end and he would stay here for ever and die die die die die¡ª


    "Joffrey?!" Asked his mother, concerned. Joffrey realized he had been hyperventilating again, this time in his Mothers freaking Wheelhouse. "Ah¡­ Ah¡­ Ah its nothing.. ah¡­ mother" he said as he struggled to get his breathing back under control and crushed his mother''s hand with his own. Tommen and Myrcella stared at him both wary and scared as Joffrey put his hands under his armpits in a desperate attempt to avoid the shakes.


    Gods¡­ not here, not in front of them.


    The shakes arrived slowly, building up from the inside. "Joffrey, what''s wrong!? Stop the carriage!" shouted his mother. "Mother¡­ I-I-m o-o-ok-a-ay, j-j-j-j-j-juu-u-u---" I''m dying! Im dying again! Why?! Not the purple again!!! The shakes started rattling him inside the carriage. "G-g-get ooooutt!" he screamed as he opened the door and jumped down. The carriage had been passing a part of the Kingsroad which was raised above the rest of the land, so Joffrey rolled and tumbled down the slope.


    Thoughts of being stuck in a void of purple forever, made for him to never escape¡­suddenly found themselves interrupted by the abrupt pain that was coming from all of Joffrey''s body.


    As the guards raced down, they found a strange sight¡­ Joffrey hitting himself with all his strength in his thigh, again and again¡­ As they restrained him, Joffrey''s quick, hard breathing had passed, and there were tears of joy in his eyes. "It stopped¡­ thank you¡­ thank you¡­" he babbled incoherently.


    -.PD.-


    "J-Joffrey¡­ please¡­ could.. you give me back my cat?!" Tommen suddenly blurted. He said the last part all on a blur, and flinched as he waited for Joffrey''s response.


    Joffrey had been eying him all afternoon as the wheelhouse bumped along the carnnogmen''s marshes in the way to the Neck. Tommen had been psyching himself up the whole day, and when mother had fallen asleep he had made his move. His stupid brother didn''t understand that if he--- Gods--- Lion was helping him hold off the..¡ªpit--- oh gods.


    He shivered lightly as he petted the small cat again and again, clutching his fur close to his belly. The shakes soon passed, and Joffrey breathed lightly again. That''s right, only me and you little Lion, you are a brave Lion aren''t you? Yes you are, also lazy!" He thought as he petted him again and Lion shifted in his lap, mewling softly in contentment.


    A tentative smile graced Joffrey''s features. Think of the cat, a beautiful cat. The thoughts of eternity soon passed Joffrey''s mind.


    "J-Joffrey¡­?" murmured Tommen.


    "No" Said Joffrey, clutching Lion protectively.


    "B-but--"


    Joffrey shifted a bit, his pulse quickening as his hand slipped to his dagger. Just let it be Tommen, you''re not having him. I''ll stab you right in the eye! You''ll not take him!!! But it will have to be quiet, not to wake mother. Bury him outside.


    His grip tightened as he breathing run faster yet again. "Leave it be, Tommen" He whispered, his voice strangled. He must have sensed the danger because Tommen seemed to deflate as he shifted backwards with a terrified "I''m sorry"


    Joffrey kept petting Lion.


    The cat and, for when he failed, sudden applications of pain towards his person had prevented any more bouts¡­ But it was a close run thing. Joffrey didn''t need to be a maester to know his sanity was hanging by a thread now, but, who wouldn''t be?! He ¨Cwas ¨C trapped here to ---


    He clutched Lion even tighter as he petted him monomaniacaly. Good cat good cat good cat. Lion gave a mild yawn of discomfort, eying him lazily before rolling in his hands and snoozing again.


    What a lazy cat. Indeed.


    He didn''t notice Tommen gradually hiding under his cloak.


    -.PD.-


    The Wheelhouse plodded away, and before long they arrived at Winterfell again. He rarely talked to anyone there, preferring to walk through the keeps walls, enjoying the fresh air, it seemed to sooth him¡­ slightly. Little Lion never left his side, and seemed comfortable enough with Joffrey''s constant attentions. His bizarre conduct had raised more than a few eyebrows, and rumor had it that the arch traitor had tactfully proposed a betrothal between Bran and Myrcella.


    Joffrey snorted, not that he cared. Just as well, anything to keep stupid Sansa away from him. Maybe he could arrange a betrothal with Maergery right away? It would certainly speed things up¡­ But that would change things, that was bad- Crack- it could have¡ªThe flames consumed his facial air in a second, reducing them to ash as they burned his skin¡ª But to not change anything meant--- Purple started to occlude his sight, and he knew the end was near, the purple would have a little fun with him, then it would spit him out, only to lie in wait again, laying in anticipation, it wouldn''t have to wait for long, it had foreverandeverandeverandever


    Oh no, thought Joffrey as the shakes took him.He stopped walking and crouched, petting little Lion again and again and taking deep breaths. Lion''s fur is awfully light, but he does have some black spots, huh, I wonder about that¡­ He crouched there for a few minutes.


    Taking ahold of himself, he stood up, relieved. He noticed Lord Stark the arch traitor staring at him from a distance, but as soon as Joffrey met his eyes the Lord seemed to hesitate, thinking about something only to finally lower his head and walk on.


    He''s probably going to the damned Godswood again, I don''t understand what the savages find so mesmerizing out of a fucking tree.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey would wonder what he''d do this life, but every time he tried¡­ well he knew better than to keep at it. So he spent his days at Winterfell in a somewhat simplified existence, though he made sure to touch his mother''s hand a couple of times a day and to hug her every night, the close human contact helped him fight away his bouts of madness.


    He was walking through Winterfells courtyard again and petting Lion as usual, thinking about getting some wine--- his heart hammered away, his pulse quickened to unnatural speeds¡ªGods damnit, some ale. Only some ale. He thought as he petted Lion yet again. Joffrey didn''t know how much he could hold on, each time more and more random thoughts seemed to trigger his¡­ condition¡­ and the despair about his madness itself seemed to feed into it, creating some kind of loop. Joffrey quickly moved his attention elsewhere, knowing the madness would come if he continued along that line of thought. ¡­He couldn''t even think about what was happening to him without¡­.gods..--


    Look somewhere, anywhere. He spotted a somewhat familiar figure, scaling the broken tower. That stupid kid, Bran. Let''s check out why he slips on the same godsdamned rock every single time, why not, he thought with monomaniacal intensity, doing everything not to think about¡­


    As the stupid boy kept scaling, Joffrey used the stairs as any sane person would. He scratched Lion''s head as he walked up the stairs. Poor idiot''s been falling from this tower since my first life¡­ That slippery rock must be cursed by the gods themselves.


    He finally arrived to the decrepit oak door that lay half burned. Opening it up, he saw his mother and uncle fucking each other.


    Bran seemed to arrive a few moments later, they spoke a bit between themselves but Joffrey couldn''t hear the words. There was a dull roar inside his head.


    His uncle got up and pushed Bran off the ledge. Hmm, so that''s why he keeps falling, he thought.


    Hmmm


    Even in his state, Joffrey could connect the dots easily enough.


    It seems I was doing Stannis an injustice. It was I who was the real traitor! That thought manifested itself with unusual clarity in Joffrey''s mind, which had lately been a bit sluggish.


    I''m not Fath¡ªRoberts true born son. Black of hair¡­ indeed¡­ black of hair¡­ black of hair¡­ black of hair¡­


    The rumors where true¡­ A bastard born out of incest¡­ even the smallfolk''s can sometimes get it right.


    He hadn''t moved at all since opening the door. He saw his mother''s pristine nude body robing herself again, and uncl-- ¡­.Father¡­ putting on¡­ his armor.


    The dull roar inside Joffrey''s head grew very quiet, almost imperceptible to his hearing. He snorted a quick laugh, finally getting the whole thing.


    His Father and Mother snapped back to him, faces suddenly filled with sheer horror. "J-Joffrey?" asked his Father, dumbly. "How long have you been standing there, sweetie?" asked his Mother, her eyes looking franticly between her son and her lover. She had always been the more quick witted of the two, now that Joffrey thought about it.


    Joffrey laughed out loud. "Oh Mother¡­ Father! Thank you! This! This was the purpose! I understand now!" He said. He was suddenly filled with relief.


    They stared, shocked into stillness by it all.


    "This is why they kept bringing me back! I''m free now!" Joffrey struggled to say as he grabbed his belly, laughing like he''d just heard the best joke to have ever been told¡­ though, thinking about it, he kind of had. He laughed so hard tears fell down his cheeks, and his belly hurt a bit because of the constant giggle that had overtaken him.


    "S-sweetie--" Said his mother, taking a step forward only for Joffrey''s laughter to abruptly and instantly stop, as if cut with a knife. "Stay away from me" he said almost conversationally as he took several steps back, lightning quick, bumping against the broken tower''s wall.


    His mother hesitated, putting her hand on his Father''s shoulder as he tried to stand up. "Let me" she whispered quietly but urgently into Jaime''s ear. It had been kind of obvious in hindsight, thought Joffrey. Didn''t horses that bred with their families produce offspring that was¡­ wrong somehow?


    There''s something deeply wrong with you Joffrey, whispered Lord Starks deformed head in his ear.


    Oh Stark, if only you kne¡­


    ¡­


    He¡­ had known, hadn''t he?


    He laughed out loud at that, startling his mother, who had been taking slow steps towards him. The arch traitor was actually not a traitor! Who would have thought about that! I should certainly apologies to Lord Stark the next time I see him! He thought ruefully-


    "My son, I can explain--" started the sweet voice of his mother as she took another step, starting to stretch her hand out.


    "DON''T TOUCH ME!" Screeched Joffrey with all his strength as he scrambled sideways. Wow, where did that came from? He thought as his heart seemed to beat a thousand times faster than it normally had, Yikes¡­ I really should calm down a bit!


    Well, it was over at least, he had that going on for him. "I think I''ve never wanted to lay down more than now!" he said with a snort as he popped his head out from a nearby window. "This whole multiple lives thing was even fun for a while, I have to admit, but still, I''m glad its over now. And to think!" he said as he stared back at them with a look of surprised bewilderment "It had been so simple!"


    He left brave little Lion in the floor. "Take care of that cat, even if he''s a bit lazy!" he said good naturedly. "Joffrey, Wha--" he Father started, but her mother as usual had figured it out first. She leapt into a sprint, barely meters away from Joffrey as she screamed "JOFFREY! DON''T!!!".


    Pff, what a spectacle. He didn''t understand why she was so distraught, he was ending the cycle!


    With that thought in mind, he leapt off the window, only a handspan away from his mother''s reaching form. He sailed through the air head first towards the ground.


    Don''t want to end up like poor Bran now, would we?


    He could see a large crowd had already converged surrounding Bran''s crumbled form. Those lucky bastards, now they get to see a live reenactment!


    He shattered against the ground head first. He died instantly, and was greeted instantly.


    The purple consumed him, twisting his neck and spine, crushing his internal organs and blocking his airways.


    So.. its not over then, strange. Thought Joffrey in midst of the pain.


    The purple swirled around him as his face crunched in on itself, shattering his eyes and grinding his teeth to nothing.


    I can''t believe I was so stressed out because of this! He thought, utterly bewildered. The pain wasn''t that bad! It hurt a little, sure, but it was, in a way, even cleansing¡­


    Yes¡­ now that he thought about it, he was being purged¡­ cleansed.


    The shocking realization was so strong it was like a sledgehammer to the face for Joffrey.


    The purple was helping me! All this time! He thought as his throat collapsed into itself, and his hands twisted towards his body, way past the limits of his ligaments


    It was so obvious! You''d need to be blind not to see it!


    Joffrey laughed. In the midst of the purple agony, Joffrey laughed.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey woke up with a quiet sight, and got off his bed calmly enough. Huh, I didn''t even vomit this time, he thought.


    It''s really strange, I was sure it should have ended¡­ maybe a fall isn''t enough to end the whole process.


    "Now where did I leave that damned dagger¡­" He muttered as he searched his wardrobe, and then his bedchest.


    "Aha! Found it!" he proclaimed loudly. "Now, lets see¡­" he muttered as he took it out of its sheath and stabbed himself in the heart. He collapsed on his knees, blood pooling all around him. It didn''t even hurt that much.


    He crumbled on top of the floor as the Purple greeted him again, almost like an old friend.


    I can''t believe I feared you! Thought Joffrey as he greeted the enveloping agony again.


    -.PD.-


    The Hound was laying his back on the wall, taking in a bit of the morning sunlight filtering through the window. He could hear the servants below rushing about their duties for the day, and the king bellowing and laughing, making ready for his next hunt, he guessed.


    He had heard a bit of noise from the little shit''s room for a while now, so he guessed he was already awake. Though why he hadn''t called his servants to dress him was a mystery. Perhaps he forgot¡­ I better remind him, I won''t have the Queen haggling me because the little shit didn''t arrive to his bloody meal in time¡­


    He shifted his weight off the wall and knocked on Joffrey''s door.


    He could hear a faint squishing sound from the other side of the door, but it stopped as soon as he knocked. "Yes? Who is it?" asked the prince, amiably enough. Glad he''s having a good day, thought the Hound.


    "It''s Clegane, my prince." He said, shifting his weight. Why can''t he do this things by himself¡­ sighted the Hound uselessly.


    "Oh, come in Hound!" Said the little shit.


    My my he''s chipper this morning.


    The hound opened the door, and had to get a hold of the doors frame as what he saw stole his breath away.


    Prince Joffrey was covered in blood¡­ Both his eyes had been pierced by the bloodied dagger in his hand... and his scalp was over the bed, the blood mingling with the blonde hair.


    "It still won''t end Hound! Very annoying! I figured out maybe I can break the cycle by getting rid of the Lannister parts, make myself a bit more Baratheon so to speak!" He chuckled. "So we''ll¡­ well, I''ll see how that works out" he seemed to think for a second, tilting his sightless, blood bathed head upwards a bit. "Eyes and hair, that''s what Stannis always talked about. Can you think of any other Lannister traits?" he asked him.


    Clegane took a deep breath as he felt his breakfast bubbling upwards through his throat. "N¡­No, my Prince" he said, walking slowly towards Joffrey.


    Joffrey seemed to pout for a bit. "Oh, well it was a long shot anyway. I''ll see how it goes as it is then" He said as he raised the dagger to his throat.


    Clegane burst into a sprint, but Joffrey was already cutting. "See you on the other side Hound! Well, hopefully not, but you get the poinkkkkggggggggghhhh" he gurgled as he collapsed to the floor.


    "GRAND MAESTER!" Roared Clegane with all his might as he got a hold of the bloody wreck that was Joffrey.


    He shouldn''t have bothered.


    Joffrey seemed to smile as the blood seeped out of his cut throat.


    -.PD.-


    ------------------------------------


    The chickens have come back to roost on Joffrey''s head. He was already on the edge after all he''s been through...


    All he needed was a little push.

 Chapter 7: Whispers of Peace.

    Yep sorry about the reversed order, should be okay now.Speaking of which...


    Chapter 7: Whispers of Peace.


    Hm. That didn''t work either. Still, its just a matter of trying. Thought Joffrey as he got up from his bed and walked up to the window. This didn''t work last time, but maybe it''s the Red Keep, he mused as he jumped through the window.


    He landed in the courtyard, a twisted and bloody wreck. People all over shouted in alarm, and Robert himself went pale as a sheet as he got off his horse and run towards Joffrey. "Gods! Joffrey! My son!" Shouted Robert as he flailed around in a panic for two seconds before grabbing a nearby goldcloak and shoving him towards the main keep "You! Get the Grandmaester now!"


    Robert, calm down, I''m not your son. Joffrey tried to say, but it only came out as a wet gurgle. "Oh, Joffrey, please." Robert struggled to say as he grabbed Joffrey and held him in his arms. Didn''t knew he cared that much about me. More''s the pity. Thought Joffrey as his sight faded away and the purple came back. As utter agony flooded him, Joffrey chuckled. This is the best you can do?


    Try harder. He thought as he stretched his arms in the void and flew.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey walked through the Red Keeps hallway. He turned a right and came up to the Queen''s bedchambers, guarded by the Kingslayer. "Prince Joffrey" He said as he nodded.


    "Father" nodded Joffrey. Jaime was so petrified he didn''t even flinch when Joffrey slashed his neck with his dagger. He brought both gauntleted hands to his neck in surprise, trying to stem the flow with his hands as he fell on the floor. "Sorry Father, I''m trying to figure out what the bloody purple wants, this is just getting tiring, you know?" he said as he stopped in front of the door. "Though, maybe now¡­" he mused as he put the dagger in front of his chest. "Nah, better to make sure" he said as he lowered the dagger and opened the door.


    "Hello Mother!" he said as Cercei stood up from her chair in surprise. "Joffrey! What--" her voice choked out as she witnessed the body behind Joffrey as he strolled into the room.


    "Sorry about Father, but you really should have thought about things before fucking your own brother! Their offspring can fail pretty hard, just look at the Targeryens" he said as he approached her.


    His Mother seemed to crumble, semi-crouching in the floor and holding a gut wrenching sob of incomprehension, both her hands covering her mouth. "Hey! Don''t be like that! At least I''m not jumping into wildfire trying to turn into a dragon!" He said as he snorted, then seemed to pause for a bit. "Wildfire¡­ hmmm" he pondered.


    He nodded and then grabbed his Mothers hair. He could already hear screams from the hallway, better make it quick! "I''m just so tired by all this, there''s got to be away" he muttered as he slit her throat. She didn''t even resist, lax in his hands.


    Ser Boros Blunt crashed into the room, sword drawn and seeking enemies. "Okay, here goes nothing" He said as he plunged the dagger in his heart. The last thing he saw before greeting the purple was Ser Boros slack face, it was really kind of amusing.


    -.PD.-


    Grand Maester Pycell leaned back on his seat, analyzing the Crown Prince, hiding behind the doddering fool fa?ade that had served him so well for all this years. "A poison that seemed to strangle a person?" he muttered haltingly. The Strangler of course. But the question was, why?


    Well, there was no harm in letting him hold it for a bit, its not like he could run away with the vial, he''d alert the King in that case and nothing ill would come of it, though the story of "having read it on a book and got curious" was laughable at best.


    Still, he haltingly, almost shuddering, turned back, unlocked the cupboard and passed him the dangerous poison.


    Joffrey took it, looked at it for a couple of seconds and promptly drank it.


    The Grand Maester stumbled as he stood up, his chair flying back as he grabbed the prince with strong hands that belied their old age. THE GODSDAMNED FOOL! I''VE GOT TO MAKE HIM VOMIT BEFORE---


    He stared dumbly at the dagger sticking out of his chest. "Oh get off old man" Joffrey said as he brushed him off. Pycell stumbled backwards and fell on his desk as he watched Joffrey stretch his limbs for a bit, and cracked a couple knuckles. "Bit too sweet I think. Some Maester''s apprentice is slacking off¡­ though it should still work¡­ I hope." Muttered Joffrey as he walked around the room, flexing his arms again. Pycelle just tried to staunch the bleeding, and he was failing miserably in that front.


    "Damn it Pycell, this thing should already be working, Fathe¡ªAh! Damnit! Robert should fire you and get an Alchemist instead. Said Joffrey impatiently.


    Pycell said nothing as he struggled to reach the nearby cupboard that held his medicinal supplies. Need¡­ to staunch¡­ the bleeding¡­ He thought as he fumbled for his keys. Joffrey didn''t seem to mind.


    Joffrey coughed, then smiled. The sight of that shook Pycell so much he dropped his keys. "Oh Gods" he mumbled as he crouched to pick them up again.


    "Well that took its sweet time... Sweet¡­ ha!" Joffrey''s chuckle petered off as he fell on the floor, writhing and holding his throat.


    Pycell finally got the right keys, but found out he couldn''t get back up again.


    Oh dear¡­


    His vision blurred and the last thing he saw was Joffrey''s face contorted in¡­ annoyance?


    What--- the---¡­.


    -.PD.-


    Gods¡­ so tired. I think I should rest for a while¡­ but there''s still a couple ways I should try first¡­ I wonder if¡­


    ¡­


    "I''ll repeat myself again, okay? You need to torture me" He said to the gaol jailor and unofficial torturer of the Red Keep. The man stuttered dumbly as he looked around him, trying to find someone to help him in this outright bizzare, no, otherworldly situation. "Ah¡­ I can''t do that your grace¡­" he mumbled as he took a tiny step back.


    The Crown Prince seemed to sight as he stepped forward and handed him his dagger. "Its really not that hard" he said, exasperated as he gripped the man''s hand (now with the dagger) and stabbed himself all the way through the cheek. "See?" he said as he spat a mouthful of blood on the floor.


    The man stumbled back, letting out a scream before running as fast as he feet could take him up the stairs.


    Figures¡­ Guess I''ll have to do it myself. Didn''t seem too hard when I did it to Stark¡­ the angles may be tough though¡­


    -.PD.-


    "Right over here my prince" said Wisdom Hallyne as he guided Joffrey over the storage area. Tis been decades since we have been graced with a royal presence! For the good of the guild I must impress the prince.


    He watched the prince carefully as they walked to the underground vaults were the substance was stored. People often looked down on the Alchemist''s Guild, seeing them as nothing more than cheap tricksters. Fools, thought Hayllyne. The Targeryeans knew the true worth of our work, and the importance of it. Still, for want of a dragon, I''ll take a stag.


    "Here is one of the storage areas, as you see we have taken ample precautions" he said, gesturing at the rows of wildfire suspended above sandbags from below and above, ready in case of an unexpected detonation. Hayllene got one of them from the racks, twirling it carefully in his old, expert hands. The Prince eyed the substance with a strange mix of curiosity and apathy. "May I see it, Wisdom?" he asked.


    The vacant look of the Prince sent a shiver of foreboding, but Hallyne quickly overrode it. We must get back our royal patronage! KingRobert had been less than amused when his predecessor had walked to court asking for more funding¡­


    Wisdom Gobbard was lucky Robert didn''t rent his head asunder with his hammer¡­


    Carefully, he passed it on to the prince. He seemed to examine the green jar a bit as he carefully took the lid out. "Careful my prince¡­" said Hayllene, eying the Prince anxiously. The prince looked at him and snorted.


    "It would be very ironic if I turned into a dragon¡­ ha!" he said as he drank the jar''s contents in one fell swoop.


    Joffrey seemed to grunt as he bent a bit, semi crouched. This lasted 1 seconds as he then exploded in a green blast that devoured his body. A shocked Wisdom Hayllene shrieked as he turned his back to run at the door, but there was never time. The explosion seared his back and flung him to the side, crashing against more jars of wildfire. As more explosions rocked the building, the support struts of the room burnt as they were supposed to, and Wisdom, fire and Prince were buried under an avalanche of sand that descended from the ceiling.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey felt each death a little faster, the memories of it a little more blurred, the pain diluted. In each life he talked a bit less, his deaths were a bit less creative or different. His emotions were being purged, and the crushing guilt and despair got a bit less overwhelming. He was also a lot more tired, and the last few lives he barely had the strength to get out of bed and jump out the window.


    Its¡­ working¡­ he thought in a tired haze as he stumbled out of his bed and struggled to open the window. He barely felt his hands as they fumbled the lock. Exhausted¡­ its¡­ working¡­


    He finally managed to open it, but he didn''t feel the wind coming through it.


    He fell more than jumped out the window, and he barely felt any pain as he crashed against the hard ground, even the purple barely even registered anymore. His thoughts were even slower now, and everything seemed to blur.


    He lost himself in the blur.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey floated in the blur.


    He had lost all perception of time, all perception of everything really.


    I am no more, he thought with detached disinterest. Even as he thought of that, the term "I" lost meaning, there was no more "Joffrey", just¡­ a blur.


    There was only the blur, sometimes interrupted by clouds of purple, like weather, that would come and go as the wind.


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    -.PD.-


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    And then, with a trickle, with infinite time, just like a pendulum reaching the zenith of its momentum¡­ it started to come back. Joffrey felt himself slowly being built again, at a crawl. The Purple winds drifted now and then, swirling by as Joffrey¡­ remembered.


    I am¡­


    I¡­ am¡­. Joffrey.


    Slowly at first, the memories came back. Crown prince¡­. No¡­


    ¡­traitor and bastard¡­


    The haze lifted for a bit and he could see a blond haired woman, tenderly feeding him with some soup from a nearby bowl. Although Joffrey couldn''t feel the flavor, or even his body, he could hear her soothing tune.


    Mother¡­


    The blur came back again, and Joffrey drifted in nothingness, uncaring, completely neutral. When it came back, he could see a tall, balding man with a gaze of iron. He was arguing with a beautiful red head which despite her appearance seemed to radiate an aura of danger.


    Uncl---¡­ Lord Stannis¡­ King Stannis¡­


    They intend to burn me again, thought Joffrey, though the thought of it didn''t seem to faze him. The discussion got heated as the red woman extended a greedy hand towards Joffrey''s face, only to be batted away angrily by Stannis, as he ordered some men to take her away from the room. S?a?ch* Th? N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    They wouldn''t burn him, then. He didn''t feel either relief or disappointment as the blur came back again. The blur would continue on, Joffrey didn''t know for how long, intersped by bouts of purple. The moments when he could see again would be fleeting and rare, but mostly he saw servants, and his mother.


    Is it sad to be so little thought of in your hour of greatest darkness?


    He honestly couldn''t answer that question.


    -.PD.-


    After a millennia of time, or a day, Joffrey seemed to land on his bed, the puffy feeling of floating in nothingness receding away like the morning tide¡­ and staying in his edges. He rested there for a while, gazing at the dark ceiling.


    With a monumental effort, Joffrey got up. He could barely feel his feet as he slowly limped towards the door. The Red Keep was dark, and the heavy sound of rain seemed omnipresent. Joffrey walked towards the main gate, using the occasional torch and the frequent lightning bolts to see his way.


    The rain was so heavy that the guards didn''t even notice him as he limped by at the same time a cart entered the main gate. Completely drenched, he made his way through King''s Landing. The few smallfolks that noticed him in the dark, torrential night steered clear of his way, probably taking him for a beggar.


    With single minded determination, a deep exhaustion heavy on both his body and mind, Joffrey walked into Baelor''s Sept.


    As always, the secondary doors were open, but the Sept itself seemed devoid of life. As Joffrey limped towards the Altar of the Father, breathing heavily from the exertion, his eyes began to water. Finally, with an effort of will, Joffrey lurched and landed at the feet of the Father.


    Seven¡­ please help me¡­ Why¡­ Why are you doing this to me?


    The pounding rain kept on, interrupted by distant thunders. The heavy chandeliers barely keept out an oppressive, strangling darkness.


    Please¡­ no more¡­ there is no¡­ reason for me to live on...


    Please¡­


    Desperately, Joffrey lunged and grabbed the enormous feet of the Father''s Statue, holding on to them franticly.


    Father, I know my justice was an abomination, my scales where a mockery. But I only tried¡­ Joffrey struggled to carry it through. Only tried to keep the peace¡­


    But the excuse sounded hollow in Joffrey''s mind, and an ominous thunder illuminated the silhouette of the Father, encasing Joffrey in his shadow for a brief moment.


    The ideals of the Father, Justice and leadership¡­ I had failed at them. I was no leader, only a tyrant, my justice a flimsy excuse. I only wanted power, power to rule, power to command¡­ power to be cared by the father that never was.


    In the end, he was an abomination in the Father''s sight. The son of his uncle, how could he expect the Father to listen to him, if by rights he should have never been born. He had no true father, thus the Father Above would always be denied to him.


    With that sickening realization crystalizing in his mind, he lurched to the next statue. The benevolent Mother gazed from above, caring and forgiving.


    Mother please listen to me¡­ have compassion¡­ please Mother¡­ PLEASE¡­


    The gaze of the Mother Above seemed to turn cruel and unforgiving. He had reveled in his cruelty and hurt with wanton abandon. He would find no mercy here.


    Silent tears streaming down, Joffrey limped to the next altar, where the stern Warrior stood vigilant. Through Joffrey''s blurring vision, the menacing statue seemed poised to strike him down. When had he demonstrated strength? When had he shown true courage other than to save his life? When had he been brave?


    He limped on, not willing to stand any longer below such a force. The Maiden seemed to sneer at him, her expression one of hatred.


    Appropriate, Joffrey thought. I have flaunted her protection, I have killed girls and woman. His fevered mind leapt to a scene instantly, Joffrey holding Sansa''s head steady, forcing her to look at the face of her dead father.


    I have broken the innocence you strive to protect.


    With a sudden shock of self-loathing, Joffrey dry heaved, but only saliva came out. Nauseous and shameful, he barely kept going.


    Circling around the Great Sept, he stood before the Smith, but he couldn''t even beg as his own head pummeled him, showing him images of the torture he had passed his servants through, of how he had never worked for a thing in all his lives.


    Stumbling, he crashed to the floor, and crept towards the Crone. Her mysterious smile appeared to turn slightly down as he looked up, illuminated by thunderbolts. Wisdom, her ideal, had been perhaps the thing Joffrey most lacked. I killed those who tried to advise me, keep me on the right path. I rejected her light at every opportunity. Joffrey would find no wisdom from her today.


    Slowly crawling to the last statue, Joffrey grasped the dais were the Stranger stood. Dying again and again, Joffrey had thought he must have been under the Stranger''s domain, but he now understood it was the exact opposite. Many people feared the Stranger, but his gift of death was exactly that. A gift. The end of suffering. Joffrey was anathema to everything the Stranger symbolized, he would never know the sweet embrace of death.


    I am forsaken. Joffrey thought, curling up and leaning his back on the dais of the Stranger.


    It was then a flash of insight, like the lightning that accompanied it rushed through his mind, a single, slowly crystalizing thought.


    For the first time since he entered this place, Joffrey really saw the reality of the Sept. He filtered away the ominous darkness, the pounding rain, the enclosed yet open space.


    He saw the towering, intimidating statues of the seven as they really were¡­


    ¡­They were statues.


    The ominous feeling that had inundated Joffrey from the moment he entered through the door vanished, and he understood he was alone.


    There''s no one here.


    This place was cold, lifeless. And the Seven would not help him¡­ he was indeed forsaken, because the Seven did not actually exist. They. Where. Statues.


    No one could help him.


    The will that had kept his body moving disappeared, and Joffrey let himself go. He relaxed his muscles¡­ his mind¡­ and the purple swiftly moved over him.


    He choked to death below the statue of the Stranger, but there was no one around to appreciate the irony.


    -.PD.-


    He awoke with a sight, and not a trace of the usual vomit. Joffrey would have stayed in that bed till the end of time, but something inside of him pushed him out, and he slowly put on his clothes.


    Joffrey had come back¡­ changed from the land of madness and purple. He felt he had only a small allotment of emotion to parcel around, and when that gave out an immense exhaustion took him over and he found it impossible not to lay down or sleep for the rest of the day.


    The caravan moved North, following the inexorable paths of fate, and Joffrey accompanied them, only speaking when spoken to.


    Again, his families reaction told him of his true nature. His mother, for all of her love for him, wouldn''t help him. His fa¡­ Robert would look confused from time to time, but he would soon find an ale to sooth it. His¡­ father would look on as always, from a distance. His brother and sister would play joyfully and without worry when the caravan stopped.


    Oddly enough, it was Tyrion who had approached him.


    "Nephew" nodded the imp as he carefully walked into Joffrey''s tent. Joffrey had been staring at the floor with a mug of ale, but strangely, he didn''t seem startled by the sudden intrusion.


    He looked at Tyrion. "Uncle" he said quietly as he took another sip from his cold ale. Tyrion took a chair and placed him in front of Joffrey''s small table. He didn''t stop him as the imp poured himself some ale. Tyrion waited patiently for Joffrey to break the awkward silence, but the moments stretched to minutes as he kept on sipping minute amounts of ale and staring now at the tent door.


    "Nephew?" asked Tyrion. "Uncle?" responded Joffrey. Silence stretched for a while then.


    The imp shook his head, and finally asked his question. "It''s clear you are not enjoying this little trip. And there are days you can barely keep standing on your own feet¡­" said the imp, collecting his thoughts. "¡­Why?... Why are you barely respondent to the outside? Why do you keep yourself sequestered in this tent?" he asked with the exasperated tone of a Maester who couldn''t find the answer to an obvious mathematical problem.


    Joffrey seemed to genuinely ponder the question as he lazily rolled the mug in his hand. After a few minutes of silence, he shrugged.


    "Why not?" he said, genuinely curious.


    That answer shook Tyrion. After a few more minutes of silence, he downed his cup and exited the tent.


    -.PD.-


    "And this is my first borne, Ned" Said Robert as he gestured at Joffrey from the high table. The King hadn''t found his increasingly elusive son when they arrived at Winterfell, so he introduced him at the feast.


    Joffrey was silently picking at his food, immune to the puppy eyes Sansa kept sending his way, and any sort of distraction, really. He was just forking pieces of chicken, looking a thousand miles beyond the plate.


    "He''s so sad" wooed Sansa to Jeyne Poole, red flushing her face.


    More than sad. That''s the look of a man with nothing left to live for, thought Ned with increasing amounts of curiosity and mild alarm. "Are you sure he''s¡­ alright Robert?" he asked his old friend. Robert frowned for a second before taking another huge bite of the chicken leg he held in his hand. "Been like that for a few days, I think. He''ll be fine." He chuckled as he made a move on a passing serving girl.


    Ned was struck by a sudden memory, of him staring away at nothingness in the Eyrie, after receiving the news of his brother and father''s death at King''s Landing. He shook his head as he took a bit of chicken with his fork, trying to sooth the sudden pain that had assaulted him. Those were old wounds.


    He found that he had lost his appetite, and he sighted quietly as he gazed at Joffrey.


    -.PD.-


    The next morning, Joffrey aimlessly wandered the outside of the main keep with a faint sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu. His mind was almost blank when he saw Eddard Stark strolling through nearby, towards the Godswood.


    A sudden, incomprehensible rage overtook him. He furiously stomped after him, entering deep into the Godswood. Joffrey quickly lost him in the tangle of trees, and had to retrace his steps to get back on the trail. Finally, he found Lord Stark kneeling in front of the heart tree, silent.


    Joffrey stood there, huffing. He walked to one side of the clearing and to the next, shaking his fists. Finally, he lost it.


    He screamed with all his strength at Eddard Stark, who leapt up from his knees, startled. He was at a loss for words as he eyed the Crown Prince, who was breathing heavily.


    "You think they can hear you?! You think you can change the course?! There''s no purpose Stark!!!" He screamed as he advanced on him, his eyes wild. Eddard seemed paralyzed by the sheer outpouring of emotion emanating from Joffrey, a gut wrenching stream of invective that seemed to feed itself on his very life and breath.


    "No one can help us Stark!" he shouted in anguish at Eddard''s face.


    At that, the strength left him, and Joffrey crumbled on top of the light snow, weeping inconsolable.


    Ned stared at the collapsed form of Joffrey in a near panic, not having a clue what was going on and what the hell he was supposed to do¡­ so he did the only thing that came to his mind, almost a reflex, recalling a dark, stormy night when he had found a crying Arya alone on her bed.


    Ned crouched and hugged Joffrey. His heaving and shaking form seemed to still itself for a microsecond, then his crying redoubled as he hugged Ned with all his strength.


    -.PD.-


    "Do you really hear them?" asked a red eyed Joffrey, sitting in one of the weirwood''s branches.


    Eddard pondered the question, sitting on another, nearby branch.


    "Our Gods are not like the ones of the South, my prince." Said Ned, hesitantly. "No men can claim to hear the old gods speak, or speak in their name¡­ but one can hear the echoes of their whispers." He said, somewhat awkwardly. Eddard was not the kind of person to simply lay out his beliefs out in the open out of a sudden, less to a stranger and even less to the man, well, boy that would someday be his liege lord, not under normal circumstances anyway.


    Well, these are not normal circumstances, thought Ned, somewhat dazed.


    Joffrey was completely captivated, and he leaned forward in rapt attention. "How?" he asked with painful longing. Eddard seemed to struggle with an answer, and he took his time as he mulled it in his head. He was ashamed to admit that a part of him wanted nothing else than the prince to huff in impatience and stomp away¡­ but he could see there was no chance of that. Joffrey was still as a statue, waiting with a harrowing look as if he had nothing left to loose, the only sound coming from him was the odd sniff.


    "Our minds are constantly filling us with¡­ thoughts, memories, reflections¡­" Ned mused, his eyes slightly unfocused as he tried to verbalize what he felt and did when seeking the peace of the Old Gods. "It''s a constant gallop, which fills our every waking moment." He said, explaining what he had felt but never really spoken of since he was but a boy, eying the great, ancient heart tree. "But when I''m here, I listen to the leaves gentle rustling¡­ I gaze at the slow swaying of the branches¡­ and then¡­"


    Joffrey was staring at him, eyes red, his hands clutching one of the Weirwood''s branches in a death grip. "And then?" he asked in a whisper.


    Eddard considered one of the red leaves of the weirwood, which had detached itself from it with the wind, and was now gently spiraling out of the clearing.


    "Everything just¡­ stops. Your mind¡­ is silenced." Quiet conviction colored Ned''s voice as he nodded to himself. "You feel yourself let go, and your mind is cleared, as if a fog had been lifted¡­ Those are the whispers of the Old Gods" Ned said.


    "Peace" whispered Joffrey.


    "Aye, peace, if only for a moment." Eddard nodded.


    Joffrey stood up, and anxiously twitched his hands again and again. He gazed at Eddard with desperate, lost eyes. "Would you teach me? Please¡­" he asked him.


    Eddard Stark didn''t even consider it, he knew what he would had said had Joffrey been his son¡­ he would do nothing else. "Aye, if you wish it." He told him.


    "Thank you" whispered Joffrey as he rushed Lord Stark and hugged him like a drowning sailor hugs some floatsam.


    What have they done to this boy? Thought Ned in utter befuddlement as he returned the hug and gently patted Joffrey''s head, ignoring the silent, wet streaks Joffrey left on his clothes.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 8: Stumbling Steps.

    Chapter 8: Stumbling Steps.Spoiler: Music


    Breath¡­ in¡­ out¡­ in¡­ out¡­


    Joffrey felt his mind clear, slowly, his thoughts leaving him with the gentle wind. For a few seconds, his inner turmoil left him, and he felt at peace.


    It was not the peace of the madness that had consumed him before, but a gentle calmness that didn''t drown everything else, it just¡­ grounded him in his self, a serenity of mind that soothed him to his core.


    It only lasted two seconds, and Joffrey opened his eyes as the implacable weariness grinded on top of his shoulders and inside him yet again. Nevertheless, he smiled, a genuine, if bittersweet smile.


    "That one was the longest yet" He said quietly to the man beside him. Eddard''s grim features softened as he nodded at Joffrey. "It''s not easy¡­ honestly I''m surprised you''ve stuck to it this far" said Eddard with a small smile.


    Joffrey snorted. "Nothing is going to stop me from this, not even death." He said with such finality that Ned had to reassess yet again the image he had of the prince in his head. At first he had had to restrain himself, he had wanted to rush Robert and smack him in the face for being so blind, and then hand him his warhammer and go searching out who had left the Prince in such a wrecked, lifeless state.


    But in the following days, were they met in the morning and at noon, Eddard had slowly started to unravel the enigma that was Joffrey Baratheon. He had quietly inquired, and it seemed the prince had been this way since a few days before they left the capital, and there were no signs of physical damage on him. And yet, the abysmal pain and weariness within Joffrey seemed to reach into his very soul. Eddard wasn''t sure if he''d seen anything like it before.


    They had agreed to meet here the next day after Joffrey''s breakdown, and to his vague surprise the Prince had come again, and he hadn''t complained, not one bit at the silence and Ned''s quiet tutoring.


    Still, keeping at it for too long was worse than futile. So, like the other days, Lord Stark took the small basket he had brought with him and handed Joffrey some fresh bread from the ovens along with a bit of water. He had brought watered wine the first time, but Joffrey''s reaction had stopped that idea in its tracks¡­


    "Thank you, Eddard" Said Joffrey, grateful. He had somewhat regained his composure, but there were still moments when Joffrey seemed on the edge of hysteria, and along the course of the week there had been more than one moment when Joffrey had wordlessly shrunk on himself and cried in the serene privacy of the Godswood. Eddard had done the same as he had before, walking to him and comforting him wordlessly. Joffrey had never rushed him again, but he had not protested when Ned soothed him like he had done countless times before with his own kids, some years ago. It did seem to help though, as in those occasions Joffrey would relax and the crying would give way to quiet breathing.


    He hadn''t pressed him for details, he had found that if he just let him speak, the words would pour out in mildly incoherent torrents, and Ned would respond to them as well as he could, which would sometimes stretch their conversations well past midday or sun down, depending.


    Much to Robert''s mild exasperation, and to the frankly titanic envy of Sansa, he thought ruefully.


    "How¡­" Joffrey suddenly said, after taking a sip from the waterskin. "How can you manage¡­ everything when¡­ " he struggled to verbalize the swirl of emotions inside him.


    There was silence as Ned thought about the question. There was nothing out of the ordinary of it, their conversations would often be very vague, and the silence between the words seemed natural in the bosom of the Godswood.


    How can you manage to live on when its not worth it, translated Ned in his head. The faint, barely audible bumping of thin weirwood branches echoed in the small clearing. Once again a pang of self-doubt needled Eddard. He was no sage or Greenmen¡­ not even close. But it was clear the Prince had no one else to help him, so Ned did as always yet again, answering truthfully from his heart, something which had been getting easier with each meeting they had here. "I think that if you can''t find the worth of living on outside of yourself, then you have to search inside of you" He said, pointing to his head, then at his heart. "And that starts by¡­ two things, I think." He mused.


    Joffrey stared with mildly unfocused eyes, his head resting on the Weirwood''s strong trunk. "You have to learn, to find a deep respect for yourself. Not a kind of arrogance, but an understanding that you are who you are, and that only you have the means to change yourself." He said, not sure if the Prince understood what he tried to say.


    Joffrey suddenly snorted. "Self-respect¡­" he muttered, eying his hands with disbelief. "And the other one?" he suddenly asked.


    Ned grasped one of the red weirwood leaves, slowly turning it with his fingers. "The other, I guess, is to never lose your sense of wonder." He nodded as he spoke. "Wonder at the things you see, the things you don''t understand, the things you love¡­ To never let you fall into indifference, to always experience" said Ned with quiet emphasis, "each waking moment as if it were anew."


    Joffrey swallowed a lump in his throat, beginning to understand. "I see¡­" he said, deep in thought.


    They sat there in companionable silence for a while, with only the wind and the leaves as company.


    "NEEEED!" Suddenly bellowed a deep throated voice. "Stop teaching my son to talk to trees and get your butt over here! We''ve got a deer to kill!" said the voice.


    Eddard shook his head in good natured exasperation as he stood up. "My prince, duty calls." He told Joffrey with an amused smile. Joffrey seemed midly startled as he nodded at Ned. "Yes.. yes¡­" he said absently.


    Joffrey sat there on the werwood branch for a while longer, trying to catch pieces of whispers and thinking about Lord Starks deep words. For a man that spoke so little, the words that did leave his mouth were each precise and profound¡­ he couldn''t believe how anyone South could have thought Ned Stark was a fool.


    He guessed the memory of him breaking down in front of Stark again and again would have shamed his older self so much he would have sent assassins after him, but now he found he didn''t care one iota. After everything he had gone through, the idea seemed ludicrously childish.


    -.PD.-


    He was still digesting Lord Starks words as he exited the Godswood, and as usual every time they ended their conversations, Joffrey thought it would take him a life time or ten to fully understand their meaning.


    The sudden sight of Bran Stark climbing the Broken Tower sent a deep shiver down his spine. Ice curled on his belly as he thought of how events would degenerate and break the incipient peace Joffrey was striving so hard to find within himself. And the memories of Lord Stark''s painful sadness as he heard about the news of Brans fall sent odd shivers of despair throughout his body.


    He suddenly dashed towards the tower''s derelict door, pushing it aside and running with all his strength upwards, shouting. "Mother!! Mother!!!!! MOTHEEEEER!!!!" He screamed desperately as he reached the floor beneath the last one.


    A still panting Cercei creaked open the door carefully. The sight of her trying to discreetly straighten her dress threatened Joffrey''s sanity, but he pushed that aside. "Joff, sweetie, what''s going on?" she asked, red faced.


    Joffrey paused. "Ah, I d--, I mean, Lady¡­ Stark is looking for you, urgently." She eyed him curiously. "Lady Stark?" she asked. "Yes! Its urgent!" he told her as he nervously twitched his fingers. "Okay sweetie." She said as she straightened and carefully opened the door so only she could get out, and then she was descending through the stairs, holding one of Joffrey''s hands and making him come down too. She released him when they were outside, and when she was out of sight and he saw Bran Stark smoothly scaling down he let out a long sight of relief.


    "Lannisters are all weird" muttered Bran as he walked on, not noticing Joffrey.


    Can''t argue with that, thought Joffrey as he laeaned back on the tower.


    "JOFFREY!" screamed an angry Cercei from somewhere beyond the main keep.


    Shit.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had learnt that their stay at Winterfell each life varied greatly according to F-.. Roberts whims, and Robert''s whims seemed to vary each of his lives for no apparent reason. In a happy coincidence, their stay here was almost a full month, to the dismay of both his mother and Lady Stark, who eyed the prodigious amounts of food the King ate with increasing panic.


    A month where Joffrey shamelessly monopolized as much time as he could take from Lord Stark. Eddard himself didn''t seem too bothered about it, Joffrey suspected he had never quite had this chance to lay out his¡­ philosophy for lack of a better word, and his children were all obsessed with everything except the deep stillness of the Godswood.


    Still, all good comes to an end eventually, a fact of life that Joffrey had internalized for a while now. The caravan made its way south then, in a bit of a happier mood than other times. Bran had found a friend in little Tommen, and both of them, Lion and even sometimes Arya would play unending games each time the caravan stopped, much to Sansa''s annoyance.


    Speaking of Sansa, she had done her best at filling the time Eddard had left open as the King increasingly demanded his attention more and more. Joffrey, having nothing better to do, would accompany her on walks through the changing scenery of the Kingsroad.


    Joffrey found she wasn''t quite as stupid as he had thought before. She was just incredibly, no, monumentally naive and innocent, and Joffrey had to resist the temptation to slap her, Ned and even himself at the ludicrousness of someone as wise as Ned Stark rearing such an oblivious daughter.


    Ironically, Joffrey''s just as monumentally cynical mind found Sansa''s happy chattering an oddly and perplexing relaxant, as they strolled through the woods and plains of the Riverlands. As they reached King''s Landing he mused that Sansa was not exactly stupid, there was something deeper beneath her¡­ he shuddered at the memory of her fainting at the death of Lord Stark, not only at the scale of cruelty he was only now, barely beginning to grasp, but at the fact that the memory still sent a tingle of pleasure when he thought of her face contorted in horror.


    Memories like that would sometimes assault him when they walked, and Sansa would be left alone and confused when he awkwardly dashed off, hiding his shudders. He remembered she was not exactly without a spine either, certainly she had more than him. In one of his lives she had stabbed and killed two guards trying to escape before she was killed in turn, against impossible odds. No, not exactly stupid, he guessed she just needed a bit of prodding to get out of her self-constructed shell¡­ An interesting enigma, one that Joffrey had not the faintest will to investigate.


    Still, Sansa fulfilled a breathtaking need for human contact Joffrey hadn''t known he possessed, aching deep inside him. He was self-conscious of approaching Lord Eddard with that again, and the thought of being held by his mother and her golden locks brought forth memories that made him want to puke. He had found that just holding Sansa''s hand as they walked drastically reduced the amount of nightmares he would have every night, and her curiously strong grip on his hand sent odd flutters in his stomach that Joffrey had trouble identifying.


    Even with the their shortened time, he still met with Lord Stark in secluded locations, and their conversations still left Joffrey pondering and thinking deep into the night. To his surprise, when they arrived at the capital, he found out he didn''t want to be back here again at all.


    -.PD.-


    "It seems we have a new player in town" mused Varys aloud as he ambled through the empty throne room, engaging in one of his favorite past times these days¡­ exchanging subtle barbs, wit, and even gleanings of useful information with what had been up to now his only real rival in the game... and today the barbs were sinking into poor Petyr in such a delightful way.


    "Yeeesss¡­ It seems we have severely underestimated Lord Stark" said Littlefinger''s oddly raspish voice, apparently unconcerned, walking beside Varys. "A delightful turn of events, don''t you think, Lord Baelish? Things had been getting a bit dull over here, but a formidable new player certainly lightens things up" Said Lord Varys, good naturedly.


    Baelish shifted a bit, uncomfortable and trying to hide it from Varys keen eyes. "I''m sure the reports are exaggerated" he said, trying to convince himself more than Varys. "Oh but I saw them just today, cruel, spiteful Prince Joffrey following Lord Stark around with the look of an adopted puppy" Varys said with relish. "Two months and he is not already the friend of the King, but has the ear of the next one too¡­ he works quite fast, our Hand¡­ I thought, given your past experience with Starks, that the family in particular boasted of other¡­ skills." Varys twisted with happy abandon as he subtly gazed at the scar that popped out of Littlefinger''s doublet.


    Lord Baelish couldn''t contain himself and a small shudder went through his chest and the old wound that lay there. "Yes, the Stark are¡­ full of surprises" he said, subtly eying the door. For Varys he might as well have been screaming to let him go. He nodded magnanimously "Until next time, Lord Baelish"


    Baelish nodded back "Lord Varys" he said as he quickly fled the room. Varys had to contain a little giggle as he kept walking. Moments like this made the Great Game so worth playing.


    -.PD.-


    Despite Lord Stark''s numerous demands on his time as Hand of, now that Joffrey thought about it, a very absent King, he still found time to guide Joffrey every couple of days, and though the Red Keep''s Godswood was a very poor copy of the great Godswood of Winterfell, Joffrey found out it served its purpose well enough. His lone meditations by the heart tree every morning had been doing wonders for his fractured psyche, and he felt "recharged" every morning thanks to it. When he missed it for whatever reason, he would find himself slowly reverting to the despairing wreck of before¡­ something that obviously Joffrey wanted no part off.


    He also stared to apply some of Lord Stark''s wisdom on his daily routine. While the thought of "respecting" himself was for some reason so funny it bordered on hysteria, his words about never loosing his¡­ "wonder"¡­ had helped immeasurably in centering back together the various scattered bits of his personality¡­


    He knew that what had come back from the madness was not exactly what had gone there in the first place, for instance he was a lot shyer around people for some reason, but he didn''t care that much about it. Instead, he let himself rediscover simple pleasures that curiously enough hadn''t been at all prominent on his first life.


    He started early in the morning meditating in the Godswood, were his still raw and somewhat shaky mind slowly pieced itself back together after the nightmares he''d had that night. Then, he''d spar with the hound, though this time with minimal training armor as the pain of the wooden swords that had seemed so intense lifetimes ago now felt more like a tickle for some reason. He wasn''t sure if that was a good sign or not. Still, the exercise left him in a good mood, something rare this past, oh fifty years Joffrey reckoned. That would have been reason in and of itself to keep training, the Hound grudgingly telling him he was a slightly better than the average solider from a destitute keep was just an added bonus.


    He''d lunch with Lord Stark and his family whenever he could, which was most of the time, much to Eddard''s hidden enjoyment. He''d really grown to like their conversations, and the thought of having serious, meaningful conversation that didn''t involve pulled hair and thrown food seemed a godsend to Eddard, or at least that was how it looked to Joffrey. Sansa too would greet him joyfully enough, which often confused him. What had he ever done to earn such admiration? He reckoned that, beside his rank, he had literally nothing going for him, besides maybe the stereotypical Lannister good looks, and even that he doubted. To be the subject of such undeserved devotion kind of freaked him out now.


    Arya mostly looked at him curiously with a kind of intense stare, trying to find more things to tease Sansa about, he suspected.


    By far the most uncomfortable of the bunch was Bran Stark, who eyed him with deep suspicion and unease, always vigilant. Bran had made fast friends with Tommen, and his little brother had most likely been feeding horrid tales to Bran for a while now. He didn''t blame him, probably in Tommen''s mind he was just preparing a subtle and cruel prank to play on everyone, which, from his perspective would be the most probable thing that should happen these days.


    After lunch he would often read at the royal library, though the heavy tomes the imp seemed to favor were a bit too much for him. It was especially gratifying if that mornings bout with the hound had been more tiring than usual, it made the relaxed reading, basking in the afternoon sunlight by the royal library''s balcony all the more enjoyable. He mostly read somewhat lighter tomes such as the tales of the dragon knight or other, more accessible books. He suspected he was just starting to develop the skill, and that it was as underdeveloped as his pathetic swordsmanship had been in his first life. It was a rather depressing thought.


    After that, the late afternoon would be "free". He''d walk through the busy streets of Kings Landing, just watching, learning about the city he was supposed to rule. He''d go through the street of steel and watch the constant pounding of hammers on swords or tools, or the Street of Silk, where he''d enjoy watching the wares, though he never partake, it brought memories of pounding hearts and deep chest pains better left buried. Sometimes he''d walk with the imp, enjoying their discussions that, granted, were of a decidedly more practical and amusing nature than Lord Starks, but had their own kind of wisdom. Again, things Joffrey had never considered before seemed obvious to his uncle, and yet again he felt like an infant grasping basic meanings. His "sense of wonder" as Stark put it, was certainly getting a work out, and Joffrey found he thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Sometimes he would muse about what lay beyond the Capital and the Seven Kingdoms¡­


    At night he would sometimes talk, well, more like listen to Sansa''s tales of knights and chivalry, something that, to his mild horror, he was able to make descent conversation about thanks to the books he had been reading. He would eat then with his "family", who was the only downer to an otherwise nice day. He didn''t know if this life had left everyone sloppier or he was just a bit more perceptive this time around, but the constant death glares Cercei shot Robert, Robert''s frequent passes at serving girls, and his brother and sister''s silent eating left a stifling and oppressive atmosphere on his mouth. When his, father, was taking his turn guarding the family, Joffrey lost most of his appetite and wouldn''t even make it to the main dish before excusing himself. Seeing his progenitors together in the same room awakened deep-¡­ something wrong with you Joffrey..¡ªbetter left buried too.


    -.PD.-


    Months passed by in this happy state of affairs, and Joffrey gradually felt the unending despair lifting off his shoulders, slowly.


    Tension had, nevertheless, been rising amongst the Lannisters and the Starks. He didn''t know what was the cause this time, but he could see it in the way Lord Stark''s household guard tighten their hands on their pommels every time a Redcloak passed by, or in the way his¡­ father smirked disdainfully when he saw the Northmen.


    He had been with Lord Stark one day in the early morning, talking as usual, when Eddard finally brought up the question which must have been plaguing him for a long time. "Joffrey¡­" He had finally managed to rid him of the constant "My Prince", which had been getting tedious by the time they arrived at the Capital. "I know you don''t like to speak of it, but¡­ I think there something deeply inside of you, I don''t know, something that''s eating you away, would you--" he had suddenly stopped when he saw Joffrey staring at the ground.


    "There''s something deeply wrong with you Joffrey" Echoed Ned Starks moribund voice inside his head.


    "¡­Joffrey" asked Ned, confused.


    His hands were shaking, and he was breathing harder than usual.


    "I-¡­I have to go. Lord Stark" he nodded quickly as he trotted off.


    He run through the Red Keep, finally stopping at a section of the wall that seemed deserted.


    Haven''t had one of this for a while. He thought as he leaned a bit and crouched down. The shakes where not nearly as bad as last time, but it still sent painful memories reeling through his mind.


    Think of the weirwood, gentle swaying, slow winds.


    He was returning slowly from it, but the thing that really snapped him out of it was the reassuring grip on his hand. He turned back, somewhat dazed.


    "Sansa?" he asked, confused. "Its o-okay" she said with only a hint of doubt as she gently took his hand again, with both of hers. "You d-don''t have to--" he spluttered, but she interrupted him. "Its okay" she said again as she looked towards the sea. Joffrey said nothing as he looked in the same direction, watching the dawn. The strong, warm grip on his hand seemed to push his demons away, and Joffrey found himself letting out a long breath he didn''t know he had been holding.


    When he calmed down the imp screamed in his head to say his courtesies. "Ah, thank you milady" he said awkwardly. Sansa just smiled demurely as he looked at him then promptly kept staring at the ocean, the morning sun lighting her hair in an odd way. He was feeling very confused again, but this time in a somehow good way¡­ very confused¡­


    Of course, he had somehow stupidly forgotten this was fucking Westeros.


    The bells inside the Red Keep tolled¡­ and they didn''t stop. The pounding sound started to spread out throughout the area, and Joffrey paled.


    I know that sound.


    "Get behind me Sansa!" he told her as he took out his dagger. "Joffrey?" she asked in confusion and mild alarm. "Lets move, follow me" he told her as he grabbed her hand and trotted back down the wall''s staircase. In the courtyard the Red Cloaks had closed the gates and everyone seemed to be dashing somewhere in a haste, many of them seeming to search for something or someone¡­ and some of them seemed to be going to the Stark''s residence.


    Oh no.


    He run after them, never letting go of Sansa as they passed the doors. He stopped at the strange scene ahead of him. Several Redcloakes had surrounded soldiers of the Stark household guards, which had drawn swords. When they saw him one of the shouted "Let ''er go Lannister!".


    "That''s the Prince you''re speaking to!" Snarled one of the Redcloaks. Everyone tensed up as Joffrey snarled in frustration. "What''s going on damnit!" he asked the Stark guard. "Is the King dead?!"


    The guard seemed confused for a moment as he grunted. "The King?! What are you talking about?" he said. Sansa here leapt to the fore, "Let us through Lewin!" she told him. Some of the tension left them as they lowered their swords a bit. Sansa was the one guiding him as she shoveled through the guards, carrying Joffrey behind her. She seemed in a near panic as the both of them followed the line of Stark Guardsman and servants that seemed to come and go from a single direction.


    They stopped outside Bran Starks room, where grim faced guards stood watch and a few servants cried in the corner. "M'' lady¡­ you shouldn''t.." stumbled one of the guards, but Sansa was not listening to him, a mounting horror clear in her face as she entered the room, Joffrey right behind her.


    On his blood soaked bed, the body of Bran Stark stared blankly at the ceiling. He had multiple stab wounds on his chest, and his direwolf was feasting on the remains of a man in the floor, his hand tightly clutching a dagger.


    That wasn''t me, thought Joffrey, disconcerted.


    It was then Lord Stark entered the room, and somehow let out a wordless, soundless scream of disbelief and horror.


    -.PD.-


    Things had only gone downhill from there, and at a furious velocity. A few days later Jory Cassel, Eddards Guard Captain had been killed under dubious circumstances in some kind of bar fight, and a day later a Redcloak was found dead at his guard post. Brandon Stark''s assassin had taken the name of his benefactor to the grave, or rather to Summer''s stomach. In typical Westerosi fashion, King Robert had fallen ill due to some bug on his food and Pycell apparently had him up to the gills with milk of the poppy.


    Things had been very somber those days, and he hadn''t been able to talk to any of the Starks. He dreaded what he knew was to come now.


    -.PD.-


    Sure enough, he was woken up by his mother in the middle of the night. "Come on sweetie, its time you assume your rightful place" she told him as hurried servants dressed him. "Mother, what happened?!" he asked as they almost rushed towards the throne room. "Your Father''s pain is gone and he finally rests in peace." She told him soothingly as she practically pushed him on top of the iron throne. The room was lit by numerous torches, and the Kingsguard was already there, 6 white cloaks arraying itself around the throne. Redcloaks quickly stormed through the room and arrayed themselves in two protective blocks of ten in front of the Kingsguard.


    It''s happening fucking again, he thought desperately.


    Soon after that, the main doors opened, and Lord Stark entered the room, followed closely behind by Lord Baelish who seemed way, way more nervous than past times, anxiously swiveling to Lord Stark''s back and then to Cercei, as if trying to convince himself of something. With Stark entered a portion of his guard, must have been more than 30 men. And of course, Slynt and a sizable contingent of Goldcloaks marched by the Northmen''s flanks, something which would surely again prove to be a fatal mistake. Even Varys was looking more interested than last time.


    The multitude of armed men stared at each other with barely repressed hostile intent. Joffrey swallowed a lump. It all goes to shit after this¡­ again.


    "Bend the knee Lord Stark, and you will be allowed to return to the grey waste that you call your home, back with your trees" she sneered. "I want to be crowned within the fortnight" Joffrey almost blurted out of sheer reflex. I just can''t catch a fucking break.


    Instead of immediately handing the letter, Eddard seemed to doubt for a bit, his face contorting in strange angles. The silence stretched for a bit as he stared at Joffrey. Joffrey nodded at him tiedly "Just do what you think is right¡­ Ned." At this Eddard seemed to compose himself, and took out a letter. "Ser Barristan, no man alive here could question your honor." He said.


    Ser Barristan took the letter respectfully and went back to his post. "King Robert''s seal, unbroken." He said for all to hear. "I, King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, hereby name Lord Eddard Stark Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm until my son Joffrey comes of age".


    His mother leaned forward. "Ser Barristan, if--" Joffrey interrupted her abruptly. Not this time, fate.


    "Ser Barristan, pass me the letter please." Cercei seemed mildly shocked as Ser Barristan swiveled and gave it to him instead. Joffrey took his time as he read the short but powerful parchment.


    After what seemed an eternity to the soldiers everywhere, Joffrey folded the letter carefully and put it in his pocket. "The orders of my late F-Father are clear, come and assume your rightful position, Lord Stark." He said with a deep calmness. No more senseless deaths, fuck the game.


    From here he could see how the blood seemed to flee Lord Baelish''s head, and Varys actually smirked. The various soldiers stared at each other in confusion. Eddard himself seemed a bit shaken, and conflicting emotions warred within him as he took a tentative step forward.


    Bet the fuckers didn''t expect that.


    "Lord Baelish!" Screeched his mother. Eddard turned back and eyed Baelish in confusion as Littlefinger took a small step back, mixed awe and horror clouding his face as he gazed at Lord Stark "..you..knew" Baelish blabbered before snapping out of it. "C-Commander Slynt!" he shouted. Slynt shook his own head, lowered his helmet and bellowed.


    "MEN OF THE WATCH!"


    With a roar the Goldcloaks lowered their spears and charged the Stark men, who had already been watching them and edging away. Both forces met in brutal melee, and despite having a bit of a warning this time it was obvious the Stark men would not be able to hold off for long. Baelish took out a small dagger in panic and tried to stab Lord Stark as he was in the process of drawing his longsword, facing him down.


    "SER BARRISTAN!" Joffrey all but screamed. "PROTECT THE LORD REGENT!"


    "Aye your Grace" Selmy said as he drew his sword without hesitation, gliding forward with some kind of unhurried stride that seemed to eat distance faster than a sprint, brutally stabbing a Goldcloak through the back. "What are you waiting for?! Help your Lord Commander!" Joffrey bellowed at the rest of the Kingsguard. The 5 heavily armored knights (Jaime wasn''t there) were startled out of their confusion and promptly charged the Goldcloaks, or at least tried.


    "NO! Guards, hold them!" shouted Cercei. One befuddled Redcloak followed the order a bit too far as he stabbed Ser Meryn Trant through his visor with a dagger. The other Kingsguards drew their swords and started chopping up Redcloaks and the melee below descended into an unrecognizable madness.


    Joffrey promptly leapt out of the throne and charged down with his piddling dagger, ignoring his mother''s frantic commands. "Joffrey don''t-!" but he was already through. His smaller size and lack of armor helped him dash between the combatants quickly, although the situation had kind of descended into an indistinct free for all, and the wild, blind swinging and stabbing were taking a toll on his unarmored body as he run through the madness. He saw a Redcloak slashing down a Goldcloak, a Stark men being killed by a Kingsguard and even two Goldcloaks fighting between themselves. It was pure, distilled chaos.


    Although the pressure of so many fighting men confined to a relatively small space was overwhelming, Joffrey finally managed to get to the center. There he spotted Lord Stark, who was clutching several bloody spear wounds all over his body and surrounded by dead Goldcloaks¡­ and Baelish. It seemed Baelish, for all his political skills wasent that good a figther, he lay on the floor gutted like a fish from neck to hip, a permanent rictus of horror and fear etched on his still factions.


    "Eddard!" shouted Joffrey as he grabbed one of his arms, trying to share his weight, a weight that was rapidly becoming heavier. "Joffrey" whispered Ned as his legs gave out. Both of them crashed on the floor, and Joffrey found out not all of the blood pooling around them was Eddard''s¡­ it was also his. "I-I S-should have¡­ done¡­ nothing¡­ it was all¡­ so fast¡­" Eddard blabbered incoherently, each time weaker. "Hold on you bloody fool!" hissed Joffrey desperately as he looked around him for help, but there was only the wild, disorganized melee around them. "Joffrey" Eddard suddenly said as he grabbed Joffrey''s arm in a steel grip. "There''s¡­ something¡­ deeply inside of you¡­" muttered Stark, and Joffrey felt his blood freeze solid as an old, titanic despair made itself felt again on his belly, and memories of old lives and blood assaulted his mind, memories of Lord Stark being disemboweled to death. S?a?ch* Th? N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Deeply inside¡­ of you¡­ a good heart¡­" muttered Eddard, his eyes half closed. "What?!" screeched Joffrey as he felt tears suddenly welling on his eyes. Every half breath Ned''s voice came out shallower. "You¡­ just¡­ have¡­ to¡­ use¡­ it¡­" he whispered, but his eyes were already closed, "¡­you---" but he couldn''t finish as he seemed to exhale for the last time.


    Joffrey stared at Lord Stark''s increasingly blurry body, and let out a shrill roar. He jumped back on his feet with his dagger, and charged the nearest blurry soldier like a madman. He felt his rage consume him as he fought and fought and fought until he was suddenly on the floor again, and the purple began to encase him.


    He raged at the unfairness of it all before his neck started to wreath again, and his nerves flared in purple agony.


    -.PD.-


    The Hound was guarding the little shit''s room when a sudden, ragefull scream startled him out of his spot on the wall. He drew his longsword as he smashed into the door shoulder first but¡­ there was no assassin.


    Joffrey was pacing around the room grabbing stuff and throwing it away in a rage that the Hound didn''t think Joffrey had been capable of. This didn''t look like one of his usual tantrums¡­ at all. His face was vaguely disfigured as his puny muscles strained, and he tossed the chest down the room. "Fuck Littlefinger!" he shouted. The Hound was beffudled as he thought about what the hell was going on. "Fuck Varys! Fuck mother! Fuck Tywin and fuck Stannis" he shouted as he paced and paced. "Fuck the Game! Fuck the Throne! Fuck Westeros! Fuck em AAAAALLL!!!" bellowed Joffrey with all his might, pushing the rage out of him like a physical force.


    The Hound had been slightly nodding at those last statements in grim approval without noticing, but then Joffrey stopped. "¡­ They want it so much? They can FUCKING have it!" he screamed at no one in particular. "That lump of rusted steel has brought on nothing but death, pain and misery!"


    Suddenly he gazed at the Hound with a considering and slightly maniacal look.


    "Hound¡­ say¡­ how is Lys this time of the year?"


    The Hound looked dismayed.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 9: Family.

    Ark 2: Wonder.Chapter 9: Family.


    "Did you check on the stables? Or the kitchens perhaps?!" Accused an exasperated Cercei, verbally smashing the poor servant to the ground. "I did my queen! He''s not there!" Said the somewhat fearful servant as they walked through the Red Keeps Hallways. Damned incompetents, Cercei thought as she made her way towards Joffrey''s room. He was probably right there and had told the servants not to tell her¡­ Her Joffrey was feared, as it should be, as every King should be.


    But when she entered his room, she found nothing except a small parchment lying on the cupboard. Recognizing it as Joffrey handwriting, she gave it a look. Her face turned paler and paler the more she read it.


    The "Game of Thrones" and, really, the entirety of this godsforsaken continent is a monumental deathtrap waiting to maim, traumatize and kill any and all so called "players", innocents, smallfolks, lords, kings, everyone, at a moment''s notice. It is with that thought in mind I hereby renounce my claim to the throne and leave the intrigue and power games of the Seven Kingdoms in the capable hands of you players, may you literally choke on it. I''m off to Lys to live the good life, I''m sure Robert will be proud. So long!


    PD: I took the Hound with me, I''m sure Tywin won''t mind.


    The parchment slipped her fingers as she screamed "SER BARRISTAN!!!"


    -.PD.-


    The seas splashed across the Swift Winds as the cog bullied through the unusually stormy waters of the Narrow Sea. The Hound was standing stoically on the bridge, but his charge¡­ well¡­


    "BLLLRRRRGHHHGHGGHOUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHH" Said Joffrey, or tried to say as todays hurriedly eaten breakfast made a jump for it out of Joffrey''s mouth. Strangely, he would have expected, well had actually expected Joffrey to desist in his madness and mewl out the command to return to King''s Landing at the first vomit, raging at the disgusting turn of events.


    This one had been the sixth¡­ in the hour. He did not say a word besides the gurgling, in fact he actually smiled through his dirty teeth. "This¡­ This is what life should be Hound." He said between gasps, not even minding his own vomit as he looked to the sea. "Free, unbound to die a pointless death¡­ Free from obligation and madness and¡­ and¡­.---" His epiphany was interrupted by another bout of projectile vomit.


    Sandor just shook his head. He''d very nearly tossed the mad brat back to Robert when he actually took a couple of purses full of golden dragons, a bastard sword, prayed to the Old Gods in the gods wood, penned his abdication to the most powerful realm in Planetos and strolled down to the docks like he was taking a stroll through the King''s wood.


    "Hound" he had said with such seriousness he had never seen before coming from him. "I''m doing this one way or the other" he said with such conviction he had believed him fully. "Now, you can either explain to Tywin why I got killed in a random alleyway in the free cities without an escort, or you can come with me" he said.


    Damned kid. The Queen is not going to like this¡­ not one bit.


    Oblivious to his thoughts, Joffrey puked again at the uncaring sea.


    -.PD.-


    "Ahh, Lys! The most beautiful of the Free Cities! You made the right choice coming here young lord!" Said the ships captain as the cog slowed, making its way through calm waters to the dockyards. Saying Lys was beautiful was like saying water was wet. The city rose smoothly from the long, shallow beaches, its buildings rising like a continuation of the beautiful bright yellow sand. Joffrey could see people on the beaches, bathing or laying luxuriously on smooth blankets, feasting on olives and wines. Several of those were naked woman, something that pleased Joffrey, though the fact maybe half of them had chains on their necks was a bit of a downer. Like any born and raised Westerosi he disliked the practice of slavery. Besides, hadn''t uncle Tyrion said once that a free man worked twice as hard as a slave?


    The city stretched over several islands, but its luxurious, paradise-like demeanor didn''t mean the city was not dangerous. Its great walls and powerful navy (said to be second only to the Braavosi, though Volantis disputed that claim) defended the island itself, while trouble makers were liable to find themselves poisoned with one of the many fine venoms the city had to offer.


    Like the Strangler. Whispered a corner of his mind. He''d almost demanded the Captain to change course once he discovered the substance was originally made here in Lys¡­ But in the end it didn''t matter. Ironically, Joffrey thought he was less likely to be poisoned here than he was on Westeros. Besides, ever since his descent into madness¡­ pain didn''t register as hard anymore, for some reason. Sure the purple was painful and horrible¡­ but it didn''t elicit the same despair and demi madness that it had evocated before¡­ he wasn''t sure that was a good thing.


    He was startled out of his musings with a jolt as the ship bumped against the dockyards, gleeful sailors jumping down and tying them together, trying to get the job done as fast as they could. After seeing the otherworldly beauties on the beach, he couldn''t say he blamed them.


    Joffrey and the Hound descended through the plank, the hound carrying his relatively small travel chest. "We made it Hound! Free at last from that hellhole they call the Seven Kingdoms!" he said gleefully as he rubbed his hands together. "Eddard had it right you know, I''m going to experience the shit out of these moments!" he said in expectant anticipation. The hound huffed, shaking his head. "Huh? You think you''re not going to? Hound, why did you think I brought two huge bags of gold" he said with a wink. S?a?ch* Th? ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The hound couldn''t close his gaping mouth as the spirit that had hijacked Joffreys body laughed. "Come on, let''s find a place to sleep and let''s get started!!!" He said merrily as he walked down the pier into Lys the beautiful.


    Damned kid, thought Sandor as he rushed after him.


    -.PD.-


    The three days that followed were full of debauchery and decadence. They said that Lys was god for you as long as you had coin, and that as soon as that run out you were liable to get poisoned if you stayed too long.


    Fortunate for Joffrey, he had brought plenty of gold.


    All three days had passed in a drunken haze where Joffrey sampled all of the liquor in the city, and rutted with (but did not have sex) with more prostitutes than he''d ever seen before. Uncle Tyrion would definitely be proud.


    He had wanted to forget everything about his, hopefully, former life. He envisaged a decade''s stay at Lys, by which point his funds would no longer be a concern because hopefully the debauchery would kill him before his purse run out. Though he did have in mind a particular memory he didn''t want to forget¡­ one he wanted to finish.


    He had been saving his virginity for tonight. He''d had preferred the original circumstances and not this poor facsimile, but, well, getting to that particular point on his standard life was not only distasteful but also liable to get him killed even before he reached said destination.


    "I want you to respond to Maergery" he told the golden-chestnut haired beauty as she seductively closed the door and stalked towards him.


    "Of course, my lord." She said, sultrily unbuttoning his shirt. "Good" muttered Joffrey as she tugged him to the enormous silk bed. He let his imagination run wild as they both collapsed into the bed, kissing and tumbling for position. He tried to imagine his future/past wife as best as he could¡­ her timid but intelligent eyes, that anchor like emotional fortitude that promised to ground him, that bewilderingly bright red hair¡­


    "Sansa¡­" he muttered as she unbuttoned his pants. She stopped their kissing to giggle "But I thought I was named Maergery?" she asked in mock hurt. Joffrey snapped out of his trance like state like he''d crashed against a steel wall. "I did" He said, confused, trying to make sense of the bittersweet longings he felt on his suddenly weak feeling right hand.


    The Hound suddenly opened the room''s door, breaking his incipient introspection.


    "Gods, Hound!" screeched Joffrey. "Didn''t they teach you how to knock?!" he asked exasperated. The Hound just shook his head "Playtime''s over Joffrey" he said in a mildly apologetic tone.


    "Wha--" he started, but the question died on his throat as Ser Barristan Selmy roughly pushed his way past the Hound and entered the room, followed by pissed looking red cloaks. "Time to come home my prince, the King and Queen are not pleased" huffed Ser Barristan, seemingly exasperated¡­ maybe Lys doesn''t agree with him.


    Joffrey eyed the door, and the chair beside it which contained his sword, coin and clothes. Then he looked at the men blocking said door. Finally he looked at the window.


    He stood up with all the dignity he could muster as the prostitute scurried away¡­ all the dignity he had wearing just his trousers anyway. He nodded at the men. "Ser Barristan¡­ you forgot one thing." he said smugly as he looked behind the old kingsguard. Ser Barristan, the red cloaks and even the Hound all looked behind them, but just saw a plain (as plain as it could be in the luxurious brothel), regular wall.


    "Wha-" started Ser Barristan but he choked off when he saw the Prince jumping through the window.


    He landed on top of a cart carrying cabbages, of all things. The shock of the landing stole the air from his lungs as he tumbled out of the cart, bruising himself in the rock paved road. He looked up and saw the disbelieving face of Ser Barristan, only to duck out and quickly command the red cloaks to get him!


    Fuck that! Joffrey shouted in his mind as he dashed down the streets, hurriedly buttoning his trousers. Thank the old gods he had been so excited with the whore he hadn''t taken off his shoes!


    He heard tumbling and cursing sounds behind him, so he doubled his speed and took off into a random alleyway. He skipped and dodged people fucking each other in the alley corners and the shady looking men exchanging bags of gold. He emerged into the other street only to tumble with a surprised looking red cloak.


    "M''pri--" he never finished before Joffrey socked him right in the jaw and sent him tumbling back. He suppressed a loud "OUCH", rubbing his hand sore fist with his trousers as he took off downhill. He barely saw where he was going before he crashed against a man with his arms folded in front of him.


    The man barely grunted while Joffrey''s momentum made him bounce back almost a full 2 meters. Dazed, he looked up and saw a tall, somehow thin but still stoic looking man, who was observing him with amusement, one hand resting on his rapier.


    Behind him, several sailors were loading crates into a sleek looking ship, laughing and talking between themselves¡­


    He had made it to the docks.


    "Take me with you" he blurted at the tall, stoic man.


    You gotta get your shit together Joffrey! Way to start the conversation asshole!


    The man didn''t seem annoyed, more like amused really. "Oh? And why should I?" he said with honest curiosity. His voice had an iron tinge to it that vaguely reminded him of his supposed uncle Stannis, though there were laugh lines on the man''s face that seemed to indicate something kinder was hidden behind that iron discipline¡­ unlike Stannis.


    "I--" He couldn''t tell him he would be rewarded because his grandfather owned all the gold in the Westerlands, or that his supposed father was the King of Westeros. Besides being counterproductive, Joffrey realized his whole life had been propelled on by those two safe facts.


    My father will give you a lordship, my grandfather will give you gold, my mother will have you flogged. Never had someone in Joffrey''s whole life given him something because he was just who he was. Only because of his position and family¡­


    Fuck that!


    Problem is, Joffrey thought, take that away and he was a pretty useless lump of dead weight.


    "I can help!" he blurted. The man had been patiently waiting for his explanation and he raised one thick eyebrow at that.


    Joffrey looked down to his only possessions: a pair of ruined fine shoes and his ripped trousers¡­ this was going to be hard. He took a deep breath. "I can help in any way you deem necessary, I don''t know much about ships, but I will do whatever labor you want, and I can also handle myself with a bastard sword if you got any, I could help out in a fight with that. The only thing I ask is room and board, nothing else." he released a deep breath as he blurted his piece, accelerating at the end because of a growing ruckus behind him in the quays.


    His head swiveled from the man and back to the dock entrance where he could spy red cloaks searching for him everywhere. The man however seemed to be taking his sweet time digesting what Joffrey had said.


    He seemed to eye the red cloaks for a moment before gazing back at Joffrey. "You are being chased" he said, matter of factly.


    Fuck, its over, he thought. Something told him this man would appreciate honesty instead of honeyed words (not that Joffrey was capable of them anyway). He decided to answer even though the tone wasn''t that of a question.


    "Yes"


    "Did you kill or steal anything?" he asked him with eyes that seemed to bore on him like catapults. "What? No!" he replied vehemently. Well, at least not in this life, he thought ruefully. He was already turning his back, wondering if he could swim across the harbor and loose his pursuers in the poor districts when the man''s iron voice spoke behind him in a measured tone.


    "I''ll expect hard and honest work. Complain or make trouble and I''ll drop you on the nearest port. Got it?" he said.


    "Got it" he blurted almost against his will. The man''s face lightened up fractionally "Head on in, we depart in an hour." He said as he turned his back and started haranguing the men to load faster.


    Joffrey stood there paralyzed for a few seconds until the shouting of pissed off Lys city guards confronting the red cloaks made him scramble through the plank and enter the fast looking cog.


    -.PD.-


    It had looked fast alright. The Eastern Winds seemed to glide above the thundering waves, seemingly aching to just dispense with the water all together and fly like the dragons of old every time she leapt out of a swell. It was beautiful to see.


    Or, well, it would have been, had Joffrey not been puking his guts out as he scrubbed and scrubbed. "You''ll never finish scrubbing the deck if you keep on vomiting all over it, my friend" Said Baleo in passable, if heavily accented common tongue. His long trimmed mustache was somehow repelling the sea water that splashed around with every wave, and Joffrey felt a pinch of jealousy as he touched his salty blond hair.


    Joffrey finally gave in and slapped the sponge down, laying back on his haunches and letting out a long sight. The sea sickness had been gradually fading away, but wasn''t fading away fast enough... the occasional vomit still had the tendency to ambush him at the worst moment. Still, he hadn''t thought in a million years that being a servant was so damned boring. No, boring didn''t cover it enough, call it mind numbing. He had been wiping this deck for the past week and there was no end in sight. He briefly eyed the man who had let him in, Captain Nakaro Faenys. He was standing serenely on the bridge, one hand on the tiller, and he seemed to be gazing at Joffrey. He was testing him somehow, he was sure of it. He would sometimes catch him staring at him with an infuriatingly prevalent knowing smirk, as if thinking and figuring out all of Joffrey''s secrets.


    He was suddenly assaulted by the deep desire to toss the sponge his way and demand they sail to King''s Landing--


    My Grandfather can make you rich¡­


    My Father can reward you¡­


    My Mother will flog you¡­


    No.


    He was going to make something out of himself, even if he ended up scrubbing freaking decks for the rest of this life, he was going to be something that stood on its own, not because of his gods forsaken murdering family.


    Not that he had a choice really. He didn''t have a copper penny to his name.


    He grabbed the sponge again.


    -.PD.-


    The days seem to pass very fast. Joffrey was on cleaning duty for a whole 2 weeks. The steady gaze of the Captain had been waiting for him to crack, waiting for him to complain or something. He didn''t give him the joy.


    He worked hard and mindlessly, until one morning when he made his way to the cargo hold in search for his bucket and sponge, he found the Captain there.


    They had stared at each other for a while before Captain Nakaro had gestured at him. He followed Nakaro to his room, were there where several nautical charts and maps, detailing the trade winds of the Narrow and Shivering, amongst others. The Captains room had various knickknacks that Nakaro had most likely obtained on his frequent journeys around Planetos. He could spy fine silks and sea shells, various precious metals, antlered heads of beasts he had never seen or heard of, and many more¡­


    It was, Joffrey realized with a strange pang of longing and jealousy, the room of a man who had likely lived his life to the fullest¡­ and if not, then had at least made a good showing of himself.


    They stared at each other for a while before Nakaro took a bottle of Myr Brandy, serving it on two bronze cups. They had strange markings on the side, depicting a picturesque jungle the like of which Joffrey had never seen, and the base of the cup had strange, twisting symbols he did not know the meaning of.


    He sipped the brandy carefully, and though it was true the man could have gotten him killed any time now had he wanted it, some habits had by now firmly entrenched themselves on Joffrey''s psyche.


    "I''ve been watching you for the past few weeks, and I''ve got to admit I''m somewhat curious" he said in vaguely accented common tongue. "You have the hands of a man who has not pulled heavy work once in his lifetime¡­ or at least, you had them" he added with a slight chuckle. "But I digress, you are an enigma, Prince Joffrey." Joffrey choked for a bit with the brandy, which ended in a coughing fit. "Don''t be so surprised, it was not hard to tie the knots" he said amiably while serving more brandy.


    "How did you guess?" Asked Joffrey, trying to keep his cool. If he gets me to King''s Landing they will never let me out of their sights again, I''lbe trapped there in their little games till something backfires and I end up dead at best or ¡­ I don''t want to even think about the worst.


    "Connecting the rumors of the runaway prince coming from the west, with a blonde young man running from a Kingsguard in Lys, well¡­ it wasn''t the most perplexing mystery I''ve ever seen.


    Joffrey thought about King''s Landing again. No¡­ better a clean death and a fresh start. He was already considering how he could get his dagger and kill himself before Nakaro could move.


    Nakaro just smiled enigmatically. "Relax, Joffrey. I''m not handing you back to them unless you want to." Joffrey''s gaze leapt from his crude dagger''s pommel back to Nakoro''s face. "What!?" he blurted.


    Nakaro''s voice took a slightly ominous voice, and a more forceful Braavosi accent "You can''t escape from your destiny boy, it is like running from ones shadow, it will always find you, and if you don''t confront it first, you will only make it worse. You will only delay the inevitable¡­ There is no escaping." He said solemnly, and Joffrey stared at the change of demeanor in slight anxiety.


    Then Nakaro cracked a smile. "That''s what my father used to say, shows how much the old bastard knew¡­" His smile turned into a smirk. "I''ve been ''running from my destiny'' for 35 years, and I''d say I''m just fine. I''ve lived a long and happy life, and Destiny can go crawl back to the hell it spawned from." He said.


    Now, that was a sentiment Joffrey could definitely get behind for, far more than the man likely knew.


    Somewhat more relaxed now, Joffrey took another sip before asking. "So, what does that all mean right now?"


    "Nothing" Nakaro simply said. "No one said running from your destiny was, in any way, easier than confronting it¡­ just a lot more satisfying." He said with his trademark, knowing smirk again. "You are an enigma, Prince Joffrey. Yet you are willing to work hard and do it with the best of your ability. You will keep working on this ship, for a reasonable pay, and I will treat you like any other of my crew members, no more, no less. Is that acceptable to you?" he said while gently re arranging a map of the Jade Sea trade routes.


    Joffrey swallowed before answering. "It is" he said with a nod.


    "Good" Said Nakaro. After a moment of silence, he eyed Joffrey in mild confusion. "I thought there was a deck you were supposed to be scrubbing?"


    Joffrey stood up, startled. "Yes¡­ Captain" he said. It grated on him to follow orders, it had always been like that. But for once, taking them from someone he was starting to respect made a lot to sooth the part of his mind that was demanding he (or rather his mother) flogged him.


    Besides, anything was better than returning to that snake pit that is King''s Landing.


    -.PD.-


    Weeks turned into months as the Eastern Winds glided through the Narrow Sea, far faster than any trading cog had a right to do, if Joffrey''s admittedly poor knowledge of ships was to be trusted. When he asked Baleo about it, he had snorted disdainfully.


    Joffrey and the squat Braavosi had made fast friends over the last weeks, though Joffrey thought it had more to do with their shared torment of cleaning everything under the sun instead of his own golden personality.


    "We are not a mere trading cog, my friend" he said while they were tying a piece of rigging that had snapped off in a mild storm a day before. Well, Baleo was actually doing the work, Joffrey was ''apprenticing'' with him by the Captains orders, so that Joffrey''s incompetence with sailing ships wouldn''t spill their doom in a serious storm or other such emergency. Joffrey had teared his gaze from the absurdly simple yet somehow mind-boggling knots and was looking at Baleo curiously. "What, then? We have more sail than a mere trading cog, and less cargo space to boot" Joffrey said. He was rather proud he had spotted those inconsistencies.


    "As I said Joff, no mere trading cog. This slick beauty is a fast runner, made for the sole purpose of carrying small but high value cargo from place to place, as fast as we can." Baleo said as he chopped a bit of ruined wood from the rigging with his axe. Joffrey thought for a moment before asking again. "There''s a business for that sort of thing?" he asked as he tried to disentangle another impossible knot, only making it worse. "No, no" said Baleo suddenly as he took the piece of rope from Joffrey''s hands and re arranged the knot. "You put this one over, then you tie the loop." He said while demonstrating. Joffrey nodded absentmindedly, his hands trying to replicate it with the next piece of tangled rigging.


    "To answer your question, there is. Either from contracts or freelancing, there''s always someone that just needs a select Tyroshi pear brandy that''s 50 years old or a costume made Myrish carpet, or any thousands of other goods, and wants them now. Or at least sooner than your average trading cog can get it to you." he said. "Of course, when there are no contracts the Captain favors long voyages. After all, the more separated the ports, the more exotic will be the wares." He said, amused as Joffrey had trouble with another piece of tangled, shredded rigging.


    "I¡­ see¡­" muttered Joffrey as he tried to figure out the knot. He messed with it for another 5 minutes before he handed it to the amused Baleo in defeat.


    "Don''t worry Joffrey, it will get past your thick head eventually" Said Baleo as he showed him yet again, his deft fingers untangling the rigging and knotting it again.


    -.PD.-


    As more months passed by and the ship made its rounds across the Narrow Sea, Joffrey slowly integrated himself to the Ship''s daily life.


    The Eastern Winds crew was a mixed lot, and the resulting ship life was, consequently, a mixed lot too. The sailors frequently engaged in varied games of fortune were Joffrey promptly lost all of his pay, and got ribbed mercilessly for it. Other times, the two Qohorik seamen engaged in duels of accuracy and speed with their fine throwing blades, and would challenge anyone to try their luck at the contest. Joffrey''s short lived carrier as a knife thrower lasted 3 seconds as the first knife he tossed not only didn''t even reach its target on the bulkhead, but skewered a slice of bread one of the other sailors was eating¡­ more than 10 meters away from the target¡­ in the other direction. Tregarro, one of the qohorik knife throwers, had nearly died of laughter while Joffrey escaped from the enraged sailor, a mountain of a man named Voqo.


    The sailors were a harsh crew, but a fair one at that, and they took care of their own.


    One night the crew had been out and about in Pentos, showering their money away at prostitutes and taverns (not that Joffrey blamed them, anyone needed a good pint of brandy after surviving that storm), Joffrey had taken a few drinks too many and had been stumbling about in the street when two shadows accosted him. "Your purse or your life" they said, or something akin to that. Launguage was pretty universal for those situations. Joffrey wasn''t exactly fluent in bastard valyran, but the crash course these past few months had taught him some things.


    "*hic*¡­ Fuck my ¡­ *hic*¡­not mother!" he said, butchering the insult in his inebriated state, waving his dagger about. Not that it mattered, that was pretty universal too. The shadows growled, and made to strike him down when someone spoke from behind. "No one messes with the crew of the Eastern Winds you dogs." Said the voice of Baleo. The men turned around to find themselves staring at Baleo, standing aside the biggest man they had probably ever seen. Baleo nodded at his companion, "Voqo" he said simply.


    Voqo nodded.


    The robbers stared at them in panic, daggers at the ready.


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    Baleo waited too, periodically looking at Voqo until he sighted, exasperated. "Voqo, kill them" he said.


    "Oh, right" said Voqo, somewhat abashed as he suddenly moved. A man so big shouldn''t have been capable of moving so fast, but in two seconds he had both robbers on the ground, their necks bent at unnatural angles.


    "Lets go Joff" Said Baleo as he grabbed him by the shoulder. Joffrey just hiccupped while he looked at Voqo. "You''d make a fine *hic* Kingsguard Voqo¡­ not that it''d *hic* be hard¡­" he said, stumbling as Baleo and Voqo looked at each other in confusion.


    "Kids these days¡­" muttered Baleo.


    Voqo nodded sagely.


    -.PD.-


    It was months after that encounter, on their way to Braavos, that they noticed the same ship had been behind them for the past 6 hours¡­ and it was getting closer.


    "Joff, the far-eye please" Said Nakaro, frowning at the chasing ship while his gloved hands grasped the Eastern Winds stern rail. Joffrey turned to a chest by the side, got the Myrish far eye, stretched it open and promptly giving it to Nakaro. "Captain" he said.


    Joffrey had been for little more than a year on this ship as a crewmember, but changes were apparent still. His hands were worn and callused, and his skin had a healthy tan that did a lot to fix his previously deathly pale complexion. He scratched behind his ear where a bit of salt had made its home. "They shouldn''t be pirates, Captain" said Joffrey, puzzled.


    "Hmm. Its true that our small size makes most pirates chase other, more apparently lucrative prey¡­ but not all pirates are mindless sellsails¡­" he lowered the far eye and then turned to look at the various fly wheels and other vaguely toy like instruments on the ship''s mast. "They''ll try to catch us before the storm¡­ and pirates who are well informed are usually well armed¡­" he said before nodding decisively, "Baleo, break open the arms chest and arm the crew¡­ and deploy the ballistas¡­ Guess we will see exactly how good you are, Joff." He said.


    Joffrey tightened his hand around the bastard sword he had acquired in Pentos, and nodded "We will be ready, Captain" he said. This past year had been incredible, docking at each Free city, seeing things he had never even imagined¡­ and being part of a crew that was starting to feel like family.


    He was not going to let them take it.


    -.PD.-


    As the afternoon carried on, the sky had gradually acquired an ominous dark-grey tone, and the waves were wilder. The ship kept getting close, and worst, it had deployed rowers on its sides, further increasing its speed.


    "The men are ready, Captain" Said Baleo, throttling a boarding axe. Nakaro nodded and walked to the edge of the foredeck. "Men! Those bastards over there think they can steal our hard earned silver¡­ problem is, I''m not feeling particularly generous today." He said loudly for all to follow. The men, some of whom had been looking quite nervous, suddenly found themselves laughing.


    "Let''s show them just how greedy the crew of the Eastern Winds can be!!!" bellowed Nakaro, raising his rapier. The men roared their defiance, Joffrey as loud as any of them.


    "Ballistas! Make ready!" shouted Nakaro. The men manning the light ballista''s that had been carried and bolted to the deck finished cocking the springs, each of them voicing their assent.


    Nakaro seemed to wait for a minute, eyeing the chasing ship, and the winds. The sea had turned even more turbulent in the meantime, and the Eastern Winds rocked about, slapped by the high seas from every direction.


    "Joreqor, hard starboard!" he commanded. "Aye Captain!" The sailor at the tiller said as he shoved his full weight to the left, carrying the tiller with him. The Eastern Winds responded immediately, turning to the right and cutting the chasing ship''s T at an oblique angle, and Joffrey could see figures on the pirate ship gesticulating wildly.


    "Archers, loose!" shouted Nakaro. On the deck the sailors armed with a myriad of ranged weapons, including Joffrey and the ballistas, opened up, showering the chasing ship with arrows. Joffrey could hear their screams from here as the parabolic trajectory of the projectiles brought them down directly on their deck.


    Suddenly a hail of arrows departed from the enemy ship-


    "Take cover!" shouted Joffrey as he ducked against the heavy wooden railing, struggling to reload a crossbow. Most sailors did as told, but a few were on the deck, screaming as multiple arrows peppered them. Not all of the projectiles had been arrows, some of them were heavy grappling hooks.


    "Cut them!" shouted Tregarro, getting a hand axe and trying to snap the reinforced rope that connected them to the other ship. Joffrey joined in the effort, but with the hail of arrows going both directions it was difficult to cut the damned things without ending up as a pin cushion.


    Soon it was too late, and as both ships crashed side by side, Joffrey could hear a battle cry in bastard valyrian. Something about skewering the bastards.


    And they were upon them. The pirates had little or no armor that Joffrey could see, likely preferring agility and the prospect of survival should they fall to the seas. Joffrey and the crew met them with contained fury, and soon the Eastern Winds found itself host to a whirling skirmish.


    Joffrey found himself facing a thin man with two long daggers that kept swishing in an interlocking pattern. They were evenly matched, though the constant tumbling in the deck due to the stormy seas gave the advantage to the pirate, who seemed to flow with the tumbling as if he''d been doing it since childhood. He''d probably had too.


    The man wheeled about fluidly, swishing his daggers about and never staying too long on one place. His combat style was strange and unexpected, something that took its toll on Joffrey as a sudden change in direction by the sailor ended up with him being licked by the long daggers. With mounting horror, he realized his left arm had been disabled. It was hanging almost uselessly by the side, bleeding freely. The Hound''s trademark grapples would not work for now.


    The pirate, likely seeing the blood, redoubled his attack, and Joffrey was quickly on the defensive, parrying and trying to dodge the damned daggers. He was sure he''d seen this type of fighting before in King''s Landing, but for the life of him he couldn''t remember from who or what it was. He tried to copy it, trying to dodge about with the feel of the waves as the man was doing, but it was futile. The joined ships thundered precariously over the swells, and a sudden wave shoved Joffrey to the side, making him tumble and roll through the deck before his head stopped him, thunking against one of the masts.


    He wiped the salt water out of his eyes, and was confronted with the sight of the pirate above him, daggers ready to gut him.


    Not like this. Not now.


    He had found peace with the crew, of a sort. Not in the physical sense, this life had been rowdier than most¡­ but in his mind, and now, as the daggers descended, Joffrey realized with a start that the simple life of a sailor had brought him more happiness than all his princely pasts. He had found a family with the Eastern Wind''s crew, but, as Joffrey had found out before, good things didn''t last on this planet.


    Everything quickly turned dark.


    -.PD.-


    He awoke with an indescribable sadness weighing him down. Another start, alone again.


    Still, he decided to take a big breath before anything. Then he would think about¡­ everything else¡­


    He couldn''t fill his lungs before a sharp pain kicked in at his side.


    That''s new.


    He could feel himself gently sway about, following about the rhythm of the waves. He was likely on his hummock on¡ª


    Wait.


    He opened his eyes and saw not the stilted ugliness of the red keep, but the blessed view of his crewmates sleeping, playing dice and even Voqo and Maerrys wrestling about, cheered on by some spectators (and impromptu gamblers), all of them on the big compartment that served as the crew''s quarters aboard the Eastern Winds.


    "Hey!" someone said. "Joff''s awake!"


    With that shout, everyone stopped what they were doing and swarmed over Joffrey, all speaking at the same time, excitedly gesticulating with their hands.


    "I never thought I''d have the horror of watching someone sleep longer than Voqo, but gods did you shatter that assumption Joff!" said someone ¨CTregarro, Qohorik, shamlesss pranker and party maker--


    "That was the shitiest Water Dancing I''ve ever seen!" said one of them ¨C Draqyllo, Braavosi, dour pessimist, likes to read.¡ª


    "Damn you Joff! Now I owe Maerrys 5 silver pieces!" said another one-- Aeolo, Lyseni, widely mocked "dancer"¡ª


    "Don''t do that again you idiot, you were killing me! Who''s going to keep me company scrubbing the floor for eternity if you croak?!" said the jovial but slightly worried voice of ¨CBaleo, Braavosi, Friend.-


    Joffrey found his eyes watering lightly, and he cared not that they saw him cry.


    They all stopped speaking above each other as Joffrey let his tears run down his cheeks.


    All except one.


    "I think he''s got something on his eye" said Voqo.


    The face palms and exasperated eye rolls only made him cry harder.


    -.PD.-


    The Eastern Winds passed below the Titan of Braavos in triumph, towing her prize behind her. The crew was in an incredibly jubilant mood, cheering for all their worth as they made it back to their home port. Joffrey cheered as loud as any of them (actually a bit quieter, his belly was still sore as hells). The city had a standing bounty for any slaves liberated by its ships, and the pirate''s galley had been full of them, mostly rowers although a few pleasure slaves had been there too. Some of the former slaves were amongst the crew too, whooping and cheering. It felt good to be responsible in some small way for so much positive emotion. One of the former slave girls was crying in joy, gazing at the titan of Braavos. Now there was no chance she''d be taken again. Joff was about to tell Baleo about it but he found his friend being passionately kissed (eaten should be a better word) by one of the former pleasure slaves, her eyes watering in joy too but manifesting her happiness in an entirely different way.


    And giving Baleo an early start in the celebrations, thought Joff, somewhat jealous.


    Joff¡­ The rest of the crew already thought that was his name, but after the awakening back on his hummock he had found himself thinking of his own person not as Joffrey, bastard born out of incest and fugitive ''prince''¡­ but as Joff, petty sailor of the Fast Runner Eastern Winds.


    I rather like that, though Joff as he gazed at the most powerful of the Free Cities.


    He had never before seen Braavos, and it was clear it was a different kettle of fish from King''s Landing. The city stretched across a hundred islands, with stone bridges and small gondolas connecting them together. The huge statue of the Titan served as a symbol of the cities prestige and also as the fortress that protected the harbor entrance. It stood proudly, as if defying the old Valyrian dragonriders to take them back into captivity again. The heavy mist that seemed to permeate Braavos gave the city an alluring, exotic tone to its grey architecture. Truly, the city had a flavor all of its own.


    As Joffrey''s wondering gaze scanned the Free City, he felt a presence on his side. Turning, he saw Nakaro holding his trademark smirk. "Beautiful, no? Could do away with the smell though" he said, and Joffrey snorted. It was true, the water did smell just a bit fowl. It seemed even the best of the Free Cities had its downsides, and though beautiful, the canals did smell.


    As the ship slowly made its way to the docks, Nakaro spoke again. "Before you go with the rest of the crew to toss your hard earned coin to the trash, I wanted to talk about your training schedule."


    Joff was nonplussed. "Training schedule?" he asked.


    Nakaro nodded as if speaking to a child. "Yes. Training schedule. Your proto-water dancing was atrocious. Next time we fight in the middle of a storm some pirate bastard will finish what the other started and gut you for good¡­ unless you learn how to fight properly." He said.


    "B-but I already know how to fight!" said Joffrey automatically as his mind wheeled. The Captain teaching him how to fight? He had seen glimpses of him on the wild melee aboard the Eastern Sails. He had been like a flash of lighting, flowing smoothly between combatants and sinking his pin point rapier into terrified eye sockets and armpits by the dozens.


    Nakaro actually laughed. "Aye, if you call that Westerosi stomping ''fighting''!" he shook his head. "Out in the sea there is no heavy armor to bash through, and consequently there''s no heavy armor to protect you. The footwork is a death sentence in any kind of mildly bad weather, and in the changing environment of a ship melee there are no soldiers you can count on watching your sides and back" he shook his head again. "No ''Joff'', you have a lot to learn." He said, watching as the men tied the ship to the docks. They didn''t need any orders, they''d done this a hundred times before.


    Joff watched the wandering gondolas for a few seconds before gazing back at Nakaro.


    No one''s taking them from me.


    "When do we start?" he asked his Captain.


    -.PD.-

 Omake: All Fathers Fear Replacement

    All Fathers Fear Replacement"Wha--" Robert burped loudly, then looked up in a drunken haze. It was that cold-hearted bitch that called herself his queen. What in the Seven Hells did she want?


    He got his answer when in a single striking motion, she smashed his goblet of wine from his hand, sending it spilling over the floor. He blinked, more bewildered than upset, before his brows drew together in a thunderous frown. Apparently she wanted him angry.


    He stood from his chair, his looming bulk overshadowing her easily. "Look here, you--"


    But before he could even build up momentum, he was cut short as Cersei lunged and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, baring her teeth in a ferocious snarl.


    "Joffrey''s gone to Lys!" she hissed. "He''s gone and it''s all your fault!"


    Joffrey was gone? To Lys?


    Robert''s mouth opened and closed for a moment, then he looked past Cersei to Ser Barristan.


    The man awkwardly cleared his throat. "It''s true, You Grace. Prince Joffrey is gone, along with the Hound. He left a note that he''d gone to Lys, and--"


    "And he said that you wouldn''t mind!" Cersei screeched so loudly that Robert flinched back, but the woman wouldn''t let him draw away. In the privacy of his mind, Robert wondered how the hells Cersei had the strength to keep him in place. "He went off to that city of whores because he wanted to make you proud, YOU UTTER DEGENERATE!"


    Robert was on the verge of a scathing reply. Perhaps Joffrey didn''t want to make him proud, perhaps he wanted to escape from his bitch of a mother. Perhaps her constant coddling and whispering in his ear had finally driven him mad.


    But then, brilliance graced his mind.


    Robert Baratheon smiled, trying extra hard to make the expression genuine and charming. Cersei reared back as though struck, like she''d never seen him smile before. Then again, maybe she hadn''t. The bitch made it hard for anyone to smile around her.


    "THAT''S my boy!" Robert proudly proclaimed as he threw his head back with a laugh. He ignored his furiously gaping wife in favor of turning to the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard. "Before I crushed Rhaegar in the Rebellion, I fucked one woman from each of the Seven Kingdoms. And the Riverlands. Can''t go forgetting about them. Called it ''making the eight'' I did. And now my son is trying to outdo me! He''s going to fuck one woman from each Free City, isn''t he?!" S~?a??h the N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Ser Barristan blinked. "Your Grace, I don''t think--"


    "I won''t be outdone by that little shit! Arrange a ship at once!"


    *one hour later*


    In the most unusual alliance ever, Jon Arryn and Cersei Lannister forced Robert to stay in King''s Landing. They then sent Ser Barristan with a small company of Redcloaks to Lys to retrieve the wayward prince.

 Chapter 10: To Know Thyself.

    Chapter 10: To Know Thyself.Joff''s rapier ended in the floor again, clattering loudly as the young man himself rubbed his knuckles and bit off an exasperated retort. The Captain just looked at him patiently, sporting his damnable knowing smirk, and Joff once again took up the sword.


    "¡­ I''m not plodding!" Joff said, seemingly trying to convince himself more than Nakaro. Nakaro himself just shook his head with a couple of quiet "tsk". "You still move like a knight, you must be like the waves instead, in and out before they can react, crashing with irresistible force on the place of your choosing." He said, suddenly lunging at Joff with unexpected strength in spite of his small size, and thus the lesson continued. The last part was not so common in regular waterdancing, but Nakaro was teaching the more difficult form of it, he called it the "Rising Tide" technique. It was geared to be used against armored opponents as well as light combatants. It centered itself on precise blows that put the whole force of the body behind it, retracting before the enemy could react. Nakaro had helpfully demonstrated with a strung up armor full of Lyseni melons. Armor could not provide protection in areas they didn''t cover anyway, and light opponents would die just as well... his display had had been terrifying, Joffrey could well imagine blood instead of melon juice splashed all over the armor, the floor and the sword.


    Problem is, it was freaking impossible to learn.


    Do not plod, move like the waves. Joff thought to himself as he suddenly whirled with his wooden rapier towards Nakaro. Now with a bit of martial acumen under his belt, Joffrey could understand why so many Westerosi Knights thought water dancing was rubbish. The rapier was a terrible weapon in conventional fighting, and to get really lethal with it against armored opponents one needed a lot of training, which made it impractical. Besides, whirling about in typical braavosi style was a little tiring if you used full plate at the same time¡­


    Anyway¡­ S?a??h th? N?v?lFir?(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    He had a lot time.


    Nakaro moved to the side, minutely. Joff''s rapier passes within a hair''s breadth of Nakaro''s ribs before his own rapier thunked him below the armpit. Nakaro didn''t really waste a single bit of sweat. All his movements were economical and did just what was needed for the job. For the amateur it just looked reckless, now, having been in several fights since his first life, Joff supposed it gave him a huge advantage in longer battles. Stamina was king in those encounters¡­ at least that''s what the hound had told him a few lives back. That economy of movement was something that interested Joff beyond the specific water dancing style, it was something he felt would improve his overall martial prowess¡­ and help a lot if he got into a scrub relatively soon after starting another life¡­ his physical reserves were horrible for the first couple of months after Awakening.


    "Getting distracted again, Joff?" said Nakaro teasingly as he picked up Joff''s wooden sword from the ground. Joff snapped out of it and moved to take it back for another bout, but Nakaro shook his head. "We''ve made good progress for today¡­ besides, you''re getting into your thoughtful mood again" he said.


    Joff nodded as Nakaro gathered the swords and walked out of the secluded garden they had been practicing on. He shook his head as he walked out too, thinking. The captain really had a way of knowing what was going through his mind, it was a little unnerving. Thankfully, the warm Braavosi public baths soon soothed his muscles and his mind, and after a while Joff found himself back in the Wandering Seahorse, the tavern that had become the de facto meeting place of the sailors of the Eastern Winds.


    Baleo, Voqo, Tregarro and many other greeted him, it seemed they had gotten into an early start.


    "Joff! We thought the cap''n finally decided to save himself some trouble and threw you into the channel!" said Maerrys as he got an empty cup and served him a brown liquid of dubious origin. "Nah, he knows I''m too stubborn for that, my big head would float up to the docks and the Arsenal''s stewards would give him a fine!" Said Joff. They all laughed at that as Joff came to their big table, and everyone moved a bit to make space for him. Joff basked in the warm camaraderie as he sat and took a swill of the brown ale and let out a content sight.


    "Gods, I needed that" he said. It sometimes surprised him how basic his leisurely needs had become. These days a couple of ales and an evening relaxing and listening to outrageous stories was more satisfying than a thousand feasts in the Red Keep.


    "Say, Joff. The Captain''s also been showing you the nautical charts, no?" Said the silver haired Aeolo, peering at Joff. "Yeah, he must have gotten tired of writing all the course corrections down himself, as if I hadn''t enough with the water dancing and that damned sextant" Joff grouched good naturally. The Captain had been unloading a bunch of duties to him, the lazy bastard. He couldn''t blame him though. As King, Joff had followed the fine tradition of his supposed father to the letter. Hand the work to those below you on the food chain!


    Aeolo and Baleo shared a knowing look after Joff''s complaint. Joff was going to ask what they were plotting but a meaty hand slammed into his shoulder and another one pressed a full tankard in front of him before he could ask.


    "Drink" Said Voqo, grinning.


    "Yeah!" Said Maerrys, his smile showing a multitude of golden teeth. "Its time for your Ale dancing lesson now!"


    "Gods, that is the lamest joke I''ve ever--" Joff was interrupted as Vogo''s giagiantic hand slammed the cup into his mouth. Things quickly degenerated after that¡­


    -.PD.-


    There was one detail about that night that stuck Joffrey''s mind however.


    They had been making their way out of the tavern, the serving wench glaring amusedly behind them as they stumbled and struggled to hold each other up, when Joff heard someone bragging in the common tongue.


    "Its true! My friend from the Drift''s Pride heard it straight from one of the soldiers! Lord Stannis turned himself into a black ghost and pierced the old lion''s heart like a spear through an orange!"


    Joff stopped, his heart hammering right out of his chest. What was the chance of such a detailed rumor repeating itself?!


    Sure, he had said "black ghost" instead of "shadow demon", but¡­


    The sailor cursed as his tankard crashed against another table when he reached to grab it. The other table''s regulars all got up shouting and soon a brawl was in place. "We should go Joff!" said Baleo urgently as the tavern owner got a huge club from under the bar.


    Joff nodded dumbly as they exited. Stupid sailors and their inane rumors¡­ he shook his groggy and tipsy head, suddenly realizing he had insulted himself. Stupid sailors¡­ indeed! He started laughing out loud, and everyone else was so drunk they started laughing too.


    Soon he banished the shadowy images from his mind.


    -.PD.-


    The next couple of months passed in a flash for Joff. But the frequent water dancing training was not the only thing he did in that time. The Captain had ordered him to apprentice with each of the different crewmembers to learn their skills in case he needed to take their posts in case of an emergency. When Joff explained the Captain''s reasoning to the men they just shook their heads with knowing smirks, but refused to elaborate on what the joke was.


    They didn''t care really. Despite the frequent partying and lounging they were getting a bit anxious, yearning a return to the sea. That was why when the Captain said The Eastern Winds had finally completed her delayed maintenance in the Braavosi docks everyone had cheered with joy. Joff was glad too¡­ their ship was back in service again.


    He had started to develop a legitimate curiosity about the world that surrounded him. At first he had escaped from King''s Landing to the first place that he had associated with "having a good time". Recalling F-.Robert''s frequent rants about "grabbing his warhammer and fucking off to Lys", the choice had been immediate.


    Now though¡­ He found the call of the sea strangely alluring. What had started as mere wonder back in Lys had had its appetite wetted in the Narrow Sea as the Eastern Winds made its runs through cities such as Pentos, Myr and Tyrosh. If cities that were relatively close to Westeros could be so different and exotic¡­


    What awaited further east?


    He guessed Eddard had never expected him to take his advice so literally, but just how much was there to experience further east?


    As the Eastern Winds crashed against the waves and Joff distractedly removed salt from his face, Nakaro barked a quick command.


    "Joff, take the tiller" he said as he made his way down, to his cabin probably. "Aye Captain" said Joff absentmindedly, taking the tiller as he kept staring at the horizon.


    -.PD.-


    The months kept stretching as Joff kept learning new things about sailing and the seas in general. Joff surprised himself discovering things about himself that he would have never even guessed about on his first life. He had discovered a newfound thirst for knowledge that eerily reminded him of uncle Tyrion¡­ Only it was not about things learnt in books. No, books had always been a dry slog for him.


    But learning things¡­ experiencing them directly, was eliciting a sense of well being he was becoming addicted to. He found himself listening attentively and watching as the sailors kept teaching him the necessary skills to survive on a ship. How to survive and detect the coming of storms. How to guide a ship when there was no sight of land and only the stars high above Planetos guided the way.


    Joff guessed this came in part because he was finally out into the world by himself, learning things not by force but by choice. There was no more obnoxious Grand Maester needling him incessantly about his letters or about House lore, it was just him, his sword, the crew and the ship, and his time was his to do as he pleased. That alone seemed to boost his learning skills a lot.


    He could get used to that.


    -.PD.-


    They had been below decks and playing dice when he had finally managed to extract the inside joke the crew had been on apparently since Braavos.


    "Hah! Double sixes! Pay up you wretches!" gloated Joffrey as Baleo, Tregarro and Maelys all grouched as they tossed him an eclectic mix of copper stars and Iron quarter-marks. "Did the Captain teach you how to spoil the dice too Joff?" asked Maelys as peered intently at the dice. "It wouldn''t surprise me honestly, with all the stuff he''s been cramming into my brain non stop" said Joffrey.


    The three of them shared a knowing look as Joffrey huffed.


    "Alright, that''s it, you are going to spill the beans right now damnit. The joke must be incredibly good if it''s lasted all this way since Braavos" said Joffrey, his tone brooking no nonsense.


    All three sailors looked like surprised rabbits, and a flurry of knowing looks and exasperated sights followed quickly between them until both Tregarro and Maelys stared intently at Baleo, which only huffed.


    "Fine!" he said, repressing a smile. "Well Joff, the thing is, the Captain is training you to take his place eventually" he finally spilled.


    Joffrey''s mouth was agape as Maerys triumphantly stole the dice from his hands. "My turn" he said as he shook them.


    Joffrey finally reacted when he bellowed out a gaffaw, followed by a quick laugh. "Yeah right, good one!" he said shaking his head. Baleo however was quite serious and didn''t even flicker his sight back to the dice when Maerys threw them. "Joff, its really kind of obvious. He''s not only teaching you things every sailor should know in an emergency" he said the last part in an obvious ironical tone. "He''s teaching you how to navigate and use charts, how to command a crew and even his own style of fighting."


    Joffrey shook his head slowly "But¡­ me?! I can think of at least 2 dozen people more capable of commanding this ship other than me! Even Voqo would do it better that I could ever dream of it!" he paused suddenly. "No offense Voqo" he added to the sleeping giant swinging on his equally big hammock a few meters back. A content grunt came from his direction as he resettled and kept on sleeping.


    "You don''t have the skills yet, that''s true. Still, you have good judgment and a capacity to hear others and actually learn. That''s really not a common talent, but that''s just what I see. I''ve been sailing with the Captain for years and I know for a fact he''s a good judge of character. He picked me after all" he said, amused. "If he thinks you''ll make a fine captain, I''ll believe him".


    "That''s true, all the other "cabin boys" never lasted more than a week" Said Maerys as he covertly stretched his hands and covered the dice he had just thrown. Tregarro nodded as he slapped Maerys hands, eying the 4 and the 2. "Pay up Maerys!" He said as he looked back at Joffrey. "Its common knowledge he''s been searching for someone trustworthy so he can pass on the reigns for a while now. Someone who''s actually had an education beyond dice cheating" he said, directing the last part at Maerys, who had the decency to look away as he scratched his neck.


    Joffrey couldn''t believe what he was hearing. "This is absurd! Me?! Judgement?! I wouldn''t trust myself to run a rowboat, much less a Fast Runner! " he said disbelievingly.


    Baleo just shrugged as Maerys took the dice again. "You should speak to him about it tomorrow. He''ll tell you his reasoning I''m sure" he said tossing the dice again. "I don''t understand why you''re so freaked out by the whole thing" he said.


    "You bet I will" said Joffrey, still in disbelieve. "YES!" shouted Maerys as the dice landed on the table, a one.


    Joffrey just shook his head.


    "Where did the other one go?" asked Maerys, searching below the table.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey tossed and turned in his sleep, only succeeding in tying himself up in knots within his hammock. He had run away from responsibility, only to crash head first into it. He struggled to disentangle himself from the hammock with little success as he kept thinking. Still, a ship was quite an order of magnitude below a Kingdom.


    Surely he wasn''t that inept?


    The thought bounced for a while on his head before¡­


    Yes, yes he was.


    To have people depend on him for their lives again¡­


    Nope.


    With a small shriek of rage he finally disentangled himself only to land on the hard wood below. He yelped and cursed as he massaged the small bump that was slowly forming on his head.


    That''s it. I''m talking to Nakarro now and I don''t care if he''s asleep or not.


    He promptly strode out the room, dodging the swaying, sleeping forms of his fellow seamen. Once in the small hallway he made his way up to the Captain''s room. Only it was already open.


    That''s strange. Joffrey thought in his sleep addled state. He entered the room, and promptly stopped cold. Inside was the Captain alright, he was still on his hummock, unmoving as the blood seeped out of him from his throat. Standing beside him was a back cloaked shape, his hand clutching a bloody axe.


    Joff stood there, frozen as the figure turned around and titled its head in genuine surprise. "My my, look what we have here¡­ my red pets will love to get a handle on you boy." Said the figure, dripping with contempt.


    Joffrey snapped out of his trance, grabbed Nakaro''s rapier on the nearby table and launched himself at the hooded assassin with a scream. He''s axe moved unnaturally fast as he parried all of Joffrey''s attacks with ease and countered with a painful hack at his arm that made him drop his sword. "Pathetic¡­ To think your Father slayed the best seamen in history as if they were nothing¡­" he shook his head. "Come, you''ll make a fine addition to my collection." He said as he advanced on him. Joffrey leapt back, clutching his bleeding arm as he run out of the cabin, shouting.


    "WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! TO ARMS!! TO ARMS!!!" he bellowed with all his being as he raced out into the deck. Outside lay the bodies of the night watchmen, and countless black forms scuttling about, searching and looting. He could hear fighting below the decks¡­


    He felt a thundering pain on his back as he stumbled forward, feeling the flowing blood coursing down his backside. Behind him stood Nakaro''s killer, illuminated by the pale moonlight. The strange smog that clouded everywhere seemed to clear for a few seconds, and Joffrey saw beside him a big longship, sporting one big black sail adorned with a red eye in its middle. "I love it when they run, but its time to meet the rest of your future crew, little prince." He said as he sheathed his axe and advanced on him, arms intent on grabbing him. Below, the fighting had obviously stopped, as the only sound he heard now was the eerie silent shuffling of the men under the assassin''s command.


    Joffrey stumbled back, thoughts racing at the speed of light. Who was this¡­ man?! Where was the rest of the crew? How had they boarded without so much as a sound?!


    Finally his back hit the railing, and Joffrey muffled a grunt of pain as his back flared. "They''re all dead¡­ Nowhere left to run little prince. It''s me or the Drowned God now." He said as he flashed a cruel, anticipating smile. It was the only part visible between the darkness and the cowl.


    Joffrey looked back to the strangely still water, then back at the man that had so effortlessly disarmed him. "I don''t know who the hells you are or what you want to do to me, but I''ll take my chances with the Drowned God!" He said as he scaled the railing. The cruel smile turned into a brief "O" of surprise before snarling in anger as he tried to grab him.


    Too late, thought Joffrey as he splashed into the ocean, sinking deeper and deeper.


    It''s been a while he thought as his lungs burned from the lack of air and the pain only deepened when the purple started to encroach again.


    -.PD.-


    He startled awake as his stomach heaved.


    He took a few deep breaths, savoring the air like it was the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted. Funny how the simplest of things can be such a precious luxury, he thought, somewhat dazed.


    Slowly, the events of the last few minutes seemed to catch up with him. "Oh gods¡­" he muttered as he rested his forehead on his palms. I guess I know now why it''s so profitable to trade in the narrow sea¡­ fucking pirates and madmen¡­


    He stood up and took a cup of water some servant had left for him¡­ last night probably, a dozen lifetimes away. He thought of Baleo and Voqo, of Nakaro and Merys, of all the colorful personalities that he had met in that life, spoken to them just a few hours ago from his perspective¡­ and were now dead.


    He threw the cup away in anger. What''s the point in getting to know people if they always end up dead around me¡­ His throat clenched when he thought about them, killed by fucking pirates.


    He spent the next half hour between brooding and smiling, remembering their antics.


    Except¡­ they weren''t dead, not really. They were alive again, with no memory of him, a stranger. And given the wandering patterns of fate and the weather, it was unlikely they would meet that mad man again¡­ at least not if he didn''t show up in Lys again and accelerated their departure like last time.


    He gazed at the city from his window, the city that had come to symbolize the futility of his life. He still didn''t want to touch the iron lump of misery and pain, in fact he still didn''t want to be here in this city of plots and decadence.


    Joffrey sat back on the nearby chair, for once not minding the stench of King''s landing, so good it was to have air on his lungs again. Besides, after living for months on Braavos in the stench of the still canals this didn''t really faze him.


    What now?


    For a moment he thought about going to Lys again and meeting up with the crew, but decided against it. It would be too painful for him to see them and not recognize him¡­


    The veil of apathy and depression slowly left him as Joffrey pondered his options.


    I don''t have to stay here if I don''t want to. Nakaro (he winced when he remembered his dead body) Gods, he''s alive now, calm down. He centered himself again and kept thinking. He taught me the basics of sailing, I''m reasonably sure I can get employed on any ship here on King''s Landing without relying on dumb luck like on Lys¡­ and from there I can go anywhere. North, South, East, West¡­ or all of them.


    He slumped back on the chair of the small balcony, for once really thinking about his¡­ curse? He didn''t know what to call it. He had unlimited time to explore the whole world around him¡­ and no matter what, he could always wake back up here, and keep going.


    Slowly, a smile crept into Joffrey. So much to do, so many places to go¡­ but there''s no rush, I have all the time in the world. He thought as he closed his eyes and lounged on the morning sunlight.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 11: Of Ale and Mountains.

    Thanks for the feedback everyone, please keep it up! Here''s another one, short and sweet.-.PD.-


    Chapter 11: Of Ale and Mountains.


    After spending months freewheeling between free city taverns with the crew of the Swift Winds, court life seemed so¡­ boring and lifeless. Those were the words. Everything anyone with power did was worry, scheme and trade polite barbs in the never ending fucking game of thrones. They probably didn''t spend all their time doing that, Joffrey was sure, but it sure as hells seemed as if that was what they did all day.


    The highlight of the first day of this life was when he actually won a bout against the hound, fair and square. He had spurned the heavy padded clothing and opted for light armor, and he had used his reflexes and moves learned under Nakaro to land a storm of blows against a thoroughly surprised Clegane, winning the bout. After that the cat was out of the bag though, and Clegane made sure to be ready to his hybrid style, handily winning all the next bouts.


    "Where the hells did you learn that?" asked the hound, slightly winded. He made a stark contrast next to Joffrey, who was groaning in the ground, breathing every last puff of air he could before exhaling and doing it again. "Here¡­ and¡­ there¡­" answered Joffrey, between breaths. "Gods¡­ I didn''t remember being¡­ so unfit for this" he said before halfheartedly examining his hands. "They''re so¡­ smooth and white and weak." He said despairingly.


    "Huh?" grunted the Hound.


    "Never mind Hound."


    The Hound raised one if his burnt eyebrows stoically. "If you keep practicing it should get easier with time." He said, privately wondering what had happened to the little shit last night that he seemed like another person.


    "Yeah, until the bloody next time" he muttered before flopping his head back down into the mud and just staying there in front of the whole courtyard.


    -.PD.-


    The caravan started North again, and Joffrey didn''t feel any need to escape just yet. He was still pondering on what to do when sudden inspiration struck him. Predictably, the imp had been the catalyst.


    Tyrion had defrosted enough with his friendly demeanor that they had taken to riding out ahead of the main group, sometimes even taking detours and spending the night in sleepy hamlets or other, more interesting places. Joffrey thought that a big part of making him at ease so quickly could have been his frequent meditations. He had never quite left that habit from that fateful life with Ned, and it almost never failed to center him and sooth his sanity. The imp had been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a week, but he had eventually given up and had even joined one or two times to find out what the deal was.


    He had concluded he preferred whores.


    "My reading is still shit, uncle. I really need some way to get it to improve beyond just sitting through Pycell''s lessons. I think I came out of his study actually reading slower than I did before." Said Joffrey, shaking his head.


    The imp hummed as they walked through the heavy forest, the slope had been getting steadily steeper as they kept walking, and the sun was already right above them. "What you need, Nephew, is a project" he said matter of factly as he grabbed his wineskin and tried to take a sip, only to find it empty. "Shit. This little trek took longer than I thought." He said. Joffrey snorted as he tossed him a second wineskin he had been carrying on his totally unprincely backpack. "I applaud your forethought Nephew!" Said Tyrion as he merrily took the clasp out and took a drink, only for his eyes to widen. "Arbor Gold? How did you-"


    "You are a creature of habit, uncle." Said Joffrey, rolling his eyes. Tyrion gave him the stink eye for a few seconds. "What happened to my Nephew?" he asked, apparently serious.


    "Bumped his head on the wheelhouse" replied Joffrey, not missing a beat.


    "Not a problem for me, the ceiling can''t get me" said Tyrion, glibly.


    "No, the stairs are your enemy, that and his Bannerman, Dornish Red" said Joffrey, totally straight as they kept walking.


    He looked back and saw the imp struggle for a few moments before a wheezing snort came out of his mouth and finally both of them shared a good chuckle.


    "You win this time, Nephew" Said Tyrion, a hint of pride on his voice. "They grow so fast" he said supposedly for himself. "Faster than you!" said Joffrey, entering the game of wits again.


    "Winning" his first verbal sparring against the imp had given him more satisfaction than all his years as King combined, though he sadly suspected the imp was going soft on him.


    "Growing, as all things in life, must be taken slowly, to fully appreciate them" said Tyrion airily as he scaled a boulder that was in the middle of their path.


    "Yes, your trip down the stairs was slow, now that I think about it" said Joffrey as if trying to remember a difficult math problem.


    "Slower than the Dornish Red coming out of your throat, that''s for sure!" Said the imp triumphantly as he looked at him and wiggled his eyebrows.


    "GAAAHH" Joffrey guffawed as he shook his head. "Point, uncle. And remind me never to drink Dornish Red again."


    "Believe me I will, those were my finest robes!" Tyrion exclaimed in mock anger.


    "I only had 3 cups!" said Joffrey.


    "Yes, that was the problem" said Tyrion instantly. Ouch, triple hit. Yep, he had been going soft on him.


    They kept walking-kind-of-slogging through the thick sapplings and branches for a while until Joffrey asked again. "A project, uncle?"


    "Aye, you told me you found reading for the sake of it interesting but incapable of holding your attention? But if it was something practical you''d learned it in no time?" Asked the Imp. S~?a??h the N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Yeeeeeesss¡­ kind of" said Joffrey, slowly.


    "So, you make it practical. Set yourself a goal and convince yourself everything you study that''s even remotely tied with it will help you reach it" Said Tyrion as if were the most obvious thing in the world.


    "hmmm¡­ Sometimes your intellect terrifies me" Said Joffrey as he dodged a particularly spiky branch.


    "The whores never say that" said Tyrion.


    "Ahh not again!" Said Joffrey, exasperated.


    "They most definitively never say that!" said the damnable imp, not missing a beat.


    Joffrey resolved to keep quiet for now lest he give his uncle more fuel, trawling his mind for possible "projects".


    -.PD.-


    "Making your own carriage?" tossed the Imp.


    "No" said Joffrey.


    "Visiting every whorehouse in the Riverlands?" asked the Imp.


    "What? No" said Joffrey. The slope was now almost nonexistent, they were finally approaching the top of this hill.


    "Look, I was thinking about something more¡­ ambitious." Said Joffrey, carefully.


    "hmmm¡­ Make your Mother like me?" he asked tentatively.


    "Not that ambitious" Said Joffrey trying to stop a totally unprincly snort.


    They bulled through one last shrub and finally the thick forest was behind them.


    "What a view¡­" said the imp with a light smile on his face.


    From atop the hill they could see the winding rivers of the Riverlands, its fields and some of the small hamlets. To the other side was the Vale, with its mighty mountains of the moon in all their grey and green splendor, topped by manes of lustrous white.


    Joffrey and Tyrion spent a while there basking in the early afternoon sun, eating the bread and ham they had brought with them and passing the wineskin between them.


    "It''s truly a magnificent view" said Joffrey, eying the titanic, steeply jagged mountains.


    Tyrion took another gulp of Arbor Gold before tossing it to Joffrey "That it is, imagine how much more magnificent it must be from atop of it." He said with a dreamy smile.


    Joffrey had been shaking the wineskin with his hand and noting with annoyance that the Imp had drained every last drop when he suddenly perked his head up.


    "The top¡­ Uncle you''re a genius!" he said as he excitedly bounced back into his feet. "Gods, you could see the Vale, the Riverlands and the Crownlands all at the same time, maybe even the sea! The top of the world¡­" said Joffrey, his eyes in a haze.


    Tyrion laughed out loud at that. "Aye, that''d be the view" he kept staring at the peak, then sneaked a glance back at Joffrey, who had stayed silent.


    "¡­ you''re serious?"


    Joffrey smiled. "I am" he said with quiet conviction.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey stayed a grand total of 2 days at Winterfell, trying to avoid Lord Stark and the bittersweet memories he elicited. After paying the appropriate respects to the Starks, and feeling an immense sense of D¨¦j¨¤ vu as he did, he finally rode out in the morning after one of the great feasts when everyone was asleep in a drunken stupor.


    Cercei was throwing a fit of epic proportions, whirling about and shouting at Tyrion with her every breath. "I knew this would happen! I knew you would stray my son with your evil ideas and your wretched mind!"


    Tyrion was seated on his chair calmly sipping his wine. "Please go on" he said amiably. Cercei''s face turned even redder as she whirled on him again "And what in the seven hells is he hopping to find in Last Hearth?! A frozen tundra even worse than this one?!" she screamed.


    Tyrion shrugged his shoulders innocently. "He said something about ''climbing gear''" he said glibly.


    Cercei gave a wordless, muffled scream and stormed out of the room.


    Tyrion smiled and gave a silent toast to rebel sons and amusing Nephews from all over the world.


    -.PD.-


    This was not how he envisioned his procurement expedition to Last Hearth.


    "DRINK!" Bellowed the Smalljon as he slammed another mug into Joffrey''s hand. It was bigger than his head.


    The pale northern ale swirled inside the mug like a hypnotic miniature hurricane.


    It was really mesmerizing.


    ¡­


    Joffrey thought he was a bit drunk.


    He frowned, pondering that thought for a while.


    Was he?


    Fuck it!


    He downed the ale in one go and stood up, spluttering all over the Smalljon and his brothers who found the whole spectacle incredibly funny for some reason. Not that it stopped them from chugging down their own ales.


    Joffrey shambled towards the Smalljon and grabbed him by the shoulders.


    He had ridden here in an important mission, a project! He had to ask the Smalljon about their climbing tactics!


    "Smalljon¡­. Mountains¡­ their so beautiful!" he slurred.


    He was rewarded with a titanic gaffaw and a blast of foul smell as the Smalljon seemed to open his big mouth and wheezed a rumbling chuckle that shook Joffrey''s brain.


    Suddenly the door creaked open, and everybody froze as a looming figure entered the room, walking sideways.


    The silence was deafening as the Smalljon recognized his great uncle, Mors "Crowfood" Umber, his stoic figure walking unrelenting towards them.


    Mors finally turned around to face them properly¡­ that''s when they noticed his beatific smile and the cask of ale under his enormous right arm.


    The men of house Umber cheered so hard Joffrey thought his ear drums would rupture. He forgot what he had been thinking on at that very moment, but the ale barrel bigger than his torso that Mors deposited right in front of him seemed to hide the answers within itself.


    "There''s only one way to know" said Joffrey as the Smalljon and his brothers nodded solemnly, gripping their mugs like Knights before the charge.


    -.PD.-


    Pain¡­.


    UNBEARABLE PAIN.


    Joffrey turned to the side and emptied the contents of his stomach.


    That''s funny¡­ I don''t remember dying¡­


    That''s when he noticed his vomit had landed right on a sleeping Osric, the Smalljon''s "smaller" brother.


    ¡­


    How did I get here again?


    The migraine that assaulted him right then obliterated that thought, and Joffrey spent the next hour composting on the chair he had awoken upon as he tried to remember what happened yesterday.


    He had arrived at Last Hearth because of the rumors about the tools they used for climbing some of the steeper cliffs of their lands, or for when they had to go and speak with the mountain clans in the middle of winter.


    He had arrived at midday and had spent a while speaking with the small village''s blacksmith, who seemed to know his stuff and dazzled Joffrey with different tools and metal gadgets he could only guess at their function.


    That''s when an enraged Smalljon had bursted into the smithy and demanded to know why a Prince was visiting his home without presenting himself first. Joffrey had spluttered a few apologies before the Smalljon demanded he present himself properly to mend the insult, practically manhandling him towards the Castle.


    It was only when he noticed that the small room he was shoved into was not the main keep, and not until he saw the Smalljon''s presumably smaller brothers entering through another door with barrelfulls of ale that Joffrey had realized the truth.


    It''s a trap.


    Still, he stoically decided to brave the famous Umber gregariousness and use this opportunity to learn more about climbing.


    His memory got a bit spotty after that.


    His introspection was suddenly interrupted when Osric woke up suddenly and tried to get up, incidentally grabbing Joffrey''s chair for support and shaking it a bit in lateral motion.


    Oh boy.


    Joffrey''s face turned into an unhealthy shade of green and poor Osric didn''t have the chance to grunt a confused "huh?" before another face full of vomit impacted him right in the nose.


    -.PD.-


    After cleaning themselves, the Umber boys were chastised by the Greatjon in the main keep, right in front of Joffrey, to both his and their eternal chagrin. The Greatjon had struggled to maintain a serious fa?ade as he scolded his sons and welcomed Joffrey properly into his keep. Though even the Lord of Last Hearth laughed out loud with his sons when a suspiciously clean and composed Mors Umber, face totally straight and composed, speculated out loud that Joffrey was probably already under guest rights given the contents of his belly.


    There would be a feast tonight, much to Joffrey''s exasperation. He was sick of feats. Apparently a Crown Prince of the seven kingdoms had never in history visited Last Hearth, and that was a Big Deal, worthy enough for a great feast for the merriment of all.


    Merriment that apparently started with a ''small'' lunch right now, accompanied, of course, by a mug of ale bigger than his head.


    Oh boy.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey''s carefully thought out timetable was blown to pieces when the Umbers managed, not entirely against his will, to make him stay there for a full week. Things only got worse when a one man rescue party (or half-man rescue party as he liked to call himself) arrived at Last Hearth to "make sure he was alright".


    Things degenerated completely when Tyrion somehow managed to orchestrate a double team drinking competition between him and Joffrey against the Jon''s.


    It had been an epic encounter worthy of being written in by a Maester and stored in the Citadel for future generations to come. They must have been surrounded by the entire living population of Last Hearth as the main keep''s table resounded with each empty ale mug crashing against it, Lannisters facing off against the Umbers. Joffrey had completely lost control of his motor skills but had still somehow managed to see the whole thing. He had been taken out early and Tyrion had withstood the Great and Small Jon''s tag team for a straight hour before he drunk the Smalljon under the table and only the Lord of Last Hearth remained, eying the half man as one would survey an enemy commander.


    The battlefield was a table filled with empty tankards and barrels, spilled beers, and the bodies of the fallen that had joined one side or the other.


    "Uncle¡­ don''t!" had muttered Joffrey, pleading with his groggy eyes from his chair next to the Imp.


    Tyrion had a small serene smile as he gripped his tankard, wobbling from side to side. "Lannister''s never quit, Nephew" He said with a faraway look.


    The Greatjon nodded with infinite respect as they both toasted their tankards, and downed them in one gulp.


    Fifteen seconds passed as the two contestants watched each other, and the hall was silent as everybody looked on in expectation.


    Suddenly, the Greatjon rolled his eyes and his head bumped against the table, fast asleep.


    Tyrion, face absolutely serious, raised both his arms in silent victory, not having the strength to say anything.


    The keep went absolutely fucking mad.


    -.PD.-


    -----


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 Tyrion Drinks Well (Art Omake)

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 Chapter 12: Keys of Fate.

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    Chapter 12: Keys of Fate.


    All in all, Joffrey felt cheery and rejuvenated when they left the North.


    Him and Tyrion had kept going north after a brief period of convalescence after the battle of the ages at Last Hearth, and the Wall had been not only an incredible sight he was somewhat bemused he had never seen before, but also a treasure mine of all that was climbing. The Night''s Watch didn''t have that much of a tradition in it, but they had learned a lot from the wildlings which semi-regularly scaled the wall during the summers to raid south. He didn''t see much of the wall proper or many of its inhabitants anyway, he spent most of his time there chatting with the stonemasons and some of the rangers, occasionally reading some of the books from Maester Aemon''s library. He remembered hearing Tyrion talking about Ned''s bastard son, and how they had spent some time together while he plumbed Castle Black for all that was climbing. He was somewhat glad he didn''t see him here, all the Stark''s brought on memories sometimes better left buried.


    Mother''s scolding¡­ now that should have been recorded by a Maester as well. The torrent of invective had been mainly tanked by Tyrion, who had automatically assumed the position of scapegoat with nary a mutter except a couple of glances to Joffrey which seemed to convey something like ''You will get me all the Gold in the Arbor''.


    Somewhat nice but disappointing was the reaction of Robert, or should it best be said, his non reaction. Joffrey thought he didn''t even notice his absence.


    Now though, he felt ready. He had bought the climbing gear at Last Hearth (which turned out didn''t have that much experience with the whole climbing thing, but hey, he had been in the North anyway), and learned quite a few things at Castle Black. Now he knew what to expect on his great climb of the Mountains of the Moon. He was going to do something no one had ever done before, see a sight that no other human had experimented before, he was going to one up the Andals and the First Men¡­ He was going to climb the tallest peak of Westeros'' Mountains of the Moon.


    In the more quiet nights, or when he meditated beside a Weirwood tree if he was lucky enough to find one, he thought about this whole endeavor on a slightly philosophical bent. He wasn''t going to do this for fame or riches, even if such a feat would generate more awe from his future vassals than winning a great battle (which he doubted), it would all be swept aside when he died, forgotten to everyone but him.


    No, he was going to do this because he had to. He had to see for himself if he could do something great, by his own hand, alone.


    And what better symbol than a bested gigantic mountain.


    Besides, he really wanted to see Westeros from the top of the world. ''Experience the world'' he repeated the mantra on his head.


    He couldn''t wait to get started.


    Bet I don''t even die this time.


    He justified his trip to the ''Riverlands'' under the pretext of ''networking'' (A term he was sure Tyrion had made up) with the River lords, something her mother had grudgingly accepted with a small hint of pride at his sons''s ''ambition''.


    Oh mother, if only you knew.


    -.PD.-


    He had escaped from his escort in the middle of the night when they had been camping near the Green Fork, and he had taken his horse through the rising hills towards the Vale of Arryn. He didn''t take the High Road, he wasn''t that stupid. Even a cursory reading about the Vale mentioned the hill tribes as the greatest hazard any traveler could face, possibly after the Shadowcats.


    It was a good thing he''d be gone for a long time from King''s Landing, possibly for the rest of this life. After his escapade into Last Hearth the Hound had been mightily pissed he hadn''t taken him along, and only the risk of insulting the Umbers had prevented Mother from sending a squad of Redcloaks to get him back.


    That didn''t deter Tyrion though, he thought, amused. After this last stunt he would be lucky to exit the Red Keep ever again if they caught him.


    So he made his way through the abandoned western slopes of the Vale, and he was pretty sure he could see the peak he had seen months ago with his uncle, his objective. The peak was roughly north-west of the Eyrie, but before even starting the climb he had to get to the base of it first. And so for the first week Joffrey and his horse made their way through deer tracts and small streams, savoring the solitude and beauty of the great pines and the crystalline water of the creeks and small waterfalls.


    When he finally got to what could be called the ''foot'' of the enormous mountain range, one thought dominated Joffrey''s mind.


    It looks bigger up close.


    -.PD.-


    The wind blew with the power of a million oars, its sound drowning all existence, and Joffrey curled against the cliff face he was hanging from. The wind buffeted him from side to side, as if trying to purposely dislodge him from the scraggy cliff.


    He had been climbing for 5 days already.


    He didn''t think he was going to make it.


    Five days of climbing, trekking, building pitiful fires out of small bushes and more climbing had left him absolutely drained. He simply didn''t have the stamina to keep going.


    He looked below him. It was a long way down... The infuriating thing was that he hadn''t even reached the snow yet, heck, looking upwards it seemed he had hardly started climbing at all! This thing was fucking massive.


    "Bollocks!!!" he cursed. His time with his sailor family (a familiar flash of pain stabbed him in the gut when he remembered them, just like when he thought of the sea) had taught him the hallowed art of proper ''cursin, and he used it to full effect here. It helped somewhat.


    "You¡­ fucking¡­ cunt soaked¡­ landlubbering¡­ sad excuse for a fucking hill!!!" Joffrey cursed between breaths as he dislodged one of his climbing spikes and stabbed it above him, and then stabbed another piece of cloggy rock with his totally worthless iron bladed boots. In hindsight, he had been totally unprepared for this. His knowledge of climbing was basic to say the least, and his gear had proven thoroughly unsuitable for the task at hand. His backpack has snapped open two days ago and spilled half his supplies all over the Vale, and he was down to the last two climbing spikes. And to think he thought himself paranoid when he brought six of them. The Umber''s iron didn''t seem to have been made to resist this kind of stress.


    He had been at this for five days, but already his Lannister like stubbornness had fired up... another charming trait Joffrey had discovered about himself. Scaling mountains to know thyself. Who would have thought?!


    "I''M GOING TO REACH THE FUCKING SUMMIT EVEN IF IT''S THE LA--"He moved a bit upwards as he ranted, stabbing the cliff with his spike, when a sudden stream of chilly air blasted him at a right angle and interrupted his cursing.


    "ST THING I''ll--" Joffrey stopped as the wind''s strength seemed to intensify a dozen times over, and a clean chink sound reached Joffrey''s ear.


    Oh boy.


    The right boot blade had snapped, the lower quality iron ore and leather tearing under the strain. The loss of balance applied even more force to the other 3 points of contact between Joffrey and the cliff, and almost as soon as the first one gave out the other two, ground down under heavy use, broke too.


    Joffrey tumbled downward, spinning out of control.


    "NonononononooooAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh"


    Splat.


    -.PD.-


    "There he goes again" said one of the Redcloaks.


    "You reckon'' what''s gone into him, Barrett?" asked the other Redcloak.


    "Orland, I''ve honestly got no idea." Said the first Redcloak.


    They looked at each other, pondered between entertainment and duty, and grudgingly decided to keep at their posts. 15 minutes later when they were finally relieved, they descended down the tower''s stairs and encountered a group of five redcloaks sitting around a small table, all of them looking through one of the arrow slits.


    "What the hells are you guys doing?" asked Barret.


    One of the Red cloaks made a space for them, if only barely. "Quickly! He''s coming again!" he said. Barret and Orland quickly made their way there, and saw the Prince trotting above the walls, dodging guards and servants, practically swimming in sweat. "He''s still at it?!" asked Orland.


    "He''s been doing it for at least three hours" said one of the other Red Cloaks. "The Prince has been running and running around the Red Keep since I started my shift. He hasn''t stopped."


    The other Red Cloak looked at Barret "It''s the crown, it makes them mad." He said with infinite wisdom.


    The Prince passed below the slit, red, huffing for air and a steely look of determination on his face.


    Orland, always the more quick witted of the group, asked the obvious question. "Why in the Seven''ells is he wearing heavy armor?"


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had wracked his head searching for ways to quickly and substantially increase his stamina. Normally, for knights and men at arms this was achieved in the training yard after years of knightly training and jousting under heavy armor. It was effective, but it took a lot of time to build up, and Joffrey knew that the longer he lived on any given life, the higher the chance he would get killed by intrigue, combat or just plain bad luck and have all his precious progress undone¡­ Joffrey didn''t know any Master-At-Arms that focused only on endurance. So he needed a way to get in shape for the climb in just one year at the maximum, maybe a bit less if things got derailed sooner and the whole realm went tits up before its time, he couldn''t assume he would have the freedom to do it after the so called War of the Five Kings started.


    So, he had been improvising. He had started running every morning around the Red Keep''s wall, and he could already feel he could run longer and longer after only a month of it. The Hound had initially run alongside him on his heavy plate, and Joffrey had struggled between telling him to stop and praising him for the great idea.


    "What idea?!" had puffed an indignant Clegane, still not sure if this was some big practical joke of the little shit to get him to slack off and get punished by Cercei or something stranger.


    "Armor of course!" Joffrey had told him. s?a??h th? ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    And thus both the Hound and Joffrey had become quite the subject of rumor, each speculation more outrageous amongst the servants that tried to divine why the pair where running around like simpletons as if for the sake of it, clad in heavy armor.


    Still, it was not enough. He doubled his run, doing another one in the afternoon, every day. It was absolutely crushing and Joffrey barely had the strength to nod and speak when he dined with his family. He felt the quality of the conversation didn''t change much anyway. The pain was annoying, but laughably bearable after being burned alive, smashed to pieces, scalped (--not my finest moment--) and, really, after a couple dozen baths in the Purple, he barely felt bruises anymore.


    -.PD.-


    The memory of falling down the cliff fresh on his mind, he had made his way to Tobho Mott, one of Kings Landing''s most renowned blacksmith and metal worker. The street of steel never slept, it appeared, as even late into the afternoon the forges were still lit, and the heavy clanging of hammer versus steel still rung strong as the sun steadily made its way downwards.


    "Hello?!" he asked as he entered the shop, leaving his escort behind. The clanging suddenly stopped, and a man wearing a black velvet cloak with silver hammers embodied on its sleeves came out of the back door into the shop. "Welcome! Welcome! Whatever piece of weapon or armor you need you---" he stuttered to a stop as he saw Joffrey. He was quite used to this reaction, especially since Mother had caught him sneaking to Kings Landing and had demanded he wear something fitting for his station (including the horrendous golden lion embroidery, roaring on his chest), besides chugging the Hound AND four red cloaks on top of him.


    "Tobho Mott, I presume? I''m Prince Joffrey, I''d like to order some costume tools if you have the time. " he told him, hoping that if he jumped straight to business the man would do the same. "But of course!" he recovered abnormally quickly "Please follow me this way, what do you need? A sword?" Said Tobho as he guided Joffrey to the smithy. "A dagger?" he speculated while Joffrey took off his heavy cloak inside the sweltering smithy.


    "Climbing tools, actually" Joffrey told him. By his expression, Joffrey thought the man had never received such a request. "I brought some plans with me" Said Joffrey as he lay some parchments on the table, full of rough drawings that painfully showed Joffrey''s artistic skill, or more accurately the lack of it. Most of the time he had not been exercising, Joffrey had been trawling the Red Keep''s library for useful information that could help him on his project. It turns out there''s a couple of books, one written by a man that prospected for gold all over the Westerland''s mountains, and another, more technical tome written by a Maester that had followed him during his travels. They had proved to be a valuable fountain of knowledge, from how to prospect a cliff wall or mount to see if it was safe to climb, to possible designs they had proposed for more advanced climbing tools but had never been able to complete them due to a lack of funds.


    For all his worth as a mountaineer, Jaime Hill had never found much gold.


    Having devoured the books with an intensity which surprised Joffrey, he had made some recommendations on the partially incomplete diagrams, noting little useful additions that could make his life easier, some of them learnt during his brief climb last life, like the tiny hole on the edge of the pommel, made so he could tie the climbing rakes to his cloak and prevent them from falling off to infinity if he lost his grasp of them while not climbing.


    Tobho called in a couple of his apprentices, one a small scrawny boy whose eyes hinted at intelligence, and another, a big youth with a shaggy black mane, his features oddly familiar though Joffrey couldn''t for the life of him remember ever seeing him before.


    They discussed the drawings in the strange arcane tongue of the Blacksmiths, swiftly pushing aside some diagrams aside, and scratching others. "Some of the characteristics are impossible to make my Prince" said Tobho as he eyed the plans, seemingly lost in a haze of possibilities and avenues of techniques. "But I think I could get them to work, if you can guide us a bit in regard to its uses¡­" Joffrey nodded.


    "I will visit every day to check on your progress, and work out what we can make or not" Said Joffrey, a bit of Nakaro''s tone when he commanded the crew slipping through his voice without him even noticing.


    Any possible objections where silenced with a big, jingly thud as Joffrey deposited a hefty bag full of golden dragons. "This should cover any work expenses and buy me the finest quality steel this city has to offer" Said Joffrey.


    The golden dragons glinted by the fire of the furnace, and Tobho Mott smiled slowly. "I believe they will" he said greedily.


    "Good¡­ oh I almost forgot" he suddenly said. "I want this one too, should be pretty simple." He said, handing him a diagram of a bonze plate. It showed a snarling lion on top of a mountain.


    "It should pose no problems" said the bewildered armorer.


    -.PD.-


    Five months into this life, Joffrey was starting to get anxious. Rumors were trickling in about some sort of skirmish in the crossroads inn, and the death of a Noble Lord''s son. That piece of news sent goosebumps all over Joffrey''s back. If Catelyn Stark had somehow botched her attempt to capture his uncle and killed him instead, then it would mean instant war with the Westerlands, no ''mere'' raiding by the Mountain and his band. If Tyrion had been killed¡­ well, as much as it hurt Joffrey knew he could just stab himself and literally see him again within the next 20 minutes. It was the consequences that boded ill¡­ he was not ready, not this soon. Why was fate so fucking intent on making the Starks and Lannisters kill each other?


    He threw his hands up in frustration, and went back to read the scroll he had found in the library. It had been another excellent, if incomplete find. It was the translation of some Yi-Tish ''Way of Life'' philosophy that an unnamed Maester had managed to decode from a half burnt scroll. Joffrey wasn''t sure what the exact purpose of the scroll was, or if it even had a purpose. It was full of untranslated words which the maester had acknowledged he didn''t have the skill necessary to decode, and the damaged nature of the original scroll meant that he was holding just a tiny piece of the full lore.


    But what he did have was definitely interesting. Joffrey didn''t know what kind of philosophy required body exercises, but this one certainly did. It seemed he had a window into the book from the last pages of a part titled "Soul Centering", which had breathing and thinking exercises eerily familiar to what he already did in the God''s wood whenever he needed it, and extended to the what he guessed was the middle of "Body Centering". It was the latter that heavily intrigued Joffrey. Though Joffrey didn''t know if he should laugh or cry at the image of Yi-Tish Maesters exercising to earn their platinum links, the exercises themselves were¡­


    Interesting.


    Sadly he only had about sixteen of them, and would have given a sizable amount of gold for the rest, but the few query''s he''d sent to the Citadel had been responded by a long winded Maesterly equivalent of "huh?".


    Yi-Ti¡­ hmmmm¡­ he pondered for a bit, then shook his head.


    Another time.


    He dropped to the floor, placed both arms below him and started pushing and letting himself fall, repeating it again and again.


    I''ve got to hurry, I''ve got to be faster, time is running out.


    That night he dreamt about the armies of the Westerland, swarming out of the Golden Tooth and right into the slaughter of the Riverlands.


    -.PD.-


    "Joffrey, wake up sweetie!" said a voice.


    "Hmmrghmm¡­" Gods, the last few months of even harder work than he''d done on the Swift Winds had given him a more subtle appreciation for sleep.


    Someone was¡­ dressing him?


    He blearily opened his eyes to see the last servants putting a red cloak on his back, and the image of his worried Mother getting him out of bed and into the hallway.


    "Wha¡ªwhats going on??" he mumbled as he tried to get enough saliva to moisture his dry throat.


    "It''s time for you to take your rightful place on the throne, Joffrey." She said as the side doors opened into the throne room.


    "Oh fuck me¡­" he said slowly as he was guided into the most odious lump of metal he had ever had the displeasure of seeing.


    Once seated, he face palmed. "How he died this time" he asked his mother, a heavy weight on his voice.


    "Sweetie?" asked Cercei, not paying much attention as she supervised the Redcloaks moving into position in front of the Kingsguard.


    "King Robert. How.did.he.die." he asked, dead serious. This was just too much coincidence, just as the war started between the Lannisters and the Starks, every time, Robert died for some reason. Often getting killed by a freaking pig, other times due to illness, and always right before the opening of the war. It was obvious who Robert and consequently the realm would align with in any confrontation, and that was Eddard Stark, Lord of the North and his best friend.


    ¡­


    He slid down the throne slightly, not caring for the sudden jags of pain forming on his back.


    Of course, you idiot.


    It was so obvious in hindsight¡­ Robert was getting killed, probably by Mother, in every life, thereby tilting the scales and giving the Lannisters the confusion they needed to win.


    He gazed at Cercei, disgusted. Not only did she cuckold his husband, she killed him as well.


    It didn''t surprise him, not really. Knowing Mother, it fitted perfectly. She had always hated Robert, any other advantage gained from his murder was probably secondary behind the sheer satisfaction of the deed¡­ Not that Robert had been a saint either, he''d seen the bruises and the whores. Gods, those two deserved each other.


    "He fell of the stairs, my sweet boy. I''m so sorry." She finally cooed.


    "I bet he did!" he spat back at her.


    She looked nonplussed for a moment but there was no time to talk as the doors opened and Lord Stark entered the room, face solemn but hiding some kind of great anger that shook Joffrey to his core. He''d never seen Ned that angry.


    He walked purposely towards the throne, followed by his undiminished house guard, no gold cloaks though, but behind him was¡­


    Oh¡­ That''s new.


    Slightly behind him was Renly Baratheon, fake uncle and Lord of Storm''s End, along with a couple dozen retainers and several heavily armored knights and Lords.


    Cercei was now desperately eying the sides of the room, no doubt wondering why her Gold cloaks weren''t there.


    Ned¡­ no. Lord Stark stopped in front of the Red cloaks, his great sword Ice firmly held between his hands, sheathed¡­ though he looked like he''d like nothing else but to take it out right now.


    "Quite the way to come and kneel before your King, Stark!" Cercei said, taking refuge in spite in front of what was turning into a very bad situation.


    "I see no King there, Lady Cercei. Only the spawn of incest." Said Renly, making the Kingsguard draw swords in anger at the insult.


    Joffrey just raised an eyebrow. "I think I''m missing something. Lord Stark, would you please explain to me what you are going to do and why will you do it?" the calm and reasonable tone of voice seemed to disconcert both Ned and Renly. Renly was looking at Ned with an urgent look, but Ned ignored him. He nodded jerkily before speaking. "I have been investigating into your linage¡­ you are not the son of King Robert, Joffrey." He said almost against his will, struggling to get the words out.


    "I see, what else?" Joffrey asked as he squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers.


    Ned seemed even more confused, but continued all the same. "In the course of my investigation, the Lannisters" he said that last word like a curse while he looked at Cercei "tried to kidnap my wife, Catelyn. They¡­ failed¡­" he bit out in obvious pain. "She¡­ didn''t make it." He almost whispered the last part. Joffrey was genuinely shaken, what the hells had happened at the crossroads inn?


    Eddard nodded "It was soon after that, a few hours ago that King Robert was found dead from a convenient accident" he said, regaining control of himself. "We are already taking control of the Red Keep" said Renly, "It would be best if you dropped your swords" He said, "Now" he added with a smile, clearly relishing every moment of this.


    Cercei was going to retort, probably with another spiteful idiocy, but Joffrey''s temper broke right then and there.


    "FOR FUCKS SAKE!!! AAAAARRRGHHH!!!" he screamed.


    "Two more months! Was it too much to fucking ask?!" he asked to seemingly no one.


    He looked between a shocked Cercei, nonplussed Renly and confused Eddard. "Mother is not going to give up and will probably get everyone here killed trying to resist, she''s oh so intelligent" he bit out, tone dripping with contempt. "Then, I''ll be locked inside the Red Keep like some dragon''s egg while you idiots!" he shouted pointing at Renly and Eddard "Play the godsforsaken game against Tywin, Stannis, his red bitch, Mace Tyrell, his slippery siren of a daughter and her Grandmother too! All the while waiting for some bright idiot with a lust for gold to stab me in the night!!! Or for the fucking Martells to come and poison everyone, cause why the fuck not!"


    "FUCK THIS! ILL PASS!" He screamed with all his being.


    Stunned silence descended amongst the hall, and Joffrey seemed to deflate, supremely tired.


    He took a deep, weary breath. "I think fate woke up with the wrong foot on this life. Ser Boros, your dagger please" he said.


    A confused Ser Boros turned around and handed his dagger to Joffrey while the rest of the players took a few seconds to get the situation back on track.


    "Thank you" said Joffrey as he took it. "I don''t know what happens to you people after the purple, but if you keep existing, may you choke on this infinitely uncomfortable chair!" he spat out before stabbing himself right in the heart.


    He heard screaming and drawing swords, but the purple soon enveloped.


    It would have been terribly embarrassing if had missed¡­ he thought as the damnable pain returned¡­


    Man, fuck that life.


    -.PD.-


    He awoke on his bed with a sad sight on his chest.


    His eyes hardened, resolve crystalizing inside him.


    "I''m going to do it¡­" he muttered with conviction.


    -.PD.-


    "Tobho should have the last pieces ready for tomorrow, I''ll need you to go and bring them here. I trust his work, but the last modification left the handle too fucking bent" She heard Joffrey''s voice from the hallway.


    Cercei stopped, smoothed her dress, and resolved to find out what was going on once and for all. Ever since they had returned from Winterfell all those months ago, Joffrey had been acting incredibly strange. Running in heavy armor all day and reading at the library when he was not dead tired, and consorting with blacksmiths and leather workers of all things! Even worse had been his demeanor, every time she tried to speak with her son she was just rebuffed by a disgusted snort. It was like she had lost her son overnight. Add to that the growing tensions between the Lannisters and the Starks¡­ Cercei was having many a sleepless night.


    Besides those she didn''t spend with Jaime anyway.


    She nearly had an attack when she turned and entered Joffrey''s room. Joffrey was hanging upside down from a sturdy looking, tall cupboard. His legs were firmly grasping the top of the furniture, and his hands were tucked behind his head. He was shirtless, and every few seconds he rose as if to touch his knees, only to then relax his back and return to his starting, dangling position¡­ only to repeat it again.


    Beside him was a servant nodding as Joffrey finished talking "¡ªand tell the Hound to pack his stuff and get ready for leaving tomorrow at noon" he said. The servant nodded and scurried out quickly, only muttering a small "m''queen" on the way out. Cercei didn''t even notice him, so big was the earth shattering realization on her mind.


    My son''s gone insane! She thought, desperate.


    -.PD.-


    "What did you tell her?" asked the Hound, genuinely curious as they rode their horses out of the Mud gate.


    Joffrey seemed to ponder the question inside his head before nodding "I told her that if she didn''t let me go right away I''d go straight to Robert and tell him she''d been cuckolding him with my father Jaime for the last fifteen years" he said as he with a smirk as he fiddled with one of Tobho''s artfully crafted castle steel forged scaling rakes.


    The Hound was silent for a bit before grunting out an unwilling chuckle. "And she bought your bluff?" he asked, disbelievingly.


    "She sure did" said Joffrey as his smirk deepened and he eyed the Kingsroad ahead.


    -.PD.-


    He was turning his sneaking away from the Hound into an art form.


    Subtly get him drunk with wine, leave everything prepacked, don''t startle the horses, and many other little details made the whole endeavor a task in of itself.


    After that the week passed without incident, Joffrey found himself at the foot of the mountain again, flexing his muscles while taking a deep breath.


    "Let''s fucking do this" he said to no one in particular.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey took a bite out of his beef jerky, munching mechanically and putting his shivering teeth to good use. He took another look to the looming cliff, experimentally tapping it with his rake.


    "Hmmm¡­ seems solid enough" he mumbled before stabbing it completely with the other climbing rake, and scaling up with both the rakes as well as both of his steel bladed leather reinforced hide boots, steadily making his way up. Joffrey was like a machine, slowly but surely making his way up, methodically stabbing and rising, making use of handholds or cracks whenever he found them.


    Suddenly his right rake slipped, leaving him hanging from his boots and his left rake. "Whoooow!!" he screamed through his bluish tinted lips and nose as the rocks tumbled down, and he struggled to purchase some grip with the hanging rake.


    He roared as he stabbed the mountain again, finally hitting a more solid bit.


    "Not solid enough!" he screamed to himself as he waited to see if it could hold his weight¡­


    I admit it, book knowledge is simply not enough to learn the difference between scalable cliffs and deathtraps.


    He waited¡­


    Silence¡­ until¡­


    Crack


    The whole piece of rock he had been attached to gave way under its own weight, and fell down at an incredible speed. Joffrey closed his eyes.


    -.PD.-


    He opened his eyes. He was on his bed.


    "I''m going to climb this damned mountain, and there''s nothing anyone can do to stop me" he muttered to himself, before snapping out of bed with a shout "Servants!"


    -.PD.-


    He run around the Red Keep, his face set. He was fast, not a sprint by any stretch of the imagination, but still a respectable speed. Crossed above his shoulders and with his arms looped around them, he carried two broadswords.


    His breathing was steady. In, out. In, out. In out.


    -.PD.-


    He walked through the cliff edge, following the "path" carved by nature, his shoulders crouched, trying to make himself a smaller target as the cold rain whipped past him, soaking him wet and barely letting him see forward. Suddenly an impossibly bright light flashed, Joffrey was sure, must have been right in front of him, illuminating the whole Vale of Arryn below him for a microsecond before leaving his eyes seeing pure white.


    CCCHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA TUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG


    The thunder was absolutely deafening, so loud it was Joffrey could swear they must have heard it in Braavos. The Lighting seemed to strike somewhere in front of him, shaking the very ground he was standing upon.


    Joffrey grabbed the rock to his right for dear life as the rain kept buffeting at him. Or at least he thought he was grabbing the rock. Honestly he had lost the sense of touch from his feet two days ago and his hands were not too much better. Now with his eye sight gone as well as his hearing, he might as well have been sailing downwards at a hundred nautical miles per hour.


    Slowly, the tingling, bell like sound left his ears, and the white in his vision slowly gave way to a wet rock.


    "YOU''LL HAVE TO TRY HARDER THAN THAT!" He shouted at the storm and¡­ he didn''t know. Somewhere along the way this had become personal. This bloody mountain¡­ everything he did didn''t work. No matter what he did, it didn''t change the outcome, he was incapable of reaching the summit.


    In his mind, the mountain had merged with another concept.


    Destiny, inevitability¡­ Fate.


    "I can do it¡­ I have to¡­" he muttered as he kept trekking the slope, one feet after the other.


    -.PD.-


    He was shivering inside the small cave he had managed to find, tending the pathetic fire he had managed to start up with the sticks and one unlucky shrub. The wet sticks were having a hard time starting up, but even the trickle of heat they gave out was greedily absorbed by Joffrey.


    He was a shivering wreck, he didn''t even feel his nose or his little finger. He was looking horrified at his blue feet, experimentally touching with a stick and not feeling a bit.


    "This¡­ looks¡­ bad¡­" he said between shivers. The howling wind outside seemed to agree as it redoubled in its intensity, its banshee like howling setting his teeth on edge. He had reached the snow 3 days ago¡­ and he''d never felt more tired in his life. He didn''t know if it was because of his feet or a lack of stamina, but he felt dead tired. It seemed the fire had helped with the general pain that had been plaguing his body for the last week though, he didn''t feel it anymore.


    He rested his back on the stone next to the burning sticks. Gods he was so tired, a quick nap right now sounded more delicious than a thousand feats. He had even stopped shivering!


    Slowly his eyes drooped. Just 10 minutes, then I can keep going¡­. 10 minutes¡­


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey snapped his eyes open and sat up.


    He was on his bed on the Red Keep.


    ¡­


    He took a deep breath.


    "Again" he said, his voice strange to his ears.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey huffed as he hanged upside down from the cupboard, rising to his knees before lowering again. His chainmail jingled as he repeated the motion again and again.


    Tyrion was sitting beside him on his desk, amused and confused with his nephew''s antics. On his desk he had several drawing he had been drawing and preparing for a sturdy but as light as possible backpack.


    Joffrey had been very insistent in getting his help¡­ and his absurdly changed behaviors was a riddle he just couldn''t resist. Puzzles were always his doom.


    Beside him Joffrey kept at it. For the last hour he had been doing that, rising and back like a ship''s pump. They had spoken at first while he did it, about the most miscellaneous things, chief of them being winter clothing. He had thought that after their trip to Winterfell with King Robert they boy would have been tired of the snow...


    He had been quiet for the last 20 minutes though. He seemed to be devoting his entire strength to his exercises.


    Up down up jingle, up down jingle, up down jingle. The sound of the tingling chainmail counted the repetitions.


    -.PD.-


    The cloaked figure made his way through the snow storm, plowing through the rising snow and up the steep slope. Only one bit of skin visible out of his whole body.


    His feet were covered in in leather reinforced hide boots, on his legs he wore heavy storm trousers, his chest was wrapped in wool below leather, and his back was covered by a big water proofed cloak. His hands wielded wickedly sharp looking rakes, and they were covered by thick gloves. A black hood covered the man''s blonde hair, and a leather-woolen neck guard covered his mouth and nose.


    The only bit of visible skin were his bright green eyes.


    He was close, he could feel it. A heavy grumbling from his stomach made him crouch, one hand touching his belly.


    Of all the things¡­ food¡­


    He looked up. There were a few momentary gaps in the blizzard, in between them, he could see the peak, high above, couldn''t be more than a week away.


    So close¡­


    The backpack he had designed with the help of Tyrion, well, the backpack that Tyrion had designed with his help, was securely attached to his back, but its weight was harrowingly low.


    He had no food left.


    He took another step, and then another, and another. He felt so weak he wanted to cry, but didn''t even have the energy to do so. He took another step.


    Suddenly his left foot slipped under a rock below the snow. He tumbled forward, landing face first into the snow.


    He spent a few seconds there before he put his arms below him, and pushed.


    Nothing happened.


    Come on, I''ve done this a hundred times before.


    He pushed with all his strength. He could feel himself slightly rising as his face emerged from the snow and into the somehow even colder air.


    His arms gave out from under him as he collapsed on the cold snow.


    He gave a wordless scream of effort as he tried one last time with all his being.


    Nothing.


    His arms slumped to his sides¡­ And he waited¡­


    -.PD.-


    A boy slept on his room.


    Suddenly, his green eyes opened serenely, and the man rose from his bed.


    "Again" said the man.


    -.PD.-


    "Hound, another one" he said, his face flooded with sweat.


    They were on top of one of the main towers, overlooking Blackwater Bay. Joffrey was flat on his stomach, straight as a board, in the same position he had been the last time he died. On his back were half a dozen heavy tomes from the library.


    Beside him was the Hound, looking thoroughly confused with the whole endeavor and vaguely alarmed. "Joffrey, I--"


    "Hound, another one" said Joffrey with the same tone of voice. That shook the Hound, he had never seen the little shit with so much¡­ determination. He didn''t know what his obscure goal was, but apparently it meant becoming a cord of muscle and stamina.


    Joffrey waited patiently, his forearms tucked against the floor, ready to tense, his back straight, balancing the books. "Pycell''s going to want these back" muttered the Hound as he took another book from the pile and placed it on Joffrey''s back.


    He barely grunted under the additional weight.


    Joffrey tensed, his face a rictus of effort.


    He stayed there.


    His face was red, and he had stopped breathing.


    The Hound was going to stop all this madness when suddenly Joffrey roared.


    "AAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrr" he shouted as he rose from the ground and stayed suspended, only touching the floor with his arms and legs for a full 10 seconds.


    Suddenly he fell to the side, spilling all the books on the floor. But instead of the usual disinterested smirk, Joffrey had an anticipating and vaguely manic grin.


    "I''m ready" he said ominously.


    The Hound didn''t want to ask for what.


    -.PD.-


    The cloaked figure walked through the snowy slope. The small shrubs had ceased to exist a while ago, and the sun was now clearly visible through the clouds¡­ or¡­ it would if there where clouds. He had seemingly trekked past them a few days ago. The last of the cliff climbs was long behind him, and the only visible obstacle to the summit was a somewhat steep slope, peppered with ice and hard rocks.


    He had never made it this far, and he had rationed his food as much as he could. It was still not enough though, he needed energy¡­ he was starving.


    He thought he had reached his limits in terms of carrying capacity. He couldn''t simply lug more food through the climb, the weight was just too much for his body, at least not if he had only 9 to 12 months to prepare.


    Still¡­ he was so fucking close. He could see the peak in the middle of the day, so tantalizingly close.


    So he trucked on, step, step, step, step.


    He noticed he had to take deeper breaths than before, and more often too, as if the air itself didn''t have the strength to fully reach up here.


    The slope narrowed to a small path, and right next to it was a natural cave, perfect for spending the night before one final push.


    As he got close, he heard a rumbling purr.


    Suddenly out of the cave leapt an enormous feline, a female, her huge head sporting wickedly sharp fangs, her long, sinuous body swirling like a snake. Her coat was a shaggy white, and she seemed a bit starved as her blue eyes gazed at Joffrey intently.


    Joffrey froze as the big feline tensed, 7 meters in front of him.


    Shadowcat.


    Joffrey gripped his climbing rakes, his knuckles turning white.


    There was nowhere to run. But even if there was, Joffrey would not be denied. Not now.


    "You are not going to stop me" he told it calmly as he crouched slightly, rakes held low but ready to cut.


    The Shadowcat roared as she pounced at Joffrey, claws spread and her mouth open.


    Joffrey partially dodged to the side but the bulk of the Shadowcat still slammed him to the snowy ground. He screamed as he felt its fangs burrowing into his left shoulder.


    Joffrey roared as he lifted his right hand and stabbed the Shadowcat in the ribs with his climbing rake, using all his strength. The big cat yowled but didn''t let go. Joffrey shouted as he kept stabbing as his ribs again and again. Finally the Shadowcat jumped back, searching behind her for its sharp enemy.


    Joffrey stood up groggily, blood flowing freely down his torso. The Shadowcat whirled about and lunged at Joffrey again. This time, somehow, he managed to skip to the left in a water dancing feint, bringing his rake down and stabbing her in the back. The Shadowcat roared in pain and swiped at him, leaving a bloody gash on Joffrey''s right arm.


    He stumbled back, blood pooling all around him as both man and cat eyed each other. Joffrey had only one rake left, the other one had been lost with that swipe.


    He didn''t know if the lack of air or if the adrenaline of the fight was getting to him, but Joffrey snarled with primal rage at the guardian of Fate. The Shadowcat roared back.


    It leapt and tackled Joffrey as it tried to sink his fangs into his neck. They both tumbled through the snow with the force of the impact. A tumbling that quickly turned into free fall as both of them fell back down to the Vale of Arryn.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey breathed in slowly at the Red Keep''s God''s Wood. In, out. In, out. In, out.


    He was sitting cross-legged in one of the positions he had learnt from the Yi-i Scroll, it had helped immensely with his concentration. He felt the wind around him, carrying the fresh scent free of the city''s usual stink. It didn''t have quite the edge that a real Godswood had, but it still helped him immensely. He already felt centered, as if one with his emotions. He knew the effect wouldn''t last long, but the feeling of wellbeing would last a while longer than it.


    Still¡­ he was hesitant to leave the place. His preparations for the next climb were almost complete¡­ but the futility of seemingly fighting against fate was getting to him. He had lost count of the amount of times he had tried, and a small corner of his mind was whispering seductively that he should just quit, that it was only a freaking mountain, that he had nothing to prove.


    But Joffrey knew those whispers. If he gave in now, what about the next thing he did? Would he never be able to accomplish anything of his own effort? Would the voice keep whispering, shouting, for the rest of his lives?


    The wind pattern is wrong.


    Suddenly he opened up his eyes. His bright green eyes seemed paler in the reflected light of the afternoon, kind of with a steely gloss.


    As soon as he opened his eyes he heard a gasp to his right and his danger senses screamed as he leapt to his feet effortlessly in one fluid motion that almost echoed of water dancing, drawing his dagger. After more than 8 months of the heaviest training Joffrey had devised without it actually killing him, he felt like a coiled spring ready for anything.


    To his right was Sansa, covering her mouth, her eyes startled and quite a bit afraid. Joffrey shook himself as he sheathed his dagger. "I''m sorry for startling you my lady" he told her. She lowered her hands and shook her head, which was getting quite red. "No need my prince, I¡­ I was actually spying on you" she suddenly confessed.


    Joffrey looked bewildered at the sudden confession. "Me? Why?" he asked, genuinely confused.


    She took a hesitant step forward. "It''s just¡­" she seemed to be having a titanic battle within her as she spoke "you seem so¡­ focused¡­ driven... and it''s as if you know something no one else here could even imagine¡­" she said with the uncanny insight that seemed to inhabit below the enormous outer layer of naivet¨¦ and innocence that Joffrey had detected only hints of in lives past.


    "I''m sorry, I didn''t--" she suddenly started but Joffrey stopped her when he walked in front of her. "No¡­ its¡­ its true¡­" he said, searching for the right words. "There''s¡­ I guess you could call it a song, in life. It guides everything we do, everything that happens¡­" he said, his eyes unfocused.


    "If one where to try and change a few keys of the song, it would devolve into improvisation for a while, sure, only to later return to the melody yet again. But the song¡­ the song always stays the same, the song never seems to change¡­ I can''t change it." Joffrey said, somewhat desperately, already regretting his words.


    Sansa however had an uncharacteristic focused look, peering at his face and trying to decipher his meaning. After a minute of silent staring, Sansa spoke.


    "But, Joffrey¡­ What is a different song if not a sequence of changed keys?" she asked him.


    In his mind Joffrey saw the long sequence of events that led to his last climb. Running training, forging tools with Tobho Mott, hanging squats with his chainmail, designing the perfect backpack and winter clothing with Tyrion, endurance training in the sunny top of the Red Keep''s main tower with the Hound, reading for information on the Mountain range and on the tactics of climbing.


    Each of them a key on their own, worthless. But together¡­ A string of keys could change the song, a string of events could change dealings of fate beyond petty politics or who killed who. They could propel him to stand atop the roof of the world itself.


    And he could already see the last key he needed.


    "Gods, I never knew you were this wise" Said Joffrey in the midst of his daze of realization as he gave her a heartfelt kiss on the cheek and went running towards the main keep.


    Sansa stayed rooted in the Godswood, her face so hot and red she thought she was going to burst into flame.


    -.PD.-


    "I told you Ned! The Targaryen bitch needs to die!" bellowed King Robert at the small council in general and Ned in particular.


    Eddard was about to object yet again when the doors bursted open and Robert''s peculiar son, Prince Joffrey, entered the room with the look of a man on a mission.


    "Robert" he said as he looked at his father.


    "I''m busy boy! If this is about another one of your dresses--"


    "Robert, I need your pig-sticker" he said, dead serious.


    -.PD.-


    The cloaked figure made his way through the slope, the snow not deep enough to make him falter. There was only one bit of skin visible out of his whole body.


    His feet were covered in leather reinforced hide boots, on his legs he wore heavy storm trousers, his chest was wrapped in wool below leather, all covered by a light chainmail. On his back he sported a big water proofed cloak. His hands were hidden behind heavy winter gloves. A black hood covered the man''s blonde hair, and a leather-woolen neck guard covered his mouth and nose.


    The only bit of visible skin were his pale green eyes.


    The man took off his back pack and opened it on the ground. The smell of food was still painfully present but there was none of that left. No, instead, the man took out 4 wooden poles the size of his forearm, each topped with an iron socket.


    He snapped in place each segment, the smooth clicking sound after each fusion proof enough of Tobho Mott''s master work. Finally, he took out one final piece which was covered in leather wrappings.


    He snapped it to the last segment. The leather wrapping flew with the wind and revealed a wickedly sharp, castle steel forged broad dagger half a meter in size, gleaming with unfiltered sunlight on top of a 3 meter spear.


    The man took an identical broad dagger and tied it sideways on his back, right above his hip. It was identical to the other, only differing in that this one had a handle instead of an iron socket.


    The man left his backpack there and continued walking towards the only path available, one that passed right by a small cave¡­


    Like clockwork, Fate''s guardian leapt out of the cave with a purr and a growl, staring at the man. Her white shaggy mane served to hide her diminished form, though even in hunger the Shadowcat was majestic. Despite her great weight, she moved with an inherent grace and agility, slowly prowling sideways, moving around the man in a circle.


    The man lowered the spear as he lowered his center of gravity, semi crouching in an eerie mirror of the Shadowcat''s pose, footwork steady as he slowly pivoted to the side, always keeping the feline in front of his spear.


    The man took another deep breath.


    "If no matter what I do" he calmly told the Shadowcat as it kept prowling, "If I can''t reach that summit¡­ if the power of a thousand lifetimes can''t reach it¡­ it means you, me, everyone¡­" he muttered quietly. Despite his whispering, the words sounded unnaturally loud to Joffrey''s ears. The wind had suddenly stilled, and the only other sound beside his voice was the soft crunch of slow boot or paw over snow.


    The Shadowcat slowly raised her back, thick muscles cording for the jump.


    "If I can''t reach that summit¡­ it would mean we are all puppets to fate... It would mean we are just its playthings, to be used and discarded again and again."


    The Shadowcat growled as she went absolutely still, muscles tight, its vision centered on Joffrey.


    His green eyes, the only part of his body visible, narrowed in concentration "I¡­ I can''t accept that. Better a hundred deaths by the purple. Better a million of them." He told the Shadowcat. Though his mouth was covered, the way his cheeks pulled upwards betrayed his serene smile.


    Joffrey and the Shadowcat locked eyes, both as still as statues, the wind unnaturally quiet.


    His mind was silent, still. His thoughts lay completely unmoving like if he were meditating on Winterfell''s great Godswood, the small red leaves twirling around him. He could feel every wisp of wind against his body, the weight of his clothes, he felt every muscle of his body tense and relax.


    He could see the Shadowcat in perfect detail, full of colour despite his white mane¡­ petrified as if it were a statue.


    They spent the next second like that, or eternity. Joffrey would never know which.


    The Shadowcat''s paw twitched.


    "COME OOOOON!!!" Roared Joffrey as the Shadowcat let out a roar of its own and leapt faster than a bolt from a crossbow.


    "AAAIIYAAAaaa" shouted Joffrey in exertion as he moved like lighting and stabbed the spear right above the Shadowcat''s left forepaw. She yowled in pain as she retreated back, but Joffrey kept up the pressure, standing tall and aiming low, pushing to try and pin the Shadowcat to the floor.


    She somehow scuttled back faster than Joffrey could follow, disentangling herself from the broad spear point and leaving a trail of blood as she sprinted like thunder to his left, trying to flank him. He pivoted hard, following the white blur with the spear. She was fast, too fast.


    She ducked low and suddenly stopped, making Joffrey overcompensate to his left and leaving the spear out of position for when she charged right at him. He managed to slash her side, and the Shadowcat roared in pain as she turned to her side and clawed at the spear with all her strength.


    A spear that had been modified for ease of transportation, losing a good part of its structural integrity in its conversion.


    The spear snapped in two with a deafening crunch.


    All of this Joffrey saw in slow motion. Without thinking, he tossed the broken spear aside and bellowed as he charged the Shadowcat, drawing the broad dagger from his back hip sheath. The Shadowcat roared as she turned to face him, but this time the momentum was with Joffrey as they tumbled through the snow in a feast of claws and steel, blood and bone.


    Suddenly, the whirling blur stopped, revealing a crouched Shadowcat, her face pointing downwards, still as a statue again.


    After a half minute, slowly, the Shadowcat tumbled to one side, then to the other. With a scream of strength emerging from below her, the Shadowcat sprawled to the side showing her bloodied neck and revealing the bloodied man in hard winter clothing that had been trapped below her. He struggled to his knees, holding a bloodied left arm, and stumbled towards Shadowcat. With a grunt of effort he pulled his broad dagger from the beast''s thick neck, spraying the snow with even more blood.


    -.PD.-


    The slope got easier and easier, each step requiring less effort than the last, each step not as steep as the last one.


    Until it was no more.


    The slope suddenly gave way to a couple of meters of flat rock, and then¡­


    Westeros beckoned.


    To his right were the Riverlands, the great wandering trident and its tributaries stretched through a vast network of hamlets and houses, the greatest of which was mighty Harrenhall, which was barely visible with its enormous jagged towers, right beside the great lake that was the God''s Eye. All around the rivers stretched great fields of crops, only identifiable by their color. Great swathes of yellow, brown and green followed the sides of the rivers, a swirl of colors that took Joffrey''s breath away. To the front lay the bay of crabs, one big streak of blue that seemed to pierce into the heart of the continent, its waters never still, always crashing against the shore. To his left was the Eyrie, one great turreted thumb rising from the vale, surrounded by mighty mountains full of green forestry and grey slopes. Great as they were, none of them was as big as his.


    All around him he could see the greatest mountain range of Westeros, rising in majestic beauty, sporting a desolate kind of allure in the form of mixing greens and pale greys, all topped with crowns of white. He could see them all from here, stretching north to south and into the Vale of Arryn, where they finally met a great blue blob right on the horizon that could only be the Narrow Sea.


    It was beautiful.


    "WWWWHUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!" roared Joffrey as he fell on his knees, his arms raised high atop the roof of the world.


    I did it¡­ I¡­ I''m capable of forging my own destiny...


    That thought swirled through his head like an intoxicating, almost sexual pleasure.


    He suddenly noticed he was crying, and it with a start he realized that it was the best sensation he''d ever had in any of his lives.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey took another bite.


    It tasted¡­


    It tasted of¡­ blood and victory.


    It tasted¡­ good.


    He took another bite out of the raw Shadowcat fillet, munching methodically as his feet swinged about in the air.


    Eating raw shadowcat meat on the top of the Mountains of the Moon¡­


    There''s something surreal inside that thought.


    He gobbled the last piece he had brought with him and lay back in infinite contentment, eying the sun as it made its way down.


    "Take a nap at the top of the world, check" he said to himself, amused. The heady feeling of victory had not left him. It was there right at his core, like a warm hearth fire.


    Joffrey smiled as he lounged, taking a long, drawn out nap.


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    -.PD.-


    ¡­ Now what?


    He looked behind him, then down below.


    He swept back the veritable blonde mane that had grown from his scalp and proudly scratched his stubby blonde bear, only to stop as the pain from the huge scar that crossed his head from forehead to mouth pulsed in pain.


    "Ouch¡­ damned cat¡­" he muttered. The bleeding had been hell itself to stop, and he still found his wounds bleeding now and then. He was sure they''d get infected soon.


    "Okay" he said standing up, and looked back down again. "Only one way down" he said with a nervous chuckle.


    He stood back, run to the edge of the world and promptly stopped.


    ¡­


    This is going to be harder that I thought.


    It was a long, loooong way down. He got sick just looking right down.


    After psyching himself up for the last 10 minutes, Joffrey finally nodded.


    He licked his lips.


    This one''s for you uncle!


    "Team Lannisteeeeeeeeerrrrrr!!!" he screamed as jumped out of the ledge.


    "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­" he screamed as he fell, faster than anything he had experienced on his lives before.


    And then he promptly run out of breath.


    And kept falling.


    And falling.


    And falling.


    He spread his arms wide and tried to maneuver in the sky, to some moderate success.


    "THIS IS UNBELEAVABLE!!! TAKE THAT FUCKING TARGARYENS!" He screamed as he tilted this way and that, fucking flying through the air.


    In the midst of this joy, and as the ground kept getting closer and closer, one sudden, horrible thought crossed Joffrey''s mind, thanks to a slapping weight tied to his belt.


    Oh gods.


    I didn''t leave the bronze plaque in the summit.


    "FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUU--"


    SPLAT.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 13: Bones.

    Chapter 13: Bones.Tyrion was reading an interesting tome about Brandon the Shipwright on the small solar he had in King''s Landing, eying the jug of wine nearby and debating the merits of taking a detour to Chataya''s before the trip north, when he had the scare of his life.


    His nephew Joffrey suddenly bursted into his cellar, sporting a manic green and looking for all the gods like the happiest man on earth, almost shaking with some inner power.


    Oh shit. He just murdered someone, was his first thought.


    When he looked about the small cellar and saw him, his grin stretched even more, and his eyes sparkled with joy.


    ¡­He''s going to kill me, was his second thought.


    "TEEAAAAM LAAAANISTEEEEEER" He shouted as he jumped and tackled Tyrion right out of his seat.


    -.PD.-


    The Lannister''s table made a grim sight, as Cercei and Jaime ate in silence, giving each other looks of pure meaning and foreboding. Jon Arryn had been killed¡­ and it hadn''t been them. Tyrion had picked up the tension, and was playing without much energy with Tommen, who sat beside him. Both Tommen and Myrcella had absorbed the table''s mood and were halfheartedly eating, or more like moving their food around with the cutlery.


    "OMN" crunched Joffrey as he devoured a chicken leg, slowly munching it down, savoring every last bite. He had been like that since he''d last seen him, last night when instead of stabbing him to death the mad kid had gotten both of them drunk, with a happiness that had come out of nowhere. He''d been a bit embarrassed the next morning and had refused to elaborate on what exactly they had been celebrating (not that he needed an excuse)¡­ but whatever it was it had left him as if he another person¡­


    CRUNCH


    With one last bite, Joffrey slid back on his seat with a self-satisfied smile and a faraway, calculating look.


    Interesting¡­ thought Tyrion.


    He wondered what it was all about¡­


    -.PD.-


    The small kitchen was a humble place, a tiny recess tucked into one of the less frequented parts of the Red Keep. It had probably been originally built for the servants attending the White Sword tower. It barely had any food stored and the table looked like it could use a carpenter or two, but that hadn''t stopped Joffrey. Whatever madness that had possessed the Prince, it had compelled him to clean up the place¡­ and start cooking in the small stove for some reason.


    He set the steaming bowl with a hopeful expression, apparently waiting for the Hound to say something.


    Why is the prince of the Seven Kingdoms serving me rabbit stew¡­?


    The Hound was definitely off balance with all of this. He would later try to use that fact to justify the long series of events that followed.


    Fuck it, if he''s expecting me to fall to whatever jape he''s playing, he''s got another thing coming.


    He took a spoon, dipped it in the stew and promptly ate it.


    He didn''t know what he was expecting at this point, maybe to taste the worst flavor ever devised or maybe to have collapsed into a fitful bliss.


    He munched some of the more solid bits. It was¡­ too watery, and lacked almost any flavor. He''d definitely eaten worse on the march, but not too much worse.


    The little shit seemed to pick up on his expression, and scratched his head. "hmm, it was too much to hope months of self-cooking for survival needs would mean better meals¡­" he said apparently to himself, then shook himself.


    "Alright Hound¡­" he said, sitting on the table and spreading a pile of parchments all over the table. "Pick our fate" he said, gazing at his sworn shield rather ominously.


    The Hound stared right back at Joffrey, but the kid''s unwavering stare forced him to look back down¡­ with a sight.


    "Damnit, fine." He said as he gazed glumly at the pile of spread out parchment on the table. They were about 15 pieces, all of them face down.


    He still didn''t really know what sort of game the little shit was playing, but it would be best to indulge him and just get it over with. "Fine, fine¡­ I''ll take¡­" He hesitated.


    This was harder than it looked. It was just a piece of paper right? His hand moved from one of the papers to the other, moving all over the table before hesitating between just two of them. He kept moving his hand between the two of them¡­ one of them would be it.


    His hand kept switching positions until he grunted. "Bah! Take this one" he practically tossed the parchment at Joffrey.


    He picked it up dutifully and flipped it, revealing a name.


    "Port of Ibben¡­ hmm, interesting enough. Have your things packed up by tomorrow morning Hound." He said almost flippantly as he stood up and strolled out of the small kitchen, only to stop at the door.


    "Ah, you might want look at the parchment you almost chose" he said with a mischievous smirk as he went on his way.


    The Hound, still off balance with the whole experience, promptly flipped the piece he had been hesitant about.


    ''Summer Islands'', it read.


    The Hound''s eye twitched.


    -.PD.-


    His breathing was steady, his eyes locked.


    Wait for it¡­


    Joffrey could hear the sway of the rigging as the cog crested another way, rising into the air¡­


    Wait for it¡­


    Only to come back down with a big roar. The Hound tumbled a bit to his left, losing his balance, and Joffrey pounced like a fevered cat, his sword slashing to the Hound''s exposed back.


    The Hound grunted as he barely blocked the incoming blow, his attention split between trying to keep his balance and the threat Joffrey presented.


    "Dirty¡­" he said as he shoved Joffrey back. "Good" he muttered as he went on the offensive, delivering a storm of blows that Joffrey dodged around, with the occasional parry. CLANG CLANG CLANG. The metal screeched with each incoming blow as the Hound progressively trapped Joffrey against the corner, right below the ships tiller. With an inelegant yet efficient swish which spoke of the Hound''s years of training and veterancy, he disarmed Joffrey with flick and a punch to the belly.


    The sword clattered on the deck as Joffrey fell on his knees, hands clenched on his stomach. He spent a few seconds there before the Hound offered him a hand up.


    "Didn''t know you''d trained on a ship before" Said the Hound gruffly as Joffrey took his hand and was propelled up by the Hound''s strength. Joffrey took a few more gulps of air, enjoying the feeling as a westerly breeze swept the deck. "Only¡­ a couple¡­ of times¡­" he assured him as he kept getting all the air he could into his burning lungs.


    His rapid breathing was interrupted by an intrusive thought. Suddenly he looked at the Hound with a weary expression. "When have you fought on a ship before?!" he asked.


    The Hound, naturally, let out another one of his trademark grunts. "You''re not the only one with surprises here, Joff" he told him, his expression a bit wary as well.


    "Taht''s enough lolligaging''! Ge'' back t'' work!" bellowed out a burly Valeman as he leaned on the rail in front of the tiller. "I ain''t payin ya fer playing with swords, and tha'' includes you Joff! I want the jib squared ''way before we reach Braavos!" he bellowed once more as the dozen crewmen who had been sitting in crates spectating the duel groaned. "Aye Captain!" Said Joffrey as he stowed his tourney sword, experimentally touching the new bruises he''d acquired. "1 out of 5¡­ I still can''t believe you keep trouncing whatever trick I can come up with¡­" he told the Hound, exasperated. He turned around when he heard no response, only to find the Hound staring at him deep in thought.


    This again¡­ He''d been giving him that stare every time the Captain gave him an order, it was getting annoying.


    "Cleg? Cleg?!" With that Clegane snapped out of his reverie, only to huff as Joffrey raised his eyebrows. "Mhrm" he said in Hound speak as he stowed his sword. Joffrey roughly translated that to ''Nevermind''.


    The Cog crashed against another wave as Joffrey took a few moments before heading with the rest of the crew to take down the jib, enjoying his tensed muscles. It had become a kind of guilty pleasure every time he became relatively fit a bit after the start of a new life. Every time he woke up again he somehow felt a bit more depressed or anxious than mere moments before his death, but that feeling gradually went away after he got back up in shape in the current life. The difference had become notorious in what Joffrey had started to call ''the mountain run'' in his mind, and his daily endurance exercises (at least the toned down version that didn''t have everyone on the Red Keep considering whether to toss him to the tender mercies of Grand Maester Pycell) had become a standard routine for his new lives now.


    Now, doing them every day plus the two weeks hard at work on the sea, Joffrey finally felt a bit more independent. It didn''t matter if his technique kept getting good (and thankfully it was, now he could reliably defeat the Hound in one bout out of 5. Slow progress, but still¡­) if he didn''t have the build for it, any difference he could make on a prolonged skirmish was negligible.


    "Wha'' ra'' ya'' wai''ing for! I don'' pay you for star''in at ta'' sea you scum!" Shouted the Captain. The burly Valeman had a horrendously backwater accent, and an explosive temperament that could give a drunk Robert a run for his money, but he had taken in ''Joff'' and ''Cleg'' as paid sailors without question, and for that Joffrey was too grateful to care.


    He snapped out of his reverie as he dashed to the Jib. eHeeeeee"Aye Captain!" he said as the Valeman slowly shook his head, getting back to the tiller.


    -.PD.-


    Lorath was not a big city, at least not compared to the rest of the Free Cities. It did have a kind of strange beauty in the form of its laberynthian alleys and streets, winding up and down, left and right in a kind of complicated pattern that seemed to hint of something¡­ more. Hidden.


    It was no surprise then when Joffrey learned it had actually been a maze, centuries ago. Unfortunately, time, hardship and a visit by a group of certain blond dragon riders had all ruined whole swaths of the ancient maze from which the city had been originally built up from. On the couple of days Joffrey had spent there, he had explored it relentlessly, trying to figure out the city''s ancient secrets to some very moderate success.


    He had uncovered ancient passageways that ranged from inconspicuous deserted alleyways to huge gaping caverns that opened up to the sea, and he had sometimes even discovered ancient marks or runes of some sort in some of those passageways, the ones he thought where the oldest ones.


    Still, he had not forgotten his original objective. The mysterious Port of Ibben, inhabited by the strange and hairy Ibbenese, many of whom he had already seen wandering about the docks and the taverns. They were mostly fishermen, traders and the occasional whaler, but they were notoriously distrustful of strangers, preferring their own company.


    Until now.


    "Right, let''s get in ''Cleg''." He told the Hound , who had been standing quietly behind him, seemingly thinking about his own things. He followed Joffrey with barely a grunt.


    Joffrey guessed that after so many character breaking moments the Hound had finally decided to metaphorically fuck it and go with the flow (and the mad schemes of the ''new'' Joffrey), a healthy sentiment that reminded Joffrey of calm breezes and twirling red leaves. He approved.


    Turning his back on the grey skies to face the grey city, he made his way through the relatively busy street, following the road from the piers to the nearby tavern he had checked out yesterday. The perpetually grey and cloudy skies above Lorath seemed to always indicate a coming storm, and they didn''t often disappoint. The prince and his bodyguard increased their pace as the first drops of rain started to pour down, quickly gaining intensity as they finally made it to a non-descriptive squat building, made out of thick grey bricks.


    "The Dead Whale" was a tavern that didn''t stand out much from its neighbors, if anything it was slightly more run down than the inn in front of it, where drunk Braavosi Bravos and laughing Pentoshi traders spiraled out to the streets, singing and cursing the rain. "The Dead Whale" in comparison was quiet from the outside, almost eerily so. Still, he was somehow certain that this place would be the key for getting to Ibb.


    They entered through the front door, taking care to shake their boots and coats beforehand. Joffrey managed to hear the quiet, bassy murmur of rasping conversation before it immediately stopped, and they soon found themselves stared at by the whole tavern''s clientele, 95% of which were the somewhat squat looking, hairy Ibbenese. Their appearance, though Joffrey had seen them before, still sent a strange, uncanny feeling when he saw them, but that quickly gave way as he furiously thought about the situation.


    Rapidly deciding that the best course of action was to carry on as if nothing, the Hound and him made their way to a table in the corner, whose nearby neighbors looked mostly harmless. They sat there in uncomfortable silence, Joffrey leaning back on his chair as if nothing were amiss (and vaguely failing, he thought) while the Hound sat stiffly on the other chair, which had a view of the whole place and incidentally left his back secured¡­ he scanned the area constantly his hand tight on his sword.


    That''s what gave away a warrior. Joffrey reflected, Not their prowess, but the way in which they stayed informed of their surroundings. He briefly wondered if that was something one was taught, or if it was something that arose organically after surviving battles and wars.


    A vaguely scowling Lorathi serving girl came to them, and Joffrey handed her a Braavosi Iron Mark as he ordered two mugs of beer. He was startled when the Hound suddenly leaned in and ordered some chicken too. When he looked at him the Hound just shrugged "I''m hungry" he said as if an afterthought.


    Only when the serving wench reluctantly nodded at him and went on her way, did the conversation return to the rasping murmur it had been before.


    "Fuck¡­ When you said they didn''t like foreigners I didn''t think you meant it like that¡­" the Hound murmured. "Neither did I¡­" Joffrey whispered back. He leaned a bit backwards and spied both of their nearby neighbors. One of the tables had an Ibbenese man busily munching some kind of nuts as he taciturnly stared at his empty cup, while the other table was surrounded by a half dozen ibbenese sailors clad in heavy furs that made them look even more hairy. Joffrey noted they hadn''t even looked his way when they entered the tavern.


    His initial plan to buy everyone a mug of beer (courtesy of the Red Keep''s treasury) seemed¡­ impractical now, he would have to find another way to ingrate himself to some crew of Ibbenese sailors. Lorathi and even Braavosi ships regularly docked at the Port of Ibben, but their access to the city itself was often restricted to foreigners, or so he''d heard on Bravos. Arriving on an Ibbenese crewed ship however, would give him considerably more freedom.


    That was the theory anyway.


    The Hound grunted his approval as he tore at the chicken leg with the characteristic joy of a man who thought he''d eat fish for the rest of his life. Joffrey chuckled a bit at the sight, stealing one of the chicken legs for himself. "I''m hungry" he cheekily responded to the Hound''s glare.


    Before he could munch another bit, a rough, hairy hand slapped Joffrey''s shoulder, followed by a threatening grunt. The Hound, fast as lightning, stood up and shoved the offending man away.


    "Touch him again and your hand won''t follow the rest of your body" he growled. Joffrey quickly got up from his chair and turned around, only to be confronted by 4 Ibbenese men, all looking at either him or the hound.


    The one the Hound shoved sneered, an ugly smile filled with square teeth. He spoke then with the typical grunting lilt of the men of Ib as the other 3 spread around the table. Joffrey could spy daggers in their hips.


    "Assassins?" Joffrey asked the Hound as he lay a hand on his arming sword''s pommel.


    "Nah¡­ too public." Mouthed the Hound, his eyes constantly cycling between the 4 men. The one that had touched Joffrey said something, quickly followed by a sneer as he shoved Joffrey yet again.


    Or at least tried to. As soon as he touched his chest, the Hound roared as he took out the arming sword he had under the table and slashed the man''s neck. Despite not using his characteristic longsword, the Hound''s strength managed to sink the blade through the neck and past the collarbone, spilling blood all over the chicken legs. To Joffrey''s mind it seemed the combatants stared for half a dozen seconds after that, but it may have been just the one. The other 3 charged at them as Joffrey took out his own sword, and the fight was upon them.


    Despite having the inferior weapon, the Ibbenese Joffrey faced off against proved to be a formidable knife fighter (to him at least), frequently dodging and stumbling against Joffrey''s attacks. He even managed to dart in for a quick swipe at Joffrey''s arm which almost made him drop his sword in pain.


    If a Shadowcat couldn''t make me drop it then neither will you, asshole! Joffrey thought furiously as he gripped it with renewed strength.


    Meanwhile, the Hound was fighting off the other two sailors without much trouble, shoving one back with his shoulder as he cut the other one''s knife hand.


    Joffrey parried a slash that would have severed his windpipe and used one of the Hound''s favorite counters, the sucker punch to the nose. The Ibbenese stumbled back, clutching his bloodied nose and trying to wipe the blood and tears that clouded his vision.


    It was too late though, with a quick step Joffrey closed the distance and skewered him through the abdomen.


    I think I''m actually getting better at this! He thought irreverently as he turned back and saw the Hound finish off the last one.


    "CLEGANE BEHIND--" he screamed but it was too late. With a thung that to Joffrey''s mind resonated throughout the whole inn, a crossbow bolt tip emerged from the Hound''s throat. He watched, hands trembling, as the Hound grabbed his neck and the blood poured down his body¡­ he coughed blood before he stumbled a step or two, collapsing on the floor.


    A dozen meters behind him stood an Ibbenese with a crossbow, already reloading. Joffrey''s hands had suddenly stopped trembling, and both the distance to the man and the man itself seemed to come into surreal focus, all other distractions falling by the wayside, his vision surrounded by a red hue.


    His heart beat a steady rhythm, like a galleys oar drum as Joffrey dashed towards the man, his face a silent snarl. The man from Ibben cursed as he aimed again, but Joffrey could see perfectly the trajectory the bolt would take. With a smooth waterdancing move he''d trained a hundred times (though never for this purpose) he spinned to the side just as the man fired, the bolt harmlessly passing by his side.


    The man panicked, tossing the crossbow aside and reaching for his sword, but Joffrey was already upon him. With a snarl he blocked the two pitiful attacks from the man''s short sword, cutting off his arm with his riposte and shoving him into the ground with his whole strength.


    The torrent of blood that spilled from the man''s stump entranced Joffrey for a few moments, and he felt something he had not felt for quite a while¡­ a particular type of pleasure, of ecstasy that only grew as some of the blood splashed on his face.


    He snarled again as he started pounding the moaning man on the floor, cutting again and again with his sword, the fountains of blood propelling him to new heights, bringing sweet memories---


    "He''s dead! He''s already dead!!!" suddenly shouted a voice in his ear in mangled Braavosi. Joffrey blinked heavily as the red fog lifted, the pleasure and hyper-reality of the moment passing away, leaving only the horrendously butchered remains of the crossbowman, surrounded by the tavern''s clientele, most of which were hanging back in¡­ fear?


    As the strong arms that had been holding him finally let him go, Joffrey fell on his knees, wracked by nausea.


    You really thought it would be so easy to change the core of your being? Whispered a treacherous corner of his mind.


    Something deeply wrong¡­


    He remembered the way his scalpel travelled through Eddard''s body... and realized he still felt exhilaration at the memory of his blood dripping from the table.


    His belly contracted itself in anguish as he vomited right there, and the room shrunk to a pinprick of vision.


    "Let''s get out of here" said someone in butchered Braavosi, before he lost consciousness.


    -.PD.-


    His awareness returned slowly, like a bubble emerging from the depths. He slowly blinked his eyes open, feeling the slight swaying of the floor¡­


    He tried to get up, only to get entangled with a hummock. After extracting himself from it, and getting rid of the filth in his eyes, he found himself in a small room, illuminated by a small opened hatch on the side.


    Shit¡­


    He could hear the sound of feet on planks, and grunts of effort and exertion as rigging swayed and waves crashed, but the floor hardly moved. He was definitely on Lorath''s pier, and one crewed by Ibbenese at that if he could judge the language.


    Why aren''t I dead? He thought as he scanned the room for anything useful. He spied his sword and the rest of his belongings by the side. Why would they hold him prisoner without disarming him? S?a??h th? ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    He stopped scanning when he saw the Hound''s sword, plopped right next to his. "Clegane¡­" he whispered, remembering the last few seconds¡­ or had it been minutes? Clegane had dealt with the bastards easily; only to be cowardly shot from the back with a crossbow¡­ cowardly crossbows¡­ he tried not to think about the irony of that thought too much.


    What had come next unsettled him much more. He remembered the joy and pleasure he''d felt butchering the man that had killed Clegane¡­ how each spray of blood seemed to propel him to new heights¡­


    He thought he had left that part of himself behind with the purple and the madness¡­ Why? Why had it come back like that?


    Am I sliding back into the madness?! I don''t feel so, but would I know if I was? What if¡ª


    His ruminations were suddenly interrupted as the door opposite to the hatch opened, revealing a short, stocky Ibbenese (though that could be said of them all) wearing a heavy cloak. Joffrey frowned in recollection as he inched towards his arming sword.


    "That won''t necessary" he said in Braavosi, leaving a heavy cloak on the nearby chair. Joffrey was suddenly aware of how cold this place actually was, but he shoved that thought away... that man¡­


    "I''ve seen you before¡­" he said as he stopped moving towards his sword. Neither the man nor the situation looked to turn into immediate danger, so he waited, for now.


    "I''m Art Moggat, I one who stopped¡­ the killing" he said. "You''re the one that got me out of there¡­"Joffrey nodded slowly "Yeah, I remember you, you where the one on the next table, eating some sort of¡­ nuts?" He nodded at that.


    "After¡­ incident, got you to this ship, need extra crewmembers." He tried to explain, but his Braavosi was frankly atrocious to Joffrey. He would have to learn the Ibbenese language one way or the other if he wanted to have a meaningful conversation.


    Wait, ship?


    "You needed to replace the crew? What happened to them?" he asked, stalling for time as he finally put on the heavy coat, he was freezing to death in this room.


    "Yes, you killed them" Art said with a nod, signaling Joffrey to follow him up.


    "Oh" he said.


    -.PD.-


    It turned out there was a good reason why it was so gods damned cold.


    Being in the middle of the Shivering Sea did that to you. The snow on the deck was a good clue too.


    It turns out the men that had tried (to kill him or just to beat him up Joffrey did not know) had been crewmembers on this ship¡­ so Art had brought him to the Captain, not to exact revenge, but to help fill the empty spots. Incredibly convenient to Joffrey, and afforded a bit of insight into how the Ibbenese thought.


    Apparently, the Captain (who Joffrey hadn''t met yet) didn''t care a wit about what happened in port, and if part of his crew got killed in a tavern brawl then as long as his ship continued to work smoothly he didn''t care a rats ass about their fate. That left the crew, who it turns out hadn''t liked the quintet of assholes very much, and seemed to regard Joffrey with a smooth indifference, if they noticed him at all.


    Being noted at all was a tall order when the ship the Ibbenese crewed was the most gigantic vessel Joffrey had ever seen.


    The huge whaler was at least 4 times as big as the Eastern Winds. The ship did not crash against the waves in so much as the waves crashed against it. Its elongated central section had the remains of a dead whale, in the process of being butchered by swarms of men in search of oil, meat, bone and more.


    The floating castle ponderously travelled throughout a deep, dark blue sea that stretched as long as the eye could see, the dark blue only disturbed by the dark and grey clouds that seemed to be as eternal as the sea itself, blanketing his surroundings with cold snow.


    The Shivering Sea¡­ and apt name, he thought.


    When he asked about the Hound''s body he was told it had been dropped into the sea, as was the way of the Ibbenese, followed by a few mumbled words in the common tongue that a charitable person would have called a passage from the book of the Stranger.


    Joffrey had shaken his head at that. I''ll see you in the next life, Hound. Maybe one day I''ll tell you all this and we''ll have good laugh about it.


    Overall, things didn''t look so bad. He had his ship to Ibb, and he''d get there sooner or later, there was just one inconvenient fact.


    The men he and the Hound had killed had been working on stripping chunks of frozen meat out of the whale carcass¡­


    Joy.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey wiped some off some burnt tar from his eyes, trying to get the substance from hell off the deck¡­ and failing.


    This seems oddly familiar¡­ he thought morosely. Only there''s no Baleo to pass the time.


    He stopped for a moment, rising from his knees to take a breath of fresh air. Fortunately the ever present smell of burnt tar was absent, so he enjoyed the clean, bone chilling breeze of the Shivering Sea.


    "Should''a picked the Summer Islands Hound" he grumbled as he kept rubbing the perpetually dark deck.


    He was next to the middle section of the ship, where they "stowed" the dead whales, though there was rarely more than one on the deck at the same time. The freezing air ensured the carcass did not rot, and the ample working space helped with the job itself.


    Now though there was no carcass, they had finished it up a month ago and the ship was now on course to the Port of Ibben for some well-earned rest and resupply.


    The couple of months Joffrey had spent on the fat bellied Ibb-Wogan had been of a rather solitary nature. The Ibbenese had difficulty opening up to a stranger, and that task was compounded by the difficult language they spoke. Getting the right tone and pronunciation when half of the words seemed like nothing more than grunts and huffs was a task worthy of a team of Maesters. As it was he barely had a friend within Art, a consequence of his constant pestering to learn his difficult tongue.


    Still, he had spent the last month''s solitude well. Meditating (most times literally, up on the mainmast) about what had happened on the tavern, and remembering some of the more¡­ questionable things he had done in his first few lives. He was disappointed and somewhat angry he could still recall the sharp joy of those moments. It seemed that under all his self-denial, there was still a piece of the old Joffrey¡­ deep inside him.


    He didn''t know what to think about that, much less what to do about it.


    Often, that quiet questioning gave way to a more benign curiosity about his condition in general. About his infinite lives and his purpose here. Was there even a purpose anyway? Perhaps he was some kind of freak cosmic accident, or perhaps the reason was far more mundane and he was still choking on his wedding day, his fevered mind conjuring up wild scenarios before his true death.


    Luck smiled upon him when found a strange hobby that helped direct his ruminations in a more helpful manner, and from the unlikeliest of sources.


    Whalebone carving. It turns out that harvesting a dead whale left a lot of unusable bone fragments, too damaged or not pretty enough to sell on Ibb. He had found the Captain one night next to the wheel, a small oil lamp lighting his hands as he worked on a piece of whalebone, carving all kinds of animals and shapes. When he asked Art the next day he was told it was a somewhat common pastime among some Ibbenese. And yes, he did have an old set of carving tools somewhere.


    He had given Art the Hound''s helmet for those, he was sure he''d understand¡­


    If he was watching him now from the afterlife, that is.


    Under the study (more like relentless watching) of various sailors (and under the threat of further pestering) Joffrey had managed to learn a few things about the peculiar craft, and he had found they made for a wonderful concentration aid, as well as being oddly relaxing.


    "Argh!" he grunted, tossing the sponge at the deck and standing up. He needed to clear his mind for a bit or he''d dream of tar for the rest of his lives. He made his way to the central deck in search of amusement, and quickly found it.


    Clack clack clack.


    He could hear cheering and sharp clacks the closer he got to the central deck. The snowing and the mind numbing chill had lessened somewhat as they travelled further south back to Ibb, and it seemed the crew had deemed the weather fresh enough that they''d stripped to their pants and where¡­ bashing each other with sticks.


    Joffrey quickly spotted Art, who was sitting on top of a crate, part of the circle of bored sailors with nothing better to do. "Hey Art! What''s going on?" he asked in Ibbenese as he nodded towards the fighters. The man sitting next to Art broke out in laughter as Art shook his head with a slight smile. "What?" asked Joffrey, nonplussed.


    As Art scooted to the side so Joffrey had space to sit, he revealed the joke. "You just asked me what''s going through my belly¡­ probably a lot of cooked whale" he said, rising one of his bushy eyebrows. "Ahh" Joffrey said eloquently, noting the error as Art quickly explained which part of the sentence had gone wrong (or more like which had gone right). Joffrey had taken to expanding Art''s Braavosi in exchange for Ibbenese, though he did seem to be improving much faster than Joffrey. He guessed it was because Art already knew the bare rudiments of the language while Joffrey was starting from scratch.


    The two men on the impromptu arena had finished bashing each other, and where replaced by another pair who promptly nodded at each other and proceeded to charge. Their pants and their shaggy chests seemed to be their only protection against the cold, but they didn''t mind. They clashed right at the middle, swinging and stabbing with their heavy spears. The fighting style was different to what Joffrey was accustomed to, almost the antithesis to water dancing. Each move was heavy, deliberate and ponderous. That was not to say they were slow, but Joffrey could feel each blow as they both used tip, butt and shaft of their spears in a multitude of ways and moves which clearly made a formal style of its own. Their footwork was grounded and heavy, each blow emphasized and augmented by the whole inertia of the body, landing painful blows in key areas when they weren''t parried. Joffrey would have preferred more dodging, but he still found the whole style intriguing.


    "I didn''t know the Ibbenese favored spear fighting" he told Art.


    "Most prefer axes nowadays¡­ But in the old days, when iron was scarce and there wasn''t a difference between tools and weapons ¡­ those heavy whale spears served as both" he said as one of the Ibbenese managed to catch the other one in the head with the butt. He fell on the floor, unconscious.


    "Ouch" said Joffrey as they the man''s friends dragged him away and promptly spilled a bucket of ice cold water on him. "I never learned how to use spears, despite their superior range most Westerosi Nobles prefer the long sword." He said, wistfully remembering hot days in the Red Keep.


    Art looked thoughtful for a moment before he smiled, his square teeth boding ill for Joffrey. "Then what are you waiting for!" he said as he shoved him to the center of the rough circle of spectators.


    "Wai- bu-" he blabbered before his reflexes screamed and he grabbed the spear Art tossed him. He then said something to another of the Ibbenese spectators, who promptly got up with a spear of his own.


    Gods this thing is heavy, He thought as the man grunted something at the audience, making the circle laugh out loud as he twirled his spear expertly. "Wait, you''re not fighting me?" he asked Art, who was already shaking his head. "I''m pretty bad at it, but I''ll talk you through¡­" he said again with the square smile.


    "Uh-huh" said Joffrey, dubiously eying the other combatant. "What did he say before?" he asked Art as he tried to get a handle on the spear, swinging it experimentally. "He said he''d go easy on the foreigner, but that he feared your weak skull would crack and splatter your brain across the Shivering Sea." He said, straight faced.


    "Charming" muttered Joffrey as the man charged at him.


    They could have at least given me some pointers, he thought.


    -.PD.-


    He had a natural talent.


    For having his skull bashed against the deck, that is.


    Over, and over, and over again.


    "That was¡­ bad. Really bad." Said Art as he handed Joffrey another lump of ice. "What did you bloody expect?" he said, cursing the freezing ice as he placed it yet again on his bruised head. At least the repeated blows to the head seemed to have helped his Ibbenese. Somehow.


    He was trying to be optimistic.


    "I thought you Westerosi were masters at every weapons of war?" asked Art, genuinely confused.


    Joffrey snorted. "Long swords, Art. I already told you, long swords¡­" he said as he shook his head, which proved to be a horrible idea. "99% of the time, the most common use for a spear in Westeros is being dropped to the ground as panicked levies get hammered by a heavy charge¡­ Or at least that''s what the Hound says."


    "Ah¡­ I think you meant ''used so say''" Said Art with a slight wince. "Nono, I think I got the pronunciation ri¡­ ah. Nevermind."


    They spent a while in ankward silence as the Ibb-Wogan slowly made its way to the Port of Ibben, reaching for the massive docks that seemed costume made to receive this kind of ship.


    "What are they going to do with those?" Asked Joffrey, pointing at a pile of bone fragments and looking for a way to end the awkward silence.


    Art turned back and gazed at the pile as it grew bigger with each cart load. "Those? Whalebone fragments too small to be made of something useful. Normally we would sell them anyway, but right now we are in season and they''re not worth the hassle" He said.


    Joffrey had originally been looking for a convenient distraction, but that pile seemed genuinely interesting all of a sudden. "But what about that one?" he asked, pointing at a smooth rectangular slab the size of his hands.


    "Ah, the Sorib. We use that bone to make goodluck charms, but Wegath fucked up with the chistle. What you''re seeing there is actually the cracked upper half. Worthless." He said dismissively.


    "Hmm, still, with a bit of cutting and a good rubbing you could carve something interesting with it, couldn''t you?" he asked Art. The thing was¡­ Joffrey didn''t know, he felt he could make something nice with it, eventually. Its white gloss had an intriguing appeal.


    Art gave an uncommitted shrug, but seemed to eye the piece once again, considering.


    They spent a while then, this time in compensable silence until they passed the breakwater and were into the inner bay.


    The Port of Ibb was big. As the last known proper metropolis before the grand expanses of the Shivering Sea to the East and North, and to the Thousand Islands to the South-East, it was a hub of vibrant commerce and trade. Huge whale ships docked and departed at every moment, never stopping as dockhands boarded, unloaded, repaired and even re crewed the ships. Joffrey could spy several other ships in the port proper. Braavosi galleys and Lorathi traders where the most common, followed by a myriad other smaller ships that Joffrey guessed came from various Lorathi and Ibbenese colonies, along with the occasional¡­ raft?


    How where those things even floating?


    "Welcome to Ibben, Joff" Said Art with a smile.


    -.PD.-


    When they finally docked, Joffrey spent about 3 days in various jobs, all sharing one outstanding trait: haste. They emptied the huge cargo hold as fast as possible, loaded up new supplies and sounded the ship for possible cracks or tears. When they were done a new crew was rotated in and the Ibb-Wogan set sail again, in search of the ever elusive whales.


    It seemed the Port of Ibben was so busy it was cheaper to hire rotating crews than to spend a month in port while the original crew rested.


    So, three days after docking, Joffrey was free to do whatever he wanted.


    And he was feeding seals. Because honestly, why not?


    Joffrey gave another small step, moving the small fish on his hand tantalizingly closer.


    "Come on¡­ you know you want it" he whispered as the big seal looked at him quizzically, a meter away now.


    "Nice, raw fish¡­ just¡­ for¡­ you¡­" he whispered as the enormous animal finally opened up its huge maw and Joffrey tossed the fish right in the middle of it. The seal flapped his flippers wildly about, snorting happily before jumping down the beach and splashing into the water. Joffrey actually giggled a bit at the small spectacle, and felt a small weight lift from himself.


    He smiled to himself. This little beach in between the smaller docks would be a good spot to see the sundown. When he turned around to get his cloak he was confronted with a paler than usual Art Moggat, opening his mouth and closing it over and over again.


    "A¡ªAre you insane!" he finally shouted.


    "Ehh, not for a while¡­ I think. Why?" he asked the man, curious.


    Art slapped his head before jumping down from the small wooden walkway to the beach, walking towards Joffrey. "Then merely ignorant! That seal could have taken your arm in a heartbeat! And that if you had been lucky!"


    "Come on Art! He wasn''t going to eat me!" Snorted Joffrey.


    "How could you possibly know that? Those seals are regarded as more dangerous than sharks around these waters!"


    "I¡ªI just felt that--" Joffrey started but stopped when Art finally got to him and slapped him in the shoulder. The blow stung, but Joffrey didn''t mind, he had discovered that physical movement was a common part of the Ibbenese language.


    "What? Are you an animal tamer or something?" Asked Art, but by now he was starting to smile with his square teeth again, a sure sign that his anger had given way to amusement.


    "Ha, very funny Art" Joffrey said as he shook his head. Animal tamer¡­ funnily enough, animals had always been a bit too slow around him, when he had been a child it had been the only way he had been able to catch rats and the occasional rabbit for¡­ experimentation¡­ Shows what they knew¡­


    There''s the godsdamned weight again, thought Joffrey morosely.


    He shook his head before speaking again. "Anyway, I thought you were at the Long Bones with the rest of the crew, waiting for ale and those forsaken nuts you like so much" he told him.


    Art smiled yet again before taking out a small object from his bag and offering it to Joffrey.


    Disentangling the thing from the small blanket it had been wrapped around, Joffrey finally saw it. It was an unnaturally smooth piece of bone, flattened like a small tablet. It was less than a centimeter in height, but it had about twice the width of his hand and was about as long. Essentially, it was a largish rectangle he could grab with one hand.


    "Wow¡­ thanks Art, I thought they had tossed this overboard with the rest of the fragments. Did you carve the dimensions?" he asked him.


    "With the help of the others, they felt your relentless pursuit of the fine art could not go unrewarded, but this is not just any whalebone, remember? It''s a piece from the Sorib, the bone that holds the whale''s heart. They say it brings good luck¡­ and that it cures hangovers, so you may want to keep it out of view of drunken sailors"


    Joffrey laughed at that. "Will do Art, please tell the rest of the guys I appreciate it, I''ll tell them myself later when I see them too"


    "I will, and please stop feeding those things or you''ll end up a limbless beggar in the Lampway" Art responded as he climbed the nearby wooden stairs back up to the street.


    Joffrey snorted as he stowed the beautiful tablet, he was nowhere near the skill level to draw something worthy of such raw material. He''d have to wait until his skill grew.


    He took out a blanket from his leather backpack and deposited it and himself on the sand, waiting for dusk.


    He had been there for a while when he smelled that peculiar odor again. A hauntingly familiar smell that had first assaulted him when he first arrived at Ibb. It smelt of wind and static, of something great and terrible.


    He sat up suddenly, eyes riveted on the horizon as heavy goose bumps travelled all around his body, shaking him for a full second before disappearing without trace.


    The horizon was the same as yesterday, grey and gloomy, and Joffrey shook his head for the fifth time.


    Yep, must be going crazy again, he thought.


    -.PD.-


    ----


    AN: For your viewing pleasure, try listening both at the same time.


    ------


    The city fitted a lot with the atmosphere of the Shivering Sea, Joffrey thought. It was built upon several steep hills that went progressively higher the farther you went past the docks. Its bricks and cobblestones had a distinctly gloomy, grey gloss that meshed quite nicely with the grey clouds and freezing seas of the Shivering Sea. It gave it some kind of desolate splendor that Joffrey had never seen before.


    And he knew just the place to admire it even better.


    He had been on Ibb for about a month now, and Joffrey was far from bored. His spear fighting skills were advancing, at a glacial pace yes, but he would soon know (in theory at least) all the basic moves and styles, which should make it possible for him to train it without the need for a teacher. Getting one of the resting crews to teach him took almost as much time as the lesson itself, but it was worth it.


    Far more satisfying was his progress with Ibbenese, which seemed descent enough that he could have small conversations with food merchants. That or else they were very fond of humoring him.


    He had also explored the area that surrounded the docks, a set of progressively larger hills that rose above the seas¡­


    And he had found just the place for this occasion.


    He quick walked through the cobbled alleys and streets, passing by hurried stragglers and last minute food vendors trying to shelter from the rain. Joffrey didn''t mind it, he had his heavy cloak and he''d braved worse weathers than this.


    A huge storm was approaching Ibb. That was a far from uncommon occurrence, but this time it seemed the storm was going to be massive, so much so that the docks had been closed and everyone not under shelter was almost rushing to find one.


    Not him though. Joffrey had other plans.


    Ever since various captains and scholar-priests had begun to warn of a great storm three days ago, Joffrey had just known deep within him that this storm would be like no other, as if the smell of the air or the crashing of the seas had foretold it. Throughout the last week he''d been getting those weird goosebumps more frequently, and he just knew he had to watch the coming spectacle.


    He turned again, walking through a stair cased sloped street. The streets were deserted now, and the sun barely shone through the grey clouds. Normally, at this hour the dusky sun would be somewhat visible, but with the clouds and the rain it was almost as if the night had arrived earlier.


    He could hear distant thunder as he took another turn and walked towards the edge of the hill he was on. He navigated the winding alleys, sometimes stopping at a corner to let a particularly strong gale die down, or to get the speed necessary to jump the rivers that occasionally formed in some of the less steep alleyways.


    Until he was suddenly on a small clearing, overlooking the tempestuous seas in the midst of a great storm. He had found the little park at the hanging edge of the hill a few days ago, nothing fancy, just a small pergola, a few benches surrounded by bushes and hardy flowers¡­ and a heck of a view.


    Dusk was gone, the sun illuminating no more as the great storm seemed to redouble in intensity. The Gods were exhaling today, said some of the city''s priests, or so Joffrey had heard. Regardless of religion, he was sure of one thing: The windy and chilly front was a beautiful and terrible thing, advancing inexorably towards Ibb.


    He could somehow feel it in his bones, the storm was just arriving.


    -.PD.-


    He was confortable in his heavy coat, sitting below the pergola and watching as the frequent lightning lighted up the night and the stormy seas for miles around him. The small pergola felt ancient, a small, square structure with no walls, only a roof. Its stone pillars were big and sturdy but filled with cracks and moss, its grey gloss even darker than the rest of the city. It somehow felt just right for a bit of weather watching.


    Particularly this weather.


    Every 10 seconds or so a sudden flash would illuminate his field of view as if the fist of the Old Gods themselves had descended upon Planetos. Then, when the furious glow faded, his eyes would adapt to the lower light, and he would begin to distinguish the small pinpricks of light that dotted the whole city. The iron whale oil lamps adorned every corner of the great, jagged metropolis, providing a perpetual source of illumination throughout the night. Now they were swaying heavily with the wind, their light always moving, swinging and swinging like a pendulum filled with drunken fireflies¡­ Only to be obliterated with a sudden flash that consumed Joffrey''s vision, a sear of white that gradually faded away¡­


    TCHSSSSTUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNN....


    The roar of the Shivering Sea reached Joffrey, a strange and entrancing sound. The thunder washed over him as the tiny pinpricks of light made themselves visible again, swaying, always swaying¡­


    It was an eerie play of lights and shadows, an entrancing switching between light and dark, blips and lines that completely mesmerized him.


    As if with their own volition, Joffrey''s legs moved. He stood up and grabbed one of the Pergolas small stone pillars, still safe from the rain.


    The grey and dark clouds had advanced even further, enveloping Ibb in a protective, smothering blanket. The rain fell like a hammer, driven, each drop so close to the other it was almost as if Joffrey was underwater.


    Another flash blinded him, and the tumbling blips of light gradually appeared again. But this time the thunder was much closer than before, calling¡­


    TCHSSSSSSSSTUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNN¡­


    Joffrey stepped out of the pergola, walking towards the nearby rail that bordered the edge of the cliff. He barely felt the rain pushing him down, soaking every part of him.


    The lamps were wild now, tumbling and tumbling¡ª


    FLASH.


    That one was str--


    THCSSSSSSSSSSSSSTUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNN¡­.


    He felt the roar of the thunder as if within him, a vibration inside his chest that momentarily drowned his other senses.


    He was breathing hard, as if short on air. Blindly, he caught the rail and steadied himself as the white faded, and the tumbling fireflies returned.


    I''m going to catch my death here, I need to get out of the damned rain¡ª


    FLASH


    TCHSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN¡­


    His ears were ringing with the last one, and he could feel his heart hammering away as if it were both blacksmith and anvil, he could hear the storm calling out to him. If he strained to listen¡­


    tuTUM-tuTUM-tuTUM-tuTUM.


    But¡­ I... what¡­


    FLASH-TCHSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG¡­


    It''s trying to tell me something!


    Is it?


    But I can''t hear it!!!!


    TUTUM-TUTUM-TUTUM-TUTUM-TUTUM-TUTUM-TUTUM-TUTUM


    FLASH-KKSSSBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM


    The thunder screamed the message, and Joffrey''s head whiplashed from the sound, landing on the floor, but still he couldn''t get it.


    There''s not much time left, what is it, what is it?


    TUTUMTUTUMTUTUMTUTUMTUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU. His heart had seemingly stopped beating, it was as if his blood were one continuous stream.


    Joffrey rose and climbed the rail, standing atop of it.


    He could almost hear the whispers, almost. "One more" prayed Joffrey, his voice heavy and hoarse for some reason. "Please one more" he asked, opening his arms wide.


    KKKKSSSSSSSSSBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM


    The thunder physically crashed against Joffrey. It was as if the entire being of it embraced him, a mix of thrill and horror, heavenly bliss and excruciating pain.


    And then he felt he was falling.


    -.PD.-


    ¡­


    ¡­..


    ¡­¡­.


    "auhg.."


    Suddenly his eyes snapped open, and he started coughing, and coughing and coughing.


    Gods¡­ I''m going to stay in bed for a week¡­


    That was when he felt the extreme cold.


    Suddenly he was aware of his surroundings¡­ he was lying face up on the small Ibbenese garden, a light drizzle chilling him to the bone.


    Slowly, very slowly he sat up, coughing and wiping the water out of his mouth. He had what was possibly the worst headache he had ever felt on his life. Including the time after him and his uncle challenged the godsdamned Umbers to a drinking duel.


    What the hell was I thinking last night¡­


    Joffrey blinked blearily, trying to think about what happened last night.


    "Fuckin'' Art and the others must have spiked my ale¡­" he rasped out loud. It was the only logical option, besides, the Ibbenese had a strange sense of humour. And their smiles had been toothier than usual on the tavern, a few hours before the storm.


    He realized he was holding something when he tried to get up. Both his hands were cradling something close to his chest, crossed and tight. He felt as if they had been in that position for a thousand years.


    Must have been holding on to this thing for dear life for some reason.


    He lowered his hands, only to find the whalebone tablet.


    It had¡­ something carved on it. On the top part of the rectangle.


    It was some kind of infinitely complicated squiggle, made in loving care and detail, every trace, dot and line precisely layered as if following some contrived, perfect pattern.


    Did I¡­ Did I carve this?


    Looking around him he found his carving tools, spread all around him.


    Damn¡­ whatever they gave me must have good¡­


    Or they just as likely planted it on him.


    Damned Ibbense¡­ And he could bet they were going to deny whatever they did until the end of time¡­ the Ibbenese had a really strange sense of humor.


    He shook his head.


    Later.


    First, he needed to find a place with one rare and outstanding characteristic.


    Dryness.


    The Ibb-Wogan was due in another week and if some cold made him sit out the next rotation he was going to kill Art with his bare hands!


    ¡­


    -.PD.-


    "She''s going up again!" Shouted Joffrey, running across the deck with a heavy spear and a bundle of rope.


    "Keep nailing her! Starboard crew! Help Blondie, now!" roared the Captain of the Ibb-Wogan, his muscles bulging as he tried to keep the rudder steady. Below him on the main deck dozens of sailors grabbed spears and many others grabbed thick ropes, tying them to the ship.


    Joffrey kept running at full speed, scar crossed chest bare in spite of the cold, until he reached the port side.


    It was a mess, the ship had a huge gaping hole as if a giant had taken a bite out of it, and several seamen were around it, moaning and rolling in pain at the crushed or smashed extremities. But Joffrey had no time to care about them, his eyes were riveted to the sea, spear hefted at the ready.


    With several thuds, in ones and twos arrived the rest of the starboard crew, eyes wild with fear and clutching their tied spears with all their strength.


    "Hold! ON MY COMMAND!" shouted Joffrey as he kept scanning the water relentlessly, trying to ignore the cries of pain behind him.


    Fuck¡­ I knew half of those men.


    After a year and a half of smooth sailing and a promotion to boot, this damned, enormous whale had appeared out of nowhere and torn out a piece of the upper hull. He had been trying to organize the surviving crew of the central deck for the last 5 minutes, but it had all been so fast that he''d barely had time to speak with anyone.


    I told the Captain sailing this close to the North Pole was begging for trouble¡­


    Suddenly there was a distinct ripple to his left, and Joffrey pointed at it with his spear.


    "OVER THERE! MAKE READY!!!" He shouted. The sailors nervously hefted their spears and waited¡­


    The ripple grew more intense, now a distinct pattern quite different from the usual splashing the Shivering Sea made against the Ibb-Wogan''s hull. It was coming again¡­ but this time he had arrived there first.


    "HOLD!" he shouted, taking deep breaths and clearing his mind.


    Suddenly the water exploded upwards as a grey-green, deformed whale launched itself upwards, intent on crashing against the ship and sending them all to the bottom.


    Or it tried anyway.


    Joffrey saw the moment it surfaced in exquisite detail. He had done this scores of times before, the only difference was this particular whale wanted to hunt them instead of the other way around. His biceps clenched, his feet shifted, and with a roared NOW! He tossed the spear with all his might.


    A roar that would not be rare in a battlefield followed him as the sailors let loose, intersped with a dozen KLACLATCH''s, the telltale sound of a heavy ballista.


    A rain of spears met the monster in the air, but Joffrey had eyes just for his own.


    His spear pierced the thing right through one of its eyes, deeply embedding itself into its deformed skull.


    Fuck yes! He screamed inside his mind as the thing toppled to the side, taking a smaller chunk of the ship with it. It lay there on the water, belly up and gushing blood.


    Joffrey was panting heavily, but his smile died on his lips as he turned to his right and saw Art''s expression. "What? I know it was a lucky shot, but--" But he was interrupted.


    "No, its that¡­ that¡­" Art mumbled, hands gripping tightly what was left of the port side rail.


    The sailors all around him where dropping their spears and swarming the rigging, trying to deploy all the sail they could.


    One of them was even crying in despair beside the mainmast.


    "What?! The whale''s dead! For the Gods sake what''s wrong Art!?" he nearly screamed at the man while shaking him out of his stupor.


    He looked at Joffrey with lost eyes. "N-n-not whale. Leviathan." He said haltingly.


    "Oh boy" said Joffrey, looking once again at the corpse. "Well, at least I''ll fetch a good price--" he stopped when he saw another ripple close by, this one bigger. A lot bigger.


    Suddenly the whole side of the Ibb-Wogan was bubbling in a frenzy.


    "B-B-B-baby Levaiathan" mumbled Art, his hands shaking as if with the palsy.


    "Oh Boy" said Joffrey again, this time with more conviction.


    If the last one had been an explosion of water, this one was an eruption.


    A Leviathan bigger than the ship emerged as if propelled by its own geyser of water, slightly turning in the air as if to fine tune its aim.


    Its shadow covered Joffrey and the entire central deck.


    Then, oh so slowly, it came down.


    "HHOOOOLLLYYY FUUUUU---"


    -.PD.-


    The Hound was resting on the wall, waiting for the little shit to wake up so he could finally move his legs when he suddenly heard a panicked scream coming from within.


    In a second he had his long sword in his hand as he charged through the door, only to find the little shit coughing bile and breathing in as much air as he could.


    Poison? Not likely, he thought as he scanned the room for intruders.


    Then things turned strange.


    Joffrey laughed as he shook his head.


    "Holy shit¡­ I cant believe it¡­ bigger than¡­ by the gods¡­" he was mumbling in between a fit of laughter and shock.


    "Snap out of it!" the Hound told him as he shook him about. If the little shit had a panic attack because of his forced entry into the room then Cercei would want his head.


    At first he thought that had made the trick, but then Joffrey actually smiled and clapped him in the shoulder.


    "By the Gods, Hound, it''s been a while!" he said as he took a deep breath.


    Must have gotten hit in the head somehow. Maybe there actually was an assassin in here¡­


    Joffrey must have seen his expression because he took another deep breath before trying to stand up.


    "Ah¡­ it was just a nightmare Clegane, just a nightmare" he said with a sad smile.


    The Hound helped him up, and Joffrey promptly turned to his desk.


    "Damned purple¡­ I need a cup of wate--"


    The Hound was startled when the mad kid suddenly jumped backwards, hands and feet shaking badly and moving blindly backwards as if he had just seen a poisonous snake.


    He would have fallen on the floor, limp if the Hound had not grabbed him.


    He was white as a sheet, looking at his desk.


    But instead of sudden danger, all the Hound saw beside the goblet was a white, rectangular tablet of some sort, with some kind of squiggle carved in the top.


    To Joffrey though, it might as well been the Stranger himself.


    "H-H-How¡­?" He whispered.


    -.PD.-


    --


    Finally, its away! Please remember to comment!


    Edit: Dammit forgot to put the soundtrack in there, should be okay now. Really helped me with that scene, so its only fair you guys to experience it the same way, if you want to.

 Chapter 14: Starks and Lemons.

    Chapter 14: Starks and Lemons."WHAT DOES IT MEAN?! HOW DID YOU DO IT!" Shouted Joffrey at the tied man.


    "Hmrpmm hmm hrrrmphh!!" mumbled the Ibbenese priest under his gag.


    "Ah, eh, right" muttered Joffrey as he took off the gag.


    The priest took several gulps of air, looking thoroughly dazed.


    He was tied to one of the stone benches in the clearing on the Port of Ibb, looking like he was ready to piss himself.


    "I don''t know!!! I swear it by the God-King I don''t know! I''ve never seen that script nor anything like it in my life!!!" shouted the elderly priest, looking at the dagger that was approaching his neck and trying to shuffle back.


    "What about the tablet? Huh?! What''s so special about it?!" shouted Joffrey. It was midnight on the Port of Ibben, but by the shouting, the bells and the pounding footsteps one would be excused to think it was midday.


    "Nothing! It''s just whalebone! Sailor superstition! Please don''t kill me!!!" screamed the priest.


    "Fuck, but¡ªaugh¡­" Joffrey stuttered as an arrow appeared inside his chest.


    "There he is! Get him!" shouted someone in the dark, among a stampede of boots.


    This was not one of my better ideas¡­


    THUNK. THUNK.


    Two more arrows embedded themselves, one on his lung and the other on his leg.


    Arrows are bullshit. Got to find a way to get around them, he thought irreverently as he stumbled backwards, only to hit the rail and trip over it with his back. A fourth arrow gave him the impulse needed to clear that particular obstacle.


    In between the pain he felt he was falling, and falling, and falling¡ª


    -.PD.-


    Suddenly Joffrey sat up on his bed, shaking.


    "Fuck" he said, with conviction.


    Well, that was a waste of time¡­


    ¡­Or had it?


    He knew that the strange¡­ rune he guessed? Marked on the tablet meant nothing on Ibb, and that the material itself was pretty common all things considered. He''d seen a dozen like it being sold in the Lampway. To drunken sailors of all things¡­


    Curiously enough, there had been no super storm in that life¡­ that had to mean something, right?


    Wait.


    He shuffled to his left.


    Yep, there it is. Just chilling in my desk¡­ again.


    He glared at the thing for a minute before huffing and taking it. He lay down on his bed again, this time peering at the tablet intensely.


    It had to mean something, of that he was sure. The pattern was too intricate, too complicated. With tiny, almost microscopic curves and corners, small dots that adorned some of the outer areas and the repeating patterns that were at the center of it... it¡­


    He had thought the storm was delivering a message, hadn''t he?


    Could it be possible that this¡­ thing was connected to him not through circumstance but¡­


    To everything? To what was happening to him?


    "Do you have the answers?" he whispered at the tablet, staring intently at the rune.


    He must have spent half an hour like that, before he huffed and lay back on the bed again, rubbing his sore neck and cursing the migraine that was developing inside his head.


    I need to clear my mind for a while¡­ this isn''t getting anywhere.


    He was thoughtful for a bit, before smirking. He rose from his bed and quick walked to the door. "Clegane!" he shouted.


    -.PD.-


    "Come on Robb! Hit me!" he shouted as he twirled the spear on his hands, spinning it from side to side and generally just showing off. You had to be very good to actually try that in a real battle, or else you were liable to getting your hands chopped off by a competent warrior. Or more likely impaling yourself through the shoulder.


    Still, he was feeling reckless and jaunty today. Thinking hard didn''t help, and getting drunk with Tyrion hadn''t helped him with his runic dilemma at all. So he was trying something different.


    It definitively wasn''t because he wanted a bit of mindless fun. Not at all.


    They were on Winterfell''s training yard, surrounded by half a dozen mildly bored off duty Starkmen.


    Should I actually call them greycloaks? Eddard never did say¡­


    "Come on Robb! Show the prick who''s the best!" shouted Arya from the rail. She had somehow sneaked past all the men (and more astonishing, through Lady Stark who was surely out there looking for her). The Stark men (Greycloaks?!) all shook their heads in resigned amusement, a sentiment Joffrey approved. The South was way too fond of relegating their noblewoman to the sewing area or whatever it was called. Out there in the seas he had met some pretty formidable female fighters, they were proof that the other gender could just as well skewer you like some kind of demented meat brochette.


    Joffrey shuddered as he felt a ghost of a sensation from his lower belly all the way to his neck.


    Unfortunately, most of them had been pirates, thought Joffrey with another shudder.


    What was the real surprise was Sansa, looking with interest from the stone walkway above and to the back of the arena. He''d never thought she''d have an interest for weapons or fighting. Jeyne Poole was beside her, bored to tears if he had to guess.


    TAP.


    He was jolted out it as a heavy, painful tap reached his shoulder.


    "POINT!" Shouted Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell''s master-at-arms.


    "This is a training arena Your Highness, now is not the time to play with weapons of war." Said Ser Rodrik, the rebuke as hard as he dared give to a Crown Prince.


    Stupid noble deference, thought Joffrey. Nakaro would have had me cleaning the deck till my hands bled. Art would have bashed my head and left me unconscious.


    ¡­The damned Shadowcat would have just eaten me.


    No wonder half the kings of Westeros had turned out so fucked up. Raised with no real expectation of what''s out there in the real world beyond the fake courtesies and the fake deference.


    ¡­ I guess that includes me, he thought ruefully before shaking his head once more. Right, focus.


    "My apologies Ser Rodrik. Maybe we should try it again?" he asked. Rodrik gave him a curt nod as Robb smirked and returned to his position.


    "Go!" shouted the Master-at-arms.


    Joffrey charged without delay, spear darting in for probing stab at the belly. Robb parried and countered, but Joffrey dodged with a water dancing twirl to the left, bringing the spear with him for a long slashing attack. Robb grunted in surprise as he blocked, and cursed when Joffrey, instead of repositioning for another attack, actually slammed the spear''s butt on Robb''s sternum, dropping him to the ground with a muffled oumph.


    "POINT!" shouted Cassel.


    That was easier than I expected, he thought, mildly bewildered.


    Robb quickly stood up, clearly wanting to clutch his chest but resisting the temptation.


    "You okay?" asked Joffrey.


    "I''m fine! Ser Rodrik, another one!" he shouted as he returned to his position.


    "You sure? You took a pretty big hit--" Joffrey started only to be interrupted by Robb.


    "I said I''m fine" he said, angry.


    Rodrik looked at him, and Joffrey gave a shrug that seemed to say ''why not?''


    Ser Rodrik nodded and then¡­


    "Go!" he shouted.


    Robb charged, this time clearly meaning business, swinging high with all his strength. He attacked constantly, trying to get through Joffrey''s guard, but every time his spear was out of position for a parry, he dodged to one side or the other, bending at his hips to evade the slashes and jumping and twirling to the sides to evade the stabs.


    "This is more like it!" shouted Joffrey, sweating as he managed a directional parry with the tip of his spear, only to go low and sweep Robb''s legs from under him, dropping him to the floor.


    "POINT!"


    Joffrey wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead before offering his hand to the downed Robb. "Respect the spear eh? Still, you-" he started to say jokingly, but Robb ignored his hand and limped out of the arena, trying to hide a massive scowl.


    He took a few moments to look at the circle of spectators, and he was surprised to find they were all scowling or angry in some way, glaring daggers at him and trying to hide it when Joffrey stared back.


    Huh? Why are¡­


    Ah¡­


    His nasal twang had an annoying tendency to get out of control when he was distracted. He had been working on that for the last few lives, but it was possible it had run amok just when¡­


    Oh boy, everything I''ve said for the last half-hour must have been received as an insult¡­


    Robb''s bastard brother Jon was red all over, glaring at him as if Joffrey would spontaneously combust. Joffrey gave him a bewildered look, and that seemed to be the wrong thing to do.


    Biting of something sour, Jon looked at Ser Rodrik and shouted.


    "Ser Rodrik! I want to fight!" he said, and the hushed conversation around the arena stopped instantly, as Rodrik looked nervously between Joffrey and Jon, sending the latter some kind of meaningful look.


    He could just feel the ''UUUUUuuuuuuu'' going on inside the head of everyone on the yard.


    Fucking noble deference. Are they nervous it''ll offend me to fight a bastard? Or offend that sour lemon they have for a lady?


    Fuck it!


    "Excellent! Ser Rodrik, could you send someone to fetch some training armor for--"


    "That won''t be necessary Your Highness" Said Jon, stretching the last part as he walked to the ring and grabbed a training sword. Had he somehow humiliated Robb so much that Jon was risking his famous temperament? The old Joffrey would have flogged him for that, and with Lady Catelyn leading a flanking attack on the Stark''s side he doubted Ned would have achieved more than lowering the punishment to something less physical but more humiliating.


    Joffrey raised his eyebrows before talking "I much prefer Joff or Joffrey if you have to" he said, taking care to keep that damnable nasal twang out of his voice.


    "Right, let''s do it" Joffrey quickly said, preempting Ser Rodrik''s outburst entirely as he stripped his own padded armor. He only wore it to keep everyone around him from flying into hysterics anyway. Especially his mother. Speaking of which, he hoped she was far, far away now. She was probably sucking lemons in a corner with Lady Stark, at least that would explain their permanent scowls... ha!


    Ser Rodrik said nothing as he stripped. He was probably unwilling to countermand him unless it really threatened the life of one of the combatants. Maybe if he''d called for live steel or some--¡­


    I actually did that the first time, didn''t I?


    A burst of familiar self-loathing skimmed through his body.


    Someone so stupid didn''t deserve to live, and yet here he was, living again and again.


    "Jon! Please don''t hurt him!!!" screamed Sansa from the walkway as he took off the last padded gauntlet.


    He had to bite his fist rapidly to avoid the huge guffaw that threatened to escape his lips.


    That was actually really cute.


    He twirled the spear a bit before bowing low to Sansa. "Do not worry, my lady, with such clear concern as yours not so much as a single feather will touch me, I will be as light as the wind!" he said in his best Errant Heroic Knight Voice. He just couldn''t resist.


    Jeyne Poole was blushing madly and fanning her head, while Sansa was red too but her smile¡­


    It was a bit confused and¡­ thoughtful.


    Knew there was a brain in there. Just have to stimulate it.


    Ehhh¡­ that sounded bad.


    "Ready?" Asked Ser Rodrik.


    Both of them nodded, Jon even angrier now, glaring at full throttle¡­


    Ah, must have thought I was pissing the Stark''s again. I must have a talent¡­


    ---------


    AN: For an enhanced experience.


    --------


    "Go!"


    Jon roared as he tried to sever his head. It was slow and telegraphed, but that hit could have broken his neck if he hadn''t dodged it.


    ¡­


    Nice!


    He parried the next with his spear, and his riposte almost took Jon at the shoulder, but he managed to dodge at the last minute. Jon''s counter tried to take Joffrey at the legs, but he lowered his spear just in time to block it. Joffrey followed up with a quick forward stab with the tip, which was also parried by Jon.


    They were pretty evenly matched it seemed, and Joffrey was loving every moment of it.


    At fucking last! He thought in a haze, after a bazillion beatings by the Hound and countless minor skirmishes, here''s someone to take it to the limit!


    Clink Click Clink THUD, Clink THUD-- the music of the duel entranced Joffrey, and he could see Jon in perfect focus. His face was a rictus of effort and concentration, clearly fully in the fight, just like Joffrey. An errant spear butt almost caught Jon in the sternum just like with Robb, but he blocked the wooden shaft with his wrist in a parry that must have hurt like hell, using Joffrey''s surprise to try and pommel him on the brow. He twisted his head at the last minute, disengaging and trying to sweep his legs. Jon jumped over it, making use of his momentum to slash at Joffrey, who barely caught it with the shaft and counter attacked yet again.


    Jon''s sword came up, down, right and left without stopping, only to be blocked by his spear and returned in equal measure, clak, clak, clak, clak, clak¡ª


    Soon the rest of the yard and the spectators faded away, his vision tunneling and focusing solely on Jon. The cold, the heat and the sweat disappeared from Joffrey''s mind¡­ there was only Jon and the thrill of the fight, the rhythmic pounding and slashing and parrying, each time faster.


    It was like having an incredibly interesting discussion with his Uncle, but with weapons instead of words. He felt he was somehow understanding Jon on some small level, an instinct, warrior to warrior.


    "Faster, faster!" he whispered, and the rhythm of the fight seemed to accelerate even more, speed and adrenaline blurring the edges of his vision as his hands, feet and body seemed to move almost by their own will.


    Clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak-clak


    Jon''s eyes seemed unfocused, as if making use of every last sense, taking in his peripheral vision as if part of an integrated whole.


    "FASTER, FASTER!" Screamed Joffrey, pivoting and stabbing with all his force, only to be parried by Jon, his face a sheen of sweat, his hands gripping his sword in a tight but somehow slightly loose grip, somehow still blocking his onslaught--


    Clakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclakclak---


    Joffrey''s body was moving by itself now, and his mind was silent. He was taking in his reality second by second, completely focused on the moment, one with his body. He was now only following the rhythm, the song. He followed the tune absentmindedly, feeling it in his being¡­ it was close to ending. The rhythm, the soft sound of boots on dirty snow, the clanging of the parries, the whoosh''s of air as blows were dodged, they were leading to an inevitable conclusion.


    They both knew exactly how it would end, he could see it in the way Jon''s eyes widened minutely¡­


    And it would be glorious, a sudden stillness in the midst of a crescendo¡­


    ¡­Only fate would not allow it.


    CRACK.


    The symphony was shattered by a single ugly sound. The sound of his spear shaft breaking under one of his parries. He saw microsecond by microsecond as the spear fragments flew to his sides.


    A sudden spot of the arena came into sharp focus, and he could see Ser Rodrik slowly, slowly opening his mouth to call a halt. He saw the way Jon started to come out of the battle trance, eyes slowly widening.


    NO. NOT YET.


    Before Jon could so much as process what happened, Joffrey roared right in his face. "COME ON!!!"


    Jon was startled into action, slashing against an unarmed Joffrey. He stepped to the side and bent just the right distance to let the sword fly by, and then leaned backwards as the backslash sailed just above his nose. Quick as lightning, Joffrey unsheathed the training arming sword tied to his back and parried the next 6 lightning blows in a glorious crescendo of steel.


    -CLIN CLIN CLIN CLIN CLIN CLIN-


    At the seventh, he twisted to the side and slashed upwards at Jon''s sword, sending it flying and leaving his own sword one millimeter away from Jon''s neck.


    "Do you yield?" he asked Jon.


    "I do" he said.


    "Pleasure" responded Joffrey.


    "Likewise" said Jon, nodding in respect.


    ¡­.


    Then the veil of sharpness and directed clarity that had sustained them was gone.


    Both of them fell on their backs as if an anvil had just struck them on their heads.


    Joffrey landed boneless against the mud, feeling pain and exhaustion coming from every fiber of his being.


    He was suddenly aware he was drenched to the bone.


    When did it start raining?


    ¡­


    He realized it was not rain. It was his sweat.


    Holy shit¡­ I need water.


    Suddenly he regained the power of hearing, and it was madness.


    "ARE YOU INSANE?¡ªLORD STARK WILL--- SNOW!!!¡ªTHE PRINCE¡ªYOUR HIGTHNESS¡ªHE DIDN''T KNOW¡ªJON-- THAT WAS AWESOME!!-- " It was pure madness, everyone talking over each other as everyone in freaking Winterfell crowded both downed fighters.


    "Water¡­" mumbled Joffrey. "WHEN THE KING¡ªGET THE MAESTER--- LEAVE HIM ALONE--- JON HOW COULD YOU!" must have been a dozen people all talking at the same time.


    "SILENCE!" he shouted with all his strength, trying to channel Nakaro.


    Everyone blessedly shut up, and Joffrey looked up to see he was surrounded by Redcloaks.


    "You! Bring me water, and you! Help me up" he rasped, pointing to one and then to another of the Redcloaks.


    He was pulled up as the other one produced a wineskin, which, to his joy, had actual water.


    He took a bit, only to spit it out. Then he took out a deep, long swill. He stopped drinking hallway through to let the water flow down his head.


    "Thank you" he said as he shoved his way out of the circle and into the one surrounding Jon.


    "Prince Joffrey, a commendable fight! Sometimes bouts can get a bit--" started Cassel, but Joffrey dodged him and ducked between two greycloaks.


    He was now standing in front of a sitting Jon, who was breathed heavily, shaking his head repeatedly as if to clear it. Next to him was Robb, who was now wielding his lordly demeanor to full effect. "Your Highness, I take full responsibility--"


    Joffrey didn''t even hear him, he only pointed at Jon with an accusing finger. "You!"


    Jon opened and closed his mouth like a fish "I''m s¡ªI¡ªThat was--"


    "BLOODY INCREADIBLE! THAT''S WHAT IT WAS!" he shouted as he offered him a hand up.


    Again there was sudden silence as Joffrey hefted up the Bastard of Winterfell with a grunt of effort.


    "Here, take this" he said, shoving the wineskin into his mouth. He eyed him in shock before he drank greedily¡­ Only to suddenly drop it to the ground


    "Oh no" he said.


    Huh? Wha--


    "JOFFREY!!!!" Someone screeched hysterically.


    "SNOW!!!" Someone screamed in infinite rage, promising retribution.


    "Oh gods, they must have run out of lemons" Joffrey said as both Lady Stark and Queen Cercei seemed to be barreling towards the training yard with more mass than the Ibb-Wogan.


    Joffrey stared at them for 2 seconds before nodding and deciding a course of action that was for the best for all involved.


    "Run!" he said.


    "What?" asked a terrified Jon Snow.


    "RUN YOU FOOL!!!" he shouted as he grabbed Jon''s arm and dashed like hell from the yard, fleeing for both their lives.


    -.PD.-


    "And then everyone was like WOW! And the spear passed like, this close! And then you tried to punch him like POW--"


    "Arya, Arya! Breath, please" said Jon.


    The hyper excited Arya managed to shut up for a few seconds, no doubt to take a in some much needed air. Joffrey took advantage of the momentary pause to keep it that way.


    "So, Jon, that¡­ that was amazing" he told him. "Felt like we were fighting there, like, hours, or seconds, I keep changing my mind every time I think about it." He said.


    Jon nodded jerkily, still somewhat shocked at the whole situation. And with the whole thing of being a runaway from Tully Justice.


    "Yeah¡­ If you had been a little better, or me a bit worse, I think the fight would have been nearly as¡­ intense I think is the word¡­ Where did you learn to fight like that with a spear.... Joffrey?" he nearly croaked his name. For all his fire on the yard, getting Jon to actually say his name had been an endeavor. Maybe even harder than trying to convince him he was not going to tell the king to castamere all the Starks.


    "Port of Ibben" said Joffrey, peeking through the window. "Those bastards know how to crack a skull with one, let me tell you that" he said as he gazed downwards. "I think the coast is clear, for now. We should wait a few more minutes before we move" he said.


    That had been a bad thing to say. As soon as Jon remembered his situation he shrunk into himself, taking the proud mantle of the Broody Starks, practically a clone of Eddard. "Lady Stark is going to send me to Greywater Watch after this, I''m sure of it" he said, the despair evident in his voice.


    "Hmm¡­ and with the help of my mother¡­" muttered Joffrey.


    "No! She can''t do that! I''ll go with you!" shouted Arya suddenly.


    Jon snorted as he mussed her hair "You''ll stay right here, understand?" he said with a halfsmile as Arya swatted his hand away.


    Joffrey looked at them sadly, wondering how he had fucked up so badly with his own brother and sister.


    "Look, there only one choice" He said, getting both their attentions.


    "How did you know to hide here anyway, the Broken Tower is barely spoken of here in Winterfell, and we live here!" asked Arya, eying him suspiciously.


    "Hmm, well, you could say.. hehe¡­ it''s a pffff-family secret" he said, darkly chuckling at his own joke.


    She stared at him in mild incomprehension before he nodded. "Right, nevermind that. We are boxed in and every second we waste will make things harder, so there''s only one choice¡­" he said, looking seriously at them.


    He let the silence stretch for a few seconds before grinning.


    "Preemptive strike! Though we will need allies, and a plan¡­ yes¡­ yes¡­" Joffrey cackled as he thought it through, and Jon grew wary, very wary.


    -.PD.-


    King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, was hungry and confused.


    Ned''s littlest one had whispered that Eddard had a stash of ale somewhere here in the kitchens, and that he was planning to ambush him with it. And what better stratagem than to reverse the ambush! He hadn''t thought the silent wolf had it in him anymore, to mess with him like in the old days¡­ Ah¡­ those were the days¡­


    As he crossed the empty kitchens, he was confronted with a strange sight. His eldest, Joffrey, talking with Ned''s bastard. When Joffrey saw him he stood up and waved at him, telling him to come.


    Maybe they found the ale before I did...


    "Hey R-Father! You missed the duel of your life about an hour ago, seems Ser Rodrik keeps a tight ship here on Winterfell, eh Jon?" Said his son.


    The bastard nodded mechanically, "Aye Your Grace, and your son sure knows how to land a blow!" he said, the line forced as if rehearsed. To be honest he looked like he was going to pee himself and only the constant stares from Joffrey prevented him from bolting.


    "Is that so?" asked Robert with a wistful smile. Bastard or not, his son being friends with a Stark brought back more fond memories. Maybe not all had been shit after Lyanna''s death, after all¡­


    "Sure, come on, sit! We''ll tell you all about it!" Said Joffrey.


    It was strange, his son was never like this¡­ but they did have a good story apparently, and that was better than he could say of what waited for him in his chambers.


    Still, after all these years of awkward silences¡­


    "Ah, it''s just that I''m looking for a present Ned left¡­" he trailed off as Joffrey slowly raised an ale keg from below the table, grinning like a fool.


    "Isn''t this supposed to start the other way around?!" Robert asked, bewildered.


    Joffrey''s smile widened.


    "Mother thinks we went out hunting. We have all the afternoon to ourselves¡­" he said.


    Robert sat.


    -.PD.-


    "HAHA¡­ HAHAHA¡­ A¡­ a spear to the face!!! Bring a Maester! Indeed! Hahahaha!!!" The King laughed as he stumbled to his chambers. He hadn''t been this merry and proud in years! He laughed again as he tried to open the door, but the handle flew away from him before he could grab it.


    "Robert, you fool! I searched all over for you! Stark''s Bastard pummeled poor Joffrey to--"


    "I KNOW!!! BUAAAHAHAHAHA!!! They told me all about it! And then they ran away!" he said as tears of laughter flowed down his cheek.


    Cercei looked nonplussed at Robert''s reaction, and her face turned red with fury.


    "WHAT?! YOU KNEW!? AND YOU DID NOTHING!?" her verbal pounding had just began when she noticed Robert wasn''t ignoring her as usual, sinking into a dark ennui as he left her to do whatever she wanted.


    Instead, he was desperately trying to hold himself, both hands clutching his mouth.


    "What!?" she screamed at him, thoroughly annoyed with the way the whole situation was turning, her face scrunching in a rictus of righteous fury.


    Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. He coughed and breathed through his hand, one, two, three times, his face getting redder and redder.


    Finally he couldn''t contain himself no longer. "SUCKING LEMONS! INDEED! BUHAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" He roared as he fell to the ground.


    When he looked up and saw Cercei''s puckered face, he blew up again.


    10 meters away, two heads slowly retracted themselves back to their hiding spot, on the other side of the corner.


    The Imp looked at Joffrey with something bordering on religious awe.


    "Master, teach me." He said with a shallow bow and his damnable smirk.


    This time it was Joffrey the one who couldn''t keep it together as he exploded into laughter, cheeks flushed with wine. He quickly silenced himself when he heard someone running through the hallway.


    "I think she''s unto us!" screamed Joffrey.


    "Every half-man for himself!" shouted the Imp as he jumped into the nearby storage cupboard, leaving Joffrey alone in the corridor with the rapidly approaching, furious footsteps.


    "You damned traitor!!!" he slurred as he got up and shambled as fast as he could out of the corridor, only to bump against Eddard Stark, torch in hand and the other one not too far from his sword''s pommel.


    "I heard the noise, what''s happening?!" he said, looking beyond Joffrey at the corridor and considering whether or not to call the guards.


    Joffrey took a deep breath before shouting.


    "LEMONS!!!"


    -.PD.-


    The strange happenings around Winterfell snowballed spectacularly, and turned into an unprecedented 2 full month stay as Robert simply refused to leave. He was reported as saying that the last time he had had this much fun had been 20 years ago, and that if anyone forced him to go back to King''s Landing before every last bit of ''good times'' had been expended then he''d plop the crown on Balon Greyjoy''s scraggly bald head and sail for Lys.


    Theon had not been particularly amused with that one.


    Any attempts at curtailing the madness by Lady Stark or Mother ended up making it all worse, as somehow the whole ''lemons'' thing had spread throughout the whole keep. And if any of them so much as cursed, they would play right into the joke and send their spectators into struggling fits of coughing to disguise the laughter.


    Of course you could trust the damnable imp to degenerate the situation even further. The occasional howls of laughter the servants heard throughout the days tripled in frequency when Tyrion started to leave actual lemons on the most random of places.


    How he got a hold of the rare Dornish delicacy was anyone''s guess, but a particularly memorable example of it had been when, at one of the big feasts, an oblivious servant had deposited a dish and a cup in front of Lord Stark.


    Nothing out of the ordinary for a long feast, with one exception. The cup had a whole lemon, just jutting out from the top as if it were some kind of messily prepared parody of a Summer Islander drink.


    When Ned saw it, he chuckled a bit, muffling it with his hand. That was probably the extent to which the whole debacle would have gotten to, but when Lady Stark, who was sitting right beside him, turned to see what had the usually reserved Ned chuckling¡­


    Well, she saw the lemon.


    And before she could contain herself, she scowled. She couldn''t help it, really.


    It was just for a second or two anyway, before she got the expression back into carefully crafted neutrality.


    But Ned had seen it.


    ¡­He''d seen it.


    And he had grunted.


    And grunted, again and again, each time louder than the last. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to disguise it, his frame bouncing up and down minutely, desperately trying to hold it under control. The Honour of his Lady Wife was at stake, as well as the dignity of the Royals!


    He whined minutely, on the verge of collapsing.


    And of course, that was when Robert, who was sitting on his other side, looked at his friend to see what the big deal was, after munching off a truly monstrous chicken leg.


    And saw Ned''s face, velvet red as he stared at a lemon in a cup.


    The chicken remains had exploded out of Robert''s mouth, peppering Ned and Lady Stark with chicken debris in a glorious collage of food and saliva, Robert''s mouth making a pretty good personification of the gift that keeps on giving as a veritable torrent of food landed on poor Eddard.


    Then Ned Stark, to the wild consternation of everyone¡­ actually howled with laughter. He had clutched the table, as if trying to deal with an immense recoil as gales of laughter were forcefully emptied from his body, like some kind of trapped daemon that had finally been exorcised.


    Needless to say, the rest of the table had soon followed.


    Joffrey had been sitting a fair distance away, along with Jon and Tyrion. They had watched the unfurling madness in amused silence, only broken when the damnable Imp extended his hand towards Joffrey.


    Joffrey had pointedly ignored it, but the Imp had shaken it again, not even looking at Joffrey as he waited patiently.


    Joffrey had clutched his head with one hand and handed the Imp a bag of gold dragon with the other one.


    You win this time¡­ somehow¡­


    -.PD.-


    The merry atmosphere had been like a soothing balm for Joffrey''s mind, taking the edge off the recent developments. Besides the frightening thought that a part of his (hopefully) former sadistic past was hiding inside him somewhere, the whole situation with the tablet had him stumped. To have the rules of the game change after so long filled him with uncertainty, fear and excitement in equal measure. Could he die? Really die? Did he even want to? Why was this happening to him?


    He had spent countless nights staring at the damned thing without result. The rune was complicated, that was for sure, and it seemed to hint at something¡­ but what? Strangely enough, the Rune only appeared to cover the top segment of the tablet, less than a quarter of it actually¡­


    The implications of that little fact were¡­ even more obscure.


    It was like trying to read Tyrion''s Lives of Four Kings (which after all this time he was barely a third through) without even knowing the language! Impossible!


    So he had spent the months hanging out with the various Starks, mostly Jon and Sansa. With Jon he trained every day in the yard, and with the ever present threat of lemons both mother and stepmother kept a healthy distance from it. He was vaguely sad that in a few lives he would be better than Jon, and so his training experience with him would not be able to be repeated, so he tried to make the most of it.


    He learned a ton of stuff about him, and was somewhat surprised when one day he realized he thought of him as a friend. Those had been a rare sight since his first life and beyond.


    Jon, it turns out, was the undisputed brooding champion of Winterfell, edging out Ned by a few icy expressions, something that him and Tyrion mercilessly ribbed upon the Bastard. He had been raised in a painful limbo between Nobility and Bastardship, between the loving atmosphere of his family and the toxic one of his stepmother. For all of his silent demeanor he had a rich inner world that strongly reminded him of Ned''s talks in the Godswood (and Joffrey still went there almost daily). He was good with the sword (obviously) loved Arya with his soul (still obvious) and his grand dream was to, someday, become a glorified, celibate guard on the edge of nowhere with nothing to do but to, as Tyrion so eloquently put it, freeze his balls off (what?!).


    Not that they''d be of much use there, Joffrey had said, to the general amusement of Team Lannister.


    They had managed to not get too big a laugh out of it, not out of any respect to a red and snorting Jon, but because their bellies had hurt so much. The childlike mood that had taken over Winterfell like a bad bug had reached such incredulous proportions that every time Robert even looked at Ned they had to pinch themselves or otherwise explode into laughter for no reason.


    Tyrion had dialed down on the random lemons after that¡­ he had been afraid someone would have a heart attack.


    He had also spent quite some time with Sansa. A proposition that would have no doubt surprised his former self. She was sweet and caring in a more genuine way than the platonic "''relationship''" they had in his first life, if he took the careful steps necessary to make her feel a bit more like her equal than the ''prize to be wooed'' ideal that had been hammered into her by her damned Septa. S~?a??h the N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­Now there was a chief lemon sucker if I ever saw one¡­


    Unfortunately for him, the Imp had heard that remark, and when Sansa innocently commented one day about the curious bowl full of lemons her, the Septa and Arya had found propped up in the Septa''s seat, he''d had no choice but to tell her the whole joke.


    Which, now that he thought about it, had helped with one of the long endeavors he had dedicated himself to here in Winterfell. He had spent the months subtly probing her, getting past the layers of stereotyped, imported Southness and the ''romantic'' but laughably innocent stories of Knights and Princes, trying to activate the uncanny intellect he had glimpsed in previous lives.


    It was a slow going process, but he had not been disappointed. He could already glimpse the flashes of insight and maybe even the beginnings of a playful mischief¡­ or he was completely wrong with all of this and he was chasing shadows.


    The sound of revolving bowls brought him back to reality. "Done!" said Sansa as he turned back.


    They were out enjoying the breeze below Winterfell''s Heart Tree, and was using a little (somewhat ominous) trick he had learned in the life after the Leviathan.


    In front of him, on the ground, were 6 upside down silver bowls they had ''liberated'' from the kitchens, all identical. Sansa was to the side, looking at him with a vaguely amused and thoughtful expression.


    Joffrey stared at the bowls, before closing his eyes. He took a deep breath, as if settling in for a long meditation under the Heart tree or on top of a ship''s mainmast.


    Breath¡­ Out¡­ Breath¡­ Out¡­


    He tried to feel it, deep inside him¡­


    Soon he found it, a ghostly sensation between a shiver and an intuition.


    He opened his eyes and pointed to the fourth bowl. "That one" he said.


    Sansa let out a breath as she shook her head, flipping the bowl and revealing the Whalebone tablet.


    "Yet again¡­ alright, one more time" she said, a determined frown on her face.


    Joffrey smiled good naturedly as he turned back again "As you wish" he said, enjoying her befuddled tone of voice.


    He soon heard the bowls being shuffled about again, and the process was repeated.


    Only this time¡­ he was sure, it was not in the bowls.


    But how? Could this strange instinct fail him? It hadn''t in the dozen times he''d done this with the Hound¡­ but¡ª


    Wait! He could feel it--


    ¡­Actually¡­


    He gazed at Sansa accusingly, mildly surprised. "You still have it!" he said.


    She smirked a bit in mischief as she showed him her hand, which had never dropped the tablet. It lasted for less than two seconds before a ghostly Septa inside her head admonished her and she lowered her head a bit, internally reprehended.


    Yep, there''s the playful mischief again, he thought.


    He loved to discover things like that, little, intriguing nuggets of her character that sometimes popped up. It gave him a curious sense of wellbeing, gradually getting to know her like that. It was a shame that he would never actually know her completely, nor have a lot of meaningful experiences together. No matter what he did, things would go to shit after the first year, and to see her turn into an emotional wreck time and time again¡­ He¡­ He couldn''t do it. Better to bail out of the Kingdoms as always, and incidentally avoid getting killed for that ugly lump of iron.


    "How do you do it?" she asked as she handed him the tablet and sat beside him below the Heart Tree.


    Joffrey thought really hard about it, but in the end it was a kind of instinctive knowledge he just knew if he cared to listen. One thing about the mysterious tablet was certain though¡­


    "Magic" he said.


    Sansa huffed "That''s what they always say¡­ Still trying to decode it?" she asked.


    ¡­She must have seen my eye bags, the scribbled parchments and the pile of books in my room and connected the dots¡­


    "You''re very perceptive" he told her with a smile. She ducked a bit, but slowly, almost haltingly, she raised her head again to look back at Joffrey in the eyes.


    YES! Take that Lady Stark! And your damned Septa too!


    She looked at the tablet for a bit before commenting, "Well, it''s not in the Old Tongue, at least I know enough to say that¡­"


    "Yeah, was one of the first things I checked, not even close" Said Joffrey.


    Sansa leaned back on the uprooted stem she was sitting on, looking thoughtful as she bit her lip.


    The wind blew a bit harder then, scattering the leaves of the Heart Tree all around them. The twirling red little things mixed up with her scarlet hair as it too moved with the wind, the play of reds slowly forming a shroud around her face.


    "I''m sorry, what did you say?" asked Joffrey, startled.


    "I asked you if you''d checked with the Maesters?" she repeated.


    "Ah¡­ yes, I asked the Grand Maester, he was as clueless as I was" he said absentmindedly.


    "No no, I meant if you checked the Citadel. If there''s one place on Westeros that could help you, that''d be it, I guess." She said.


    "Didn''t work either, they sent me a raven telling me they had no idea too" Said Joffrey.


    "And how much time did they search?" she asked him.


    Joffrey counted a bit in his mind. That had been another sadly lacking skill he''d been training throughout his lives. "Hmmm, minus flight time¡­ two weeks?" he said.


    Sansa nodded before looking straight at his eyes "Two weeks doesn''t sound like a lot of time to search for something as seemingly old as this¡­ And, I''ve never been to the Citadel but I know it''s huge. They couldn''t have been very thorough¡­ Have you¡­ thought about going to see for yourself?" she told him, a bit ashamed of asking the Prince to go visit the Citadel of all places.


    Joffrey sat very still as he digested that. Two weeks¡­ of course! Inside his head he was treating this as if the fate of the world depended on it, but from the perspective of the Maesters it must have looked like a princely whim, an impulse of the moment. What did Joffrey, dumbest noble of the Seven Kingdoms, want with a strange symbol no one had ever seen before¡­ they probably thought he had invented it himself to prank the Maesters.


    So what did they do? They went through the motions and called it a day when they found nothing in all the obvious places.


    "That''s it!" He shouted. "The Citadel itself¡­ Sansa you are right!" he laughed as he got up and grabbed her by the waist, spinning her around once before setting her down and pumping his hand.


    Fuck yes! After months, a promising lead at last!!!


    ¡­


    Wait.


    He abruptly stopped cheering and looked at Sansa.


    Gods, I''ve never seen someone blush so hard.


    What a strange impulse¡­ Joffrey hoped he hadn''t freaked her out with that. It had just felt appropriate, to celebrate a bit after all the fruitless searching¡­


    They calmly walked out of the park as if nothing had happened, and Joffrey grimaced as something twirled inside his belly.


    There''s weeks of hard riding ahead, I can''t get a bug now! He thought furiously as he tried to remember if he''d eaten anything that smelled funny lately.


    -.PD.-


    ----


    For those interested, what Joffrey experienced in his fight with Jon (and has happened to him a handful of times throughout this fic) is similar to what is commonly called a ''peak experience'' or ''peak moment''. Its somewhat more frequent in elite athletes or in Lucid Dreams, but it can happen to anyone while doing anything. It''s usually a combination of being good at something (just know what you are doing and how, don''t need to be a pro at it), really loving it, and finally being fully invested into it in that moment. I may have also snuck in a bit of synesthesia...


    Thanks for reading and remember to comment!

 Chapter 15: Books and Smoke.

    Chapter 15: Books and Smoke.-.PD.-


    Getting permission to go to the Reach (not that he needed it, but it made things infinitely easier) proved to be not exactly as hard as he thought.


    Robert had just slapped him on the back with a happy smile and wondered out loud if he shouldn''t just go with him ''to make sure he was alright'', but a glare from literally everyone watching ended that notion. Later, when Joffrey was departing, Robert leaned into his ear and whispered "Doing the eight huh? Gods I''m proud of you boy!" before rubbing his head.


    Lewd implications aside, Joffrey had to smile and rush out of the room, to try and hide the tears that ran through his cheeks.


    To think he only had to die more than a hundred times to hear those words from the man he had thought his Father for so long¡­


    His mother, on the other hand, had proved much more intractable.


    "But I''ll be able to sniff out the Hightowers for dissent amongst the Rechmen and¡ª"


    "Absolutely not! The Tyrells will--"


    And on and on¡­ until¡­


    "Mother¡­ just¡­ let me go okay? It will all be just fine¡­ and¡­ and if you say no again I''ll bring out the heavy artillery. You don''t want to see the heavy artillery¡­" he had said dead serious, tired of the arguing.


    She had been really angry at that, actually grabbing his ear. "That''s it! It''s dangerous out there! I will not--" but she was interrupted.


    "I''ll tell Robert I''m a spawn of incest between you and Unc¡­ how should I call him anyway? Fathuncle Jaime?" he said bitingly.


    Cercei dropped him like a hot fire poker, stumbling backwards and holding her mouth in shock.


    "I''ll take it I can go then" he said, as he smoothed his doublet and stalked off. Confronting her like that, especially with that little factlet¡­ it always left a sour taste on his mouth, along with a truly foul mood.


    Convincing Jon, it turns out, had been much harder. He had been stubborn as a mule, unwilling to abandon his deluded dream of joining the Night''s Watch to guard against grumkins and snarks as Tyrion frequently said, not even temporarily. In the end, after much teasing, cajoling and the promise of a thousand swords for the Watch, he managed to convince him to live his life for a year before tossing it away. The Wall would still be standing there after all.


    Sansa of course would have been happy to go with him, but one startled glare from Ned had deflated her immediately, and that was that.


    Tyrion of course had been waiting him with his bags ready, not even waiting for Joffrey to say anything as he nodded briskly and mounted his horse with the help of a small ladder.


    "Lets go, the morning waits for no one!" he said as he rode off.


    Joffrey had followed him on his own horse, assaulted by a sudden suspicion.


    "¡­. Uncle¡­ what did you do?" he asked as he catch up, the startled Jon and Clegane not far behind him.


    "I had no choice! I couldn''t very well take a wagon full of lemons with me could I? We''d take months just getting to the Reach!" he said cheerily.


    "Oh Gods¡­ Where did you leave them all?" asked Joffrey, dreading the answer.


    "Why, on Lady Stark''s chambers of course!" he laughed as he stirred his mount again.


    "What''s the rush!?" shouted the Hound as him and Jon finally caught up with Joffrey.


    "RIDE YOU FOOLS!" screamed Joffrey before his horse suddenly sped forward, as if the Stranger himself was on his trail.


    The Hound was flabbergasted as he digested that, but Jon had learned his lesson last time and quickly followed, leaving Clegane behind and coughing off the dust.


    "I swear the little shit---" he was interrupted by an uncontrolled roar of rage, as if some inner patience had been finally defeated.


    The Hound dashed after the newly minted fugitives from Tully Justice.


    -.PD.-


    They made painfully slow progress first through the Riverlands, then the Westerlands and later through the Northern Reach, being hosted for a feast at every. Single. Nook and Cranny along the Roseroad. It got a bit ridiculous how every single lord he passed through road or keep tried to foist his daughter into him.


    He just thanked the gods he hadn''t thought about doing this in his first few lives.


    Tyrion must have been enjoying the best days of his life, taking advantage of the frequent stops to work his evil wills on the general female populace, while paradoxically the Hound sweated like a pig trying to keep them all from trouble. Jon was thoroughly out of his depth, just taking in the sights and asking about anything and everything.


    It had all been a great bonding experience for all of them, so much so that in one of the much more entertaining campfire nights, when they talked and laughed free of the meddling noses of Westerosi Nobilty, with only the stars and the fire to keep them company, Joffrey had made a proclamation.


    Somewhere on the Ocean Road, after one too many cups Joffrey had drunkenly stood up and asked for quiet around the campfire, before stumbling down and promptly getting back up again.


    "Mind the rocks Joffrey, FOOTWORK! When will you learn!?" roared the Hound as he laughed and the Imp stealthily stole his wineskin from beside him.


    "Right! Quiet! I have a proclamation to make!" he announced, swaying from one side to the other. "You lot are¡­ some of the best¡­ friends I''ve ever¡­ EVER seen, we are all just, y''know, travelling the Kingdoooomss¡ª"


    "Bedding some whores!" shouted Tyrion, only to be slapped in the head by Jon.


    "Eating ALL the chicken legs!" shouted the Hound.


    Jon laughed, "Come on let him finish or we''ll be here forever!"


    "Right, so, we, men who are nothing, make up a worthier bunch than any gaggle of asshole Knights!" Joffrey announced. "You are the scarred dog that wont accept a proper knightly title! And you Uncle are a halfman!" he slurred.


    "Thank you Ser Obvious! And what are you?" shouted the Imp, as he tried to contain his amusement. "I was getting there! Right, Jon''s the literal Bastard, obviously. And I, of course, am the stupidest, most imbecilic son of a whore to have ever been born! And so, because I''m a royal brat and can do whatever I want, do so proclaim us the Broken Knights!" he said as he raised his own wineskin to the night sky.


    A whole lot of shouts of approval met him, and they spent the rest of the night in merriment.


    In the morning, as Joffrey slumbered and the Hound was off searching for wood, Jon looked at Tyrion quizzically.


    "Tyrion, why does Joffrey think so low of himself? In the time I''ve met him I''ve never seen him as such. He''s many things, but he''s not exactly stupid" he asked the imp.


    Tyrion thoughtfully poked the fizzing fire with a stick, staring hard at it. "He doesn''t show it very often, but my nephew is certain he''s the second coming of Aeyris, mixed with that stable hand you got up in Winterfell" he mused out loud.


    "What? You mean Hodor? Why would he think that?" he asked, confused.


    "Yes, him" Said Tyrion as he looked at Joffrey, making sure he was still sleeping. He nodded before continuing in whispers. "And to tell you the truth, if you had asked me back before we left King''s Landing I would have not disagreed, most likely"


    "What?!" Jon stared.


    "I know. But something changed, changed big. You know what happened about, hmm two days after your namesake, Jon Arryn, died?" he asked Jon.


    Tyrion continued as Jon shook his head. "He made a tantrum. You could hear the screams throughout the whole Keep, ranting and raving about having to go meet the filthy northern savages and their trees, amongst other things."


    Jon was nonplussed. "I can''t even imagine him doing that! I think he loves the Weirwoods more than my Father¡­" he said, vaguely scandalized.


    "I know! And then, the next morning a different person came out of his room. Well, obviously not another person, it was obvious it was still Joffrey, but his eyes¡­ his entire mannerisms, the way he walked and talked and laughed. It was as if he had matured ten years in his sleep. And that''s leaving out all the other strange things. The last time I had seen Joffrey fight before Winterfell had been a year ago when Robert had finally managed to get him back to the training yard with a sword" the imp said.


    "And?" asked Jon, thoroughly intrigued as he scratched a gangly, sleepy Ghost in the ears.


    "He lasted 10 seconds. Went crying to his Mother and that was it. Then, 3 months ago out of nowhere my nephew is a competent spear fighter and even better with a sword, spinning and dodging about like he''d been doing it for years. A week ago, back in Lannisport I saw him haggling in Pentoshi for some pieces of bone, which he later used to carve animals and constellations on. Apparently he has at least one new hobby that he at least knows the basics of!" Said Tyrion, eyes slightly wild. "It''s like a vexing riddle that can''t get solved! At first I thought it was all part of a big prank, so I just played along. But no way he could be that patient. I briefly considered the more esoteric options, like him being replaced by a Faceless Man, but it just doesn''t fit either! Why would an elite assassin like that break character in such obvious ways!" he whispered fiercely, before gazing back at Joffrey''s sleeping form.


    "Not that I don''t like the change. Believe me the old Joffrey was a real asshole. New Joffrey is just an all-around fun and even kind person to have around, it''s just that the why and how of the thing have me running in circles. And now¡­ well, shore up relations in the Westerlands my ass! He''s making a beeline for Oldtown, in search of Gods know what¡­" he shook his head as Jon tried to digest the whole revelation.


    "So¡­ about Aerys and Hodor¡­?" asked Jon.


    "That''s the thing, its as if he still thought of himself that way, but didn''t realize he''s completely different from what he used to be¡­ but.. not?" Said Tyrion, shrugging and looking exasperated.


    "Different from what?" thundered the Hound as he dropped a load of wood right next to them. Joffrey suddenly leapt out of the floor, arming sword in one hand and bone tablet on the other, blinking blearily as he looked all around him.


    "By the Gods Clegane, please don''t do that again!" He said as he collapsed back into the floor, rubbing his head.


    "Gods¡­ how much did we drink last night? I need water¡­" he said, looking about, only to see both Jon and Tyrion looking thoughtfully at him.


    "What?" he asked, confused.


    -.PD.-


    The feastings and fake pleasantries had gotten ridiculous, and one day Joffrey had brutally reigned in his horse as the next Castle came into view. A tall and wide sprawling of bushes, trees and roses that surrounded a beautiful Castle-Palace, flanked by the Mander.


    Highgarden, seat of the Tyrells, the Lords Paramount of the Reach. A hive of flattery and intrigue, of fake perfumes that hid poisons.


    ¡­


    Nope.


    -.PD.-


    They dumped the banners and the fine clothing. Four more random travelers (and their dog) that sneaked right under the Tyrell''s noses.


    They made much faster progress after that, reaching Oldtown within days¡­


    And what a sight it was.


    The city was massive, truly the biggest he had ever seen in Westeros. According to the Maesters it was not only the biggest, but also the oldest city in the continent, founded by the First Men themselves, or maybe even earlier. The city sprawled across the Honeywine, even more chaotic than King''s Landing, its twisting alleyways and smaller streets crowded but somehow free of the horrible stench of King''s Landing.


    As Joffrey and friends lost themselves in the city, taking in the sights, he couldn''t help but be envious of it. Having lived in King''s Landing his whole life, he could safely say that at least at first glance, the city looked a lot more cared for.


    He frequently saw the City Watch patrolling the streets, keeping the law and clubbing anyone who disagreed. The streets were a lot cleaner, and the people themselves seemed a lot more prosperous than the smallfolk of Kings'' Landing. Sure, he couldn''t see the flagrant wealth of the Street of Silk or other very prosperous neighborhoods, but in average, he could see the people over here seemed slightly better cared for, and the City''s mood seemed the better for it.


    They soon found a place to relax for a while, trying to massage the cramps that had developed over their days of hard riding. They sat in an open aired tavern, full of people enjoying the clear afternoon. Above him Joffrey could see crisscrossing lines of banners and small triangular ship weather flags, probably left there by any number crews to show their appreciation. They gave the Understar a vaguely carnivalsesque, cheery atmosphere as patrons arrived or departed through the doorless street entrance or through small ships that frequently travelled up and down the Honeywine, kind of like Braavosi gondolas, only bigger and carrying small sails.


    In the distance he could see the High Tower, rising from the city like one giant grey obelisk to dominate all else around it except for the Starry Sept itself, which was a small behemoth on its own right, a mix of black marble and beautifully arched windows.


    "First timers huh?" Asked the serving girl as she appeared from behind them and twirled the Hound''s hair.


    Joffrey was nonplussed for a second before nodding, "Yeah. I''d have a round of your strongest Ale''s" he said, before looking at the Hound and a pouting Tyrion. "Fine, add a plate of chicken legs¡­ and an Arbor Red" he said.


    "Okay, I''ll be right back, in the meanwhile enjoy the show!" she said as she departed, leaving one of her hands just a second too long on the Hound''s shoulder.


    "¡­ I think you''ve got an admirer" Said Tyrion, smirking.


    "Bah! Must have confused me with someone else in the dark" he said, shaking his head.


    "I don''t think so¡­ Anyway, what show was she talking about, I don''t see any stands or cleared spots, unless they are going to do something in the river?" Jon said, looking around the place. The tables were full as the sun finally hid behind the aptly named Sunset Sea, the darkness slowly enveloping the city.


    "I don''t know" said the Hound, "But you''d think they would leave a couple more candles out here, soon you will barely be able to see the next table depending on the moon¡­" he said.


    They spent a few minutes in silence, looking above and gazing at the star vaulted sky, a new star adorning the great dark blue mantle every time Joffrey blinked.


    The slowly encroaching darkness was suddenly stilled by a distant light, which seemed to be growing in size.


    "Is¡­ is that¡­" muttered Joffrey.


    "The High Tower" muttered the Hound as the huge flames atop the tower continued to rise, each one bigger than the last as it seemed to grow and grow and grow.


    In a matter of minutes the entire city had been somewhat illuminated, providing a beacon to guide drunken commoners, steady sailors and high lords equally. The light was not all that strong, but in the middle of the night Joffrey could see it made a huge difference, even making the city feel a bit safer in the midst of the encroaching night. The spectacle was made even better when the pretty waitress arrived with the food and drinks, again brushing the Hound''s hair almost absentmindedly as she turned and leaved.


    "Unbelievable¡­" muttered Jon, by far the most entranced by the sight of the giant lighthouse-fortress. Tyrion, on the other hand, was making faces and getting laughs out of a rare group of armed and dangerous looking female sailors, who were now visible on a nearby table thanks to the light.


    "Tyrion¡­ I think those are pirates" Said Joffrey, worrying about the gleam on his uncle''s eye.


    "Aahh¡­ That just makes it better" he said to Joffrey, but winked at the women, which of course caused them to laugh and blush.


    "Your Uncle must have some sort of black magic working for him¡­" muttered Jon as he shook his head.


    "We all have our talents Jon, and I think the broody, ''I''m a soul to be fixed'' look is not entirely without merit, if the leftmost one clad with the double short swords is any guess" Said Joffrey cheekily.


    Jon harrumphed in negation but quickly blushed after he sneak peaked at the one Joffrey had mentioned, and saw her staring fixedly at him while she caressed the pommel of one of her shortswords, her fingers tracing¡­ interesting¡­ patterns on the hilt.


    "T-the members of the Night''s Watch can bear no family" he recited as if from memory.


    "But you are not exactly a member of the Night''s Watch, are you now, eh Jon?" said Joffrey with an evil grin.


    "Ah, no¡­ b-but" He was suddenly filled with an inner steel. "I will sire no bastards" he whispered with conviction.


    "Oh please, and you think they want to? What exactly is a pregnant probable pirate woman supposed to do on a ship? Look alive Jon, Moon Tea has been a thing for at least a million years" Joffrey said, fondly patting Jon on the shoulder as his sudden inner steel crumpled and he was blushing all over, looking red and vaguely horrified as her hand left the shortsword''s pommel and started fondly rubbing the head of a small, gangly direwolf.


    "Ghost!" strangled Jon, looking under the table and finding out his canine companion had indeed deserted his side. He was looking at Jon as if amused, head slightly tilted to the side and tongue lolling out in pure bliss as the woman positively massaged the happy direwolf''s furry head.


    "Gods, that''s so wrong" said Joffrey, smirk threatening to go out of control.


    "But so right" whispered Tyrion.


    "What about you, eh Kid? They don''t seem interested in me but I can see at least three that are eating you up harder than this chicken leg" said the Hound with a smirk as he tore off another bite.


    Another burst of fond satisfaction took ahold of Joffrey as he heard Clegane call him kid. That one had taking him by surprise a few weeks ago¡­ it really showed him how even the most weird or ambivalent relationships he had formed throughout his first life could be fixed for the better, if he worked for it.


    It gave him an unrealistic hope that someday he would find the way to fix his relationship with his siblings.


    "What, me? You must be delusional. Besides, none of them is the one" he said with conviction as he shook his head.


    "The one?! When did you turn into such a romantic, nephew?" asked the Imp, thoroughly offended.


    Joffrey just chuckled. "In my sleep Uncle¡­ in my sleep" he said as he stood up.


    "And... how will you know?" asked a suspiciously interested Jon.


    "I''ll just know" he responded immediately.


    Apparently. Where did that confidence come from anyway?


    He shook his head once more and stretched his arms. "Besides, I''ve got a whole new city to explore" he said as he nodded and walked away.


    "And we''ve got work to do" said Tyrion as he stood up and grabbed Jon''s wrist, walking with a beatific smile towards the other table like the cat that got the mouse.


    The Hound just laughed and shook his head as the imp introduced both of them and shortsword girl started massaging Ghost''s head with both hands.


    "They left you here all alone? We can''t have that¡­" whispered the serving girl as she appeared from shadows, behind Clegane.


    The Hound raised his eyebrows at that. "I''m not the kind of man you''d like, pretty bird" he told her as he tilted his head a bit, so she could see his burnt face in the pale light of the Hightower.


    "Oh but I like them rough" she said as she left her tray on the table.


    The Hound gulped.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey, sometimes alone, other times with one of his friends, would often explore the city, travelling through hooked alleyways and cramped streets. Sometimes he''d take the Honeywine and follow it to the sea, eating various Reacher dishes and fine wines in the city''s harbor. Other times he''d visit the great Starry Sept, and contemplate the beautiful stained glass that adorned its great arched windows.


    Soon enough though, he knew he had to continue with his original mission.


    To find the true meaning of the tablet. And that meant visiting the Citadel.


    He had found a mixed reception in the complex of buildings clustered around a section of the Honeywine. They were, of course, pleased that a Prince of the Realm was interested in them and their learning, but on the other hand they seemed slightly anxious about the Royal scrutiny.


    Joffrey couldn''t blame them. It must be pretty comfortable for them, to be generally away from the intrigue of the capital and only engage at it when they chose to. And now comes the royal brat with who knows what agenda?


    He couldn''t care less anyway. After much cajoling, threatening and begging he had been able to grab a hold of half a dozen acolytes to do his bidding for a few months, months he had spent to the fullest, searching through the Citadel''s numerous libraries and repositories in search of clues.


    Any clue.


    Unfortunately, it had proven a failure. Or rather, the task had been a little more complicated than he''d thought.


    "Aurgh¡­" he grumbled as he closed the heavy tome with a snap, startling a few of the acolytes around him that had been tirelessly looking for any vague description of the rune he''d shown them.


    Tyrion had decided to lend him his head after he''d seen Joffrey grumbling about runes and bones in his sleep like some kind of madman, and the Hound of course had to ''keep an eye on him'' so he didn''t end up in any trouble.


    "Still nothing?" asked Tyrion, raising his head from another dusty tome.


    "Volumes one to thirteen of Archmaester Gorrion''s ''On Westerosi Ancient Cultures'' has nothing¡­ absolutely nothing. What about you?" Joffrey asked.


    "The descriptions of Old Braavos are nice, but it seems their written Valyrian was not even similar to the rune, or whatever that thing is" said Tyrion.


    They must have searched less than 1 percent of the entire complex, and Joffrey was already tearing his hair out. Hours and hours, weeks of sitting through dusty tomes and stained parchment and he hadn''t even been able to narrow down his search. He''d been getting slower and less concentrated the more time he spent there too¡­ he was thinking he needed to vary the research with some kind of more practical projects, as usual.


    Jon and Ghost had not been as helpful as Tyrion, but Jon had helped to, at least, clear the useless books. He knew how to handle himself in a library thanks to the many hours he had spent in Winterfell reading about many things (there were not exactly many things to do when there was a heavy snow storm outside and your stepmother was in a particularly foul mood that day.)


    He was asleep over a thick tome about, of course, the Night''s Watch, Ghost wrapped around his feet and as asleep as his master.


    Joffrey took a drink from a nearby cup of watered wine as he wiped a bit of filth off his eyes.


    "I think I''m going to do some more carving Uncle, this is getting nowhere" he said as he closed the book. He briefly looked at another book he had by his side, half opened. To call it a clue would have been generous, but¡­


    They were the mind dumbing ramblings of a Maester that studied linguistics, of all things. In one part, he spoke about the first men runes, but that had not been what interested Joffrey. No, it was a very brief mention about something else, a myth of the First Men. Apparently, the magical runes and wards they built and used were nothing but the faintest of sketches compared to the ''Words of the Old Gods''. These ancient scripts, now lost to man, were said to have been the way in which the Old Gods influenced the world, meanings and commands given physical form.


    Of course, all examples of said mythical language had disappeared millennia ago. Their ''interesting'' linguistic connotations had been the only reason the Maester had written about a dead legend now forgotten apparently even amongst the surviving First Men.


    It was a stretch, but¡­


    Could the tablet be a way the Old Gods are using to communicate with me?


    It didn''t make sense though. One would think beings as supposedly powerful as the Old Gods would be more effective at communicating with him¡­ that would have been appreciated in his first life¡­ or hell any one after that.


    If indeed that was what it was. After all, the legend did not even hint at the strange connection he shared with the Whalebone Tablet, and that struck him as a pretty important piece of information that would get repeated or recorded. He''d given up on testing the range of his strange, uncanny intuition when he'' had Jon hide it on the other side of the city.


    Jon might as well have constructed a second Hightower where he left the tablet, blazing beacon and all, and it wouldn''t have made any difference to Joffrey. He just knew where it was, instinctively, if he just listened.


    He took a deep breath as he sighted again. This would take longer that he thought.


    "I''m going to get my tools, call for me if--" he started, but he was interrupted by a loud growl from Ghost.


    The direwolf was now the size of an adult dog, and he was staring intently at the door to the little study they had conquered. Jon raised his head groggily and petted Ghost''s head as he tried to make a sense of his surroundings.


    "I''m sorry¡­" he mumbled as he massaged his face. "Gods, some books can make even the best of subjects a godsaweful mud tread" he said as he stretched and several of the nearby acolytes discreetly moved away from Ghost.


    Ghost was now on his haunches, and his growl had not diminished. In fact it was even stronger now, his teeth bared and his fur standing on end.


    "Jon. I think something''s wrong with your ''dog''. You sure you fed him?" asked Joffrey, raising his eyebrows.


    "Yes yes" he said as he stood up and petted Ghost in the head. "Ghost! What''s the matter boy? What''s the matter?" he asked as he stared quizzically at the door.


    "I don''t think he''s going to answer you" quipped Tyrion as he plopped down from his chair.


    Jon rolled his eyes. "That''s not--"


    TOCK-TOCK-TOCK.


    Everyone jumped when someone knocked on the door, and stared at each other for a second¡­


    Then bursted out chuckling.


    "You can''t growl at anyone that comes to the room, Ghost" said Joffrey as he gazed meaningfully at the dumb wolf. Ghost didn''t care though, he was poised as if ready to jump and tear the wooden door to pieces.


    Joffrey just rolled his eyes. "What is it?" he shouted as he stashed his books on his backpack. He''d return them on the way out.


    "Prince Joffrey? An urgent rider has arrived from your Grandfather that needs your presence" said a voice from the other side of the door.


    "Maybe the pup thinks horses are tasty?" the Hound said dryly as he moved to open the door.


    The spittle and pure hate that Ghost seemed to be emanating made Joffrey a little queasy.


    "Clegane? Just a moment" muttered Joffrey as he raised his hand.


    "Of course, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" asked Joffrey out loud.


    "My Prince, the messenger has ridden all the way from the Westerlands, you must see him at once!" said the voice, slightly agitated.


    "Why would they not just send a raven? Maybe it''s too important?" pondered Tyrion. Jon was petting Ghost harder now, himself a bit agitated.


    "I asked you a simple question, my good man. Surely you would spare such a simple courtesy to a Prince of the Realm" asked Joffrey, using his mother-taught courtly manners usefully for what he thought must be the first time in his life.


    The voice seemed to hesitate for a second or two before answering. "It''s Ser Elmar, My Prince. Captain of the Eastern Gate" he said.


    "Any rider from the Westerlands would have arrived through the North Gate, not the East" Tyrion observed quickly. "Then why send someone from the East Gate?" pondered the Hound as he made sure the small, almost ceremonial bar was still in place on the door.


    There was silence after that for a few seconds.


    Joffrey stood still for a second, thinking. Nakaro, Art and a ghostly Clegane were all shouting on his head that this smelt of a setup, a trap.


    Damnit what would they do if its true?! Think, think!


    "Ser Elmar, if you would humor me, from what House do you hail from?" asked Joffrey as he quick walked towards the heavy oaken tables that flanked the door, gesturing at Jon and Clegane.


    "Tyrion, check the window" he told his uncle as he moved the table just to the side of the door.


    "My House-? Prince Joffrey, the message--"


    "Yes, what House Ser Elmar! Are you deaf? Or perhaps just a simpleton? Incapable of answering simple questions?!" Joffrey said scathingly as him, Jon and the Hound pulled the table with all their strength, flipping it and leaving it just to the side and perpendicular to the door.


    "House Tyrell, My Prince! House Tyrell!" shouted Ser Elmar angrily from the other side of the door.


    ------


    AN:


    -----


    "There''s your answer Clegane" Joffrey said as they finished moving the other table. Now both flipped tables made a 5 meter corridor between themselves, bottling the entrance to the room.


    "There''s at least twenty Tyrell Armsemen surrounding this wing! And they don''t look like an honor guard!" shouted Tyrion from the window.


    They''ll rush us hard, we need to box them in so they can only come in one, two at a time, Joffrey thought quickly.


    "Clegane, you stand at the end of the ''corridor'' and keep them pinned, make use of that plate and your longer reach!" said Joffrey as he dashed to the back of the room and got two swords from their resting place on the wall.


    "Prince Joffrey!!! Open the door!!!" Shouted Ser Elmar, the sound of pounding boots getting louder each time.


    Joffrey dashed back and tossed the bastard sword to Jon. Both unsheathed them almost at the same time as the door buckled with a large crash.


    "Clegane will pin them down at the end of the bottleneck! You and I will engage anyone that passes his guard!" shouted Joffrey as he stood a bit back and to Clegane''s right. The Hound gave a half nod as he took out his long sword, waving at the terrified acolytes, "You lot! Go to that corner and stay put if you value your lives!" he told them as they scrammed out of the way.


    Jon nodded shakily as he positioned himself to the Hound''s left. "Fuck, another river barge just hit the docks, I''m counting eight¡­ fifteen¡­ twenty six arms men" shouted Tyrion.


    The door buckled again, the small brass bar bulging from the impact. "OPEN THE DOOR IN THE NAME OF KING RENLY!" shouted another voice from beyond the door, this one far more excited, almost brutal.


    "Ah, treason, if you want to assault a Crown Prince why not go all the way?" quipped Tyrion as he nervously stared through the window, occasionally inching a bit outwards to get a better view at something.


    "Jon¡­. Jon!" shouted Joffrey. Jon looked shaken, his face a sheen of sweat as he kept rearranging his grip on the pommel. "Remember the training yard? Jon, remember the yard?" he told him as he grabbed his shoulder.


    He nodded shakily, "Good, it''s the same thing, just don''t stop for anything and keep hitting them till you see their brains!" he shouted in his face as he shook him.


    Jon took a deep breath and nodded, looking determined at the door as it buckled again, whining and splintering at the center. "Jon, can Ghost harass anyone trying to cross over the tables? We need to keep em pinned on the bottleneck!" he asked him.


    Jon nodded, breathing hard, "Y-yes! Ghost! Come here!" he said, lowering as he grabbed the wolf by its scruff and whispered something into his ears.


    "The whole thing will depend on you Clegane! You need to keep em trapped so that Jon and I can kill them!" said Joffrey.


    The Hound snorted "Don''t worry kid, these summer knights can''t tell a sword from a bottle of Arbor Red. Just make sure they don''t hit you, you don''t have armor" he said seriously.


    "Will do, Tyrion! Keep a view out for more reinforcements!" he shouted to his back.


    "Got it! It''s like counting green and gold sheep but instead of sleeping the reward is not dying!" the half man shouted back, prompting small chuckles and tense half smiles from the group.


    Damnit, the imp keeps his wit even in the most terrifying of moments, Joffrey though in envy as he rose his sword to his nose and let the smooth cold steel cool his forehead.


    The door buckled brutally one more time, part of it fracturing through the middle, splintering heavily and leaving the brass bar hanging awkwardly from one side only. The crack on the middle revealed the vaguely flat head of a steel tipped handheld ram, already retreating from view.


    "The door won''t hold another one!" announced the Hound. He cracked his neck sideways, numerous pops resounding from within him as he steadied his feet on the wooden floor. Jon was praying silently to the Old Gods, staring at the door and not moving an inch as Ghost dashed frequently in a semicircular motion, patrolling the perimeter made by the tables and growling almost like a shadowcat. Tyrion kept looking by the window, eyes moving frequently as he silently moved his mouth, thinking and talking to himself.


    Joffrey took a slow, deep breath as he closed his eyes.


    In¡­


    Out¡­


    In¡­


    Out¡­


    He opened them.


    The door bent for a fraction of a second before rupturing down the middle, both pieces tumbling to the ground, revealing a huge knight in full plate tossing a handheld ram to the side. Behind him was a smaller, red faced knight who took a quick peak at the room before edging back and waving at the dozen or so Tyrell armsmen that stood behind him.


    "Get the Prince and the Imp, alive. Kill the bodyguards" Said the huge knight as both him and the smaller one stepped aside, unleashing a veritable flood of gold and green armsemen.


    "WINTERFELL!!!" suddenly shouted Jon as the armsemen rushed the room, pushing and shoving each other as they squeezed through the narrow confines of the makeshift corridor.


    Joffrey took air and promptly closed his mouth. He almost shouted out of reflex, but he found out he felt no particular allegiance he felt comfortable enough to proclaim out loud.


    For the Seven Kingdoms? Hells Renly could have had the fucking chair if he''d just asked! He thought a bit whimsically before the green tide crashed.


    Then there was no more time to think.


    There was only enough space for two men to fight at the same time, and the Hound made heavy use of that adavantage. Clad in plate steel armor and with his longer sword, he mainly defended, holding both men in place with his frequent parrying and shoving. He immediately gave a step back, slightly overwhelmed by the force of a dozen or so men pushing from behind, all the while trying to parry the blows from the two front armsmen.


    But he bought precious seconds as Joffrey darted in quickly and stabbed through the armpit of the man in front of him, unleashing a torrent of blood as he screamed and fell to the ground. Another one quickly stepped in to take his place, parrying another of Joffrey''s blows, and then one from the Hound. He did not parry the third one from Joffrey, who jumped a bit higher and with a quick, controlled thrust pierced his neck on the side, unleashing a pinprick wide spurt as the man tried to hold his neck and fell to the ground.


    I just love that move, thank you Braavos, thought Joffrey in a haze as he attacked the next one on the pile.


    Several of the enemy armsmen were trying to climb the tall tables, but Ghost was all over them in an instant, blooding hands and faces and making them fall down back on the corridor.


    "Like a perfume shop Clegane! Roses come in, smashed pulp comes out!!!" roared Joffrey as he jammed his sword through the lower jaw of an armsmen, the adrenaline making him euphoric. Yes! Tyrion cant be the only one in Team Lannister with the situational quips! He thought as he kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. Gods, I''d give a leg for a spear right now, so much stabbing¡­


    The Hound roared in laughter at the quip as he cleaved in half someone''s skull, but that left him vulnerable to a quick swipe by an axeman, denting his plate and leaving blood oozing down his arm.


    "Damnit Hound! Forget your instincts, defend only!" shouted Joffrey.


    "Its harder than it looks damnit!" the Hound grunted as he was forced to take another step back, leaving more space for the Roses.


    The fight must have lasted 15 seconds up to that moment, but to Joffrey they felt like half an hour. He risked a quick glance to his left and was alarmed to find Jon bleeding from one arm, a pile of Tyrell armsmen dead in front of him as he still fought.


    The last 4 or so soldiers were eying the Hound warily as the huge knight and the small one, which he thought must be Ser Elmar, finally deigned themselves to enter the room.


    "THEY''RE JUST TABLES YOU SONS OF WHORES!!!" roared the big knight as he bulled through the left side, smashing the table aside and charging through, followed by Ser Elmar.


    "They''re flanking us!" shouted Jon as him and Ghost charged at the big knight. "Jon wait!!" shouted Joffrey as he managed to dodge a sword blow, quickly cutting the offending Tyrell hand.


    The Hound was now up against the remaining three, bloodied and battered, but he hadn''t even slowed down. "Go! I''ll hold here!" he shouted at Joffrey.


    Joffrey wasted not a second as he run to the left side, were Jon''s back was up against a corner, the big knight trapping him. The brute had a big longsword, not quite two handed but still a fearsome weapon. His chest sported a white sun-and-chevron on orange. Must be House Ashford, he thought quickly, for once Grand Maester Pycell''s lessons being used for something vaguely useful.


    Ghost was snapping and biting at the knight''s back, but before he could join him with a stab or four he was shoved hard to the side.


    "Drop your sword Prince Joffrey! Before you hurt yourself with it!" shouted Ser Elmar. The impact sent Joffrey tumbling against the wall, knocking the air out of him. However, before Ser Elmar could close in and disarm him, Joffrey leapt back up, sword swinging in for slash at the man''s neck. He wasn''t expecting that, going by the panicked expression on his face as he barely parried and stood back, now clearly sizing him up as an opponent.


    "Drop your sword and your person will not suffer any more harm!" shouted Ser Elmar.


    "You think I care?! Out of the way!" he shouted as went into a whirlwind of stabs, searching for the weakspots on the plate. It occurred to him that this was the first time he fought to the death with a Knight.


    Ser Elmar parried them, taken off balance by the unusual style. But soon he started to go for the kill, his life more important right now than whatever riches or tortures House Tyrell as a whole had promised him. He slashed to the side, and Joffrey whirled to the other one. Joffrey countered with a cut that dented Ser Elmar''s gauntlet and likely broke some fingers, only to bend down and let a horizontal slash sail by above his head.


    FOOTWORK! Thundered the Hound inside his skull.


    He bent his knees and leaned forward, and when the next attack came he just ducked as he jumped forwards, tip of his sword slamming under Ser Elmar''s jaw and almost coming out from the top of his skull.


    Ser Elmar dropped his sword as he tried for a second or two to grab the sword that killed him, but soon after that he started to convulse, coming down on the floor and shaking like a man possessed.


    Joffrey felt bile rising from his throat, but managed to keep it in as he remembered what he had to do. He looked back at Jon and prepared to skewer the Ashford Asshole through the.. back..


    No¡­


    Ghost was to the side, belly open from neck to legs, eyes still fixed on Jon.


    ¡­ And Jon¡­


    He was on the floor, back leaning on the wall, his sword discarded and a river of blood slowly coming out of his mouth. His eyes were closed. S?a?ch* Th? N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The knight stepped back from his work to look at him, a huge smile on his face. "I see you were underestimated, your highness." He said with a rumbling chuckle as he walked towards Joffrey.


    "A good enough showing, I reckon. But its over. You should drop that ---"


    The brute''s rambling slowly zoned out of Joffrey''s mind, replaced by a steadily louder and louder chime. The white noise drowned every other sound in the room as Joffrey''s hands stopped shaking and he calmly walked towards the knight. He tried to pommel Joffrey in the head, but Joffrey craned his neck just right and dodged the blow, brutally stabbing Knight with all his force. The blow didn''t puncture the steel plate, but the man did stumble back, pained. He slashed at Joffrey but he dodged again, sword delivering a thundering crack on the man''s sword hand, breaking bone. As he dropped his sword Joffrey followed up with a blow to the other hand, barely finding the joint in the armor and rupturing his lower wrist.


    The knight clutched his hands as he tried to bull charge Joffrey, but he just stepped to the side and delivered a slash to the man''s hip, making him stumble to the ground.


    And then Joffrey was upon him.


    First he reduced his hands to pulp, so he couldn''t fight back, then his legs. He was lightning quick, his hand like a ship''s pump, up and down, up and down as the Knight mouthed the same word again and again, but Joffrey couldn''t hear him.


    He felt¡­ so¡­good. He smiled as he admired the pattern the blood he''d left on the ground, in his hands---


    "¡ªrey! Nephew!!! Joffrey!" shouted someone suddenly in his ear.


    He shook his head as he regained his bearings. Tyrion was shaking him, eyes filled with fear and despair. "He''s dead! Another boatload of Tyrells arrived half a minute ago, we got to go!" he shouted in his face.


    Joffrey stared at him dumbly before gazing back at the¡­ thing he was astride in.


    He was sitting on top of the remains of Ser Ashford. Joffrey still had his bloodied sword, which appeared to be in the midst of another cut.


    He stumbled back, empting his stomach on the wooden floor. Gods not again¡­ later¡­ think later¡­


    He stood up as he scanned the room again. The Hound was on one knee in the floor, using his sword as a walking stick as he tried to get up, bleeding from multiple wounds. "Go help Sandor!" he told the Imp as he pushed him that way.


    Joffrey himself stumbled towards Jon, who was now laying sideways on the floor. He propped him up, leaning his back against the wall once again. Before he could do anything else, his eyes snapped open, the gurgling blood still coming out from his mouth. "Jon! Jon!!! Hold on, wait ---I-" Joffrey mumbled, looking helplessly at the brutal stab that Jon sported on his chest.


    Should have studied medicine-should have studied medicine-should have studied medicine-should have studied medicine---


    Jon gurgled something, mouth moving as barely a sound came out. "r¡ªbr..ts¡­"


    "What!? Jon?!" screamed Joffrey helplessly.


    "Br¡­" he seemed to take a big, harrowing breath, eyes completely wide in delirium as a small, bloody smile emerged. "Brokheeenn¡­. Knightssss¡­.." he whispered with his last breath.


    Joffrey let out a shrill, shuddering scream as he shook Jon again and again, but no other words came from him, only blood. So much blood¡­


    Joffrey almost jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "We need to go" whispered Tyrion sadly, the Hound limping beside him.


    Joffrey stood almost drunkenly, before grabbing his sword and taking a deep breath. "Right¡­ lets¡­ lets go¡­" he said.


    They stepped over the bodies of their slain enemies, exciting the study that now reeked of death. The hurried through multiple corridors, following the Imp as he led them to where he thought there would be the least resistance.


    Soon they started hearing pounding footsteps behind them.


    The Hound was pale and leaving a trail of blood when he suddenly stopped. "I''m just slowing you down, go!" he said as he leaned on the wall and rose his sword back to a guard position.


    "Absolutely not! Clegane, we will need all the help we can--" Joffrey explained as rationally as he could when he was interrupted by a grunt.


    "We both know that''s a load of bollocks. You and the Imp can outrun them. I''ll buy you time" he said, a calm certainty enveloping him like a mantle.


    "Sandor please--!"


    "Ha! You never call me Sandor. Go on Prince Joffrey, live well." He said as he pushed him back and started limping towards the pursuing armsmen, a couple of which they could see at the end of the corridor. "Come taste a broken knight, eh you sons of whores?!" the Hound roared.


    Joffrey kept running against his will, the sound of battle slowly fading as they dropped through a set of stairs and excited to the Citadel''s south river harbor.


    He felt hollow as Tyrion and him run out of the building, down a set of open aired stairs and unto a small stone plaza just before the small pier with a few rowboats tied next to it.


    They were on the middle of it when Tyrell armsmen sprinted in from the sides and a rowboat full of crossbowmen docked at the small pier.


    A Knight in stripped black and yellow heraldry with three beehives centered on his shield stepped forward.


    "Prince Joffrey and Lord Tyrion! Lay down your swords now! There is no need for further bloodshed today!" he shouted, apparently honestly.


    Enough bloodshed?! I''ll show em bloodshed¡­ I''ll turn the Honeywine red before the dogs take me down!!!


    Joffrey was ready to leap at them with a roar when he remembered his uncle. He was constantly switching places to look at, tightly clutching a dagger and keeping up a continuous narrative for Joffrey''s benefit, telling him about possible alleyways and strategies ranging from turning back to the building to making a run for the Honeywine and jumping in. Of course none of them would work, but the imp never gave up. That was one of the things he loved about the bastard.


    He just wanted to die, to get rid of this nightmare that had taken over a beautiful and cheerful life¡­ but then he''d be responsible for the death of his uncle. And if he said that didn''t matter, then why was there a dark pit in his stomach right now, why was he crying for the death of his friends, if none of their lives mattered at all.


    He just wanted to lay down and cry, instead he tossed his sword to the ground.


    "Be careful when you give that to Renly, he may confuse which sword he''s supposed to swallow" he spat as the weapon clanked on the ground.


    ¡­


    -.PD.-


    The feast, and really the whole of Renly''s army had all the hallmarks of the South''s pomposity. There he was, a pretender to the Iron throne in the midst of a war, marching at a snail''s pace and holding a feast at every stop. A hundred thousand swords they had said in the capital, many years ago. Joffrey wondered if the idiot would-be-king had read Maester Therron''s ''War of the Conquest'', or hell, any book regarding warcraft.


    He wondered if the idiot would-be-king understood the basic concept that a hundred thousand swords where also a hundred thousand mouths. Joffrey had never been (and hoped he never would) on a campaign, but he knew enough to imagine either the 30 mile wide trail of burnt houses and starving smallfolk, or alternatively the chests upon chests of gold being funneled through the army''s logistics. Most likely, both were going on right now.


    Every day.


    Just to please Renly''s ego.


    Joffrey had never been a defender of the smallfolk, that was for sure. But even he paled at the sheer wastefulness of it all. Renly should be marching towards the Capital like a mine cart with no breaks, forget the feasts and the tourneys.


    He played a bit with his food as Renly stood up to give yet another speech, praising his Leal lords yet again for their wisdom and generosity. The honey in his words was so much Joffrey felt he was going to puke.


    And they thought--- think he can make a good King?! He thought in disbelief.


    He was seated as a ''guest of honor'' almost right besides Renly, but Joffrey''s part of the table was lower, giving the impression of seniority to Renly. A premeditated stratagem, no doubt. The man himself was now standing up and gesturing with one hand as the guests made appreciative noises, smiling wide and joyfully as Renly bestowed gifts and titles to a handful. Another practice he repeated every. Single. Day.


    They''ll eat him alive in the Capital, he thought.


    Sure, he was a better option than himself, but that was hardly a worthy recommendation. It was of no use being better than the competition if you would still fuck up the kingdoms¡­


    And fuck them he would. He could already see, literally, the way Maergery whispered into his ear, delivering ideas and plans and making him think he''d thought about them in the first place. The queen of thorns was seating discreetly in a nearby but out of the way table, the real master behind the puppet. She was looking directly at Joffrey right now, though.


    He stared back at her for a while, until his prolonged hollow stare made her crane her neck innocently, breaking line of sight.


    No, if giving gifts and being charming was all it took, Robert would have left the Seven Kingdoms as prosperous and peaceful as they would ever be¡­


    From what he remembered from his first life, all the ones after that and the weeks of feasting that had followed the skirmish at the Citadel, Joffrey felt he could accurately predict what would happen to Renly in King''s Landing.


    Eaten alive.


    He''d grown there after all. Charm could only take you so far, and half the Crownlander Lords would happily smile at his japes as they rearranged the realm at his back. And that was not even counting Baelish, Varys, Tywin and the rest of the freaking realm. Renly thought he had this ruling thing in the pocket, the notion that there were people immune to his wits and charms and perfectly capable of hiding it until the time was right had probably never occurred to him.


    As for gifts¡­ well, Robert had been busy for the last twenty years, and he certainly hadn''t been ruling. Every time Joffrey passed by the treasury after a new life he was struck by how empty the vault looked. The whole thing actually looked somewhat diminished after he stole his two customary gold bags. He remembered some talk about it from his first life, not the words, but the tone he remembered had been pretty urgent. Or even panicked.


    He eyed the knights and lords sitting in the huge tables, laughing and jesting, merry and happy. Where they so entranced by Renly''s splendor that they couldn''t grasp the consequences? Didn''t they understand the war was just the beginning? Didn''t they see the path that following this fool would take them down to?! A war of influences between the enormous Reach and the rest of the realm, a broke kingdom--


    A shudder run through Joffrey''s skin.


    ¡­Or do they know? Could they, in fact, be counting on it? Maybe they were just humoring Renly, making him believe he''s in charge while the plots amongst them were already underway, happily siphoning off gifts and not caring a whit about what would happen down the road?


    Where they the Summer Knights or the Plotting Cabal? He didn''t know which one was worst.


    In a way, Renly was Sansa''s male counterpart. An unfair comparison, sure, as Sansa had a beautiful mind just waiting to breach out, while he was sure Renly had nothing but wine and honey inside him.


    And in the end, that was what convinced Joffrey that Renly would not be a good King. It was only an intuition, but one that had been reinforced the more he thought about it and the more he studied Renly. Nobody wanted to speak to the captured soon-to-be-deposed prince, but Joffrey had ears, and he''d sat on every feast since he''d got here.


    It was a somewhat amusing and vaguely terrifying thought.


    Renly lived in a fairy tale.


    Maybe he didn''t even realize it, so good was the way his whole vision fit with his personality¡­ but the way he spoke, the things he did even when in a war that would cost him his head if he lost, the frequent gifts and tourneys, the grandiose gestures, the pleasurable smile he wore every time he got to sit on a makeshift throne and play King as he arbitrated a dispute between Lords¡­ the hundreds of silly banners he loved to surround himself with every time he parlayed with another Stormlord, heck even his Kingsguard was special! His ''Rainbow Guard'', each one flying a distinct color like an especially bad, silly maiden''s tale.


    He was the righteous King in Sansa''s fairytales, backed by fortune itself to take the throne whenever he pleased, assured that everything would be alright¡­ No wonder he was the first of the ''five kings'' to die.


    Or maybe I''ve got it all wrong, I''m clearly no expert in politics, after all.


    Maybe I''m an idiot that wouldn''t know politics if it stared at him in the face.


    Maybe I had too much Arbor Gold while waiting for Renly to finish with his damned speech.


    Maybe I''m just chasing my tail while waiting for that imbecilic Fossoway to lean just a tiny¡­ bit¡­ more to the left¡­


    That''s it¡­ just a bit more¡­ just one dagger to the throat and I''ll be back on my godsforsaken research¡­


    "Not liking the feast, Nephew?" Renly suddenly startled him. He was eying him like a trophy, smiling smugly as the closest lords hushed to see the fake prince (or would it be king?) humiliated. The bastard had been eying him and his wine for hours for some reason.


    "I''m not your Nephew!" Joffrey spat against his will. "The only one here that can call me that is gagged and sitting outside, enjoying your grandiosity" he said.


    Renly shrugged, slightly raising his hands as if apologetic. "His insults were too much for our exalted company¡­. But¡­"


    He smiled like the cat that got the sparrow. "Not your Uncle? It''s interesting you would say that, because I''ve heard such slanderous rumors¡­ rumors that it would seem¡­ might put your claim in doubt¡­" he delivered with perfect timing as there was a lull in the conversation. Now every lord and knight was riveted on both of them, waiting for Joffrey to respond to that.


    Joffrey harrumphed¡­ three times in quick succession. Finally he couldn''t hold it, and burst out laughing.


    "BUAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" Joffrey laughed, clutching his belly.


    Renly smirked again, though this one looked a tiny bit more forced "I wouldn''t find that f--" he tried to say but Joffrey cut him off with another laugh.


    "This is what you wanted? All along? You''ve been dragging me through the Roseroad for ages just to get me drunk enough to slip?!" he asked, dumbfounded.


    Renly just opened and closed his mouth for a second, for once not having the right word right away. He would have most likely recovered it in another second, but Joffrey didn''t give him the chance.


    "You should have just asked! And then leave me the fuck alone!" he said in between a scowl and a giggle.


    He stood up "Okay everyone, listen up. I''m a bastard! A pretender! A fake!" he proclaimed.


    Everyone was gobsmacked, even the Queen of Thorns, something that gave him quite a bit of satisfaction.


    "I hereby renounce to any claim I may have on the Iron throne! Good on you Renly! Sadly though I don''t think Stannis is a bastard too, so no luck on your claim" he said as he gulped what was left of the Arbor Red.


    "I d-"


    "You want the fucking throne? You can have it! You can swallow all the swords on the Iron Throne and choke on them!" he yelled.


    Come on you apple headed idiot, lean left! Just a bit more!


    The dagger was almost upon his hand when suddenly Lady Olenna appeared beside him and gently shoved the Fossoway Knight out of the way. "I think the prince''s had a bit too much wine" she said as she gestured at her¡­ bodyguards?


    "The hell with the wine! You think you''re smart enough to win the game you old crone?! No one can! The game will eat you up and chew out pain and misery as always, along with all the flowers in the Reach! Let me go damnit! You''re all leisurely marching to a perfume shop you idiots, flowers¡ªcome¡ªin¡­ pulped.... people come out!!!" Joffrey''s ramblings diminished as he was forcibly carried away.


    Renly sat in silence, slowly shaking his head in incomprehension. Then, as if a spark had lighted up inside his head and the world was suddenly filled again with light and colors, he smiled. The correct words reached him.


    "Another proof of the quality of men in King''s Landing, they can''t hold their wine!" he said as the lords and knights raised their cups in cheer. "Not like us!" he said as he raised his. "For King Renly!" shouted one before drinking, quickly followed by the others. "King Renly! King Renly! King Renly!" they cheered as Renly let out a joyful smile.


    -.PD.-


    The pace had picked just a tiny bit after his outburst, but it was still pretty much the same leisurely stroll through the Reach and into the Stormlands. The company had improved immeasurably though, now he ate with the imp in a medium sized storage tent nearby Renly''s own.


    It had been worth it.


    He tore off another chunk of stale bread and munched methodically. If Renly thought he was going to somehow break him with bad food, he had another thing coming. He''d eaten almost-raw whale meat for more than six months, he had started to consider bread a rare delicacy after that particular life.


    He was musing about how much damage he could inflict on himself (and the amount of pain he''d had to withstand) with the pewter spoon they''d given him, and if that''d be enough to kill him before they got to him, before his uncle interrupted his chain of thought.


    "I''m sorry?" he asked.


    "I said Renly must have blown Stannis off, by the way both sides reacted" he said.


    "I guess, he did¡­ Argh! Tyrion!!!" he shouted as he smacked his head, just then processing the double entendre. "You have a dirty mind, nephew." The imp said cheekily.


    It was late at night, and Stannis and Renly had parlayed a few hours ago. The whole camp had been on edge since then. A confident edge, but nervous all the same.


    Renly had brought his entire army with him, trying to relieve Storm''s End from Stannis''s siege. The parlay had been a failure, or at least those were the rumors around the camp. It seemed that battle was inevitable. He wondered how Renly rationalized his decision to basically jump his brother in the succession and possibly kill him tomorrow, with his grandiose and generous persona.


    The whole thing was probably an act anyway.


    He continued eating the broth and bread, thinking about what to do when this life was finally over. He''d have to mix up more practical projects with his investigation, otherwise he''d die of boredom and get nowhere.


    He was thinking about that nice book about the construction of the Hightower he''d started reading before the whole thing went to hell, when a shrill roar cut through the air.


    Joffrey and Tyrion stopped eating as they strained to hear anything else.


    Quiet.


    Then, madness.


    The noise gradually rose in intensity as pounding boots on mud and calls for a maester were heard all throughout the camp.


    Joffrey finally couldn''t resist it anymore and walked out of the tent, bowl still in one hand.


    He was nonplussed at the scene, a vaguely surreal feeling at the strangeness of it. The torches cast a macabre light on a circle of people, all watching in horror or crying. At the center was Ser Robar Royce ''the red'' of Renly''s ridiculous ''Rainbow Guard''. He was on top of his naked Lord Commander, Ser Loras Tyrell, absolutely destroying his face with his gauntleted fists.


    "How could you!? By the Seven Above how could you!?" roared Ser Robar as his fists kept pumping, shattering Ser Loras''s face again and again. "He was our King! And you killed him! Why?! Oh why?!?" he screamed as he kept punching him, clearly having lost all control.


    "By the Old Gods!" shouted Joffrey, the Lord''s and Knights around him jumping.


    "He''s going to kill him! You! Help your Lord Commander!" he shouted at the blue one, couldn''t remember his name. He had been staring at the tent entrance in some kind of trance before snapping out of it and hauling Ser Robar away with superior strength.


    Then it was like as if a spell had been broken. The Lord''s and Knight''s all started to give out contradicting orders, shouting and gesticulating, generating even more chaos.


    Joffrey stopped cold at one word though.


    "Shadow¡­. Shadow¡­ shhss¡­ shadow¡­" mumbled Loras again and again as he was hauled up by a couple of knights and taken away.


    Shadow¡­


    It was ridiculous.


    It had to be.


    But more than three lifetimes? The same godsdamned rumor?! And now at first hand!?


    It''s impossible!


    Joffrey was in a daze as he walked out almost without seeing, entering a big tent in front of Renly''s, filled with maps and symbols.


    Stannis turning into a shadow daemon?! Stannis Baratheon a shadow daemon?!


    He sat in one of the chairs at the back, shaking his head.


    Stranger than an immortal Prince Joffrey living his life again and again¡­? Whispered a corner of his mind.


    ¡­


    "Oh¡­ fuck¡­" he whispered.


    He just sat there, trying to digest that idea.


    There''s no way to be sure, but maybe the rumors were unto something¡­


    He kept eating the broth out of reflex. Out there in the seas one ate whenever a meal presented itself.


    He was vaguely aware of a duo of voices discussing agitatedly.


    "By dawn the whole army will have melted into infighting!" said someone.


    "That''s why the time to act is now! Act now and save your family, Because Stannis will have no mercy" said another voice, vaguely familiar.


    "This whole scheme sounds suspiciously planned, Lord Baelish. My grandson would have never hurt Renly¡­" said¡­ Olenna?


    He recognized that other voice, that slimy bastard! Littlefinger!


    ¡­ But that meant¡­


    Oh no¡­


    "Be as it may, there is only one choice unless you want to plant your head on a pike be it either on Dragonstone or Casterly Rock. Fortunately for both of us--" said Baelish as him and Lady Olenna entered the tent.


    "Absolutely not! No way!" said Joffrey as he stood up, frantically searching for an exit behind him.


    There was no way Baelish knew he was in this particular tent, but his surprise lasted less than a second as he continued as if the whole thing had been planned. "--you have a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms right here!" he said as pointed at Joffrey with both hands, palms open.


    "There is absolutely no way I will consent to this" Joffrey said, dead serious.


    -.PD.-


    The whole feast had a vaguely surreal feeling, something that had become somewhat common during the last day. The occasional empty seats, denoting the Lords and Knights that had deserted to Stannis or failed and fallen into the justice of Lord Tarly were a harrowing reminder of what exactly the stakes were. The Summer Knights were smelling winter, and they hadn''t liked that¡­ not that they had any choice.


    When the whole army failed to simply disintegrate, Stannis had already lost the opportunity for a morning attack. He''d been very confused when, in a new parley attempt, he''d been received with the flags of the Baratheons of King''s Landing. Apparently he''d been apoplectic when he heard that instead of defaulting to him, the bulk of the army had proclaimed Joffrey Baratheon as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. The rest of the day had been a series of skirmishes and maneuvers as both sides again sought the better ground, this time it seemed battle would really be inevitable in the morning. To wait any more would only invite more desertions for Stannis.


    Not that Joffrey cared, he''d left all the military stuff to Lord Tarly and he was waiting patiently for the feast to end so he could go to his room, ask for a sword (they couldn''t deny their King a sword, right?) and end this clusterfuck once and for all.


    He was sitting beside Maergery, who looked for the entire world like the charming princes. One would be forgiven for forgetting that her previous betrothed had died last night, and her brother sat in a (comfortable) stockade awaiting judgment. She was all smiles and charm, magnitudes more effective than the late Renly, at least with other people. The whole assembled lords chatted amicably and ate, as Joffrey sat in the makeshift throne Renly had carried with him everywhere he dined.


    This¡­ this is ridiculous. The lords have no shame.


    Maergery had been giving him suggestions, insinuating herself and generally pondering out loud about some ideas¡­ He knew exactly what she was doing, that was not what bothered him.


    What bothered him was the sheer¡­


    She suddenly leaned to his side, "You''ll be a great King, your highness, loved and feared by the lords and smallfolk alike" she whispered.


    He stared at her, waiting for her to get on with it.


    She looked mildly confused for an instant before smiling again "But you''ll need competent people to help you. King''s Landing will be full of treachery, but I''ve known my brother, Ser Garlan, since infancy, and he''s a talented fighter. As Lord Commander¡­" she trailed off as Joffrey kept staring at her, mouth open in shock.


    "Surely you don''t think I''m this stupid?" he enunciated very slowly.


    Before she could open her mouth Joffrey continued. "I''ve seen you do better than this Maergery, a lot better, so it''s definitively not a matter of skill¡­" he said almost to himself.


    "You really think I''m this vapid, this¡­ imbecilic!!!" he shouted suddenly. Maergery was eying her grandmother pleadingly, as if saying this wasn''t supposed to turn this way!


    Joffrey stood up, throwing his cup to the floor as he roared. "YOU PEOPLE KILLED MY BEST FRIENDS BARELY A MONTH AGO! AND YOU EXPECT ME TO DRINK UP THE PLATITUDES AND¡­ AND¡­ FUCKING START GIVING OUT SMALL COUNCIL SEAT!?" Joffrey roared, his face red in anger.


    "Surely you people didn''t think I was this stupid! This, spoiled! This Arrogant! So blind that with a few compliments I''d FALL ALL OVER YOU!?" he roared, furious. Angry with them, angry with himself.


    There was a heavy silence after that, and Joffrey seemed to deflate.


    "You really thought that, did you?" he asked no one in particular. "This¡­ this is why I leave Westeros¡­ its¡­ its just disappointing¡­" he said to himself as he strolled out of the feasting tent, were another King had dined barely a day ago.


    It was very late when he reached his tent and spent a while there, thinking about his first life and the person he had been¡­ the person he was.


    Had he really changed, after all these lives? Or were the Summer Knights right? He sat on his bed, hands over his face, feeling thoroughly hollow inside.


    He felt a dusty breeze flying above him, smelling of smoke, so he rose his head to tell the ''guards'' outside to close the tent flap.


    When he raised his head, he saw Stannis floating above the ground, his face a rictus of hate and anger, his body a shadowy smoke that was coiled upon itself, as if ready to strike. It was like looking at a distorted silhouette of Stannis, but twisted and corrupted, as if distilled into pure shadow.


    "S-S-S-S-Stannis?!" Joffrey stuttered, looking at the apparition from the hells.


    As soon as he looked at him, the figure extended an arm, fast as lightning as it punctured his heart with a muffled, shrilly scream. Joffrey felt a deep agony inside of him, as the pain seemed to multiply and spread throughout his whole being.


    "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH¡­." He screamed, clutching at his chest, his hands uselessly passing through the smoke that still had him pinned to his bed, right through his heart.


    The whole encounter between him first seeing the shadow and it disappearing soon after must have not been longer than 5 seconds. The shadow dissipated, and Joffrey felt to the ground, his face a twisted rictus of agony, eyes fixed.


    -.PD.-


    Thanks for the feedback and remember to comment!

 Chapter 16: Ants on a Stage.

    Liking the comments a lot guys! Here''s another one!-.PD.-


    Chapter 16: Ants on a Stage.


    Joffrey screamed as he woke up, flailing around in bed before puking his guts at the ground. "Oh Gods¡­. Oh gods¡­. Oh gods¡­" he hyperventilated, breathing faster each time.


    He was suddenly aware of the Hound awkwardly patting him in the back as he kept scanning the room, discarded long sword by the side.


    "Gods¡­ Sandor¡­ Stannis¡­ I can''t believe it, a freaking sorcerer¡­" Joffrey mumbled, shuddering at the memory of the horrible, agonizing pain that thing had inflicted. For a moment he thought he''d never wake up again.


    "It was just a dream, Prince Joffrey. Just a dream" the Hound said awkwardly as he retreated his hand and stood up, still looking around the room.


    "Sandor I¡­ right¡­ Ah..." he shook his head slightly.


    We fought and bled and laughed together, and he doesn''t remember anything¡­


    That thought threatened to make him cry again, but he closed his eyes tightly, pinching his hand and drawing blood.


    "Get me a ship, Hound, we depart for Oldtown at first light tomorrow" he told him as he steeled himself.


    This complicates things¡­ but if Stannis is some kind of sorcerer, wouldn''t he be able to help me with the purple? With my questions?


    He thought about that carefully.


    No, he wants me dead, and might even have the means to make it permanent. To approach him now would be folly. I''m not ready.


    He extended his arm to his left without looking, grabbing the whalebone tablet and examining it again.


    "I will have answers" he told it, pale green eyes hardening.


    It was time to stop fooling around.


    -.PD.-


    After the familiarly frustrating convincing session, which involved whispered words about ''making the eight as you did'' and the dubious term ''Fathuncle'', he had managed to get hold of a ship for Oldtown.


    The city looked the same, though the sea approach certainly had its allure, and it certainly made him see the Hightower in a different light.


    He''d been resorting to internal puns to get over the dark mood that had taken him¡­ he felt Tyrion would have given him a 5 out of 10.


    It was progress.


    His entry to the city was certainly less cheerful than it had been last time. Now it was just him and the Hound along a dozen redcloaks he was planning on ditching at the earliest opportunity. And then he could get to work.


    And this time he had a plan. It would take a while but¡­


    Joffrey felt he didn''t have the knowledge necessary to even understand, much less survive what was happening to him, and maybe the world. Whatever it was.


    Not only did he need clues, he felt he needed the background knowledge to understand what the hells he was doing. He would wipe the strain of imbecility that had made a rook in his head, all those years ago in his first life.


    The Summer Knights, Maergery, Tywin and all the plotter ''in the know'' could go to the hells.


    By the Gods, he would be as smart as Tyrion, even if it literally killed him.


    -.PD.-


    "Hold still, please don''t move" he said as he felt around the man''s sickly forehead, feeling the temperature by hand as he closed his eyes. They only had two of the precious glass thermometers here, and they were already in use.


    Definitively a fever, thought Joffrey as the man coughed and he rose the man''s simple knitted shirt. Red patches on the abdomen¡­ feels blinding headaches¡­


    He stood there for a moment, thinking as the man in the cot shuffled and mumbled indistinctly.


    He nodded as he quickly walked towards the Maester''s office. As he walked he passed several dozens of small cots, maybe half of them filled with people in various states of consciousness. The small ''hospital'' as he''d heard a few of the foreign sailors call it, was the City''s only source sanitation and health if you didn''t have the money to pay for a maester. The poorer smallfolk and other inhabitants of the city thought about the whole place in between suspicion and eternal gratitude, but the truth about the whole place was neither of those¡­ it was just practical.


    The Maesters and Acolytes needed a place to learn and earn their silver link without killing their patients¡­ or should it better be said, a place where such common fuck ups didn''t entail having to deal with a group of armed furious nobles demanding compensation.


    He stopped at the door as he tried to hide a smile. Normally the whole thing was supervised by a Maester or two, usually on punishment duty by the Seneschal''s court. They supervised the more advanced acolytes that worked-studied here and made sure the butchers bill wasn''t too high.


    That was normally though¡­


    He heard a muffled "Come in", after which he opened the door. This year however, in an incredibly surprising, almost unprecedented decision, Archmaester Ebrose the Healer, whose ring and rod and mask were made of silver, had announced he''d supervise the acolytes in the Hospital, aiding them in their training.


    And that was exactly what he''d done. Although he taught one particular, anonymous acolyte a lot more than the others, even taking him for private sessions, a rarity usually reserved for the brightest Maesters with years of experience. That particular acolyte had become a subject of heated controversy, envy and speculation throughout the Citadel.


    Joffrey suppressed a smirk as the gentle Archmaester received him with a sight, leaving his writing feather aside and moving the book he had been writing on to the side. He was writing a volume on the many different types of poisonous animals found in the coast of Sothoryios, continuing on his groundbreaking work regarding the scientific explanation of ''butterfly fever'', a type of nasty disease prevalent on one of the nearby islands.


    It was incredible what a mix of royal influence, piles of gold and promises of expeditions could do to an Archmaester hungry for the means to amass more knowledge. To reach such high levels in the Citadel, most of them had to be knowledge addicts, and the promise of Royal patronage was the perfect enabler to expand their horizons. Joffrey felt a bit guilty he''d never actually deliver on it.


    "So¡­ ''Joff''¡­ tell me, what are your conclusions?" he asked him as Joffrey sat in a chair in front of the old desk.


    "Diarrhea, cramps, dehydration¡­ it''s the Bloody flux¡­" said Joffrey as he stared at the ceiling, thinking hard. "I''d recommend¡­ milk of the poppy for the pain and an infusion of bark and ashrose for the infection. And a lot of water" he said.


    The Archmaester nodded as he wrote something down, a drawing of the body with several arrows pointing at sections of the stomach.


    "A good treatment indeed¡­ if it where the bloody flux. One must always make sure one does not omit the facts that don''t fit the explanation¡­ something all Acolytes should know" he rebuked him gently. Ebrose didn''t like the fact that Joffrey had jumped over all the years of junior acolyte training, but he didn''t bring it up all that much as he regarded Joffrey as some kind of healing genius, for someone who had never studied medicine before.


    Almost as if I''d spent two years studying under him before I got here, he thought, amused.


    No way was he going to train as a junior acolyte anyway. They were basically glorified servants for the senior Maesters.


    "The red rashes in the belly, along with the abdominal pains are enough for a different diagnostic. Typhoid Fever" said the Archmaester as he humbled Joffrey once more.


    With this one it''ll make three years I''ve studied under the Archmaester, and I still feel dwarfed by his knowledge. He thought as he shook his head. He was feeling he needed at least another two to be vaguely competent in the area, and he was going to do exactly that.


    Medicine was the first field he''d decided he needed to know thoroughly. After watching Jon die in his arms with not even an inkling of how to stop it¡­


    Well, experiences like that gave a powerful learning incentive.


    Joffrey concentrated again as they started to discuss common cures and palliatives for Typhoid Fever, and ways to make a more accurate diagnoses. He felt he was learning ten times as fast as he''d usually would reading a book, a testament to the skill and knowledge of the Archmaester. Getting him as, basically his private tutor, had been one of the smartest decisions he''d made.


    The fact that I''m immortal does not mean I can dally eternally, after all¡­


    Better to be efficient with his time. Besides, the faster he learnt about a field, the faster he could migrate to another in search of knowledge and clues about the tablet. Also, being trained by an Archmaester meant he was learning directly from the highest authority regarding that subject in the Citadel¡­ So not only was he learning faster than he should, the quality of said knowledge was also much higher than normal.


    ¡­Sometimes, the purple was worth it.


    As the lesson ended and Joffrey tried not to spontaneously combust because to the glares of the other acolytes, he walked out of the building and the Citadel in general. Grandmaester Ebrose had said he''d wait for him tomorrow at midday for their next lesson. After that, Joffrey usually would then spend the rest of the afternoon either relaxing in some manner or researching about the tablet. But not this time.


    He quickly turned an alleyway and disposed of the bulky acolyte robes as he never stopped walking.


    A harried acolyte came in from one end of the dark, murky alleyway, an armed sailor or mercenary came out the other. He was wearing hardy but confortable leathers, and carried both a sword and a dirk.


    Joffrey walked purposely until he reached the docks, quickly boarding a somewhat smallish cog. "The Captn''s on the deck!" shouted a grizzled old sailor who was missing an eye. As the 20 or so crewmembers of the Seatail stopped what they were doing and stood up in what could charitably be called respect, Joffrey stopped as he crossed his hands behind him, right beside the helm.


    Joffrey knew he couldn''t be trusted to run a ship, much less a kingdom, but the state of the ship and the crew he''d managed to get had assuaged his self-doubt. It was not as if he could do much worse, after all.


    The ship was old and weary, and the crew were a somewhat sorry lot, even more undisciplined than usual given that their nominal ''captain'' and purser, who looked more like a child than a seasoned sailor, never appeared more than once a month to pay them for doing absolutely nothing but taking up space in one of Oldtown''s piers.


    Until today, that is.


    Joffrey stood erect, legs slightly apart as he projected his voice to carry. If he''d tried this on Nakaro''s crew he''d be shitting his pants in nervousness, but with this lot¡­


    "Gentlemen, from this day forward you will actually earn what I''ve been paying you. I will brook no disrespect nor insolence aboard this ship. Work honestly to the best of your ability and you will hear no problems from me. Cross me however¡­ " he eyed the still sailors. "and you won''t like what happens" he ended.


    He let the silence extend a bit before barking to his left. "Chief Tobas"


    "Aye Captn''?" said the only loyal and competent man on the ship. "Get us out of the Harbor and set sail for the Free Cities"


    The man nodded, but seemed to hesitate, "Aye Capt''n¡­ but, we won''t be loading in any cargo?" he asked.


    Joffrey smiled "The cargo has just boarded. Besides what I carried in yesterday, that is" he said.


    The Chief nodded as he started giving out orders and whipping the crew into working order.


    Joffrey smirked as the harbor started to disappear over the horizon.


    Could have lasted two more months maybe, but better not risk it, he thought.


    I''m thinking¡­ Tyrosh for now. Been a while since I visited.


    After dedicating a dozen short lives to the problem, he''d turned adept at positively ransacking the treasury. He didn''t have a King''s ransom¡­ but he definitively had a princely one. One he used in part to have a personal ship waiting for him in Oldtown''s harbor ready to depart at a moment''s notice. It was both an insurance policy as well as a convenient way of moving around the Narrow Sea towards wherever he wanted regardless of trade routes and schedules.


    He took a deep breath, savoring the salty air. He stood beside the tiller, nodding at Chief Tobas as the man silently nodded back, moving slightly to the side and leaving space for Joffrey to take it.


    "Full sails! I want the deck secured and every scrap of cloth tacked on!" barked Joffrey, the sailors scrambling and making ready for the long voyage.


    Joffrey took another deep breath, letting his eyes close. Sandor¡­ After a while he couldn''t bare to look at him and receive the same old wary or disgusted look, instead of the slight smirk of a Broken Knight. He''d been dumping him for the last couple of lives, it was better that way¡­ he needed to be alone for a while.


    Just me and the sea¡­ me and the sea¡­


    -.PD.-


    He was in his cabin, puzzling over a book he''d ''loaned'' from the Citadel''s library. It spoke of the languages of Western Essos before the Valyrians conquered the whole place, and Joffrey was sure of one thing.


    It was not what he was looking for.


    He sighted as he leaned back on the chair that had been nailed to the deck, stretching his arms.


    A sudden knock startled him. "Yes?" he asked, already knowing the answer.


    "Its Chief Tobas Cap''n¡­ I think you need to see this¡­" said Chief Tobas, sounding urgent and nervous.


    "Right away Chief" said Joffrey, getting up and taking his arming sword.


    He opened the door to find Chief Tobas frequently looking down the wooden corridor, and before Joffrey could say a word, the Chief spoke quickly.


    "It''s the crew Cap''n, that sea scum Morron is stirring up things up and--"


    "It''s okay Tobas, follow me" he told him as he walked towards the main deck. The Chief nodded warily, following Joffrey with an iron cudgel.


    In the deck was Morron, a big sailor with strong arms that gesticulated wildly around 15 or so other sailors.


    "And the Captain thinks he knows what he''s doing? He can''t tell a reef from a whale! If we keep following his orders we''ll all--"


    "Ah, Seaman Morron" Said Joffrey as he stepped into the deck.


    I don''t have the patience for this¡­


    "And there he is! I''m lolligaging right now eh?! What are you--" Morron started again with an insolent smirk but was interrupted.


    "Come on, let''s do it Morron. Just you and me. You win, you get the ship and all the gold in the strongbox¡­ I''ll even give you the first move. What do you say?" asked Joffrey as he stood to the center and unsheathed his arming sword.


    Morron seemed taken aback, but his frown quickly turned thoughtful, before nodding and taking his big Arahk, a curved dothraki sword. "Alright then, this is it people!" he roared with happiness as if he could barely believe it. The sailors around him looked interested but not outright cheering, that was good.


    Morron wasted no time for that first strike. He boasted as he made a powerful slash at Joffrey "Time for a new Cap-Augh¡­"


    He looked down to see a small stab wound on his left armpit.


    Joffrey shook his head, standing behind him and staring down at the sailors. "Is there anyone else?" he asked, walking up and down the deck as Morron crumpled forwards as if his legs had turned to Jelly.


    Silence.


    "IS THERE ANYONE ELSE?!" he roared at the seamen. All of them were looking down, afraid.


    Joffrey turned back and gestured lazily with a hand "Toss him to the sea" he said as he made his way to his study.


    The last time he''d killed Morron he had worried about how easy it had become, just another stage in his exit strategy from the Seven Kingdoms, to kill a man again and again and not feel a thing for it.


    Now he was just angry the scum had cost him 10 minutes which would have been better spent reading. Though he supposed he was being uncharitable with the man, thanks to him the crew NEVER again even thought about a mutiny until the end of his current life.


    -.PD.-


    The paint splotched all over the small canvas, ruining all of Joffrey''s previous work. "Ah Fuck!" he muttered, staring sadly at the ruined painting.


    "Ah, a great loss Ser Joff, the paintbrush can be a fickle ally" Said Grolea as she quickly got out a new canvas for Joffrey.


    "I''m paying you to say that¡­" muttered Joffrey good naturedly. The painting had been crap anyway, barely better than Tommen''s stick knights which frequently appeared in between Grand Maester Pycell''s notes.


    The fact that he''d started at about the same level as him was a scant consolation.


    Joffrey was on top of one of the many big towers that adorned Tyrosh. Like many Free Cities, Tyrosh rose from the sea behind massive walls, and its lifeblood was commerce, as usual. Different from most of the free cities however, was the fact that its huge fortress walls were made of fused black dragonstone, incredibly strong and created using a technique long lost to man.


    There are many things that have been long lost to man, Joffrey mused as he let Grolea guide his hand through another canvas, pointing out why his corners always looked so messy.


    From here he could see the great Swann ships from the Summer Islands, purple sailed Braavosi galleys and even the rare Ibbenese Whaler. He always liked when one of those docked, he''d walk upon the deck like it were the most natural thing in the world and defy the crew (in Ibbenese of course) to a spear duel. It was good practice as well as a fun time, even though sometimes it ended with his split skull upon the hard wooden deck.


    He had been trying to paint the harbor with the help of his ridiculously expensive teacher, Grolea Kyrratas, an old widow whose husband had been a rich noble. Not content with seating in comfortable, decadent obscurity, Grolea had used part of the dead noble''s money to improve her skills and eventually run her own guild of dye makers. She made a killing in Tyrosh as the most renowned dye mixer, as most of the more reputable magisters, merchants and nobles paid her ludicrous amounts of gold for the finest of hair dyes, a necessity for a Tyroshi worthy as great as a King''s need for a crown, the more extravagant and rare the better.


    Painting was considered some kind of a lesser art here in Tyrosh, as they thought that wasting perfectly good colors on canvas instead of hair was simply bad form. Even so, the art had bloomed in the city thanks to the abundance and relative cheapness of the dyes (if you bought more closely to the harbor, that is), and painting had become somewhat of an accepted hobby, something Joffrey was keen to learn after remembering the cringe worthy diagrams and drawings of both backpack and bronze plaque he''d drawn for his mountain lives.


    He was slow, but he was making progress.


    The motto of my life, he thought irreverently.


    Sadly though, it was time to get back on track with his research. A year in the Citadel and a year relaxing from the intense schedule. That was the deal he''d made with himself, and he was going to honor it.


    He''d promised himself he''d be as smart as Tyrion, though he was realizing he''d be perfectly happy with half his intellect, but even that would require effort¡­ and a lot more time.


    It amused him to think that he literally didn''t know which one would come first, to be half as smart as Tyrion or to find a useful clue about the tablet.


    Stannis could offer a possible clue, but with time that option had turned incredibly reckless the more Joffrey thought about it. For all he knew Stannis had the magical means for killing him permanently, if he somehow guessed he was living multiple times.


    After all the time he''d spent alive, he didn''t think the prospect of that scared him as much as it used to, but the thought of dying permanently without knowing the reason behind his condition¡­


    No way.


    -.PD.-


    And so he sailed to his last stop, Braavos. Waste not, want not.


    Why kill himself if he could die just as well training his skills against other eager participants?


    And so he split what remained of his gold to the crew, giving Chief Tobas four times the normal share and the ship to boot. He''d then take his customary cider at the Moon Pool. At midnight he''d nod goodbye to the serving girl and step outside armed with his dirk. His knife fighting skills were terrible, and what better way to get them better than fighting for his life? Outside, against opponents that did this every night, he usually made it for half an hour before some Bravos took him down with a water dancing move that Joffrey couldn''t help but admire as pure art.


    And then it was back to the Citadel.


    -.PD.-


    The next flurry of lives, Joffrey felt, passed quite quickly. He distanced himself from people he''d known in other lives and dedicated himself full bore to his learning and research. And when not in the Citadel he''d either work on his hobbies or on a project to further his skill.


    He thought it was a bit pretentious, but in his mind he started to add maester links to himself. Obviously, he''d never be as good as a full blown Maester, but it gave him a small measure of satisfaction and fulfillment when he mentally added a link. First came silver, once Archmaester Ebrose considered him ''barely competent'' in the healing arts¡­ by his standards.


    Then came the study of mathematics and economics. He would have followed up with Magic, really, but he''d wasted a half a dozen lives trying to convince Archmaester Marwyn to take him in, but it was like talking to a mule¡­ worse, a cryptic mule. So that subject went to the end of the pile.


    And so, numbers without end. Archmaester Ryam, whose ring and rod and mask are yellow gold, practically jumped on the chance to teach the heir to the seven Kingdoms a skill he felt was indispensable.


    A task that almost left Joffrey in a coma. For all of the Archmaester''s passion for the subject, the incredibly dry and theoretical knowledge was a slog to get through. The Archmaester had not gotten there by being stubborn however, and soon managed to take the subject to a more practical, hands on experience which Joffrey, as usual, found a lot more informative and even fun.


    The Archmaester''s idea though¡­ Well, they did say that studying too intently at numbers could take a mind into interesting ways which would have otherwise remained closed.


    And so, Prince Joffrey, heir to the Seven Kingdoms and incognito fake Acolyte became Joff Rivers, small trader of goods. He set up shop in a cheap part of the harbor and entered the dubious realm of shopkeepers and traders. The thought of the heart attacks which would have spread through the Reach like the Pox if the Lords and Knights had learned of it would often send Joffrey into sudden giggle attacks, scaring away potential customers.


    From there, as he gained experience and the infinite books he''d read about the subject suddenly became grounded in real life, Joffrey evolved into a ship insurer, and later yet into a lender (by this point the nobility would have had their heads explode into wildfire instead of having heart attacks, had they known, to Joffrey''s eternal amusement).


    Here his knowledge of the ships and the sea synergized beautifully, and to his surprise he developed a bit of a reputation as one of the most competent and fair small ship insurers in the harbor. Archmeaster Ryam had to hold tears when he''d told him that, he said he''d be the greatest King the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.


    Shows what numbers do to your head! He thought, amused at the memory.


    He could also say with a certainty that the rune did not represent any kind of number be it ''real'' or theoretical, nor any foreign version of it known to the Citadel.


    -.PD.-


    After that, he studied under the gruff and heavy Archmaester Benedict, whose ring and rod and mask are pure Steel.


    In stark contrast to Archmaester Ryam, Benedict was absurdly hard to convince. Not out of any misplaced Noble idea about the impossibility of a prince learning to smith of all things¡­ No, Archmaester Benedict didn''t have the time nor the inclination to teach a complete novice the subtle art of blacksmithing.


    But Joffrey was nothing if not persistent.


    At first smithing was hell. He didn''t have the build for it, and Benedict pushed him recklessly forward. Two years he spent floundering about, struggling with the terse Archmaester. He spoke the bare minimum of words needed to get his meaning across, and his frequent huffs and grunts were even more difficult to decode than the Hound''s. It got so bad that Joffrey actually died in one of his Citadel years after accidently setting fire to the smithy.


    He had been on the verge of giving up when it all suddenly clicked. He realized he had been thinking about smithing and metal crafting the wrong way. He had been thinking about it as if it were Mathematics or Economics, a structured, orderly thing with clear rules and definite procedures.


    Most blacksmiths probably thought about their trade in the same way, but Archmaester Benedict didn''t.


    To him, blacksmithing was pure creation. He had long ago transcended the procedures, techniques and sketch plans other smiths or Maester''s of the trade used regularly. He had internalized them so hard he didn''t even think about them, to him the process of creating something in a smithy bared a much closer resemblance to painting or bone carving. A moment of pure creation were he saw the object he wanted in his mind (sometimes, other times he made things on the fly on pure intuition) and proceeded to create. Joffrey sometimes doubted the Archmaester saw what he was doing, so thick was the cloud in his eyes as he imagined what he wanted.


    Not that it mattered. Some of the things Benedict made would have had a Volantene Noble crying in reverence.


    That was the type of thinking the Archmaester had been trying to hammer into Joffrey.


    He didn''t make nearly such a good teacher as he was a blacksmith¡­


    Once Joffrey understood that, though, his rate of learning increased exponentially. Benedict gave him parchments with entire lists of books to read, books he sometimes had to read on his cool down years in the Free Cities, so hard and dense and numerous they were. They dealt with every possible theoretical approach to Metal working in general, ranging from geology to alloys to smithy types to the history of the art and of the first legendary Andal Ironsmiths.


    On the Archmaester''s personal workshop however, theory gave way to creation, and Joffrey spent months upon months trying to embrace the Archmaester''s way of thinking.


    He thought he''d been only partially successful, but even if he never used those skills again he''d never forget that feeling of deep concentration and timeless transcendence which he sometimes managed to access, a feeling he had only felt before in a fight, but this time he used to create.


    Since then he''d occasionally managed to enter that elusive state when painting or carving in wood or bone, and that was a gift from Benedict he''d never be able to repay.


    He made swords, scabbards, axes, daggers and all manners of armor. He made a beautiful battleaxe he was sad he''d never be able to give it to Tyrion personally, and a helmet for the Hound that sported a tongue lolling Ghost instead of the usual dog.


    He''d still sent them to King''s Landing with a rider, but he''d never see their reactions.


    One day he realized with a start that Archmaester Benedict entered that timeless state every time he made something.


    Every. Time.


    It was then he understood why all the Acolytes who were interested in a steel link spoke in reverent awe of the steel masked Archmaester.


    Now there was man worthy of Respect.


    Sadly, the rune did not symbolize any element known to the Citadel, nor any signature from any smith or metal worker known to them.


    -.PD.-


    Next came what should have been an obvious first choice in hindsight. History.


    Archmaester Perestan, the historian, whose ring and rod and mask are copper, was his teacher. He was soft spoken and a wonderer, a born teacher whose private lectures with Joffrey frequently morphed into exhilarating but accurate stories of war and loss, battles and peace, migrations and extinctions. He learned about the methods the Maester used to learn about things which no mortal being had seen, methods to decode languages long lost to man.


    He learned about the fanatical Andals and their drive, the First Men and their ancient traditions.


    He dreamt about the Giants and the Children of the Forests, of the War for Dawn and the Age of Heroes, of Dragons and Volcanoes and Ash and Doom.


    He mused about Kings and Knights, Zealots and Wisemen, Ambitious Lords and Willy Villagers.


    He often dreamt of Andal Warrior monks with the Rune carved into their chests, and of fierce legions of dragon riders tracing its elusive patterns over the air¡­


    But neither in Westeros nor in Valyria had there ever been a trace of it, or if it had, it had long been lost to time.


    -.PD.-


    He often took years off to both consolidate his knowledge and blow off steam in more different ways.


    He''d found something interesting one time. He''d been scaling the northern mountains of the Westerlands, following and expanding some of the old routes which Jaime Hill and his Maester friend had prospected more than a hundred years ago. He''d scaled through steep hills and craggy mountain trails, venturing further into the northern mountains than anyone within living memory. He''d been putting his historical and geological knowledge to practical use as he searched for the theoretical home of Lann the Clever, the founder of his House.


    And after months of detours and almost fatal moments, he believed he''d finally found it, or at least something which must have looked like pretty much the same. An ancient community of small villages, using construction styles that screamed First Men and spoke a variant of the Old Tongue, a language which Joffrey had the rudimentary basics of.


    After almost getting killed by an arrow, he''d been welcome as a long lost cousin by the villagers, whose lifestyle, it seemed, had not changed significantly for thousands of years. The ancient First Men guest rights certainly had not, judging by the way they kept pumping him with food.


    It was a bit uncanny, like finding out you had a dozen cousins all similar to you but subtly changed. They had a sarcastic and dry sense of humor which somewhat reminded him of Tyrion, to his eternal confusion.


    Surely bloodlines can''t be that strong?!


    Oh, and they were also all blond.


    Some of the interesting finds had been puzzling, though. He had found old, big disused stone pads with altars, something that, when he quizzed the village Elder, he''d been told had been used to ''Commune with the Lions''. He couldn''t understand more than that, and unfortunately for him the Lions that had apparently prowled through the valley were long extinct.


    A shame. It would have been interesting to see some kind of sacrifice to a Lion Spirit. He thought the First Men worshipped the nameless spirits through the Weirwoods only, but you couldn''t learn everything from a book, he guessed.


    The other find had been a curious black monolith, built from a black stone not too dissimilar to the Volantene Black Walls, though the Obelisk''s stone was somewhat darker and lacked the elaborate decorations such Valyrian constructions usually boasted .


    Assuming all this was not part of an elaborately practical Lann joke, they said that the obelisk had been there since basically forever, and that there had even been more of them, spread everywhere from village centers to forgotten caves, though only this one remained that they knew of.


    The thing looked very eroded, weathered and scratched. Time and climate had taken its toll from it.


    From the way it looked however, Joffrey was pretty confident it had, sometime in history, been smooth. Though whatever may have been carved or painted there or not was now lost to time.


    Joffrey''s eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets when he stabbed the thing with his steel climbing rake and the tool snapped in half. An hour of rushed improvised stress testing later (which would have had Archmaester Benedict trying to kill for his lack of thoroughness), yielded a combined total of a broken sword, knife, multitude of rakes, and a lot of teared out blond hair.


    Joffrey could say with certainty the thing was hard.


    Unless a team of very bored First Men siege masters had stood there for a decade or five pounding it with a battery of catapults, Joffrey felt it was safe to say that the thing had eroded with time.


    That was the thing though¡­


    Unless Archmaester Casto''s Tin mask was a forgery and he''d taught Joffrey anything but geology¡­


    Taking in mind the apparent strength of the material and an average for yearly wind and sand erosion¡­


    He shook his head. Impossible.


    He got out parchment and quill, annotating furiously on the ground next to the silent, tattered obelisk.


    He calculated this thing must be at the very least a hundred thousand years old, heck, only musing with the calculations and taking so many shortcuts Archmaester Ryam would kill himself, he could see that a fair average would be at least more than amillion years!


    A million years!?


    Impossible.


    Forget about the Valyrians, heck forget about the Children of the Forest. The Wall was not even a gleam on Bran the Builder''s grandfather when this thing was built.


    He walked slowly away from it, regarding it with heart stopping awe.


    "Who the fuck built you¡­?" Joffrey whispered.


    And why?


    -.PD.-


    He had decided to continue with his plan, but that heart stopping revelation haunted him all the same, sometimes when he took a bath, or sometimes in half remembered dreams. Not a single Maester or Archmaester in the citadel believed his claims, but Archmaester Ryam had validated his calculations and placed the final verdict on the date of emplacement, if not construction, of the thing.


    Assuming it had spent most of its time there, and accounting for possible errors on his testing of the general fortitude of the obelisk and changing weather patterns, the figure ranged realistically from five hundred thousand years old to a million and a half.


    Frankly, he didn''t know what to do with that knowledge, so he let it settle inside his head for a while.


    With time, his research into the tablet had fallen unto a firm second priority, as Joffrey became more and more entranced and flabbergasted by the whole world that existed within the Citadel. He''d never, in his most deluded of dreams, thought that the world was such an enormous place. Not in the physical sense, but in terms of sheer knowledge, of how things worked and were done and were thought about. An expanse to explore both outside but also within one.


    The wanderlust that had become one of Joffrey''s driving ideals ever since his talks with Lord Stark under Winterfell''s Heart Tree was now pointed inwards as well as outwards. He craved to know the ways things worked, to experience not only a different place or location, but to grasp different ways of thinking itself.


    He was drunk with knowledge, and he wasn''t going to let it go anytime soon.


    -.PD.-


    He spent more time than he should have on Astronomy. For very valid reasons, or that was what he told himself anyway.


    Archmaester Vaellyn, called "Vinegar Vaellyn" by many, whose ring and rod and mask are bronze, had been quite pleasant to his surprise. Widely renowned as the Citadel''s maximum authority on both stargazing and acid, personally devastating tongue lashings, the Archmaester had suddenly stopped with the cutting remarks when Joffrey offered to commission the biggest Myrish Far-Eye a ship could carry when he were King.


    It was as if another person had taken control of Vaellyn. All of a sudden his eyes had glittered with an inner light Joffrey suspected the man had last experienced decades ago. He seemed younger too, as he animatedly taught Joffrey about Stars and Constellations, about small planets and gigantic moons, and about how Planetos itself was just one of a dozen other ''celestial objects'' that orbited the sun.


    Vaellyn skipped and hummed to his duties, and greeted both Acolytes and fellow Archmaesters with a wave and a smile. So incredible was the shift that some Acolytes whispered that Archmaester Marwyn ''the mage'' had possessed him, in revenge from previous slights.


    It made Joffrey so guilty to see the man so changed over a simple far eye he''d never see that he vowed he would, in some future life, commission a Far Eye so big the Ibb-Wogan would have to carry it to Oldtown''s harbor.


    He traced ''orbits'' around ''The Courtyard'', a big underground building where Maesters who studied the heavens drew shapes and forms on the very floor, using chalk out of all things. He learnt the constellations by memory and learned how to use a far eye himself.


    They used the Observatory to watch the heavens, or the Hightower itself once every three months when its beacon was refurbished and there was no light nearby to spoil the observations. The Myrish far eyes the Archmaester used were not very big, but to call the experience magnificent would have been an understatement.


    To think that other stars were suns themselves, and that each sun probably hosted another dozen worlds, worlds were maybe other people lived¡­


    But that left even more questions. How far where they? Did other people live regularly on other planets, or were they a rarity? What was up there in the black space between the stars? Could a sufficiently strong dragon take one to other worlds?


    The more he learnt, the more the questions popped up, a kind of runaway cycle that paradoxically kept making Joffrey feel more ignorant and incompetent the more he studied!


    Why did everything work this way? The motion and the rotation? The light and the dark? Why did the sun even shine?!


    He begun to have many a sleepless night, pondering almost in despair about how to stop this cycle of ignorance and uncertainty.


    But the harder he tried to understand, the less he actually did!


    One night high atop a dark Hightower, him and the Archmaester had been quietly using the Far Eyes and annotating small notes when the questions had reached some kind of event horizon, making him raise his head from the Far Eye and look at the sky with the naked eye.


    Why do they move like that? Where did it all come from anyway?!


    Why? Why? Why?


    So many questions¡­ and Archmaester Vaellyn, the most renowned scholar of the skies within Westeros and probably the known world didn''t know!


    He didn''t know!!!


    And Lords and Kings and Knights¡­ playing the game¡­ the absurd game¡­


    By the Old Gods and the New, we are all like ants on a stage so big, so huge the combined thinking might of the freaking Citadel can''t even find out how far our own sun is from us, much less its nearest neighbor!!!


    Joffrey had stumbled backwards with the force of that thought, eyes wide.


    Not even its nearest neighbor! And some maesters think there are stars so dim or faraway that we cant even see! Like someone trying to stand atop a table on Ib and trying to see the beacon atop the Hightower!


    He''d thought he''d seen the world? He''d thought he''d known something about how things worked?


    We know nothing¡­


    I know nothing¡­


    I know nothing¡­¡­!!!


    The revelation had hit him like a runaway mine cart. Forget about the purple, right in front of him was a mystery far greater! A mystery that everybody was experiencing!


    He''d sat back down on a chair, mouth wide as Archmaester Vaellyn cracked a rare, knowing smile.


    Even with all his lives¡­ even him was nothing, absolutely nothing in front of the heart stopping grandiosity and infinity that surrounded them. He felt almost as if he were dying, a slow certitude that grew as he kept imagining himself from a faraway vantage point. A faraway vantage point that grew and grew and grew until not even the familiar landmass of Westeros could be seen, until not even Planetos, not even the sun could be spotted, lost in a sea of fellow stars.


    He suddenly realized he was crying.


    Instead of making him feel depressed, the thought filled him humility and sheer gratitude at being able to understand for even a second¡­ of being able to understand a truth far grander and beautiful than claims and bastards¡­ than Kings and Kingdoms¡­


    Than pain and hate.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey was drinking tea, eyes fixed on the floor as he sent the scalding liquid down again and again with each sip, not caring a wit about the burning pain.


    They were in a small cellar below the Far Eyes which House Hightower had donated to the Citadel.


    Sitting beside him in his own chair was Archmaester Vaellyn, drinking his own tea at a much more sedated pace, his face looking even younger as he smiled wistfully.


    "I thought it would take a while longer¡­" said the Archmaester, reclining slightly in his seat.


    Joffrey looked at him, his eyes vaguely lost. "When¡­ did you¡­?" he asked, hands cupped around the hot cup as he blinked rapidly, trying to digest the experience.


    Vaellyn smiled fondly as he looked up in nostalgia. "Many decades ago¡­ it was at the end of a long week where I had slept a grand total of¡­ must have been a single hour each day, rushing like a stereotypical Acolyte to finish the assignment old Archmaester Varros had given us, something I should have been working on for the entire year" he took a sip from his tea as he looked fondly at Joffrey.


    "I had almost forgotten it, but seeing you right now has brought back the memory like it had been yesterday¡­" he whispered, eyes far into the past. "After a nonstop week of research and study with barely a moment of rest, I was seeing constellations in the cobblestones" he said with a sudden laugh.


    "After handing in the assignment I shambled towards the private apartments my House had provided me with. I was so exhausted and delirious that when I turned around a corner and bumped into a man with a small lamp, I shrieked in terror and fell on my bum, convinced for a moment that the lantern was a distant sun that had descended upon Planetos to burn me to a crisp" he said, eyes filled with mirth.


    "That''s when you realized¡­?" asked Joffrey.


    "Nono, oh no... I was so out of it I couldn''t have recognized a friend, much less a worldview shattering revelation. No, it was after I crumbled atop my bed and slept for a whole day when it happened. I dreamt I was studying atop the observatory when suddenly a force seemed to pick me up, carrying me upwards at an incredible velocity, in a few seconds I saw first Oldtown, then Westeros and finally Planetos drifting far beyond my eye could see, I passed the constellations and all the stars whose name I had memorized, and then I kept rising and rising and rising¡­ until it was as if there was no part of me left to rise any more, it was as if, for a second, I had-"


    "Died" whispered Joffrey. "Really died" he repeated.


    "It''s interesting you would call it that. When I woke up¡­ well, it was difficult to see the world the same as I had before¡­ An old Archmaester, Garthon, a man renowned for his studies both into the mind and the skies, long dead before even the first Blackfyre rebellion, even coined a term for the feeling. Me-Death, he called it" said Vaellyn, taking another sip from his cup.


    They spent a while like that, in companionable silence.


    "Did you pass the assignment?" suddenly asked Joffrey.


    "No. They had me on punishment duty for months" said the Archmaester with a fond smirk.


    "Ha! What, cleaning the Far Eyes?" said Joffrey.


    Archmaester Vaellyn looked at him, scandalized. "Are you insane? We never let the Acolytes approach them unsupervised. They had me cleaning the brushes used to clean the Far Eyes!"


    Joffrey just stared at him.


    Then bursted out laughing.


    -.PD.-


    He''d been studying architecture of all things when it happened.


    He''d been studying under Archmaester Guyne, reading about the ancient architectural styles of Westeros.


    The section had been about the Hightower and its origins¡­ and Joffrey had been fighting the yawns for at least 2 hours.


    He shook his head and kept reading.


    ''¡­even then, the origins of the Hightower''s foundations remain a mystery. The only other sample of the sigil (see drawing below) I''ve been able to observe has been in the Imperial City, in the Empire of Yi Ti of all places. To the date of writing, I haven''t found more examples of them, and the Yitish seem incredibly secretive of them.


    The Wall has a much cleaner footprint, clearly the work of Bran the Builder or the group of architects that became known as him through history, the--''


    Joffrey froze, and looked back at the sigil.


    "Oh gods¡­" he said as he took out his whalebone tablet.


    He compared the drawing and the tablet¡­


    They were not the same. But they were clearly, clearly part of the same language or code.


    Holy shit.


    The Hightower.


    Yi-Ti.


    "ARCHMAESTER GUYNE!!!!" he shouted as he sprinted out of the library, the eyes of fifty other pissed off Acolytes following him.


    -.PD.-


    Archmaester Guyne, whose ring and rod and mask are red gold, had been touring him through the bowels of the Hightower, speaking about First Men architecture when Joffrey had suddenly asked.


    "Archmaester, the foundations of the Hightower are made of fused black stone, right?"


    The old man had taken a moment to process the question, before nodding. He was a bit like Pycell, only actual, useful knowledge came out after each pause "Indeed. The nature of the black stones in general and their construction technique has been a mystery many have tried to unravel, with no luck. The Hightower''s foundations are an even more vexing dilemma, since its style of construction seems older than other traditional Valyrian styles, and lacking any kind of ornamentation¡­ well, almost any kind" he''d said, voice slow and filled with knowledge.


    Joffrey had perked up at what he''d said in the end. "Almost?" he asked.


    The venerable Archmaester blinked. "Well, few outside those with a red gold link know about it, but the Hightower''s foundations have foundations of their own, even blacker and older than the rest. It''s impossible to traverse because most of the tunnels have collapsed with time, but there is one small chamber which still stands" he said with a slow shrug.


    All the bells of King''s Landing were tolling inside of Joffrey''s head.


    "And there''s were the ornament is?!" he asked hurriedly.


    The Archmaester took a painfully long time to answer, taking in a bit of air.


    "Well, yes. Its nothing too spectacular, most of it has eroded, but--"


    "Please take me there Archmaester Guyne! It''s of paramount importance! At once!!!" he nearly shouted.


    The Archmaester blinked.


    "¡­I suppose there is no trouble with that" he said as he turned, agonizingly slow towards the stairs.


    -.PD.-


    The labyrinth like maze of tunnels grew even wilder and more tattered the deeper they went. The Archmaester had to open three different iron gates with his keys, before he opened the last one and Joffrey dashed forward with an oil lamp.


    The stone seemed to drink up the light, so dark it was. Joffrey was surrounded by black, eroded walls, all torn with the passage of time. The room must have been 10 meters across, and 2 in height.


    The stone¡­ its very similar to the obelisk¡­ Maybe even the same¡­


    The Archmaester''s light from his own lamp gradually joined Joffrey, and both of them stared at one of the walls.


    It had nothing.


    "Archmaester¡­ are you sure the ornament was here?" asked Joffrey dubiously, doubting the quality of the man''s memory as he took a closer look at one of the corners.


    YES!


    There it was, a faded twirl, almost completely gone, in a completely non intuitive spot for something so important to Joffrey. It was a bit more square like, with fewer dots surrounding it and smaller in general. It didn''t look like his, though he supposed it might have, a long time ago¡­ if you squinted hard enough¡­


    Archmaester Guyne seemed to take a moment to get his thoughts in order as he frowned in hard recollection. Joffrey rejoined him at the center of the room and was about to tell him he''d found it, when the Archmaester spoke.


    "Hmm¡­ ah! Yes! Look up dear ''Joff'', one of the last whispers from an ancient past" he said.


    Joffrey looked up.


    Centered at the middle of the room, carved upon the ceiling, was a face.


    The man or boy was scratched and eroded, but some things were noticeable. His mouth was open in some kind of tormented agony, so opened his mandible must have been about to pop. He was suspended in some kind of substance which seemed dense, by the way its contours had been chiseled. Only an arm and a leg from the man could be seen above the dense stuff, but they were twisted, almost twisting upon themselves.


    The boy''s face was what caught the attention though. The opened mouth, the exaggerated eyes, the way his neck seemed to twist and collapse upon itself as the purple consumed him from the inside out¡ª


    Joffrey felt his feet go out from under him as he fell on the ground, hyperventilating, taking a breath every second.


    His tendons stretched and cut, his legs twisting in an agony of pure pain.


    "Ah, it''s been known to have that effect on people. ''Man in the Sea of Despair'', they call it. Legends used to say the whole room was covered in more carvings and symbols" said the Archmaester, oblivious.


    Joffrey stumbled up, seeing the black walls spin faster and faster, full of artfully crafted frescos of Joffrey tumbling in the purple forever¡ª


    "I''VE GOT TO GET OUT!!!" he screamed as he run through the tunnel, smashing and crashing against sharp stones and remains, the long hallways stretching to infinity and never ending¡ª


    Before he emerged from the oppressive darkness, stumbling to the floor and screaming.


    He took in lungful''s of air, arms clutching his stomach.


    ¡­


    Red leaves under the Heart Tree¡ªgentle bumping of branches¡ªwarmth of the roots---


    ¡­


    Slowly, he got back control of himself.


    His breathing became regular again.


    It''s impossible¡­


    ¡­it can''t be me.


    IT CANT BE ME.


    -.PD.-


    -------


    Cliffhangers MoFos! Do you speak it!?


    S~?a??h the ???el F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 17: Red and Black and Purple.

    Ahh its finally done! Definitively got longer than I thought. Please Remember to Comment!-----


    Chapter 17: Red and Black and Purple.


    He visited the Hightower''s foundations ten more times, spent months studying the carving by day and having terrifying nightmares by night¡­ and there was not a single extra clue.


    Not a single one.


    There was only the carving of a man or boy lost in what had to be the purple, though Joffrey was uncertain if it was supposed to represent be him, another person, or simply a symbolical placeholder.


    Whatever the answer was, one thing was clear. He shared, in some form he didn''t know yet, a connection with the ones who built the obelisks and the deepest bowels of the Hightower¡­. But whatever the carvings were supposed to mean or represent had been long lost to time¡­ so much time¡­


    The book''s author had said that the only other place where he''d seen a similar mark had been in the Golden Empire of Yi-Ti¡­ in its Capital City.


    Without even realizing it he had spent much more time than he should have studying the carving¡­. Far too long.


    The Tyrells were flipping Oldtown over, trying to find him.


    King Robert had died a couple of days ago.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, enjoying the seaward breeze from the top of the Hightower.


    He could already hear the pounding steps, getting progressively louder. It had only been a matter of time before House Hightower put 2 and 2 together and sent people up to get him¡­


    Not that he cared... There was nothing left for him in Oldtown.


    He stood at the top of the Hightower, looking as the sun slowly hid under the Sunset Sea, its orange light gradually diminishing.


    He took another look at the Whalebone tablet, staring at it with his whole being.


    "Is the answer in Yi-Ti?" he asked it softly as the wind picked up and the pounding footsteps crashed through a nearby door.


    The incredibly complicated rune stared back at him, silent.


    "Prince Joffrey! In the name of King Renly--" said a Knight, surrounded by a group or armsmen, but Joffrey didn''t hear them, he had only eyes for the tablet.


    He breathed in the sharp sea smell that reached him even here atop the Hightower, and closed his eyes.


    I will have answers.


    "Prince Joffrey!? Wh--"


    The voices faded away as he fell forwards, gravity accelerating him incredibly as he fell and fell and fell. Just as he heard the waves crashing against the sharp rocks of Battle Isle, the purple claimed him.


    -.PD.-


    Up¡­


    Down¡­


    Up¡­


    Down¡­


    The chainmail jingled at each repetition, as Joffrey hanged upside down from the tall closet, raising his head as if to touch his knees and then dropping down to his hanging position again.


    Faster, he thought as the sun kept retreating, slowly darkening the room.


    He doubled his pacing, chainmail jingling franticly and punctuated by his short, staccato breaths.


    Tock-Tock.


    Joffrey stopped.


    "Yes?" he asked, sweat pouring up his forehead to his hair and into the ground.


    "Prince Joffrey, its¡­ your Father¡­ there''s been a hunting accident" Said the Hound''s voice, slightly more sympathetic than usual.


    ¡­Its time, he thought.


    "I''ll be right there" he said. He grabbed the closet''s upper end, where his knees were tucked, and let his knees go. They fell towards his torso, carrying it with their inertia as Joffrey flipped and let his hands go. He landed crouched on the floor, his body completely covered in a sheen of sweat. All around him and discarded around the room were books and tomes, most of them related to the East, the Jade Sea¡­ and the Empire of Yi-Ti.


    Too soon¡­ I thought I''d have more time¡­ he thought as he took off the chainmail and put on a simple cloth shirt, with a small lion pin on the chest to make up for the lack of noble pomposity.


    He dried himself and took a long drink from the goblet on his desk, letting the water cool him from the inside out.


    Fate has a habit of rushing me at the worst of times¡­ There''s no more time left¡­


    It''ll have to do, he thought with a nod to himself. Plan B will have to do¡­


    He strode out of his room at a brisk pace, up two sets of stairs and through the Red Keep''s various hallways. He stopped in front of Robert''s chambers, which were flanked by Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Boros Blunt, two very fitting examples of Robert''s legacy, he thought.


    They opened the door immediately, "He''s inside My Prince" said Greenfield.


    Inside the room, on the bed was King Robert Baratheon, pale and sweating like the pig which had gutted him. By his side and a bit to the back were Tommen and Myrcella, crying and holding on to Mother for dear life. When Cercei saw him she extended a hand, trying to console him and holding back crocodile tears, but Joffrey batted her hand away as he walked straight towards Robert.


    "Joffrey¡­" mumbled Robert when he saw him. "I''ve never¡­ been a very good Father to you¡­ I¡­" he struggled to say, but Joffrey shushed him.


    "I know, Father. I know¡­ it''s not your fault¡­ it was not your fault" he murmured as he discreetly opened one of his bandages a bit, evaluating the wound. Robert looked a bit confused as he gazed at Joffrey, blinking heavily. He slowly petted Robert''s forehead, removing a few of the sweat drenched tufts of hair and feeling his forehead for fever. "You were never meant for the Game Father¡­ you were meant to ride and hunt and laugh free of the plotters and the backstabbers¡­" Joffrey muttered without thinking, feeling the searing heat on Robert''s forehead. "But you will do it soon¡­ you''ll dream of riding and feasting and hunting" his voice hitched as he tried to feel Robert''s slow pulse by his wrist, "¡­and no one will seek to make you what you never wanted to be¡­ you''ll be free" Joffrey muttered as he finally stepped back, his mind in the midst of diagnosis, not noticing the small pinpricks of water on the corners of his eyes.


    Joffrey nodded to himself as he finished. Robert was now sleeping, his form slowly rising and falling with each breath.


    The infection will have claimed him by tomorrow at dusk¡­ but¡­


    He turned to Robert''s nightstand, and lifted a small milky vial.


    Way too much milk of the poppy¡­ and Pycell will up the dosage again, no doubt¡­


    He''ll be dead by the hour of the owl...perfect timing for a deep night coup.


    He sighted sadly as he scratched the annoyingly small blond stubble on his chin, thinking.


    "What''s the matter? Where is the King?!" almost shouted the voice of Ned Stark. Boros Blount responded immediately as if rehearsed, "The King is very tired, my Lord Hand and--"


    "Let Lord Stark in, Ser Boros" said Joffrey without looking as he left the vial back on the nightstand.


    Ned passed by the startled Ser Boros quickly. Robert seemed to rise from the dead as he woke up at the name, a bit of his old daredevil personality came back at the sight of his oldest friend. "Ned! Come¡­ come here¡­ everyone out! I need to speak alone!" he said as he struggled to lift himself, quickly failing and leaning on the bed again.


    "Robert, you need to be with your children right now, wh-" Mother tried as always, but Robert was having none of that.


    Joffrey walked out before he was unceremoniously kicked, and quick walked towards the kitchens, not wasting a second.


    The servants were very startled when he appeared on the enormous kitchen. They were rushing to finish this night''s meal for the inhabitants of the Red Keep. Joffrey scanned the room for a moment until he found the face he wanted. He didn''t address him in any way however, he spoke out loud at seemingly all the servants and cooks.


    "I need a plate of greatwood deer, as soon as possible" he told them. The servants were a bit nonplussed at that, and some were nodding and turning (probably to go to King''s Landing''s trapper''s market) when one of the servants stepped forward.


    "Ahh¡­ m''prince¡­ would you want it rare or¡­ medium?" he asked.


    "Blue rare¡­ hells I need it raw" he said, dead serious.


    "R-raw?" he asked, a bit shocked. The other servants were cringing at the Royal questioning¡­ or alternatively giving the man looks of pity.


    Joffrey nodded "Like right now" he said. "ah.. of course m''prince" he said as he bowed and left. The other servants looked at his retreating back with restrained anger, but unwilling to berate his recklessness in front of the Prince.


    "That will be all" he said as he turned back the way he came from. He almost ran to his room, but managed to contain it to a brisk walk.


    When he finally made it to his room, he quickly packed all the books into a long backpack which he slung across his back, followed by a few gold bags, his arming sword and finally a dagger on his belt. He walked out quickly, the night now completely dark except for the occasional lanterns or torches.


    He almost crashed against the Spider when he turned a corner.


    "L-lord Varys?" he asked, a bit started.


    "Ah, Prince Joffrey. Allow me to convey my deepest sympathies for your Father''s accident" he said, the kind man act making him look even more dangerous. "Yes yes, I thank you my lord" he said as he tried to edge to the side of his enormous body.


    "So much haste¡­ one would think the Queen''s fear of her son''s lust for adventure might be justified¡­" he said as if to himself.


    "What are you talking about?" Joffrey said dangerously, turning back to look at the Spider.


    "Oh I am but a spectator in all this family drama¡­ but let me just say that the Queen has been very worried about her son''s frequent¡­ hobby in Blackwater Bay¡­ and that she has taken certain measures to ensure her son stays safely in the Red Keep until the recent intrigues quiet down¡­" said the spider.


    Joffrey stopped and thought for a second before rushing to a nearby window and looking out at the courtyard. Sure enough, out there by the gate was a contingent of Redcloaks commanded by a white cloak, he couldn''t tell which, surrounding the gate¡­ and if the Spider talked truly, keeping an eye out for him.


    Fuck¡­ how did Mother guess?!


    ¡­ Must have shown a bit too much enthusiasm when talking about my little ''pleasure trips'' in the Blackwater¡­


    "Of course, sometimes even builders can get sloppy¡­ alternative passages can get forgotten by all but the most alert of individuals¡­" the Spider continued knowingly.


    Joffrey understood immediately. He was nowhere near close to Tyrion but he had learned a thing or two¡­ "What do you want in return?" he asked him. The Spider just shrugged, spreading his white palms out, "Absolutely nothing" he said.


    "You''d help me¡­ for nothing?" he asked, nonplussed at the breach of etiquette in the game.


    Varys just nodded magnanimously, and Joffrey frowned. No one played like that. "What is your angle in all of this, Varys? I can''t decide whether you want the Kingdoms to burn to the ground or raised to the pinnacle of what they could be¡­" he asked him.


    "I am but a servant of the Kingdoms, my Prince. I do what I must" he said as he leaned forward and whispered close. "Behind the cupboard in the old kitchens, below the White Sword Tower¡­ follow the caverns and a small cog will be waiting for you" he said.


    Joffrey stood still for a second as he processed that. He nodded. "Thank you Lord Varys, that will do nicely" he said as the spider nodded back and kept walking amiably.


    What does he get out of this¡­


    He shook his head as he went down a flight of stairs. No time to think about the Spider''s motivations¡­


    He walked out of Maegor''s Holdfast, but instead of taking the route for the sword tower, he took a turn towards the inner courtyard, walking through the serpent steps.


    I''ll thank the spider for the tip in some other life, but there''s no way in hells that I''m boarding a ship whose crew he''s bought and paid for. For all I know they''ll slit my throat in that cavern for a bag of gold.


    Besides, I''ve worked too hard for this to go to the crapper.


    He stopped when he heard the sound of fighting, and quickly took cover behind a couple of barrels. Right to his side was the Tower of the Hand, filled with the stench of death. Outside were six Redcloaks, looking about alertly, surrounded by dead Stark men. One of the Greycloaks was crawling towards the barrels, but a Redcloak stepped over him and pierced his back with his sword.


    Shit, things are moving too fast¡­ Robert must be dead already.


    Between my mother''s orders and the frequent fighting¡­


    Fuck, there''s no way I''m making it through the front gate¡­


    Not until tomorrow when things calm down a bit and I''m King, but that opens a whole other sack of shit¡­ and nine times out of ten I can''t leave the Red Keep as King without raising a hell of a show. And that''s without even thinking about something unexpected¡­ after Robert dies anything can happen, for all I know Loras was visiting with 300 Tyrell armsmen and Renly is now forming a strike force at Baelor''s Sept.


    No, I''ve got to bug out now.


    That means¡­


    It was time for plan C.


    Shit¡­ well¡­ can''t live forever, he thought to himself in mild, alarmed amusement.


    He kept peeking through between two barrels, and sighted angrily as a bunch of Redcloaks manhandled Sansa and Arya out of the tower. Arya was white as a sheet, clearly in shock, while Sansa was crying as she kept trying to look back. Her face was streaked by tears and her gown was partly torn up. She stumbled a bit as she tripped over a dead Greycloak, but the Redcloak behind her brutally dragged her by the arm, her legs dragging through the ground for a moment before she found her footing again.


    Joffrey tensed his muscles as if ready to leap, hand on his dagger.


    They''re one-two¡­ five of them, ambush the left one and cut his throat, then dash forward¡ª


    He shook his head. Wowowow¡­ clam down damnit, he thought as he took a deep breath. As angry¡­ as furious as he was with the handling of the Stark girls, intervening would get him nowhere.


    He took another calming breath as they carried them to Maegor''s holdfast. After a few minutes the rest of the Redcloaks walked out of the Tower, carrying a few other dead or wounded comrades back to their barracks.


    He checked both sides of the courtyard¡­ there was no one else at this hour, and the quarter-moon was low on the horizon far west towards Oldtown, giving minimum light and plenty of shadows for Joffrey to hide in.


    The tower of the hand was actually perfect for the next phase, now that he thought about it¡­ He would have to carry on and hope his plan worked, because there was no plan D.


    He left his long backpack on the floor and dashed inside, ignoring the dead corpses of Ned''s personal guard. He quickly ran up the stars, taking all the lanterns he could find and shutting them out. He spared a brief glance to Septa Mordane, who was lying on the ground, bled out.


    You were a sour bitch and responsible for the temporal dulling of a beautiful mind, but not even you deserve such a fate you old crone¡­ he thought as he kept running, gathering up everything flammable.


    Once in Ned''s cellar he spilled the lantern oil on the books, the table, the floor, everywhere.


    He stood back as he tossed the last one, the only one whose flame he''d left on. A small fire was soon under way, consuming the small bookcase and the carpet, slowly inching up towards the supporting pillars.


    Joffrey dashed outside and grabbed his backpack, jogging towards the North-Eastern most tower. Soon a guard shouted "halt!" but was quickly startled when he saw Joffrey. He was now in front of the tower which marked the end of the Red Keep''s north eastern corner. A great round thing that rose up and watched over the long cliff and the sea beyond.


    Before the guard could ask the Prince anything, Joffrey screamed with all his being.


    "THE TRAITORS ARE INSIDE THE RED KEEP! THEY''RE BURNING EVERYTHING!"


    The guards outside the tower got up to their feet in confusion, but quickly took out their swords and called for their comrades inside the tower as they saw the fire atop the tower of the Hand.


    "Everyone out! We are under attack!" shouted one of the guards. "Arlon! Stay with the Prince!"


    Soon the guards at the tower dashed out as Arlon, another redcloak, took him inside.


    "You''ll be safe here m''prince" he said as he barred the door behind him. "I know" Joffrey said in a strangled tone as he stabbed him in the neck from behind. The man crumbled to the floor as Joffrey dashed up the stairs, passing through floors full of swords, beds and discarded cards.


    He reached the top of the tower and quickly started opening the crates that were stacked to the side, hearing the roaring sound of the waves crashing against the cliff.


    "Come on come on come on¡­." He whispered as he kept searching.


    I told Dallen to leave it here, but I didn''t insist¡­ I never thought I''d actually do this¡­ fuck, what if he forgot? Maybe I should have taken the Eunuch''s offer¡­ shit shit shit¡ª


    "Yes!" he muttered as he got out a big waterproofed sealhide bag. From it he took a thick and long rope, along a few scaling implements. Then he put his own backpack inside it, closed it tight and strapped it to his back.


    He tied the rope to one of the tower''s crenellations, put on a pair of deer skin leather gloves and promptly jumped off the tower.


    He was hanging vertically now, with the restless sea to his back and the stars in front. He jumped from the cliff again, loosening his grip on the rope and grimacing as the heat from the friction warmed his gloves quickly.


    I''ve got to tell Tyrion about this someday¡­


    He let go again and again, jumping each time as the rope screeched and his hands burned.


    He cursed as he suddenly felt pulling¡­


    Someone''s trying to bring me up! He thought in alarm.


    His rate of descent started slowing as with each jump the rope was also pulled upwards, each time faster as Joffrey guessed that more and more people joined the tug of war.


    Suddenly he realized he had about 5 meters left of rope, and the sea¡­ was still a bit down.


    He gulped as he looked at the waves crashing against the jagged rocks, pieces of flotsam twirling in between.


    He looked up, at the shouting, barely discernable figures and the starry sky.


    I will have answers.


    He closed his eyes as he took a deep breath and let go.


    He felt the wind and the water and suddenly a great pain as he tumbled under the sea, the currents pulling at him from different directions as if trying to carry him deeper.


    Joffrey couldn''t tell which way was the surface, and every second he kept tumbling under the water in confusion was another second that he sank deeper into the black sea.


    He was drowning.


    He felt sluggish, almost as if the sea itself were cupping its hands and carrying him deeper and deeper¡ª


    --Old bones float Old bones float Old bones float Old bones float--


    He kept tumbling and tumbling as he tore at his trousers'' sewed pocket, trying to open it with all his strength. He managed to grab the tablet and toss it away, as strongly as he could.


    He stopped struggling and curled into a ball as he kept sinking¡­ the freezing water almost embracing him as it sapped his warmth.


    He closed his eyes and thought of ancient heart trees and long red leaves twirling around a small shroud¡­


    He felt the tablet, slowly going away from him.


    Joffrey swam after the tablet with a burst of energy, moving arms and legs in powerful strokes as the air burned in his lungs and purple agony assaulted the edges of his vision.


    He took a harrowing breath as he broke the surface, head butting the tablet away. He kept breathing desperately as he grabbed the tablet with one hand and checked the sealskin bag was still attached to his back.


    It was.


    Follow the moon towards the east, he thought. Follow the moon¡­


    He swam towards the moon, arms moving like pistons thanks to months of physical conditioning.


    Breath¡­ stroke¡­.moon¡­. Breath¡­stroke¡­ moon¡­. Breath¡­ stroke¡­ moon.


    Every time his head rose from the water to take another breath he looked at the moon like a crazed moth, triple checking he was on the correct course.


    Soon the full moon was burning on his retina, and every time his head entered the water again for another stroke he still saw it¡­ but under the water the figure was distorted, like a great yellowish red eye gazing back from the depths of the ocean.


    The eye seemed to stare into his soul, pulling him down with a strange force as his limbs locked and the purple rushed in from the sides of his vision like bloodhounds.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey took a sudden breath, puking water to the side.


    He was suddenly aware of a voice in his ear.


    "CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN, CAN YOU HEAR ME!?" he heard.


    He puked water again as he tried to get up. Strong hands helped him and soon he was looking at a dozen sailors, all clustered around him and eying him with respect.


    "Give him space you idiots! Captain, are you all right?!" asked Chief Valyon, shaking his shoulder.


    Joffrey took a few seconds to breathe before nodding.


    "I''m quite alright Chief Valyion¡­ where are we?" he rasped as the sailors slowly dispersed back to their duties.


    "Very close to the Red Keep, Captain. We had barely loaded half of the Arbor Gold after young Rennik told us the timetable had moved, but when I saw the signal fire I decided to set sail immediately. I accept full responsibility for the lost cargo and--"


    "I''ll have none of that Chief Valyion, you did the right thing" he said, still shaken as he kept breathing hard. He walked to the side of the sleek ship and gazed back at the Red Keep, dark and foreboding as the rest of the ocean.


    He shook his head as he walked back towards the mainmast and leaned on it, his breath slowing down.


    "Set sail for Volantis, we''ll resupply at Tyrosh" he ordered.


    Chief Valyon saluted, the short, stocky man raising a fist to his chest and turning back to get the sailors organized.


    Joffrey grasped the handrail around the mast and spit out a bit of water, before sitting down.


    Let''s not do that again, he thought to himself as the ship turned towards what would be their first stop in their journey East.


    -.PD.-


    "GET THOSE JIBS DOWN!" Joffrey shouted as he walked down the stairs and into the central deck. "Helmsman, give her another two points starboard!" Joffrey ordered as he looked up.


    Jon Rivers, the Jade Dream''s helmsman nodded as he shouted. "Two points starboard aye Captain!"


    "Seaman Dorreo, get those ropes in order! I want this ship tied to the harbor so tight a storm will have to take Volantis itself before us!" he shouted at the group of seamen to his right. The men grunted various types of acknowledges and ''Aye Cap''n''s before dashing to it.


    The Jade Dream''s was a fast runner, just like the Eastern Winds. The sleek and fast trading cog had made good time towards Volantis, and beyond a few pirates in the stepstones, which didn''t know what hit them, it had been smooth sailing overall.


    He had been drilling the crew for months, sailing around Blackwater bay in supposed ''pleasure cruises''. Instead of laying in the sun or mindlessly ordering a bunch of sailors around as most people in the Red Keep must have thought, Joffrey had been drilling the crew and handling the ship itself for the eventual journey East. After more than a few close calls on the Seatail, and even a couple of prematurely ended lives on his Citadel run, he had decided he''d take a little more time preparing for the trip East, ensuring the ship and crew he chose were up to the task.


    He now felt they were.


    Joffrey still thought he didn''t have the skills necessary to handle a top crew on a fast trader like Nakaro had, but he felt there was no choice¡­ he needed answers.


    So he, as Tyrion put it in another life, faked it till he made it. To his mild surprise, the crew of the Jade Dreams had followed him without hesitation after one good first impression, and they thought of him as some sort of rouge prince fleeing from his assigned destiny, a royal which had been born with the sea in his heart and the knowledge and bearing to carry it through.


    What a bunch of fools¡­ honest, competent fools¡­


    He walked to the forward deck, were the ship ended and the view of Volantis was uninterrupted. The Black Walls were huge, he still thought of them as big even after seeing many other humongous shapes, both natural and manmade.


    Those that were not of the Old Blood were not allowed to pass beneath them (which had horribly confused Joffrey at the time, how were the slaves they loved so much supposed to serve them, did they need to be of the ''old blood'' too?) he had still been able to explore them in a past life. The enormous wall, though bearing some similarities to what Joffrey was looking for, was not the deep, sun absorbing black he was searching. He''d read quite a lot about it when he had been getting his last link at the citadel, Red Gold. Its construction had been well documented by historians and it had a clear Valyrian slant, certainly not a million years old.


    He didn''t want to wait here too long, but the crew was tired and the ship needed supplies, so he''d wait¡­ for now


    -.PD.-


    Volantis was truly massive. It was the biggest of the Free cities, and once the most populous. A big, very wide and long bridge creatively named ''the Long Bridge'' crossed the mouth of the Rhoyne, with a multitude of small shops hanging from the sides, selling literally everything from jewels to wines to slaves. Joffrey lost himself in the crowd, enjoying the feeling of anonymity. He drifted from shop to shop, spending thriftily on small dishes, fruits, knickknacks and generally being a nuisance for the frequent palanquins which crossed the bridge. The worthies of Volantis thought only lesser men crossed the city on their own two feet.


    Bunch of idiots.


    The City boasted the dubious privilege of being an even more ''sophisticated'' hive of intrigue than Westeros, what with the frequent elections¡­ once every year. When Joffrey had heard that he''d thought it had been a jest, he thought the city would have burnt to the ground already if that were true.


    Somehow, maybe by bringing it all into the open, the Volantenes managed to elect a bunch of Triarchs once a year, even managing it without much bloodshed. That was not to say the city was any less deadly than King''s Landing. Out of election season, assassination was a common hobby, and the disgraced families that lost the game usually did permanently, falling in prestige, losing their lands and many times even being sold as slaves.


    And the slaves¡­


    They were everywhere. For every freedman in the city there were five slaves each. They did everything, from cleaning the streets to bedding houses to running shops to carrying palanquins and even teaching the sons of nobles. They had tattoos on their skin to show their status, each occupation represented by a different symbol with different colors.


    Joffrey thought it was a deliberate move by the city''s nobles ever since its founding, not a mere tradition. There had been a word that had struck with Joffrey when he heard it¡­ what had it been?


    It had been Archmaester Perestan, gesticulating thoughtfully with his copper scepter...


    Yes¡­ He remembered it now.


    Dehumanizing. That had been the word.


    All people in positions of power did it, be it to their subjects or their enemies. Archmaester Perestan had thought that all men had, in some way, a resistance towards acts of evil being committed to other men, so the trick was to dehumanize your enemy or the class of people you wanted to keep down, skip the resistance altogether by making other people think of them as something less than human, thus evading any possible empathy.


    For a master of History, Joffrey had thought Archmaester Perestan had an awfully optimistic view of humanity.


    Whatever the underlying process was, the practice, according to him, was pretty effective, and Joffrey could see it right now. To the freeborn and the nobles, the ones with the tattoos were somehow a bit more invisible than other people.


    Joffrey had been sitting on some kind of public park (an improvement over King''s Landing, he gave them that) and watching people come and go. The noble''s and the rest of the freeborn didn''t seem to regard them as people at all¡­ Their eyes even had a tendency to skip over people with a tattoo, a physical reaction. It was not as if they did it consciously, not regularly at least, it had become an ingrained reaction. Archmaester Perestan had spoken about that too, and how it helped make Slave Rebellions an even more frightening prospect for masters. It was as if hordes of monsters appeared out of nowhere, as if the tapestry or the carriage you used to go to the market suddenly became alive with violent intent.


    Sadly, said rebellions rarely happened and those that succeeded were rarer still. Even rarer yet were the ones where the slave''s situation improved in any meaningful way¡­ Joffrey thought the revolt that would eventually lead to Braavos must be the only one that fitted all those characteristics in the last thousand years¡­ a living beacon that such a thing was possible. That must be one of the reasons the huge Volantene warfleet frequently menaced and sometimes even skirmished against Braavosi war galleys¡­ though never the trade fleets. That could hurt commerce and start a war¡­


    Hypocrites¡­


    "You look like you could use some time to relax" someone said in perfect Westerosi from his side, startling him.


    Without realizing it, he had drifted to the other side of the bridge, where a big brothel showed its wares. The woman who spoke at him had her face completely tattooed with beautiful blue and green feathers. They extended through her neck and down her breasts, twirling down towards her navel until her loose robe hid them.


    Joffrey looked at her, a bit mesmerized as she walked towards him.


    Feathers¡­ tattoos¡­


    Slave¡­


    He shook his head in disgust. "You are truly beautiful, but I think I''d prefer to take my women willingly" he told her in High Valyrian as he stepped back. She gazed at him with a small smile before winking at him and searching for other customers.


    Willingly¡­ for target practice¡­ whispered a corner of his mind.


    He let out a deep sight as he kept walking.


    -.PD.-


    As he drifted with the crowd, Joffrey soon found himself below the Temple of the Lord of Light. He''d visited it only briefly in a past life, when the Eastern Winds had delivered a cargo for a prominent Elephant Noble.


    He''d forgotten how huge it was. As Archmaester Gramyon had said in¡­


    Damnit.


    The venerable Archmaester had written a million books throughout his lifetime, and not all had been concerned with architecture, but Joffrey clearly remembered reading one of them where it said that the thing was at least three times the size of the Sept of Baelor.


    It was all shades of reds, oranges and yellows, merging and twirling into a veritable complex of buildings and towers and domes. In front of it was a great plaza, from where the priests led the faithful in the bigger ceremonies. He hadn''t liked it much the last time he''d been there, and he didn''t much like it now. The faith of the R''hllor seemed zealous and fanatical, hells bent on trying to convert any wayward soul they could spot, though they kept the city''s peace.


    He guessed they weren''t too different from the faith of the seven, but¡­ well, after being offered as a sacrifice in one life by Stannis''s red bitch, he wasn''t making an effort to understand them.


    Benerro, the cities high priest, was certainly a sight to behold. Joffrey had seldom met a speaker of his caliber, he was so above the fat High Septon in terms of both zeal and oratory as a dragon was to a mole. The man was lanky and tall, his face a sea of flame tattoos as he gesticulated at the crowd and at the Red Comet that appeared like clockwork about a year into his lives.


    They had called it "King Joffrey''s Comet" at court. The mere memory of that made him want to duck in shame at the vacant flattery, and at the insult of naming something so magnificent after him, as some sort of omen for his victory. The rare year that he had both made it that far and been studying astronomy, the Comet had been completely unexpected by the Maesters. Archmaester Vaellyn had basically cloistered himself with Archmaester Ryam and a group of maesters to try and calculate the orbit of the thing. He never managed to stay there long after that, but from what little he''d seen of the Archmaester''s calculations, the Comet''s orbit was eccentric, really eccentric. The last time the thing passed this close to Planetos must have been thousands of years ago.


    It had a perfectly reasonable explanation, and yet people all around the world had attributed their own meanings to it. In King''s Landing it had been an omen of Joffrey''s victory, in Ib it had signaled the return of the Greater Leviathans (he hoped they were wrong, for their sake. Those words should never go together.) In Braavos it was a celebration of the city''s founding, and in Lys it signaled that the highest pleasures reachable by man would soon be bestowed upon the worthies of the city.


    Volantis was no exception.


    Benerro spoke with zeal and conviction, his hands frequently pointing at the huge torches in front of him, making them soar to the sky in a spectacle of flames. "The great Lord R''hallor has spoken through the flames, and the Red Comet carries he''s message!" he let the suspense build before spreading his arms wide, the torrents of flames rising higher. "I have seen her! Azhor Azai has been reborn, she who will save us from the Great Other and his eternal darkness!" he shrieked in ecstasy as the crowd gasped in awe, the flames turning orange.


    Great¡­ now they have some kind of messianic savior. What could possibly go wrong? He thought in mild alarm.


    "The great Lord of Light has shown me her future! Three great dragons that will grow in power and might, three great heads that will cleanse us from the great evil, three--"


    Joffrey''s head was pounding, a bit dizzy.


    Three heads¡­


    Three heads?! With three dragons?!


    The Faith of R''hllor has allied with the surviving Targeryens!?


    This¡­ this was not good¡­


    "You''ve got to be fucking kidding me¡­" he muttered. If a Targeryen pretender marched on Westeros with the support of the huge church of R''hllor¡­ They had a lot of followers, as well as chests of gold and even a private army!


    Make that the war of the six kings then. At this rate there won''t be anyone left in Westeros to rule over.


    He refocused on the square when he noticed Benerro had stopped talking.


    He was looking directly at Joffrey.


    ¡­


    He kept staring at him, and Joffrey decided maybe it was time he left.


    He made his way through the crowd, and when he turned back to look at Benerro again, all he saw was a pommel descending straight to his face.


    -.PD.-


    "Why are you here?" said a voice in his ear.


    He slowly blinked his eyes open¡­


    "Wha--" SLAM


    A huge fist crashed against his belly, making him grunt in pain as he doubled over the chair he was tied over.


    "Why are you here?" said the voice, in the same tone.


    "Hey! I''m just visiting places and--" SLAM.


    This one was to the side of his head, leaving him dazed.


    "This place does not belong to He of the Many Faces. Only the Lord has the power of life and death here" said another voice as it approached Joffrey, a small red priest which was holding a red hot pincer over a big brazier.


    Joffrey spat blood to the side, looking around him. He was in some kind of darkened room or cellar. "I''ve suffered worst you pyromaniacs¡­ Cook me medium rare please, add mintroses for---" SLAM.


    The fist slammed him in the belly again, cutting him off. The man that had hit him was a big, armored slave with flames tattooed over his head.


    A member of the Fiery Hand. The Church''s own Private Army¡­


    The hot pincer was now half a meter away from him.


    "You will tell us your target, fake one" he said as the pincer advanced. It hadn''t even touched his skin and he could already feel the heat emanating from it.


    Wait¡­ fake one? He of many faces?


    They think I am a faceless man or something..?!


    "Wait" said a smooth voice, a stark contrast to its usual shrieking or carrying state.


    Both zealots stopped immediately and stepped aside. Benerro glided into the room, robes swirling behind him as he strolled with some kind of iron clad certainty that he''d reach his destination. He reached Joffrey and squatted next to him, grabbing his head by the sides as he stared right into his eyes.


    "Oh Benerro, this is all a bit sudden¡­" Joffrey giggled as he tried to undo the ropes on his hands.


    The City''s head priest said nothing, only gazing sternly at his eyes. Finally, after a second or an hour, he stood up.


    "He''s not a faceless man, you are what you are Prince Joffrey¡­ but¡­ how¡­?" he said the last with some kind of deep confusion.


    Joffrey took a minute to recompose himself after the staring session with Benerro. There''s something about Crazy that you can spot it in another person''s eyes¡­ And Benerro had a double serving of it inside. "How what?! I''m just minding my own business. I suppose you''d like a shipping itinerary of my journey?" he asked bitingly.


    Benerro didn''t seem to hear him though, he was shaking his head and muttering, confused. He frequently turned and gazed at the big brazier to the side where the pincer had been heated.


    "But¡­ I can still see it¡­ how?!" he said, almost in despair as he leaned closer to the flames, so close Joffrey thought his hair would have burst into flame. If he had any.


    "I see your fate young Joffrey¡­ a great wedding and a mean mind, a purpled face and an accusing mother¡­" said Benerro almost to himself.


    Joffrey stood very still, not moving an inch. His breathing stopped so he could better hear Benerro.


    "A trial for an Imp and a burial for a King¡­ A triumphant mockingbird flitting around a field of green and gold flowers¡­ a new marriage for a realm, more war and death and destruction¡­" Benerro muttered, his concentration on the flames supreme.


    Joffrey was shivering at the display, breath hitched. Benerro was actually seeing the future¡­ but¡­


    The future of my first life¡­ my funeral¡­ the Imp was the obvious fall man¡­ a trial¡­ gods, they most likely killed him¡­


    His shivering became stronger.


    A new marriage for a realm¡­ the Lannister-Tyrell alliance would need to carry on, Myrcella¡­ no¡­ needs to be the King. Tommen with Maergery again, widowed and married again.


    More war and death and destruction¡­ gods how could it get worse?


    Joffrey remembered the calculations he''d made one day, after closing his shipping insurer business for the afternoon. It had been a slog, but Joffrey had needed to know¡­


    He calculated a rough estimate of the damage to the realm that the wars would have cost up to his death. The regular campaigns on the Riverlands, the lightning sacking of the Westerlands, the plundering of the North by the Iron Islanders, the battles on the Stormlands, the unrest in the Reach¡­


    The War of the five Kings had not been raging all that long before he died, but the level of devastation had been completely out of proportion with that.


    It had been decades of literally lost time, decades for the Realm to put itself back together¡­


    But even more¡­ He could see it really¡­ how had he been so na?ve as to think it would have all ended after the five original Kings were dead¡­


    With Balon dead, the Ironborn could focus on much richer targets such as the undefended Reach, and the Dornish might have joined the fray to take revenge on the Lannisters¡­ maybe somebody snapped Lysa Arryn from her stupor and the Vale attacked to take revenge for the Red Wedding¡­


    And the Targeryen pretender with an army of zealots¡­


    Too many possibilities, so much death and waste¡­


    All of this passed through Joffrey''s mind lightning quick as Benerro grunted in frustration and almost jutted his head on the fire, his hands grasping the brazier with all their strength, the sound of fizzling flesh assaulting Joffrey''s nose.


    "No! Must see before¡­ Three Dragon¡­ no¡­ A king of the pack.. No! Before!"


    His voice suddenly stilled, speaking much more softly as he placed his head on top of the flames.


    The sound of burning flesh punctuated his monologue.


    "An old wolf beheaded¡­ A boy drunk with power¡­ yes¡­ I see you right now! I SEE YOU!!! A deformed lion cub, surrounded by poisons and swords. A spurned white cloak, an indignity delivered upon a legend, a lifelong duty stolen!" he screeched as he got his head out of the fire. Parts of his flesh were cooked black, and one of his eyes was no more, but the one that remained look at Joffrey as if he were both blasphemy and deadly curse.


    Swords and poisons.. the throne?... A spurned white cloak and a legend¡­ oh gods¡­ Am I¡­ Was I dismissing Ser Barristan from the Kingsguard right at this moment in my first life?


    "YOU ARE HERE WHEN YOU COULD NOT! HOW CAN YOU DEFY THE LORD OF LIGHT!? WHAT ARE YOU?!?!" he screamed as he stumbled back and the other two men retreated in fear from Joffrey, holding Benerro as his mad ramblings suddenly stopped and he fell on the arms of the Red soldier, unconscious.


    Both men stared in some kind of terror at Joffrey as they slowly retreated towards the door.


    Joffrey was both shaken and exasperated.


    "Look people¡­ I¡­ you can take your complaints to the fucking purple! Just let me--"


    He wasn''t able to finish before they slammed the door shut, leaving him alone with the godsdamned brazier.


    There was a lot in Joffrey''s mind, but he needed to priorities.


    Right, get out of here first, think later. I give ten to one odds that after they get over the shock they''ll put a sword through my chest¡­ or better yet, burn me atop their temple to appease the Red Comet or something.


    He quickly felt the ropes that had his hands tied to the back of the chair. One thing was quickly apparent.


    The Soldiers of the Fiery Hand were no great sailors.


    If Seaman Dorreo had done this knot I would have had him cleaning the deck till the end of time¡­


    He quickly disentangled it, and he leapt to his feet as he dashed to the door. He pressed his ear to it, and tried to open it after hearing nothing.


    The door opened without complaint.


    They even forgot to lock me in¡­ they think I''m something more scary than a faceless man¡­


    He let that thought percolate through his head before concentrating and feeling the tablet.


    He walked two doors through a long red stoned corridor before turning to the left and opening a door. It was a small storage room, and on the ground was his small ''city pouch'' along with his sword and dagger.


    I''d never would have thought that little oddity of yours would be so useful, he mused as he made sure the tablet was in the pouch and he strapped his weapons to his back.


    He walked out of the room silently and walked towards one end of the corridor, but promptly stopped when a veritable mob of Fiery Hand soldiers turned a corner and saw him, 15 meters away.


    They were carrying swords, axes and a lot of torches, holding on to them as if their life depended on it. They stared at him in stomach curling terror before one of them stepped forward, torches in both hands.


    "FOR THE LORD OF LIGHT!!!" he screamed like a man condemned as he ran at Joffrey, the rest of the soldiers responding with a roar of their own and charging after the brave one.


    Joffrey turned around and ran in the opposite direction.


    Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck


    He ran through a set of stairs that went up and slammed through a door which barred the way. He was suddenly on the Temple''s main hall, full of people worshiping and Red Priests giving benedictions or omens. Beside him a Red Priest tumbled to the ground, holding his bloodied nose.


    "I''m sorry!" he said as he dashed as fast as he could towards the exit.


    He pushed and shoved past the confused faithful and was at the great opened gates of the temple when he heard a shout from behind him.


    "KILL THE ABOMINATION! BE BRAVE IN THE NAME OF R''HLLOR!!!" roared someone from within the contingent of soldiers that spilled from the passageway.


    Your stupid god has apparently nothing on the Purple you idiots! He wanted to shout back but he kept running, exiting the temple past the startled and confused guards, which soon heard the shouts and cries and joined the pursuit.


    Joffrey ran through stalls and markets, taking sharp turns at alleys and dashing over the streets.


    He ran out of an alley and promptly bounced back to the ground. A huge grey beast rose its legs, sharp long tusks glinting in the afternoon light as it gave a thumpy roar.


    Elephant, supplied a helpful part of Joffrey''s head.


    The startled animal came down and Joffrey''s quick reflexes and fast rolling skills were the only thing that saved him.


    And right behind him appeared the fiery mob, the veritable sea of flaming torches sizzling and waving right in front of the startled animal.


    A sound like a horn from the seven hells resounded within Joffrey''s skull as the big beast roared and started jumping and turning, smashing people and goring red soldiers as the noble atop it fell down to the pavement and broke his leg.


    "You people should really walk on your own two feet, safer that way" Joffrey blurted out at the moaning man as he scrambled out of the quagmire and stood up, running for the docks.


    He saw inside his head an imaginary Tyrion lowering his cup and raising both hands to the air, six digits out of ten.


    Not bad¡­ he thought irreverently as he ducked through another alleyway, breaking the line of sight of whomever had not been busy enough fending for their life against an enraged monster.


    -.PD.-


    It was midnight when Joffrey stumbled into the deck of the Jade Dreams, breathing like a man possessed.


    The docks never stopped in Volantis, but at this hour there was a general lull in its activity.


    "Captain? What''s wrong?" said the sailor that was watching the gangplank, hefting his iron cudgel more closely and gazing at the harbor more attentively.


    In between breaths, Joffrey managed to speak.


    "Everybody here?" he huffed.


    "Yes Captain, all the crew is accounted for and sleeping on the ship¡­ I think Duck was the last one that got here, half an hour ago. I guess the lads would have liked to stay a bit longer in the taverns but their way too expensive--"


    Joffrey grabbed his shoulder and pushed him towards the deck hatch. "Wake up everyone, we sail in fifteen minutes!" he ordered.


    "B-but Captain, its midnight--"


    "NOW DAMNIT!" he shouted as he went up to the wheelhouse, where a couple of sailors were looking up from a game of cards illuminated by a small lamp.


    "Cut those ropes now! And wake the others! We need--"


    Joffrey stopped when he looked at the wide main street that descended to the Docks, and saw a mob barreling through it, armed with more torches than he could count as some of them actually threw them at nearby ships¡­ setting them ablaze.


    They must know I''m on a ship¡­ but not which one¡­


    Joffrey dashed to the mainmast and started slamming the warning bell tied to it, tolling it with all his strength.


    As sleepy sailors emerged from below, Joffrey bellowed.


    "PREPARE TO SET SAIL! ALL HANDS PREPARE TO REPEL BOARDERS!"


    The crew sluggishly started to get organized, promptly speeded up by Chief Vaylon, who Joffrey briefed in four words.


    "FIERY ZEALOTS. SET SAIL!" S?a?ch* Th? N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    As the noise from the mess on the docks increased, Joffrey could see a small gaggle of terrified, armed sailors from several ships. They were trying to set up a barricade in the docks, to try and stop the mob from continuing through the coastal road burning every ship in its path.


    He would have joined them, but he had his hands full on the ship as he aided his crew, cutting ropes and clearing space on the deck, securing the ship for imminent departure.


    He could see the barricade putting up a valiant fight, some eight ships behind him, but it was not to last.


    Suddenly from within the mob emerged a company of steel clad Fiery Hand Regulars, carrying broad shields and heavy spears with flame shaped tips. The patterns of flames and fire engraved on their armors glittered thanks to the mob''s torches, giving the whole unit an otherworldly presence as it crashed against the barricade, the mish mash of sailors positively melting before the armored fire of R''hllor''s elite troops.


    The Jade Dreams started to sail slowly, so ever slowly out of the dock, more and more sails growing with the force of the wind.


    The mob burned 4 more ships before the Jade Dreams left the docks and sailed on to the harbor, which the proud Volantene sailors said you could fit the entirety of Braavos within.


    They were picking up speed, but almost crashed against other ships which had made it out. In the docks he could see groups of Tiger Cloaks, Volantis''s city watch, emerging from streets and alleys and fighting the mob and the soldiers, all illuminated by multiple conflagrations as burning ships sunk, and the fire started to spread around the dock¡­ it was a madhouse back there.


    Joffrey cursed when he saw a trio of galleys emerging from a small private dock, their sails emblazoned with the Fiery Hand, banks of oars frantically rowing in a disorderly manner, trying to reach the Harbor''s mouth.


    They have ships too?!


    Joffrey turned down to the deck and shouted, "Bowmen to the decks! Every man with a bow to the decks, prepare to return fire!" he ordered as he franticly searched for Chief Valyon.


    He saw him at the front, hurling piles of rope down a deck hatch. "CHIEF! GET LION''S COCK TO THE FRONT DECK NOW!" he shouted as he turned back to the wheelhouse.


    He grabbed Jon Rivers by his shoulder, shouting in his ear. "You get us out of the harbor! Don''t stop for anything! If we''re rammed we''re finished!" he told the helmsman before dashing to the forecastle deck himself.


    When he got there he started tossing crates and ropes to the sides, revealing a big wooden pintle mount.


    Behind him he heard grunts and curses as the Chief and six other sailors brought up the Cock, a ridiculously named ballista the size of the Mountain that Rides.


    They managed to install it on the mount as a couple of sailors went back to get its ammunition, and Joffrey turned on the Chief. "Get me One Eyed Tolleo" he said, cranking and tensing the weapon with the help of the other sailors.


    The Chief dashed down as Joffrey looked forward at the Harbor entrance again.


    One of the galleys had crashed against a burning ship, and both of them were floundering in the middle of the bay, burning figures leaping from both ships.


    The other galley was exchanging arrow fire with two other ships, sailing in circles as flights of red-yellowish blobs sailed through the air between combatants.


    The third one coming right at him.


    In fact¡­


    Joffrey squinted.


    "TAKE COVER!" he shouted as he squeezed himself against the ship''s front railing. A few seconds later a flight of arrows peppered the deck and the surrounding water, their shrill shriek intersped with the cries of wounded sailors.


    Joffrey rose from the deck and ran to the back railing, looking at the central deck.


    "ARCHEEEERS!!! ENEMY SHIP, TWENTY POINTS STARBOARD. NOOK!" he shouted.


    The fifteen or so sailors on the deck which had found bows nooked, slightly turning starboard towards the galley as it rowed purposefully towards them, trying to cut them off from the Harbor mouth.


    "DRAW!" ordered Joffrey.


    The bows were raised at the sky, glistening points shining thanks to the nearby fires.


    Joffrey eyed the enemy ship, waiting for the right moment¡­


    "LOOOSE!" he shouted. With dozens of deep thungs, the arrows sped up, curving in the sky before landing on the enemy deck, unleashing screams of pain and agony.


    The Chief arrived with One Eyed Tolleo, and they all took cover behind a couple of big, heavy wooden shields the crew had arrayed around the ballista.


    "Chief Vaylon, take command of the archers. Tolleo, I need you on the Cock now" he ordered quickly. "At once Captain!" said Chief Valyon as he went down to the central deck, semi crouched as arrows flew by, the ordered volley''s from the enemy galley degenerating into free shooting.


    Joffrey and Tolleo scurried to the back of the ballista as the two loaders slammed a heavy bolt in.


    "Tolleo, we need to disable that Galley''s tiller, or its superior speed and maneuverability will work to block us from the Harbor mouth¡­ and probably ram us" he told the one eyed sailor. He had a long grey beard and he was missing quite a few teeth, but he was the best marksman aboard the ship.


    "Aye Cap''n, I can'' do that" he said as he gazed at the galley rowing closer each time, Joffrey could already see some faces on it.


    "¡­ though I can''t do it while accounting for the seas Cap''n, i''s too dark" he said as he aimed the ballista carefully as if he''d done it a thousand times before.


    "I''ll tell you when, you just make sure that bolt goes right through the tiller, it''s a long shot but I know that if anyone aboard the ship can do it, it''s you" Joffrey told him.


    He saw the galley bouncing up and down through the sea, the harbor inside Volantis big enough to have waves of its own, and Joffrey saw it.


    "NOW!" he shouted. The bolt THUNGED with great force as it flew right at the enemy ship. It impacted on a guard standing next to the tiller, piercing him to the deck.


    "LOAD AGAIN!" Joffrey ordered as he and Tolleo cranked the handles, tensing the ballista for another shot. "Two meters to the right Tolleo!" he told the marksman as he kept a watch on the enemy ship.


    The arrows were more frequent as they closed with the galley, slamming with unexpected force all around the front deck. "CAP''N!" shouted one of the two loaders at the front. "THERE''S TOO MANY OF--" he stopped as an arrow emerged from his neck, spilling blood everywhere as he tumbled and fell overboard.


    "COPPER! LOAD IT NOW! QUICKLY!" he shouted at the remaining sailor. Copper was shaking as he slammed the bolt into the ballista, ducking to the ground and shouting "READY!"


    The arrows were raining now, landing everywhere and some of them carrying fire. Joffrey kept staring at the enemy ship, so focused was he on the task that he didn''t even feel an arrow that grazed his cheek, spilling more blood into the deck.


    Wait¡­ wait¡­ wait¡­


    "NOW!" he shouted.


    THUNG!


    The bolt flew right into the enemy helmsman. The heavy bolt turned the man''s head into red fragments as it continued its flight out into the dark. As the body fell to the deck however, another man quickly took a hold of the tiller.


    "SHIT! Half a meter down Tolleo, just half a meter down! We''ll only have time for one more before they ram us!" he told the man.


    "AYE CAP''N!" said Tolleo as he cranked the handles. Joffrey stood back and shouted at the stern, "HELMSMAN! READY HARD STARBOARD! ON MY MARK!"


    "READY HARD STARBOARD, AYE CAPTAIN!" came the voice of Rivers from the helm.


    The loader was shaking badly as he grabbed another bolt and stood up, trying to slam it into the maw of the ballista when an arrow emerged from his chest.


    He looked at it dumbly as another one emerged from his shoulder, and two more from his belly.


    His mouth made a silent ''O'' as he crumbled on the deck.


    Joffrey leapt over the wooden shield and grabbed the bolt.


    He felt a fierce pain on his shoulder as he slammed the bolt home. "READY!" he shouted as he turned back, his arms suddenly weak as he used them to grab a hold of the wooden shield, supporting his weight on them. Another arrow slammed into his leg with a dull thud.


    He grunted as he saw the galley practically in front of him, rising with a powerful wave¡ª


    "NOW!" he roared as hard as he could, just as an arrow took off a chuck of his ear. Tolleo let loose with the ballista as the Jade Dreams suddenly turned to the right, Rivers shoving his whole body against the wheel.


    The bolt pierced the helmsmen through the gut, burying through flesh and wood and pinning the tiller to the ship''s own hull. A bunch of nearby red guards jumped on it, trying to turn it so the ship could follow the Jade Dreams sudden evasive maneuver, to no effect. Both ships scraped by, oars shattering, and suddenly they were through. They passed through the harbor entrance just as several steel chains rose from the sea, suspended before the two fortresses on the entrance''s sides.


    Joffrey walked to the railing that faced the lower central deck.


    "Excellent work people, set course for Quarth" he said before he turned and collapsed on the deck.


    -.PD.-


    He slipped in and out of unconsciousness for days, his eyes sometimes opening to find a caring sailor or Chief Valyon drip feeding him water or broth. When he was awake, Joffrey felt the seas, smooth and calm, punctuated by the comforting sounds of sailors moving or working. Soon he was walking about on the deck, taking back command from Chief Valyon when he felt he''d rested enough. The Chief had been conflicted, he''d thought Joffrey should have rested quite a bit more, arrow wounds were serious stuff¡­ But he''d also been relieved he did not have to command the ship by himself any longer.


    Commanding groups of men was a lot like parenting, or at least a lot like what he guessed must be good parenting. He didn''t have a lot of experience with that¡­


    A balance between a stern face and discipline when in fault, but still being able to relate to the men and hear them out, even being a helping friend sometimes. Still, by its very nature, to be Captain was a lonely experience, to be set aside from your fellow man and raise to command them¡­ it seemed to erect a barrier between him and them. He was respected, sure, maybe even admired for some of the most crazy cases, but there seemed to be a distance that Joffrey wasn''t sure he would be able to cross if he really wanted to, or if he should.


    An Iron link for my ''chain'' would have been helpful here¡­


    He cursed himself for the umpteenth time for not studying warcraft in the Citadel, he thought that would have definitively been useful in this situation.


    King''s¡­ well, at least Kings that are not bloodthirsty and imbecilic¡­ they must feel like this all the time, lonely up there on the top. They are the Captains of entire Kingdoms, the distance and the solitude must be a hundred times worst¡­


    He thought it was a bit funny how the more he thought about Kingship the more horrible a prospect he found it.


    To think it took me so many lives to understand the curse that throne is¡­ well, even an imbecile can get the point after smashing his head repeatedly against a wall¡­


    He had used his recovery period in an efficient manner, reading and continuing the research he''d started in this life, learning about the humongous Empire of Yi-Ti, some of its costumes and its language.


    After months of studying, he felt he grasped the bare, raw fundaments of the language. It had been incredibly hard, a language unlike anything he''d ever learned before. He''d basically memorized what he thought must be all 5 books written on Westeros regarding the ''Eastern Tongue'', but he''d seldom listened to it directly beside the handful of times a rare Yi-Tish trader had been visiting the Harbor of one of the Free Cities. His pronunciation must be horrible.


    There was no sign of a pursuit from the Fiery Hand. Joffrey thought they must have had their hands full trying to explain that bit of mayhem to the Triarchs, or in the midst of a civil war against them if not.


    He used the long days of the Summer Seas to think about Benerro''s omens as he manned the ship''s wheel, sailing through the smooth ocean towards Quarth.


    The man had somehow predicted his demise at his own wedding, something that would have happened at least years from now¡­ something that did happen, in his first life. Joffrey couldn''t deny it, he''d seen irrefutable evidence of magic again, predictive magic at that¡­


    Joffrey had been given a rare glimpse of life beyond his first death¡­ and he was glad he''d died before he could witness it. The war deteriorating and expanding, Tyrion executed for his supposed crimes¡­


    A triumphant mockingbird flitting around a green and gold rose¡­ that''s what Benerro had said, or close enough¡­


    Baelish¡­ thought Joffrey, shaking his head. Baelish and the Tyrells killed me¡­ Olenna must have been worried I''d mutilate Maergery in our bedding¡­


    What was worst was that Joffrey honestly didn''t blame her.


    Shit. That explains the poisoned Dornish Red with the letter that killed me around my seventh life or so. Must have been Baelish and Olenna''s plan B¡­


    A transparent gambit now that I think about it¡­ but if the court had apparently been so stupid as to believe my uncle, the brightest man on Westeros, had poisoned his nephew in front of a hundred witnesses¡­


    How hard would it have been to wave the spicy Wine and a letter with Oberyn Martell''s sincerest congratulations, look saddened and outraged and point the court at Dorne? Mother gets a big, convenient target, the Tyrells get the chance of a lifetime and raze the eternal thorn on their side to the ground, and Baelish¡­


    What does Baelish get out of this, exactly¡­?


    Perhaps a more malleable pawn in the form of Tommen? I had been getting a bit¡­ out of control there, near the end¡­


    He shook his head as the all familiar sense of self-loathing hit him like a tidal wave.


    Worrisome implications about plots and Free Will aside, an uncanny fact had startled Joffrey. Benerro hadn''t been able to predict anything else but his first life. That was why he''d been so shocked, awed even. He must have been using that skill to guide his life since gods know when, and suddenly not only did it fail him, but it kept failing him again and again. He ''saw'' Joffrey stripping Ser Barristan Selmy''s cloak, a dishonor to an ancient order and a living legend, at the same time Joffrey was sitting right in front of him, tied to a chair.


    To borrow a term from Archmaester Ryam, his visions simply did not compute. It must have been something like dividing by zero, staring at the flames and seeing Joffrey doing something he definitively was not doing. That explains the mounting, despairing frustration as he kept jutting his head deeper and deeper into the flames.


    No wonder the man had fainted, Joffrey was surprised his heart hadn''t given out¡­ Actually, for all he knew, it did. He never saw him after that.


    The crazed actions from the Fiery Hand, the priests and the mob started to make a lot more sense when Joffrey thought of it in that way. They must have seen him as some kind of powerful daemon from the seven hells, capable of thwarting the very power of their god. If Benerro did effectively die, that would have left the panicked zealots without a leader, which would make a lot of sense with the way things got out of control in Volantis.


    Still¡­


    He didn''t know whether R''hllor actually existed or the Red Priests were just using ancient magic''s mixed up with mystic mumbo jumbo that sometime along history they started to actually believe in¡­


    Either way was a terrifying prospect.


    ¡­Either whatever had him in its claws was powerful enough to transcend the Red Priest''s powerful, magical visions, or¡­


    Or The Purple was more powerful than gods¡­


    He''d stood very still at that thought, hands gripping the wheel as hard as they could.


    The Cosmos seemed to get even bigger inside Joffrey''s head as a strange thrumming resonated within his chest. Bigger and Bigger and Bigger and Bigger--


    By the¡­


    "Are you alright, Captain?" asked Dontar, a plucky sailor who often served up top in the mainmast.


    Joffrey shook himself as he relaxed the grip on the wheel. "Yes, yes I''m fine, anything up the coast?" he asked him.


    "Aye Captain, the Doom is long behind us and I can already see small fishing villages along the Red Waste. They shouldn''t be there unless they had-"


    "A source of fresh water¡­" muttered Joffrey. "That must mean we''re close to Quarth. Excellent. Find me Chief Valyon and bring him here, if you please" he told Dontar.


    "Aye Captain" he said as he went down to the main deck.


    We''ll resupply at Qarth ¡­ then it''s one last voyage towards Yin. According to both books and sailors, ''Foreigners'' are restricted from entering the Imperial Capital unless ''invited''. ''Invited'' meaning a hefty bribe.


    And what better bribe than half a cargo hold of Arbor Gold?


    And then, I''ll have answers.


    -.PD.-


    The great city of Quarth was protected by three curtain walls, each one higher than the last. Its docks were teeming with ships, usually from one of the three guilds that vied for dominance within the city, manned by all manner of people but predominantly by the Qaathi, the pale, tall and lanky men native to the area.


    It was certainly a beauty to behold, and the grand bazaar had been the building that had most impressed Joffrey. A huge market full of trades and goods and a cacophony of colorful birds that flitted above one''s head in great cages that hanged from the roof. An old city, a great city, a proud city¡­


    As its inhabitants made sure Joffrey knew that.


    "Ah, Prince Joffrey Baratheon, I can''t thank you enough for accepting my invitation. To have the son of the current monarch of the Seven Kingdoms in my humble home¡­ ah, forgive me, irony is a gift we seldom get to enjoy here in Quarth" Said Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a pale, tall and bald man with numerous gems incrusted throughout his face.


    "And I can''t thank you enough for inviting me in the first place" said Joffrey placidly. And I can''t stop cursing myself for accepting.


    One of the richest man in Qarth stepped to his side and regarded the view from the small balcony, hanging from one end of his ''humble'' palace.


    "A grand sight, is it not? Surely the most magnificent thing you have ever witnessed, Prince Joffrey?" asked his host.


    "Amongst the top five maybe¡­ hmmm no, but it''s in the top ten for sure" he told him.


    Xaro looked slightly nonplussed at that answer, but promptly smiled. "Come, you are missing the party. There are a lot of people who you should meet" he said.


    "Of course!" Joffrey replied with false cheer as he let himself be guided back to the reception. Joffrey could see people all along Xaro''s gardens, walking about and talking, eating from small plates that were carried about by slaves.


    He rejoined Chief Valyon and Jon Rivers, who had been patiently waiting for him a set of open air stairs.


    "Reloaded for another go at it, Captain?" asked his helmsman.


    "I guess so, why did I come here in the first place?" he asked them as both men flanked him slightly as he walked back to the reception.


    "I think ''Surely the wealthiest amongst the Qaathi know something about Yi-Ti that I don''t'' were your exact words" Said the Chief.


    "Famous last words" muttered Joffrey. "It''s not like they don''t know, it''s just they''re so enamored with their own asses that they can''t find the time to talk about the filthy savages. They also conveniently ignore the fact that hundreds of years ago this city paid tribute to the Sea-green Emperors of Yi-Ti¡­"


    "Better to make the best of it, Captain. At least we''ve been having a good time" Said the Chief, practical as always.


    "Aye, we even saw a couple Dothraki" said Rivers.


    "Dothraki here? You must be mistaken, the people of Qarth detest that plague" said Joffrey.


    "I''m sure of it Captain, they were arguing around a peacock statue, probably trying to steal it¡­" he said, amused.


    Joffrey snorted. "Well, I''m sure Xaro wouldn''t even notice if they did. He probably has another dozen like it in his basement" he said as he finally reached the gardens, rejoining the conversations.


    Beside the high arrogance and pride, he found the Qaathi to be an interesting people to talk with. Despite the occasional culture shock (like Joffrey staring nonstop at the traditional Qarthian dresses which left one of the breasts exposed) he enjoyed exchanging tales of trading routes and strange animals, and against all odds even learned a bit more about Yi-Ti.


    Like learning that the bribe for entering the imperial city now barely numbered in the silvers and Joffrey suddenly had half a hold''s worth of Arbor Gold and not a clue what to do with it.


    He thought not telling the crew about that was a good idea. They were disciplined for a merchant ship, but ignoring the huge temptation under their feet would have been too much even for them.


    "Gifts and favors often carry a hidden price Your Grace, I''d be careful of which ones we accept" said a man in the common tongue.


    A Westerosi here?


    He turned around and saw a blond, somewhat tall knight or lord, armored in half plate and sporting a longsword on his hip, talking to a somewhat petit, white haired girl in a beautiful silken dress.


    He certainly wasn''t the first Westerosi Lord he''d seen treating a Lyseni prostitute as a literal Queen. They trained them since practically child birth to achieve that result. He was very intrigued though, to be this far away and with such a beautiful Lyseni bedslave¡­ This Lord certainly had a lot of Golden Dragons on his pouch. He definitively fitted in with Xaro''s company.


    "Hello there! It''s strange to meet another Westerosi this far from the Seven Kingdoms" he told the Lord.


    The man looked at him in surprise before his gaze turned thoughtful, though Joffrey didn''t miss the hand slowly moving towards the sword''s pommel. A cautious one.


    "Likewise. A pleasure to meet you¡­?" he asked tentatively.


    "Joffrey, I captain the Jade Dreams, fastest of the Fast Traders" he said with a smile. It was nice to have a casual conversation with an unknown noble met by chance, out here in the ends of the world. From the distance Joffrey regarded Westeros with a very slight nostalgia, though fortunately he was immediately cured of it every time he woke up there again.


    "And you? Lord¡­?" he asked.


    "Ser Jorah, Ser Jorah Mormont" corrected the man as the Lyseni whore turned around from a conversation to his side at the mention of ships. "And this is Queen Daenerys--"


    "Wait, Mormont? Related to the Jeor Mormont?" he asked suddenly, startled by the sudden coincidence.


    Ser Jorah looked a bit angry at the interruption, but surprised at the unexpected connection. "Yes, he''s my father" he blurted.


    "Wow, fate huh? I met him a few years ago, truly a man worthy of respect. He ran the Night''s Watch like a tight ship even with the meager resources at his disposal" Joffrey said, eyes heavy with the fog of memory.


    "You mentioned a ship, young ser? A ship to Westeros?" asked the Lyseni bedslave, not bothered by her interrupted introduction. Though now that he thought about it he didn''t see a slave collar around her neck.


    Ser Jorah must have bought her and set her free. Uncommon, but not an altogether rare occurrence for her kind¡­


    He was happy for her, Joffrey thought Lyseni bed slaves had a higher than normal chance of gaining their freedom, though the cost of one was a Lord''s ransom by itself, assuming the owner wanted to sell them anyway¡­ and they rarely did.


    "Not a Ser, just Joffrey please, or better yet, call me Joff." He said as he smiled good naturedly, the wine he''d drunk and the company raising his mood. "This is Chief Valyon and Helmsman Rivers" he said, pointing to the two men. "I''m afraid we''re not bound for Westeros. We''re sailing for the Golden Empire of Yi-Ti, chasing ancient clues and magical mysteries¡­" he trailed off as he saw Jorah frowning hard, as if trying to remember something.


    The slave (or former slave) looked surprised by that answer, and maybe even a bit wistful before some kind of inner determination smothered it, and she was suddenly serious.


    Godsdamnit, what was her name? Something very Valyrian sounding¡­ Dorea¡­ Daena¡­


    "I see¡­ maybe you should visit us again during your stay here. We are starved for information on my homeland, as you would guess" she said with a sad, cute smile.


    Damn, I can see why Ser Jorah sold whatever he sold to buy you out¡­


    Wait, homeland? She considers herself Westerosi¡­?


    "Ah, uhm. My apologies, I thought you''d been born on Lys?" he asked tentatively.


    She looked very confused at that question "Excuse me? Lys? I''m afraid I''ve never been to that city¡­" she said but Joffrey couldn''t hear her as the pieces suddenly clicked inside his head.


    "Ah, my apologies¡­" he scrambled, trying to think what to say.


    "Your mother must have been very beautiful for Ser Jorah to have strived for her liberation" he said lamely, head palming himself inside his mind.


    Father and Daughter! It had been obvious¡­.


    She looked even more confused and a bit irritated, but Ser Jorah was so red Joffrey was afraid he was going to explode.


    "You suggest your Queen¡­ is a bastard born¡­ out of a Lyseni whore?!" Ser Jorah stuttered, his rage barely contained by a calming hand from the¡­ Queen? Joffrey felt that one more wrong word and the swords would come out. Behind Ser Jorah he could actually see a couple of Dothraki, looking menacing with their hands on their arahks.


    Holy shit, Rivers was not bullshitting me¡­


    Okay Joffrey, time for a tactical retreat¡­


    "Please forgive any insult, I''m afraid I''m terribly confused--"


    "Ahh, Queen Daenerys! I see you have met your rival!" Said Xaro out of nowhere, his tone one of infinite amusement. "The Prince Joffrey--"


    "Baratheon, son of King Robert and heir to the Seven Kingdoms!" roared Ser Jorah in sudden recognition, taking out his long sword, quickly followed by the Dothraki and their arahks.


    Joffrey took out his own arming sword, swiftly followed by the Chief''s axe and Rivers''s cudgel. The garden was suddenly very quiet as the Qaathi worthies struggled between clustering closer to better see the delightful turn of events or run in fear of a sudden fight.


    Ser Jorah looked formidable in his half plate, face red with anger and shock as he pushed Daenerys to his back with his other hand.


    "Daenerys? Daenerys Targeryen!?" Joffrey asked out loud in shock.


    "Indeed!" boomed Xaro. "The two contenders for the iron throne, thrown by fate at my doorstep! What a time to live in, no?" he asked with a beatific smile.


    "So the Usurper sent his own son instead of his dogs to assassinate me? At least he does his own dirty work!" Said Daenerys, as she struggled against the arm of Ser Jorah.


    "Assassinate you? I didn''t even know you were in-"


    "Lies!" roared Ser Jorah. "King Robert knows exactly where we are, do you think we''re stupid?!"


    Without the restraining hand of Daenerys, Ser Jorah was a second away from attacking him. The previously moderating influence of his queen was there no longer¡­ she looking at Joffrey in anger and some kind of strange, indescribable hate that sent a shiver down his spine.


    Joffrey was already visualizing the swift twirl and neck stab he was going to try and deliver on Ser Jorah when a deep voice interrupted.


    "Please! What a shame it would be if two such wonderful individuals spilt their blood in our fair city¡­"


    Joffrey risked a quick glance to his left and saw a tall, incredibly pale man with huge dark eye bags. His neck was stretched by strange copper rings, and he seemed to regard them both with joy and¡­


    Lust?!


    "You are truly a terrible Host, merchant prince" He said as he walked towards them.


    "Pyat Pree" Xaro almost said the name as a curse. "No blood would have been spilt here, this is just the way of the Westerosi, a mere bragging of swords¡­"


    Pyat Pree walked in between the drawn swords, slowly shaking his head. "To waste such valuable blood in our city would be a great disservice" he said, placing an odd inflection on blood.


    Ser Jorah slowly lowered his sword as he gave another step back and Pyat Pree kept talking, "I once spoke to the fair Dragon Queen about Saathos the Wise¡­" he continued as he turned and looked at Joffrey, who still hadn''t lowered his sword.


    "Qarth is the greatest city that ever was or ever will be. It is the center of the world, the gate between north and south, the bridge between east and west, ancient beyond memory of man and so magnificent that Saathos the Wise put out his eyes after gazing upon Qarth for the first time, because he knew that all he saw thereafter should look squalid and ugly by comparison" he said the line as if it were the ''truth'' of the Seven Pointed Star. "Surely to spill it with blood, however righteous your cause, would be an indignity?" he asked Joffrey, grandly.


    Joffrey snorted as he sheathed his sword, "Then Saathos the Wise was an ignorant fool. Someone should have gotten him a far-eye and a clear sky" he said he took a couple of steps back.


    "Come on, let''s get back to the ship" he told Chief Valyon and Rivers as they too sheathed and they followed him out.


    "You should come to the House of the Undying, Your Grace. We have many truths and wisdoms to share¡­" said Pyat from behind him, thought he didn''t know if he was talking to him or to Deanerys.


    "And for you, young Joffrey" suddenly said Pyat, right to his left as if he''d somehow doubled. "We have many secrets and omens¡­ omens written in bones and tablets¡­" Pyat trailed off as he walked behind a pillar and didn''t emerge from the other side.


    What!?


    But he was gone, along with the... other him that had been standing by Daenerys.


    Joffrey shook his head as he kept walking fast towards the dock.


    -.PD.-


    "What do you really know?" whispered a voice in his ear.


    "I¡­I¡­" Joffrey mumbled, gazing at his hands in confusion.


    "Some things weren''t meant to be known¡­ some knowledge was not meant to be¡­" whispered the voice.


    "But I ¡­ I was¡­" Joffrey muttered in panic, frowning hard as he looked at his hands in despair.


    I know¡­. I ¡­


    Who¡­


    Who am I?


    Who am I!?


    WHO AM I!?


    Joffrey bolted from his hummock, almost crashing against the deck. It was only when he had his breathing under control that he took the wineskin on his tall nightstand.


    Joffrey cursed the Warlocks of Qarth one more time as he doused himself with a bucket of water and left his cabin, nodding at various groups of sailors, either working or relaxing.


    They can''t just say that and leave me like that¡­


    Qarth had certainly become an unexpected stop. He''d been thinking for days about going to the tower were the both feared and ridiculed Warlocks of Qarth made their home, but he kept delaying. The gut wrenching nightmares that had started after the Hightower and increased after Volantis now plagued him almost every night, and he was starting to dread what he''d find if he visited the House of the Undying Ones.


    He shook his head as he walked through the Bazaar, buying the occasional strange fruit and sightseeing at the groups of people from around the world that toured around it.


    I should be on my way to Yin by now¡­ damned Warlocks¡­


    And to think I confused Daenerys freaking Targeryen first for a Lyseni whore and then for bastard born out of one¡­


    He shook his head harder as he imagined Tyrion laughing his ass off, pumping ten digits into the air.


    Definitively ten out of ten. He thought in unwilling amusement.


    He was very surprised when he saw her again, this time from afar, browsing through stands and looking up in wonder at the colorful birds. By her side was Ser Jorah and another Dothraki, ever watchful of possible thieves or assassins.


    Joffrey decided to approach them, so curious he was of the Queen in exile. What did she want? How did she manage to ally with those fiery maniacs? And why was everyone talking about the godsdamned three dragons?


    Have you heard about the Three dragons! The Three dragons! Three dragons has the mother!


    He suspected it had something to do with the Targeryen heraldry, it sported three dragon heads after all, but his Qaathi was frankly miserable and he got one word in 10 when someone did not humor him with Valyrian.


    As soon as Ser Jorah saw him they all tensed, but Joffrey kept walking towards them as he nodded.


    "Queen Daenerys, Ser Jorah" he greeted.


    "What do you want?" Ser Jorah immediately demanded, though some of his anger dissipated as he processes how Joffrey had called his Liege Lady.


    "We do not need your presence¡­ I do not know what you are truly doing here, but if you have come to boast of your hold on the throne, then you better spend your time elsewhere!" Said Daenerys, trying very hard to sound Queenly and frankly overdoing it.


    Joffrey couldn''t contain the burst of laughter that assaulted him, and Ser Jorah was looking like he was going to cut him down for real this time as Joffrey hurriedly shook his hands "Your battle is not with me, Your Highness. I renounced my claim to the throne the day King Robert died, I''ve been sailing through the Summer Sea since then" he told them.


    Joffrey thought he could have brained them with a brick and they wouldn''t have looked more stunned.


    "What!?" they both blurted out at the same time.


    "It''s true" he said as he took a bite from a red pear, savoring the juice with relish. He had really started to appreciate food after lives of starvation climbing or months at sea eating hard tack or fish¡­ or worse, whales.


    "I already told you what I''m after, but I''m curious about what you want? Just with the gifts I saw people showering at you the other day, I think you could manage to buy a ship and sail wherever you wanted to, maybe even buy a comfortable manse¡­ not here though. Myr maybe, or Volantis, they seem to like you there¡­" he mused, his mouth half filled with fruit bits. His manners had somewhat deteriorated after¡­ well, after everything.


    The last he''d heard about Daenerys that he remembered in his first life had been something about Khal''s and hordes of Dothraki screamers¡­ he wondered what happened with that¡­


    Both of them regarded him with confusion before Daenerys blurted. "To take back the Iron Throne from the usurper, of course!" she said as if it were obvious.


    Joffrey choked on a piece of redpear, coughing and coughing as Ser Jorah awkwardly patted him in the back, once.


    "You''re serious?!" he managed in between breaths.


    Her expression turned angry, and Joffrey could again see something¡ª


    "You think I can''t take back the throne my family built?! That I can''t¡­"


    She trailed off as Joffrey waved her off with one hand, the other containing his mouth and the bits of fleshy pear that kept coming out of his throat.


    He took a breath after a final cough as he stood up. "Daenerys, Queen Daenerys, whatever you want to call yourself, if you want that ugly lump of iron, you can have it!" he said, snorting. "That thing only brings pain and misery, you''re more than welcome to go and take it, though you''ll have to face the other five idiots standing in the way" he said.


    "You just gave up on the throne?... and the Usurper is dead?" she asked him, unwilling to believe it. "Yes, Robert is dead¡­ And I''m telling you, it''s not worth it. You can ask my crew, or Xaro I guess. He must have spies everywhere if he''s so successful as a trader¡­" Joffrey said.


    Daenerys stared at him in incomprehension, gears grinding inside her head before she nodded. "Would you like to accompany us back to Xaro''s palace?" she asked him, her eyes calculating. "Your Grace, for all we know he could be-" Started Mormont, but she interrupted him. "I believe him, Ser Jorah¡­ besides, I think I can dissuade him if he has dishonorable intentions¡­" she said as she started walking in the other direction


    Joffrey thought about it. He was fairly certain he could escape if they tried an ambush, and from what he''d seen she didn''t have an awful lot of Dothrakis around her. Besides, the curiosity was almost killing him.


    Wonder how she got a hold of a dozen do¡­ ah, wasn''t she sold to some horse lord by¡­ Viserys, was it? Better not to ask, Ser Jorah is going to break his fingers if he keeps squeezing his pommel like that.


    They walked out of the Bazaar, in direction of Xaro''s palace. Joffrey nodded at Daenerys''s questions, she seemed to have become intent on pumping him dry of information. He didn''t care, in fact he was enjoying their reactions. "Yep, five of them. First there''s Renly Baratheon, an incompetent fool with dangerous charisma, backed to the hilt by the Tyrells, hehe¡­ Then there''s his brother Stannis himself, Renly''s polar opposite. As relatable as a stick but dangerously competent, and a powerful sorcerer to boot¡­ " he numbered them with his hand. "Then there''s the Lannisters, my family. They''ve probably crowned Tommen by now, he''s a sweet boy of 12 or so by now I think, so you shouldn''t hate him as much as you seem to¡­ Though you should beware my grandfather Tywin, he''ll absolutely destroy you if he catches you off-guard¡­ Then, there''s Robb, acclaimed as King in the North by his Lords. A tactical genius but a terrible strategist, he''ll get himself killed if you just wait¡­ as long as you don''t¡­ well, it''s complicated¡­" he trailed off as they reached the palace.


    Their expressions seemed to vary from disbelieving to confused to flabbergasted at his antics. Joffrey was himself immensely entertained. "Last and certainly least, is Balon Greyjoy. He failed to gain his independence during Robert''s reign, and decided he''ll enjoy a few years of absolute freedom now before whoever wins the godsforsaken game finally gets around to smacking him down and razing the Iron Islands to the bedrock¡­" he said as they entered the whole wing that Xaro Xhoan Daxos had cleared for her use.


    She seemed a bit shaken as she digested that. "Five Kings¡­" she whispered¡­


    They walked for a bit as they kept talking, and he could tell that Daenerys was appraising him. Whatever her verdict eventually was, he was certain she did not consider him an imminent threat at least. She seemed to arrive to a conclusion, and guided him to a specific chamber.


    "Those seem like terrible challenges¡­" she said as she eyed Joffrey''s amused smirk and she walked towards some cages covered with a big blanket.


    "But¡­ I don''t know how you hadn''t heard¡­ I have Dragons" she said as she lifted the blanket and three fucking miniature dragons shrieked from within the cages.


    Joffrey gave a scream as he jumped backwards, looking at them with a mix of horror and fascination.


    "By the God!!!" he shouted, using a nearby wall for support, not believing his eyes.


    Daenerys smiled as she let Joffrey slowly walk nearer them. They shrieked at him from their cages, looking for all the world like they''d prefer nothing else but to tear him to pieces.


    "And this things will grow to be the size of the Black Dread?!" he asked, shocked to the core.


    "They will" she said as the something returned to her eyes. "And I will take what is mine, by fire and blood, be it from one king or five¡­"


    Joffrey shivered a bit he remembered the stories about the Mad King for some reason.


    By the gods¡­ imagine what the Mad King would have done with Dragons¡­


    But she''s not like him.


    She''s not like him.


    "By the Gods¡­ Damn¡­ Westeros is so fucked¡­" he muttered to himself.


    He looked at her in a new light. "You do realize the Realm will fall apart if you invade with dragons¡­ after all those wars¡­ and then another Conquest¡­ shit, the smallfolk will rise and murder the Lords in their beds¡­"


    "Or force them to bow to their rightful Queen" said Ser Jorah, thoughtful.


    "I guess¡­ Still, after that much bloodshed for the throne, whatever faction that survived is not going to just hand it over, you''ll have to stage a repeat of the Fields of Fire, or maybe two" Joffrey said, looking at the prospective queen.


    She looked conflicted, "They won''t be so dumb, the Kingdoms bowed to the dragons once, they''ll do it again after seeing mine¡­" she said.


    "You give them far too much credit" Joffrey said as he approached them again and kneeled, gazing at the little vicious beasts closer. "And your Father did not exactly leave the throne and your family with a good reputation¡­"


    These little buggers will grow to the size of villages and burn what''s left of the Seven Kingdoms to ash¡­ if her fanatic flame followers don''t burn it first.


    He shook his head as he stood back.


    Dragons¡­ and the Mad King''s daughter hell bent on revenge in command of them¡­


    A lot of people are going to die, burnt to a crisp. And though I''d love to see some of their faces as their whole game collapsed in on themselves in fire and blood¡­


    I can''t say the same for all the other ones. Gods¡­ all the people who are already dead or will in the future¡­ how many deserted farmsteads will the War of the Five Kings and one Queen leave? How many empty keeps? How many burnt fields and ghost towns¡­ And what if another plague comes swooping in right behind Daenerys as they often do after great wars?


    The image of a deserted King''s Landing sent a shiver down his spine, the carts full of bodies, no one left to burn them outside the city walls. The streets empty and eerily silent¡­


    How much knowledge will be lost?


    He imagined groups of starved people burning books at the Citadel for warmth.


    And we''re closing in on winter, it can''t be much longer now¡­ this has been the longest summer in living memory¡­


    The Seven Kingdoms were very definitely screwed. Joffrey thought civilization itself might collapse if things turned for the worse¡­ something that was basically a staple of the continent¡­


    It was a difficult thought to contemplate, but history was clear¡­ Such things did happen¡­ and calamities had a tendency to snowball. What''s to say something worse didn''t follow the hypothetical plague, maybe an invasion by a restored Three Sisters smelling blood, or hells, why not a huge invasion force from Beyond-the-Wall. The wildlings had been awfully quiet for decades now¡­ centuries even¡­ and there had been rumblings before he died in his first life¡­


    What a fucked up world¡­ he thought.


    "Are you alright?" asked Daenerys.


    Joffrey nodded. "I''m okay, it''s just¡­" what¡­ please spare my uncle Tyrion? The Starks are good people, please don''t burn them¡­?


    "Nothing" he said as he let out a breath.


    He sighted as a black mood descended upon him. Should have continued on to Yi-Ti¡­


    -.PD.-


    He became a somewhat regular visitor to Daenerys''s wing, to his own surprise. It was fascinating to talk with her and see in some kind of slow motion how the Doom approached Westeros. When the Dragons grew and she somehow got an army (or linked up with the one waiting for her in Volantis¡­ which she didn''t know about, apparently) it would be reckoning time for Westeros. She was completely na?ve about what ruling entailed, what the game did to people. Joffrey thought one of three things would happen once she took the Red Keep. One possibility was that she learned and triumphed over them all¡­


    Another one, and the most likely if Joffrey hazarded a guess, was that she got outmaneuvered and betrayed in the game, probably assassinated in some way. Leaving the dragons without a master and a huge power vacuum because half of the remaining player would be roasted meat by then.


    The third¡­


    The third was that the game broke her¡­


    And Aerys the second was reborn, this time with Dragons at his beck and call¡­


    If suddenly I woke up and I knew that life would be my last, I''d grab Tyrion, Jon, Sandor and Sansa, ransack the treasury and get lost in the Summer Islands.


    Still, he thought his conversations with Daenerys posed some interesting questions for her, questions that would hopefully make her¡­ reconsider her ill-advised course of action.


    She seemed pretty determined though.


    -.PD.-


    Things had been relatively quiet in Qarth when things suddenly went to the hells in typical Westerosi¡­ (or should he say Planetosi by now?) fashion.


    Better to go into a Warlock''s nest with company rather than alone, right?


    He was trying to be positive again, the world needed it.


    He looked to his right, eying Daenerys past the glare of her torch. She looked calm and determined, a far cry from when this had all started. He still remembered the despair in her eyes¡­


    "WHERE ARE MY DRAGONS!?" she had screamed as Joffrey saw the something in her eyes again, that time at full power.


    "WHERE ARE MY DRAGONS!?!?" she had shrieked as she tore into the wing, tossing baggage and furniture aside.


    Turns out the Warlocks coveted the dragons, who could have known?


    And I don''t think they''d be more responsible with the flying firestorms than Daenerys¡­


    It turns the Warlocks coveted his Whalebone tablet as well. They''d somehow stolen it from his ship while he''d been walking around the Bazaar with Daenerys. It had served to narrow down the suspects though, Joffrey thought Daenerys would have been walking in circles around the city for weeks searching for them if he hadn''t simply pointed towards the North East.


    And now here they were, walking through the house of the undying trying to get their things back from the bunch of mystical thieves.


    Joffrey looked back, wary at the darkness. When he looked in front of him, he realized Daenerys was gone.


    Great¡­


    He walked through a set of staircases, and promptly turned into a scene from the hells. Catapult fire rained from above as King''s Landing''s defenders tried to resist Stannis''s wrath. Nothing stopped his troops, arrows and boiling oil and stones merely delayed them, and the gates were about to fall. Joffrey saw himself fleeing to the Red Keep, leaving the soldiers fighting for him to face the onslaught alone.


    He saw the Imp rallying the men.


    "They say I''m half a man, then what does that make you!?" he berated them as some of them started to flee.


    Joffrey kept walking, seeing scenes from his first life, and events he definitively was not there for. He saw the death of the Young Wolf and the slaying of Renly by Stannis in his shadow form. He saw his death in his own wedding, choking as her mother screeched at Tyrion and ''uncle'' Jaime shook him in despair.


    I didn''t remember him before it all went black¡­ at least he cared in the end¡­


    He waited in anticipation, waiting for any clue of the purple, almost begging that the Warlocks had some sort of knowledge or explanation about what was happening to him.


    ¡­


    Nothing.


    The visions slowly twirled into nothing, the last thing to disappear being his purple, swollen face, and Joffrey was back again in the corridor.


    "You think I''m impressed?!" he suddenly shouted. "Show me something I don''t know or stop wasting my time!"


    "GIVE ME ANSWERS!!!" he shouted in vague despair.


    Only silence greeted him.


    Joffrey roared as he slammed his fist against a wall in anger. The Warlocks said one must always follow the door to the right¡­ He thought it was stupidity to follow your enemies'' instructions when you were invading their stronghold.


    Soon enough he saw a hallway to his right, which led to a small stone table perfectly made to hold something like, say, Dragons. Or a tablet.


    Nope. Not falling for that.


    He kept going forward, occasionally turning as he concentrated on the tablet, feeling it and letting his feet be guided like a ship following the Hightower¡­


    Until he was suddenly on a black study, lit by¡­


    Are those glass candles?!


    They shone with a strange, unpleasant light that distorted all the other colors, giving an otherworldly glow to the Warlock which was bent over a table, intently gazing at the tablet.


    He was muttering in a panic, grabbing it and immediately dropping it back on the table, as if he didn''t know what to do with it. "Never seen¡­ no¡­no¡­ the sheer power complexity¡­ how¡­ " muttered the Warlock.


    When he suddenly looked up and saw Joffrey, sword in hand and distorted by the strange light, the Warlock stumbled backwards. "No! Please! We didn''t know! Tell the Emperor we''d never¡­! We''d Never!!!" he shrieked as he stumbled back onto a corner.


    Joffrey followed him to the corner, shouting. "You''d never what?! What Emperor!?" he asked him as he waved his sword threateningly at him.


    Each step he got closer to the Warlock, and the closer he got to him the more the man screamed for forgiveness. By the time he stood in front of him, the Warlock had lost his mind, crying and screaming and peeing himself.


    Suddenly he jumped at him like a wild cat, screaming in despair with a dagger in his hand. Joffrey parried the clumsy strike and severed the man''s spine in the counterblow.


    The Warlock crashed against the floor, his blood pooling around him.


    What the hell is wrong with him!?


    As he advanced upon the fallen man, the Warlock screamed as he looked not at his sword hand, but at his empty fist.


    "NOT THE SILENCE! PLEASE NO!" he screamed as he grabbed a hold of his dagger and stabbed himself in the neck.


    He kept stabbing as long as he could, all of 4 seconds until his arm fell to the ground, limp.


    ¡­


    Joffrey was shaken.


    Shaken and scared.


    -.PD.-


    When he stumbled outside, he found Daenerys, nursing her three dragons like a doting mother, feeding them charred meat as Ser Jorah nodded warily at him.


    "Did you find what they stole from you?" she asked him, her face exhausted but satisfied.


    "Yeah¡­ did you find Pyat Pree inside?" Joffrey said.


    "Yes¡­ He''s naught but ash and bone now¡­" she responded.


    Joffrey shivered.


    She''s not like him.


    He shook his head.


    "Well Daenerys Stormborn. It''s certainly been interesting, but I''ve delayed too much already. I must continue on to Yi-Ti" he told her, thinking about what the crazed Warlock had said¡­


    The fact that I was the tablet''s owner turned a feared mage into a squealing infant¡­


    Joffrey felt ominous shivers run through his back as he closed his eyes.


    He was afraid, a deep vacuum warbling inside his belly as his hands trembled slightly.


    "What is it that you are searching with such passion, Joffrey? What do you want with such zeal that you''d forsake a throne to find it?" Daenerys suddenly asked, as if the question had been gestating for a while now in her head.


    Joffrey stilled the shivers, resolve hardening inside him as he opened his pale green eyes.


    "Answers" he said.


    -.PD.-


    They said the Jade Sea was a beautiful, frequently calm sea whose waters serenely cooled men''s minds and brought forth dreams of joy and enlightenment.


    Joffrey didn''t know whether to laugh in gut wrenching amusement at that memory or curl up into a ball and cry.


    "SECURE THAT SAIL! SHE''LL DRAG US DOWN! MOVE DAMN YOU, MOVE!" Joffrey roared as he struggled with the wheel, trying to keep it from turning with all his strength along with Jon.


    The Helmsman was only using one arm however, the other dangled by, broken and useless. Sailors cursed and screamed as they pulled a piece of rope behind him, trying and failing to take down the wildly flapping Rear Spanker.


    Joffrey had few times in his life seen a storm so powerful. The wind was so fast the fancy anemometer he had designed and installed had been taken wholesale along with the top half of the main mast, hurled into the seas by the very thing it had been designed to measure.


    The pounding rain was like a physical slog, slowing movement in the deck and chilling everyone to their bones.


    "CAPTAIN!" shouted the Chief as he appeared from a hatch behind him. "THE LOWER DECK IS FLOODED! WE NEED MORE MEN ON THE PUMPS!" he shouted as hard as he could, the wind and the rain reducing his roar so much that Joffrey had to strain himself to hear him.


    Joffrey let himself be relieved from the wheel by another two sailors, and he stumbled over the upper aft deck towards the central railing. The seas were so shaken up that Joffrey swore he could see waves the size of the Hightower in the distance, like some sort of lumbering titans closing in on them with irresistible force.


    He managed to hold into the railing, and gazed upon the lower central deck. Down there he could see a few dead sailors with wooden shrapnel stabbed all over them, pieces of what remained of the mainmast.


    Forwards, below the forecastle deck he could see First Seaman Dorreo and what remained of the fore crew. "SEAMAN DORREO!" he shouted, pitching his voice to carry. They were desperately trying to hack a piece of the forward mast, trying to cut it down and let the sea carry it down instead of the whole ship. "SEAMAN DORREO!!! PUMPS! LOWER DECK!" he shouted.


    Dorreo turned to look at him just as a huge wave impacted them from the Port side, an explosion of water that clouded Joffrey''s vision for a few seconds as he hold on for dear life. When he wiped his eyes clean, there was no one below the forecastle deck.


    "HOLD ON! IT''S A MASSIVE ONE!" someone shouted, and Joffrey paled as he looked to the front at a wave that looked bigger than Aegon''s Hill.


    The seas were completely dark, the black water greedily absorbing the light from the few lanterns that remained on the ship. Joffrey could only see the seas when a thunder roared and the sky lit up for miles, revealing towering columns of water, curling waves the size of Leviathans tumbling and splitting like huge ancient maws devouring the world.


    "BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Joffrey roared as he made sure he was still tied to the railing.


    The ship started to climb the wave, propelled like a dragon even with the few sails that remained. They climbed and climbed and climbed, until suddenly they stalled and Joffrey feared they''d capsize.


    Then they fell.


    The ship crested the wave, and then it was nothing but down.


    The ship tilted to the side as they picked up speed again, and Joffrey could only hold on, he couldn''t speak nor command, all-consuming darkness closing in as a wave hit them from the starboard side and the Jade Dreams squealed in agony.


    He felt himself being propelled forwards with the force of the impact. He tumbled through the deck in bone chilling pain, a white, freezing agony lodging itself on his belly.


    He spat water, but when he tried to stand he fell back on the deck. He could see a piece of the wooden railing jutting out from his belly, the blood flowing slowly, very slowly from the wound because of the pervasive cold.


    He was on the central deck, but he couldn''t see the bodies he''d spotted before¡­ they had been washed out by the seas.


    He propped himself, leaning his back on the stub that used to be the mainmast, facing the forward deck. His head buzzed with an omnipresent twine, multiple white spots dancing in his vision as he felt cold blood slipping down his forehead.


    He struggled to turn his head to the left, and saw Archmaester Ebrose standing on the deck, the pounding rain sticking his long hair to his head. His shining silver mask glinted despite the lack of light as he gazed thoughtfully at the whalebone tablet in his hand, tilting it slowly. "Heavy concussions can distort the senses and cloud the mind, blurring the twilight between dreams and reality" he said, cleaning it with his sleeve. He passed the tablet to a pale man in a slender black robe, his neck stretched longer than his arms, filled with copper rings. "But which is which?" he said, his voice oddly distorted as he received the tablet with one finger, lifting it in perfect balance as he tilted his head slightly. "Perhaps The Purple is your reality, and this is merely the dream? Perhaps dream and dreamer have switched?" he mused, giving the tablet to his right.


    A billowing figure of red, black and purple robes received it. Its voice had a thousand echoes as it spoke. "But at this level, when you transcend Gods and Magic, is there a meaningful distinction between the two?" asked the alien voice as the tablet floated in front of it, spinning on its own axis. "Perhaps purpose and existence are but one, dream and dreamer¡­ " The robes swirled with the wind, revealing no body under it.


    The howling wind reached impossible speeds and the thunders seemed to split the skies open.


    Then he saw it.


    A wave towering over what remained of the ship like the Mountains of the Moon, a colossal, black thing that seemed to consume the horizon as it slowly reached the Jade Dreams, surrounding it from all sides, even from above as the crest of the wave tumbled forwards, blotting what few stars Joffrey could see in the sky.


    The wave consumed them.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey tumbled through the cold ocean, sinking and sinking and sinking.


    He saw pieces of the Jade Dreams, tumbling and swirling as they spiraled ever downwards.


    He focused on one of the pieces.


    It was Jon Rivers, eyes still and wide open, limbs limp as he sunk faster and faster, a big piece of wood that was tied to his waist carried him down.


    Joffrey''s vision blurred as looked down into the ever darkening abyss, and he saw red.


    He saw trios of red dots, first appearing from below, then to his sides, then in front of him. Soon all the abyss, all the ocean was filled with red eyes that gazed at him, watching eternally. They watched as The Purple seeped into his vision like wine on water, tinting it and surrounding him in a tornado of encroaching purple darkness.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey slowly felt the heat on his face, like a yellow hot poker slowly approaching his forehead. His eyes opened, and he gazed at the blue, beautiful sky. He didn''t feel his body, but he could hear the sea as it gently crashed against a shore, a constant, entrancing lullaby right at his sides.


    He blinked slowly as he kept gazing at the sky, contemplating its spread of blue shades¡­


    He heard footsteps approaching, a deliberate staccato of boots on sand, a course following a purpose.


    "What about this one?" said a voice in a language he couldn''t identify.


    "¡­ He''s small but strong¡­ He''ll serve the Dawn" commanded a second voice, and the blue sky faded into comforting oblivion.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 18: Conversations.

    After the madness that was the last update, this chapter will be quite a bit smaller haha.For maximum effect I advise looping this track as you read the whole thing. (If you like listening to music while reading that is)


    Here''s a link from an autolooper website if youtube fritzs out for whatever reason.


    Chapter 18: Conversations.


    "¡ªthe lion ripped his balls off haaaaaaand¡­. The boar did all the rest¡­" The Bard woodenly finished his song, and an awkward silence descended upon the throne room. The midmorning sun shined through the stained glass, illuminating the audience that stood behind him. To the front was Joffrey, sitting on his throne, staring at the bard with a smirk. To his sides were Cercei, Sansa and the Hound, all looking at the spectacle in varying degrees of awkwardness or smoothed anger in the case of Cercei.


    "Very amusing" Joffrey said as he started to clap slowly, followed by the rest of the courtly audience, all following the lead of their King.


    "Isn''t it a funny story?" Joffrey asked in his typical nasal twang, as the bard rose to his feet with a look of fear and impending panic. "I''m so sorry Your Grace¡­ I''ll never sing again¡­" he said, eyes quickly looking everywhere and back down to the floor.


    Joffrey seemed to stare at him as he thought, fingering one of the pommels on the iron throne.


    "Tell me, which to you favor, fingers or your tongue?" he suddenly asked.


    "¡­Y-Your Grace?" stuttered the bard.


    "Fingers, or your tongues. If you got to keep one, which would it be?" asked with a satisfied smirk.


    The bard''s stutter increased as he looked at Joffrey in dawning realization. "I could just cut your throat" Joffrey warned.


    "E-E-Every man n-needs his hands y-your g-g-g-grace" he said as he struggled to comprehend what was happening to him in that moment.


    "Good, tongue it is. Ser Illyn, who better than you to carry out the sentence?" Joffrey commanded the King''s Justice. The man started to advance when suddenly the throne room''s doors crashed open.


    "STOP THIS MADNESS AT ONCE!" roared a voice. From the opened doors strode in Joff, light armor and chainmail jingling softly as he quickly walked towards the throne, the audience parting in front of him.


    Sansa was looking at him, her expression neutral and her eyes fixed, but Cercei was gazing at Joff with a knowing smirk.


    "Aah, someone is not enjoying the show?" said Joffrey as he leaned back on the iron throne, completely relaxed on his fine cloth and silk doublet.


    Joff stamped his heavy spear''s butt on the floor with all his strength, the heavy sound resonating throughout the throne room. "What do you think you are doing?! Ripping a tongue out?! For an idiotic song which is being played from here to Harrenhal!? I think I''ve never heard such a poor rhythm! And the rhymes! I''ve heard better from an Ibbenese dockhand!" bellowed Joff as he kept walking. "You would take a man''s tongue out, possibly kill him for something as insignificant and stupid as that?!"


    Joffrey laughed as he lay back, a bit of blood sipping down his sleeves from the iron tips on the throne, "A King does as he wants! Isn''t that what you taught me mother?" he asked Cercei as he chuckled. "It is my sweet strong boy, the Truth is what the King decrees" Said Cercei, as if reciting some truth learned long ago.


    "No closer" mewled Joffrey, and the Kingsguard and the multitude of Redcloaks standing in front of him took out their swords. "You moronic, bloodthirsty tyrant! People are out there fighting and dying for you, and you just sit there and torture your subjects?! Do you know what is happening on the Seven Kingdoms?! Do you know that every second the wars and schemes continue, thousands die and all that has been created by man on this continent is tore to ash?!?!" screamed Joff.


    "HAHAHAHAHA" Joffrey giggled hysterically, his laughing convulsions shoving pieces of the iron throne all over his back and sides. Joff suddenly realized he could feel them as blood slipped down his armor. "So you''d rather take the throne? Come play the game? Do it! It''ll be so much fun!!!" mewled Joffrey as he kept laughing, blood appearing from his chest.


    "What!? No! Never!" Joff shouted. "Ser Illyn! Cut his tongue! Cut ALL their tongues!" Joffrey giggled maniacally, shoving his arms into the sword points.


    The bard screamed as Ser Illyn took out a red hot dagger from his sheath and advanced upon the man.


    "CEASE THIS MADNESS!" Joff screamed as he strode forward. A Redcloak pounced at him, but Joff stepped to the right and pierced the man''s back with his spear. The redcloaks rushed him as Joff started to run, spinning and dodging, his spear leaving trails of blood in the air as he kept fighting and fighting, rushing to get to the throne.


    Joffrey kept giggling like a madman as Ser Illyn cut of the Bard''s tongue, its bloody remains falling to the floor with the bleeding and rasping man himself. Ser Illyn then started to cut the tongues of everyone on the throne room, silently working like a butcher works on a pig.


    Redcloaks flooded the room from nearby doors, dozens, hundreds. The hall seemed to stretch as the throne and Joffrey kept getting farther away and away.


    "Admit it! Deep inside you, you crave it, you crave that power, to make truth your desires! To rule them all! To rub the faces of all the imbeciles in the game and show them what they''re worth! Half plans and afternoon musings, investment plans and commerce strategies, public works and crown armies and power, POWER! SO MUCH POWER!!! BUAHAHAHAHA" Joffrey cackled as his blood seemed to engulf him, completely tinting him red as fountains of it spilled from his body and the throne. S?a?ch* Th? n0v?l(?)ire.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "IT''S NOT TRUE!!! LET ME PASS DAMN YOU! I''LL KILL YOU! ILL KILL YOU!!!!" Joff screamed as blood engulfed him, redcloaks stabbing him from all sides as he kept killing them, discarding his spear and taking out his arming sword, butchering them as if they were chickens.


    Joffrey seemed to find that the greatest joke he''d ever heard. He grasped his belly as he screamed, blood falling out of his eyes. "YOU CANT EVEN KILL ME! IF YOU KILL US WE''LL JUST BE BACK FOR THE NEXT LIFE! AND THE NEXT! AND THE NEXTANDTHENEXTANDTHENEXTANDTHENEXT UNTIL WE LOSE OUR MINDS AGAIN AND WE BECOME SOMETHING EVEN GREATER! GRANDER! EVEN NOW YOU FEEL IT! THE LUST FOR THEIR BLOOD, THE SOARING HEIGHTS IT''S TAKING YOU! I''M NOT HERE! I''M JUST YOU! YOUYOUYOUYOUYOU---"


    Joff stared as his blood soaked body, feeling the pleasure engulf him, pinned to the Iron throne. The ''You''s had somehow morphed into ME''s as he lay back on the throne, avalanches of blood bursting forth from the glass vitrals and flooding the throne room.


    MEMEMEMEMEMEMEME


    "NO! PLEASE NO! PLEASE NO!!!" he screamed as he rose from the chair, his body with a will of his own as he walked to the bard with a dagger and started to stab him again and again.


    MEMEMEMEMEMEMEME


    ¡­


    Joffrey''s eyes twitched, light slowly filling them as his eyelids opening gradually but fell back down every time he blinked. In between blinks, he saw the back end of a wagon, gently moving from side to side.


    The wagon had no roof, and he could see numerous flights of Condors flying overhead, each the size of a man as they tumbled and cartwheeled through the blue skies, playing or fighting for some scrap of food. Joffrey was entranced by the play of black and blue feathers, moving and jinxing and mixing in an alluring show of colors.


    He blinked slowly, and he saw no more.


    ¡­


    He walked through long, damp hallways. Even though they were dark, he could see where he was going. He turned to his right and kept moving, ever downwards. He finally stood in front of an opened cell, a macabre spectacle lit by nearby torches.


    Joffrey saw himself standing beside a table. His face sported a manic expression as he swung a small knife left and right, unleashing torrents of blood and sighting in ecstasy as the man on the table groaned and gave short, strangled screams that never lasted longer than a second.


    It was Eddard Stark, his face a rictus of agony and pain as Joffrey selected another implement of torture and continued with his bloody work. Ned didn''t even have the strength to beg any more, now he was just taking the pain in, low moans and rolling eyes the only evidence that he was alive anymore.


    As the Sadistic Torturer continued with his spectacle, Joffrey entered the cell and looked to his left. There on the corner was Sansa, hands holding her face as she sobbed and sobbed, not begging the monster in front of her to stop, but still staring at his bloody work.


    Joffrey walked by her side and kneeled, crying. "I''m so sorry¡­ I''m so sorry¡­ please¡­ I''m so sorry¡­" he said as he bawled in front of her, wanting to touch her but feeling incapable of doing so.


    "I''m so sorry¡­ I was sick¡­ I''m sick¡­ Sick from the inside¡­ please I''m sorry¡­ I didn''t know¡­ I''m so sorry¡­ I didn''t know what I was doing¡­" Joffrey begged as he sobbed.


    "I know" whispered Sansa as she took his hand, holding it with hers. Her face was serene as Joffrey hold on to it with his whole strength, never letting go¡­


    ¡­


    He opened his eyes and saw Chief Valyon worriedly speaking with someone in front of him, but Joffrey couldn''t see the other man''s face. They were all inside some kind of round tent.


    When the man turned, Joffrey saw him. It was Jon Rivers, he looked at Joffrey as he opened his mouth, seawater bubbling forth like a fountain, flooding the tent and everything in it.


    Sounds distorted as Joffrey closed his eyes again


    ¡­


    "You have an awfully optimistic view of humanity, Archmaester Perestan", Joffrey said as he leaned back on his chair, looking at the historian as he spoke about war and peace, about hate and love.


    The Archmaester stopped at that, his copper scepter still raised high. The master of history looked thoughtful as he lowered his scepter, gazing at it thoughtfully. "Many a man have said that¡­ many a philosopher has spoken about the mere animal that is man too¡­" he said as he walked through the deserted auditorium. "Wise men and learned men they called them. Priests and Prophets too, sent to us by their gods to punish and save, to cleanse us of some deep infamy¡­" said the Archmaester as he turned back and stood in front of Joffrey again.


    "I have studied History my whole life, Joffrey. I''ve read tales of kings and heroes, I''ve seen monuments to glory and to peace, I''ve seen patterns that stretch throughout recorded history¡­" he let the silence hang for a moment, and Joffrey was completely captivated.


    "And you know what I''ve seen?" he asked his pupil.


    "What?" Joffrey asked his teacher, intrigued.


    "This" he said, holding his hands forward and almost bumping his scepter into Joffrey''s head.


    "A scepter?" asked Joffrey, confused.


    But the Archmaester gave a knowing smile as he shook his head and kept bumping it into Joffrey, until he grabbed it.


    Joffrey stared at the thing in his hand, about the length of his forearm but thinner, slender. He frowned as he thought, "¡­Copper?" he asked, faint wisps of understanding flying by, annoyingly close.


    "Copper" repeated the Archmaester, as if it were the answer to the Cosmos. "Cynics look at mankind and see only the death and the intrigue, the cruelty and the despair¡­ But I, dear Joffrey, I see Copper¡­"


    The Archmaester stood back and walked through the auditorium, hands clasped at his back as he tilted his head slightly upwards. "You know a bit about Geology, Joffrey. Tell me, what was the earliest metal, to our knowledge, mined by any of the races of man? Be it the First Men, the Andals, the Qaathi, the Tall Men, the Ibbenese, any of them¡­" he asked.


    "Copper" blurted out Joffrey, Archmaester''s Benedict and Castos shouting the answer inside his head.


    "Copper¡­" mused the Archmaester as he faced Joffrey again. "We organized ourselves, we communicated with one another, we cooperated to get the first chunks of this simple ore from the entrails of the earth. But we didn''t stop there¡­ tin and malachite and iron came forth. The mindless struggles from the past were relegated to legend, and we built" said the Archmaester, voice rising in intensity, "Oh how we built¡­"


    "From the mindless bloodshed, we rose. Violence gradually became more organized, restricted, given a specific name for when its wide scale use became temporary accepted. We developed forms of government, and we made laws so those forms would not falter, so that we did not fall again into an age of darkness and futility. We built great, big stone monuments that reached to touch the very fabric of the heavens, we invented trade as people from all over the world connected and we spoke instead of killed each other. For every war started, ten mutually beneficial exchanges were concluded. For every murder committed, a priest or a chief or a king arbitrated a dispute without bloodshed" he said as he walked back to a nearby balcony on the side of the empty auditorium.


    "While outside village walls animals ravaged each other and lived lives of constant fear and despair, we grew crops from the earth. We wrote stories and poetries, we loved and cherished things and peoples, we wondered about what this was all about¡­ " whispered the Archmaester, trailing off as he stared at something on the window that Joffrey could not see.


    He stood there for a while as Joffrey thought about what he''d said, and suddenly the man was confidently walking back to the big central desk that was at the center of the room, the Maester''s Lecture Stand.


    "Many came after, but Copper was first. It was the first witness of that long road, a silent observer who saw us at our lowest before we raised our heads and gazed at the skies" he said almost to himself. Then he nodded at Joffrey as he usually did when ending a lesson.


    Joffrey was startled out of his deep thoughts by that. "Wait, Archmaester! Your scepter--" he started but he cut him off with his hand.


    "Keep it. When you sit on that throne and gaze upon your realm, may it serve you as a reminder of which metal came first. Not iron. Copper." He said.


    Joffrey looked at the scepter in his hand, shaking his head in confusion at what the Archmaester had said, but when he looked up, he was no longer there.


    He kept looking at the scepter as the ground bumped from side to side.


    ¡­


    He opened his eyes to the sight of an enormous waterfall, a dull roar that echoed throughout the valley. He was tucked in some kind of warm bundle of blankets, and though he didn''t have the strength to move his head, he could see a few other bundles of men, some sleeping, others talking and jesting around tables.


    A bit farther away, not too far from the huge waterfall, he could see a great big village of tall but slender wooden houses. Their brown and black roofs had raised corners, one every floor, whose tips were painted a faint gold.


    The late afternoon sun was just hiding behind a great mountain, and all above the tall village he could see floating pinpricks of light, sailing in small lethargic circles, as if a bunch of lanterns had suddenly sprouted wings and were out there enjoying the calm breeze.


    "Captain?" suddenly asked a voice.


    Joffrey strained to move his head to his left, but only managed to slowly move his eyes to the silhouette next to him. "V¡­.Valy¡­ on¡­" Joffrey whispered.


    "I''m here Captain, I''m right here" said his trusted Chief as he kneeled beside him and did something to his forehead, taking something off from it.


    "R¡­rrrr¡­Riversssss" Joffrey mumbled.


    "¡­He didn''t make it Captain¡­ he didn''t make it" said the Chief as he placed something freezing over his forehead.


    "S-s-s-ssooo¡­. c-c-cold¡­" Joffrey muttered with the last of his strength. "Captain! Captain listen to me, you must¡­ be strong now¡­ listen ¡­ to my¡­ voice¡­ Captain¡­ tain¡­ in?!" Joffrey gazed at the swirling lights as they kept rising into the sky. When he closed his eyes he felt himself leave the ground behind as he rose to join them in a merry play of slow moving sparks and lights, and suddenly his world drifted into peaceful darkness.


    ¡­


    Joffrey bit his lip as his paintbrush moved slowly, carefully to the right. He traced the great shape of a mountain, big and beautiful¡­ but even so the shape was diminished. It covered barely a quarter, if that, of the painting. The central power and point of it was the great dark blue sea of stars that stretched throughout the entire thing, dwarfing even the mountain as the vast expanse of the cosmos looked on down.


    "It''s missing something" mused Tyrion by his side.


    Joffrey rose an eyebrow as if to ask ''like what?''


    The imp looked thoughtful as he gazed at the painting. Suddenly he smiled.


    "Every great beauty needs a watcher, someone to gaze and sit in awe, someone to give it meaning¡­"


    Joffrey smiled softly as he blinked, and Tyrion was replaced by a smallish looking man with slanted eyes and a long but thin black beard, wearing a hat with a monkey tail.


    The man was removing some kind of bloodied bandages from Joffrey''s abdomen. He took out a mortar and spread something vaguely cool over it, before placing a white, clean bandage on top of it.


    The starry vault over Joffrey twinkled. "Gazer¡­ to gaze¡­" Joffrey mumbled, blinking heavily.


    ¡­


    He opened his eyes and saw a vast forest of strange, tall and wide mahogany trees with thick leaves but thin branches. A man on horseback cantered by the side of the open aired wagon he rode, seemingly distracted as he looked at the forest too. When he turned his gaze towards the wagon, Joffrey finally concentrated on the figure. He was not very tall, but he had the characteristic slanted eyes of the Yi-Tish, and he sported a rising sun behind a huge fortress on his breastplate.


    Joffrey slowly tilted his head to the other side. He could see a great, flat green pasture peppered with occasional hills, filled with goats and sheep''s of many different colors, red and blue and yellow and green. They had small horns on their head which they used to trawl the high weeds of the field, looking for tender bits of greengrass. On the far hills Joffrey could see a cavalry force stretching all throughout the horizon, clad in heavy plate and riding fierce warhorse, all livered in green and gold. The Tyrell rose flew from a great banner in the center.


    The Hound laughed as he cantered by on his tall stallion, receiving a tossed wineskin and taking a long drink. "Must be the slowest rider in the Seven Kingdoms!" he said with a guffaw as an irritated looking Jon Snow followed him by atop his own horse, shaking his head in amused exasperation.


    "Hey Joff!" said Jon as he took another wineskin from his saddle, taking a drink. "Joffrey! You look like shit!" said Sandor as he nodded at him, the remains of his smirk still present on his face.


    "Leave the poor man alone Clegane, he''s been bouncing all around the world for quite a while, he''s a bit impatient!" Jon said with a fond smile.


    "You could say that!" said the Hound as he looked at the horizon.


    Joffrey''s lips rose haltingly, a pale imitation of a happy smile.


    "Rest Joff. Think and rest, I think you''ve earned it" said Jon as he too looked at the horizon. "Even a Broken Knight sometimes needs to be healed" he mused before Sandor suddenly butted in.


    "You mean healed by pretty pirate ladies?" he said as Jon blushed.


    "That was only one time!" Jon shouted at Sandor.


    Suddenly Ghost leaped into the carriage, and he lapped at Joffrey''s forehead playfully, taking a bit of the immense heat he felt there.


    "Come on Ghost! We''re wasting daylight!" shouted Jon as Sandor laughed and suddenly spurred his horse, riding towards the green-gold horizon. "Come on Jon! They need us at the perfume shop!" he shouted as he rode out, chuckling. Ghost leaped out and followed him as Jon spurred his horse and raced after him "Roses come in---!" he shouted at the Hound.


    "Pulped bodies come out!" shouted back the Hound as they rode into the light.


    Joffrey smiled again as his head tilted back to the other side and he saw Young Rennick. The slim and willy sailor was washing some pieces of cloth in a water bucket to his side.


    "Hang in there, Captain. Hang in there¡­" he whispered as Joffrey''s smile faded and he closed his eyes yet again.


    ¡­


    Joffrey felt himself sway slightly, as if he were in the seas again, but this time it the sway was minute, as if he were sailing up the Red Fork.


    I''ve always wanted to sail up that river¡­ calm and slow¡­ docking in market towns to pass the nights and look at the sky¡­ without guards or plots¡­ without games and war¡­


    He imagined himself there for a while, lazily floating through the river like a leaf on a stream¡­


    He opened his eyes as he felt noise to his right. He was on a ship sailing through a river, but instead of the green, watery pastures of the Riverlands he saw a great big marsh, filled with strange animals¡­ He saw a feathered crocodile snapping at some great pink bird, who cawed indignantly as it flew away. It was pretty dark, but he could still see a bit¡­


    Must be approaching dusk or dawn¡­


    He was on some kind of corridor, in a bed that was tucked in beside a wall. The corridor was long but its width was small. It stretched for a meter to his right and then there was only a wooden railing and the brownish red river.


    Joffrey mused about what things he could remember, about his life and his place in it. He thought about the suicidal, terrified warlock.


    Why was he so afraid? What he saw on the tablet had him so shaken that when he saw me walking through the strange darkness, he must have thought I''d been sent by¡­


    The Emperor. Who is he? The only emperor in the known world is the Emperor of Yi-Ti. Does he have the answers?


    ¡­


    All that effort¡­ all I wanted to know¡­ was what was happening to me¡­


    He thought about the Red Priests and their madness. The Purple can''t be an accident. It can''t be and negate the red priests like that¡­ I can''t help but feel this is all part of something¡­ greater, far greater than the squabbles and the prophecies¡­ were the swirling robes correct? Is my existence my purpose? If so¡­ my recurring existence... my recurring lives¡­ the raw power and skill it must have taken to do this to me¡­ I''m not sure I''m strong enough to know what the purpose is¡­


    He spent a bit of time there, thinking as he watched the swamp move by, the ship turning gently through the many bends of the river.


    "Captain?" suddenly asked a voice.


    He struggled to turn his head when Chief Valyon kneeled by his bed.


    "C-Chief¡­ S-status rep-ort¡­" he rasped.


    "Captain Joffrey! I.." The Chief was worried but very happy to see him speak. He took a breath as he stilled his excitement to deliver a report. "The Jade Dreams was lost to the seas. A few of us washed up on the shore and these fellows" he said, pointing at a soldier carrying a bow who calmly but deliberately walked by, looking at the swamp. "Picked us up" he said.


    "Crew¡­ Survivors?" Joffrey asked.


    "About a dozen, Captain. Most of us drifted atop a piece of the hull, but you weren''t among us¡­ We''d thought we''d lost you" said the Chief.


    Joffrey felt a deep exhaustion seeping into his bones, and his eyes started to droop.


    NO!


    He opened them with all his strength, looking at the Chief urgently.


    "sssslaves?" he managed.


    "Not exactly Captain. They haven''t collared us and they only beat us a bit when a few tried to escape, it was no worse than a tavern brawl¡­ they did speak something about ''paying off a debt'' , or at least that''s what Will managed to translate¡­ They kept repeating a word in Yi-Tish, though Will couldn''t decipher it" the Chief said quickly.


    Joffrey could see they were leaving the swamp behind, the hills around it gradually losing height.


    "Word" said Joffrey after taking in a lungful of air, struggling against the dark.


    The Chief repeated the sounds as best as he could, and Joffrey tried to decipher it as the hills and trees finally cleared to reveal the horizon.


    It means conscript, Joffrey thought, not having the strength to speak out loud.


    The sun shone from the east as it rose, illuminating a set of five immense, towering structures. Each one seemed bigger than Oldtown, but instead of looking like cities, they looked like great fortresses built to withstand the wrath of Leviathans. Their fused black stone rose so far into the air that Joffrey gasped out the bit of air he still had left in his lungs. Each Fortress rose higher than the Hightower itself, almost brushing the very fabric of the heavens.


    He blinked heavily once more, and finally fell into a deep, calm sleep.


    -.PD.-


    -----


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 Chapter 19: Beckons, Beyond.

    Chapter 19: Beckons, Beyond.It seemed that the small town of Isti was but one of the many small port towns that were dotted all along the northern reaches of the Bleeding Marshes, the section of the Red River which bordered the Five Forts.


    Joffrey had been conscious when they disembarked; he had been carried on a stretcher by the Chief and Young Rennick, a witness to the massive traffic the port handled. Barges and river galleys of curious designs and strange trappings frequently arrived and departed, sporting great triangular sails reinforced with some kind of hollow wooden rods. Their flags contained all manner of creatures that Joffrey thought must have been mythical. Flying tigers, dozen headed peacocks, white and black bears the size of trees and many other sundry animals that gazed from above as all manner of supplies, goods and men disembarked.


    Joffrey could see many kinds of projectile ammunitions: arrows, ballista bolts, stone shots and strange, cone tipped barrels all stacked in one enormous wagon. In another he spotted strangely curved swords and spears, stacked against rows of Bronze-Iron lamellar armor, glinting against the rising sun.


    The people were what most interested Joffrey though. He saw a lot of soldiers sporting the Fort on its chest plate, but some of them had their sun in different positions. Most of them had the sun rising slightly from the Fort''s right, while a few others had it on the upper right, the center, the upper left or just peeking from the lower left. They carried curved swords or spears, though a few carried recurve bows too. They looked imposing in their lamellar armor, made of small rectangular iron and bronze plates, combining in a beautiful but deadly looking theme with their helmets, which left their faces open but had two small golden horns which rose vertically and curved away very slightly at the tips. Groups of 40 or 80 marched in lockstep through the wide stone roads that led away from the dock, faces stern and discipline absolute. Almost everyone on the docks seemed to be Yi-Tish, Joffrey at least was certain that no one who regularly travelled the Narrow Sea was here, his crew excluded.


    Joffrey and the rest of the crew were quickly stowed aboard a big carriage along with other Yi-Tish men who wore neither weapons nor armor, and who Joffrey guessed were smallfolk or its eastern equivalent. The great carriages were pulled by pairs of some kind of big woolly camels with foul temperaments who made a habit of spitting at the face of any man foolish enough to walk close enough to them.


    With a small cavalry escort, the carriage made way through the stone road, joining the stream of heavy traffic.


    By midday of the next day, Joffrey''s wonder senses were buzzing incessantly as they left the remains of the Red Marshes.


    They passed through several market towns and villages that had grown on the back roads of the Five Forts, helping to feed or supply the force that defended the Empire against the beyond. Joffrey was now coherent enough that he could hold somewhat decent exchanges with their guards. Beyond the language barrier, Joffrey found they were very informative, not even hiding their destination or their purpose.


    Having been rescued and nursed to health by a patrol from the ''Dawn Fort'', Joffrey and the dozen survivors from the Jade Dreams were now in the debt of its Legion, and having no material possessions worth speaking about they had been ''conscripted'' for service until that debt was repaid. Joffrey suspected they weren''t telling him the whole story, but he let it go for the moment, so entranced he was by the prospect of actually seeing the edge of the known world.


    If the soldiers could be believed, and if Joffrey''s rapidly improving Yi-Tish was anything to go by, each Fort had a standing, professional army of over fifteen thousand men plus conscripts and auxiliary forces¡­ he started to believe them a week later, when they reached their final destination.


    The eastern most of the five, the Dawn Fort was a massive fortress nestled into the feet of the Mountains of the Morn, using it to serve in its defense. It rose up to the skies in the same fashion as its brethren, but the black fortress looked less imposing next to the great mountain range that signaled the end of the Known World. Beside it the Fort seemed like a lone watchmen, alone but vigilant as it gazed towards the edges of Civilization. A mixture of both city and great keep, it was built to support the Dawn Legion in all forms, from armories and barracks to taverns and bakeries. Joffrey''s carriage entered through no less than three different, massive gatehouses before he was disembarked along with his crew and several other Yi-Tish.


    Joffrey''s stretcher was set on the floor inside a stone hall as he and his men waited for whatever the Yi-Tish had in store for them. He could see several men in differing clothes and ages. Some looked old but determined, others young and eager, and many others were terrified. All were ordered into rows, patiently waiting to be received by men clad in yellow robes and monkey tail hats.


    Joffrey''s group was promptly moved to another room though, this one smaller but emptier. One of the yellow robes sat in a desk at the back while another one approached the crew and asked a question in halting Common Tongue.


    "Who, group leader?" he asked in an atrocious accent. s?a??h th? N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "I''m the Captain of this crew" Joffrey said in what he thought must be workable Yi-Tish as he struggled to stand up.


    "Captain are you sure you don''t want-"


    Joffrey placed a hand on Valyon shoulder, interrupting him. "I''m responsible for the crew, chief. Besides, if they wanted to kill us they already had a thousand chances to do so¡­"


    The Yi-Tish nodded at Joffrey and signaled at the desk at the back of the room. Valyon and Dallen helped him up as someone handed him a wooden cane.


    He walked along with the Yellow Robe towards the desk, which was full of white parchment and writing supplies of ingenious designs. The man at the desk had the same yellow robe but he was older, sporting a full white beard in what Joffrey was starting to learn was typical Yi-Tish style. Long but thin, along with trimmed whiskers. He had 2 small bronze suns pinned to his chest, and spoke quickly when Joffrey finally sat, reading from one of the white parchments and not looking like he cared very much about what Joffrey had to say.


    "Thirteen men, rescued from the seas by Captain Yuen. Guilty of Trespassing and Illegal Hunting in a Princely demesne, fine paid by Captain Yuen. Intensive care for 5 men which would have otherwise perished, employment of a Body Scribe for the leader''s wounds¡­ shelter provided¡­" The man mumbled something under his breath and nodded as he finally looked at Joffrey.


    "The Legion, the gangs or the mines?" he asked him.


    As the other yellow robed man started to translate into Westerosi, Joffrey spoke directly to his boss in Yi-tish "Excuse me, there seems to be a misunderstanding. We were on our way to Yin when a storm--"


    The man shook his head as he passed him a piece of white parchment, full of scribbled letters and numbers in Yi-Tish. "No misunderstanding. More than a thousand Yish spent on saving your barbarian lives. Five years. Choose your service" he said dismissively as he took another paper and read.


    Joffrey puzzled over the smooth parchment, trying to decipher the ''debt''. Most of it came from their ''crimes'' whose Joffrey had no memory of, and the ''Body Scribe'' which Joffrey suspected was the maester that saved him from his wounds and the infection. He talked a bit with the man before he excused himself and walked back to his crew.


    "Five years!?" almost shouted Rennick in despair.


    "Illegal Hunting¡­ Must have been those small orange foxes you caught right after we landed, Will" said the Chief resignedly.


    "At least their giving us a choice¡­ that''s more than what could be said in Westeros" said Joffrey.


    "They give you a choice back home too Cap''n¡­ death or the Watch¡­ though when those soldiers said ''no one serves the Dawn unwillingly''¡­ well, I guess they''re still right" Said Dallen.


    "From what I''ve been able to extract from the yellow asshole back there, we owe them five years of work in one of three ''services''. They will then give us a small compensation for the work done and we''ll be free to go wherever we want after we''ve done our time" Joffrey told them.


    There was a bit of silence as every man thought about their options.


    "Which one will you be taking, Captain?" the Chief suddenly asked him.


    "Legion" said Joffrey without hesitation.


    Hells, they carried me all the way to the edge of the world. It''d be a shame not to see it all while I''m here¡­ besides this¡­ black¡­ fortress is begging for a bit of exploration¡­


    Though not the way he had envisioned, he was on Yi-Ti¡­ and this place looked ancient.


    "An army? Hells no, I''ll take the mines. At least we''ll live to spend whatever they pay us at the end¡­" said one of the sailors.


    "Captain, these ''gangs''¡­ you said they built roads and somesuch?" asked Will.


    "Aye, public works I believe they called it, or close enough" said Joffrey.


    Will nodded. "I don''t mind the hard work and I''ve always wanted to go to far off places¡­" he said.


    "We passed a couple of those crews on the way here¡­ they didn''t look too bad. I won''t say I''ll like it, but it''s ten times better than a Lord''s noose or a lifetime in the Watch" said Dallen.


    All the survivors quickly made their minds up with varying degrees of acceptance, any thoughts about escaping lost with the sight of the sea. Most of them joined the ''gangs''. The Chief of course, had supreme confidence on his captain, and followed him on his choice.


    And just like that, Joffrey joined the Dawn Legion.


    -.PD.-


    Being barely able to stand for ten minutes straight was no excuse for not serving the Dawn, as Joffrey quickly found out. He spent three months wearing a yellow robe, serving as a ''Scribe''.


    It was serious business. Joffrey spent that time being worked on from dawn to dusk, barely managing as he expanded his language skills and learnt about a whole new system of thought regarding administration.


    Bureaucracy. Joffrey regarded it either as mankind''s greatest invention or its eventual downfall, depending on the day.


    The fact that he could barely write Yi-Tish (if he took it slow) was no deterrent for the powers that be, in fact it was an outright advantage. Reading and Writing were uncommon skills in the Empire, as in the whole world, and the Dawn Legion and its sister armies generated a lot of ''paperwork'' as the other scribe aides called it.


    It was like being a Citadel Acolyte but purely focused on the efficient running of the enormous, permanent standing army that guarded the northern frontier of the empire, and the system of villages and fortresses that supplied it.


    And boy what an effort did that entail.


    Every purchase, every procurement, every replacement needed or supply lost meant maintaining a rigorous organization in order to maintain the exalted Yi-Tish ideal of efficiency, and to avoid corruption.


    And that rigorous organization meant a whole system of administration that would have had the Master of Coin''s servants and tax collectors crying in self-loathing.


    Thanks to his position as a Scribe''s aid, he was now acutely aware of how much food and supplies such a force devoured, and it made him raise his estimation of Yi-Tish civilization. It also gave him a bit of a more grounded understanding of how the Five Forts actually worked.


    The Five forts had quite a bit of autonomy from each other despite having a unified chain of command, and each Fort Commander ruled its corresponding Legion. The Legions of the Light as an organization had a strange existence within the Empire, almost an autonomous entity within it. In between half heard conversations and reading when he had a rare hour to himself, Joffrey understood that the Emperor did not rule much more than the Imperial Capital¡­ the rest of the Empire was ruled by a hundred princes, generals, priests and sorcerers. But even with such a level of decentralization there were still organizations that spanned the entire Empire, like the Legions or a bank whose name came out as the ''Golden Bank'' no matter how many times he translated it inside his head. He was sure the name would have given many a Braavosi a good chuckle, though they would have certainly chuckled respectfully. The Golden Bank was so powerful its holding were untouched in wars, kind of like Septs in the days before Aegon''s Conquest. It was so widely respected people accepted painted paper as currency, backed by the institution''s great wealth and prestige.


    Joffrey spent most of the time working hard in the Writing Hall, an aptly named room full of scribbling ''Bronzes'', the nickname frequently used to refer to his branch of the Legion. They had worked him to the bone, and Joffrey scarcely had time to rest by one of the inner courtyards and watch the Iron recruits training, much less explore the lower levels.


    Though he''d been working on that¡­


    -.PD.-


    "They''re going to flog me for this¡­" muttered Huang, the dark stone drinking in the light from his torch.


    "That''s what you get for betting a favor Huang. Never bet a favour" Joffrey whispered cheekily, though his enthuthiasm was being slowly replaced by nervousness with every step they walked.


    "How would I''ve known a Barbarian Bronze Scribe of all people would be a sand demon with a sword!?" the lowly Iron Tworay muttered to himself.


    "Life''s full of surprises¡­" Joffrey whispered back with conviction as they turned through another corridor of black, light drinking stone.


    He was breathing hard when they finally arrived at a small wooden door.


    "You sure it''s here?" Joffrey asked him, looking at the door with trepidation.


    "Yeah, this is the Dream Hall, but there''s nothing important down here. Its just a place they use to spook raw recruits¡­ What in the heavens are you looking for anyway?" Huang said.


    "Answers" muttered Joffrey through his clenched teeth, steeling himself before he opened the door.


    Good ventilation, there isn''t much moss around here. Dry too, perfect location if you wanted to make something last¡­


    With a final breath, he pushed the door open and walked in.


    The Dream Hall was massive, a cavernous room whose interiors legends said were plagued by the ghosts of the Fort''s acient garrison, scribbling cryptic messages on the hall''s walls. Lines and dots and even images of doom and perdition.


    Joffrey stood at the center of the hall, looking all around him, even up.


    Nothing¡­?!


    The black stone foundations were different from the rest of the Dawn Fort, blacker and light absorbing, just as the Hightower''s had been.


    But¡­


    The expansive walls that curved upwards in a vault of black over Joffrey''s head had nothing.


    They were scratched, meticulously so, as if someone had taken a rough piece of volcanic stone and slowly grinded the room into oblivion¡­ Not a single spot had been spared, the sheer minded dedicaction devoted to this was obvious as not even the floor itself had been spared.


    He walked out of the room in deep confusion. "I told you, nothing. All the other Forts have this room and they''re all like that, torn to shreds by the ghosts of past soldiers¡­" said Huang, delivering wise council from the generations of soldiers that came behind him, as he will no doubt instruct the next batch to join the Dawn Legion.


    Joffrey just sighted as he walked with Huang back to the surface. That was no natural process. It was deliberate¡­ but why here and not in the Hightower?... Who would destroy such ancient knowledge? And why?


    Par for the course for his lives. More questions.


    -.PD.-


    With a swish and a flick, he signed the form and passed it to the other scribe for processing.


    Joffrey stretched as he stood up. He walked away from the Writing Hall and walked past the rows of scribbling scribes, exiting through one of the back doors. He could even run now, though his belly was still a bit sore.


    He took in a breath of fresh air to clear his mind and think, something that had been a rarity for the last few months.


    He stood in one of the many balconies which dotted the central keep, a great tower not too dissimilar from the Hightower itself. Below him Joffrey could see the batteries of ballistas, catapults and mangonels, arrayed in concentric rings along the tower. Beyond it he could see the three great walls of the Dawn Fort, three great curtain walls that circled the central keep and housed everything from an armory to a brothel. Each wall had great stone bastions that jutted out from it, filled to the brim with well-maintained artillery.


    Joffrey looked at the soldiers drilling below as he let his mind drift, absentmindedly trying to touch the missing part of his right upper ear.


    An arrow from a Fiery Galley took that¡­


    I didn''t even feel it when that arrow grazed me¡­ I wonder how old Joffrey would have reacted at that¡­ would he have shrieked and demanded the death of the fiery zealots? Or would he have ducked at the deck, whimpering and cowering in fear?


    ¡­ I think I would have whimpered¡­ and then I''d¡­ Gods¡­ I¡­ I can''t remember¡­


    It''s been so long¡­ how much time have I been living again and again¡­? Must be at least a couple score¡­ more than half a century? Could it be so much? Sometimes I feel as though my first life was but a half remembered dream¡­ others I feel as if I''d just choked last year, gasping for breath in my wedding day¡­


    He leaned on the balcony''s stone railing, hand scratching his not even vaguely respectable goatee.


    That storm and the subsequent fevered madness really served to calm me a little¡­ I was so focused on getting the answers that I forgot a bit of Ned''s wisdom. It''s really about the journey, not the destination¡­ and boy was I fixed on a destination¡­


    He shifted his gaze to the mysterious Mountains of the Morn, darkening along with the rest of the valley and the planes to the north east as the sun kept hiding to the west.


    It''s been an interesting few months, getting to know the inky guts of the organism that protects an Empire¡­ but I''m starting to wonder if there''s a clue out there to be found, beyond the maps of civilization¡­


    He stared at the North East, almost entranced by the vast expanses which opened up the farther you left the mountains behind.


    So many places to explore, and I barely just got here¡­


    "Enjoying the view?" asked someone to his left.


    Joffrey turned and quickly saluted, placing a fist over his heart.


    The man had sharp eyes and a knowing smile. He wore a cloak over light leathers, and he carried one of the classic recurve bows of the Dawn Scouts.


    "Major" Saluted Joffrey, the three iron suns on his chest giving away his rank. "Just taking a breath of fresh air before heading back in"


    The Major saluted back, then waved his hand. "You seemed to be pondering something important back then, mind if I ask what?" he asked as he leaned on the railing.


    Joffrey''s own single bronze ray felt awfully light besides the man''s three suns. Iron meant he belonged to the Legion''s combat forces, either the Garrison or the Scouts. The bow and the light armor didn''t leave a lot of doubt about which one. Joffrey''s first week here had been spent memorizing the ranks and branches, as well as the costumes of the Legions, and he didn''t regret paying attention.


    "Just thinking about what''s out there, sir" Joffrey said respectfully.


    The man nodded, "All manner of beings and dangers¡­ a place of dark secrets and strange peoples¡­" said the Major, as if speaking from experience.


    The Beyond¡­ a perfect place to stash a secret or two¡­ and see wonders unknown to man¡­ Now how do I get him to invite me into the Dawn Scouts? Anyone on the Legion can change branches, but one always requires an invitation¡­


    "I came to the Dawn Fort to report to the Commander, but I heard some rumors before going up¡­" he trailed off.


    "Rumors, sir?" Joffrey inquired.


    "Yes¡­ Seems the Bronze Scribes have a rising star on their ranks" he mused out loud.


    Joffrey was a bit confused, a ''rising star'' meant someone on the fast track for promotions, someone who the upper ranks were just waiting for a bit of time before bestowing rays or suns¡­ But they were rare. Despite its many quirks, the Dawn Legion was incredibly professional, nepotism and corruption were very rare beasts out here for some indiscernible reason, besides the occasional favor. For someone to be regarded as a rising star, you had to show a real promise.


    "They do?" asked Joffrey, feeling he was being led somewhere in this conversation. This ''random encounter'' reeked of something more.


    Besides, I''m a Bronze Scribe myself and I certainly haven''t seen anyone like that¡­


    "They do. He could barely write or speak our language when he got here, a barbarian¡­ A few months in, he''s the fastest of the newly inducted at any of their usual tasks, shows both respect for the chain of command and initiative when he feels it''s needed. He seemed good with a sword when challenged by some stupid, eager Iron Tworay¡­ Quick witted too, though it seems he has a few blind spots¡ª"


    "Me?!" Joffrey suddenly understood. "You must be mistaken. I''ve been keeping my head barely out of the water with all the tasks--!"


    "Exactly" interjected the Major. "You think they''d give that kind of work to a newly minted bronze ray? A foreigner one at that?" he snorted. "They pummel them to the ground the first week, to show them that whatever fancy education they got at the Imperial University or a Princely Library means nothing to the Legion¡­ But you, it seems they gave up on breaking you a couple of weeks ago and they''re waiting to promote you to Officer rank by the end of the month. Half Sun, in less than half a year¡­ a new record certainly¡­" the Major chuckle at that, as if it was some private joke. "To think they put you here as a placeholder until your wounds healed before shunting you off to the Garrison¡­ The Bronzes are shuffling and losing the paperwork as we speak, intent on making sure you stay here, while the Garrison is raising a divine wind trying to stop them¡­" he trailed off again, and this time Joffrey knew what the Major was expecting. Maybe not quick witted, but he''d been making progress¡­


    "Interesting¡­ and what are the Scouts doing, if I may ask, Major¡­?" Joffrey asked meaningfully.


    "Jin. Major Jin¡­ The Dawn Scouts have a hard life, and we are always in need of competent men that are not only good with their weapons, but also able to think on their feet, and even act with autonomy and initiative¡­"


    "Shame about the shuffled, lost paperwork huh?" Joffrey said.


    "The Scouts may not be too involved on the Fort''s internal quarrels¡­ but in that line of work you are bound to save someone important from a deadly danger once in a while" he continued as if Joffrey hadn''t spoken, suddenly pulling a Service Sheet from his pocket and looking at it almost absentmindedly. "Important people who then owe us a favor or two¡­" he continued.


    This man knew exactly what he wanted and wasted no time on it.


    Joffrey smiled.


    "I accept your invitation" Joffrey said in a formal tone. By the way the Major reacted, Joffrey guessed the man had been expecting that answer.


    -.PD.-


    That day they left through the three gatehouses and past the Iron Cementery, a huge ditch wider than the walls of Storm''s End, filled with sharp iron stakes and old bones. They rode past big fortresses the size of Winterfell, each one getting a bit smaller the further they got from the Dawn Fort.


    His companion and now superior, Major Tseng-Jin of the Dawn Scouts, was an excellent if tricky conversationalist¡­ as well as a superb swordsman when they stopped and camped.


    Joffrey landed on his butt with a crash¡­ again. He stood up, rubbing his arm and dusting off the ever encroaching white sand that seemed to multiply for each step they gave north east. "I can''t believe your that fast! And you say the Scout''s primary weapon is a bow¡­?" Joffrey grimed good naturedly.


    "It''s not speed, it''s a fundamental principle of the Scouts, an obvious one even a lowly Iron Ray should understand¡­ if he paid attention¡­" Jin said, yet again.


    For a warrior and a ranger, Major Jin taught like some Archmaesters. Archmaester Perestan, the historian, came to mind. Always with the questions and never giving a straight answer.


    Joffrey shook his head as he raised the strangely curved but wickedly sharp Legion Katana back to a guard position. Surprisingly workable against various types of armors, the thing was pure murder against the unarmored raiders that frequently stormed through the Grey Wastes, intent on devouring the soft meat behind the hard shell of the Five Forts. Fortunately, these ones were training versions... For all the good that did to Joffrey''s bruises.


    Alright, best way to make Jin get on with his point is to do the same as with Perestan, get to the point first.


    He''s good, but Ser Barristan or-- Ser Jaime¡ªwould beat him, I think. It''s not like he''s pummeling me senseless, his defense is just too good¡­ always there to meet my strikes, always dodging otherwise¡­ his attacks are descent, but he just waits for me to make a mistake and takes advantage of it¡­


    The swords clashed, Joffrey delivering a flurry of strikes on Jin''s dancing katana. He met them all for a good long while, and when Joffrey overextended he delivered a painful blow to his wrist.


    He picked his sword again and stood ready, thinking quickly.


    Yes¡­ his style is very different from the Hound''s¡­


    He''s doing something different¡­ the Hound''s focused, but his eyes are always moving, analyzing each body part lightning quick.


    They clashed again, the light of the camp fire letting Joffrey see the Major''s face.


    Not the Major though¡­ his eyes are vaguely unfocused, looking at me but devoting all of his concentration on¡­


    Joffrey thought about delivering a slash at the man''s shoulder, but as he made the move to attack there he saw the Major''s sword moving to block the future blow.


    Gods! He''s not fast, he''s just stupidly good at predicting me! Focusing on it completely and doing it constantly¡­ He thought in a daze.


    But that means¡­


    The blow was parried and Joffrey repositioned himself as he delivered a special that Nakaro had taught him, one he rarely used because even vaguely competent fighters always saw through it. He triple feinted, left right left and suddenly he attacked through the center. Jin struggled to parry the invisible attacks before he fell back with an oomph on the sandy ground, a lethal stab if they''d been using real swords.


    Joffrey helped him up, and he wasn''t surprised to find the Major smirking in a self-satisfied fashion "You would have been wasted on the Bronze Scribes¡­ Good job on figuring it out" he said as they approached the rest of the men, a six man escort for the Major that had been chatting around the campfire and eying the rookie scout.


    "Damn¡­ Sir¡­ the amount of mental conditioning you and the rest of the Scouts must have gone through to fight like that¡­ though I must ask, why not train and fight the normal way, it would be a lot less effort for the same prowess, I''d think¡­" Joffrey asked him as they sat, taking out his metallic ''canteen'' and taking a sip of water. A ''solid'' improvement over a wineskin.


    His imaginary Tyrion raised 3 fingers out of ten to the air, shaking his head.


    The Major looked intrigued at his sudden snort, but he quickly answered Joffrey''s question with another one of his own, as usual.


    "A wasteful skill indeed¡­ for a sword fighter perhaps¡­ but tell me Jof-Ry, what is the primary weapon of the Dawn Scouts¡­?"


    Joffrey didn''t deign himself to answer the obvious question, but he still eyed the recurve bows they all carried, thinking.


    Always predicting¡­


    -.PD.-


    The Fortresses, Great Keeps, Moats and Baileys kept getting sparser and smaller the farther they left the Dawn Fort behind, and trees and other greenery slowly gave way to grey sand or grassy planes depending on the area.


    The exception to that rule was the Greytower. A respectable castle a bit larger than Riverrun, it sat atop a small green hill, overlooking the last dozen or so small forts on the horizon which were the last fixed presence of the Legion this far out from the Dawn fort.


    "I didn''t know you''d studied the Wall, Sir" he asked Jin as they cantered on their horses, the Greytower growing bigger as they approached it from the South-West.


    "Even though it''s a long way from here, scholars have still written a bit about it. I find it very intriguing, a possible path our own defense here in the Empire could have followed¡­" the Major said.


    "How so?" asked Joffrey.


    "Its founding principle is radically different from the Five Forts. The Wall seems to be a hard Front Line, a single towering defensive line¡­" he mused.


    "Yeah, I could see how that would look weird from here, what was the name you used the other day¡­?" asked Joffrey.


    "Defense in Depth" said Jin, nodding at Joffrey. "A hard Front Line is all well and good for dealing with huge armies, as long as you have the proper manpower of course¡­ but out here large armies rarely cross the Grey Wastes, and when they do our doctrine still chews them out, though casualties can get higher in those cases¡­"


    The Five Legions operated a complex network of keeps and redoubts, spreading throughout the front of the Forts like pebbles on a beach¡­ or rocks. Big rocks. The Legions frequently patrolled between the strong points, and it was almost impossible for groups of raiders to sneak by undetected. If the raiding party was big enough, the Legion could always bunker down on their keeps and cut lines of communication or supplies from the enemy''s rear while the Legion mustered in strength at their respective Forts, to either defend the Fort itself if the situation was dire enough or much more frequently march out and work as the hammer against the multiple anvils the enemy had left at their rear. Alternatively, if the enemy decided to siege every pocket of defenders, they only gave time for the whole five legions to muster and break them like an egg.


    It was an ingenious system, and the paperwork required to keep it all supplied and operating would give Joffrey nightmares until the end of time.


    The conversation died off as Joffrey regarded the Greytower again, this time closer. The central keep rose from the South Western corner, a square, weathered bastion made of grey stone bricks. Smaller towers rose from the other corners. The sparse greenery around it betrayed the presence of subterranean water, a sure necessity for the headquarters of the Dawn Scouts.


    The Garrison patrolled between the Forts and the keeps. The Scouts scouted the Beyond, deep into the lands of the Shrikes and even further¡­ reaching for the grey edges of the world¡­


    "We''re here" announced Jin as the double portcullis screeched open, welcoming back their second in command along with a cartload of supplies and one new recruit.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 20: The Silver Lion.

    Damnit, they''re growing bigger again! Chapter 20: The Silver Lion.


    The Forts followed an ancient tradition. Sometimes, officers in the Legions were acclaimed by the troops they led after moments of great personal skill, valor, worthy feats or just political necessity if the rank was high enough and the man in question had not been ''named'' yet. The troops gave the officer an animal name, sometimes accompanied by a color or an adjective, but always something that connected to the officer in question. Sometimes the reason behind the name was obvious, sometimes it was a lot more subtle.


    The soldiers that acclaimed Captain Xu, the Red Gorilla, had not been subtle at all.


    "Scouts! Engage!" commanded the burly Captain.


    Joffrey counted the seconds inside his head.


    One¡­


    The five Dawn Scouts swiftly nocked their broadpoint arrows, their motions minimal and deliberate, expending the bare minimum of time for every given motion. It was art almost, how every detail of their stance or motion was there because it absolutely had to, no less¡­ or it wouldn''t have been there at all.


    Two¡­


    They all raised their bows as they drew and aimed in one smooth movement.


    Three¡­


    They aimed for the last half of the third second, and let loose. They weren''t firing in a volley, in fact the Dawn Scouts seemed to disdain them, though one wouldn''t have noticed that by the way they fired at almost the same time.


    All five arrows hit dead center on the wooden target''s chest¡­ on the other side of the courtyard.


    I''ve dabbled a bit with archery¡­ but this¡­


    Joffrey shook his head for the umpteenth time. "I can''t get the arrow out of the quiver in three seconds, much less hit a target--"


    "Did you say have something to say you barbarian rat!?" bellowed Captain Xu as he walked right in front of Joffrey, bellowing at his face. "Did you intend on imparting some ancient wisdom on how to do our jobs?! Did you!?"


    "Sir! No sir!" Joffrey shouted, eyes fixed and back straight.


    He''d forgotten a bit how disciplined the Legions were, what with serving as a glorified Acolyte for the entire time he''d been there. That and Jin''s easy demeanor had left Joffrey a bit unprepared for the strict disciplined standards the Legion demanded of its soldiers.


    It was a kind of alien concept to Joffrey''s mind. On Westeros such treatment would have had Nobles in open rebellion and the smallfolk falling face down on the floor from physical and mental exhaustion. The closest equivalent were the men-at-arms he guessed, but they were generally already veterans and as such didn''t require such discipline


    Not in the Five Forts though. As a standing army they drilled their soldiers to perfection¡­ the intent was to grab green boys and turn them into professional, competent killers who would follow orders on the battlefield and not break and drop their pikes at the slightest mishap like a typical Westerosi Levy. The job usually fell on a Sunbeam, but Major Jin had asked Captain Xu to work his dubious talents himself, to speed up the process apparently. No matter who did it, the boys were well-fed but brutally trained from day to day, it was an incredible mechanism for turning said green boys into soldiers, a mechanism Joffrey gave thanks to the Old Gods that the Lords of Westeros had not heard of. The realm would have imploded much sooner with those armies pummeling the Kingdoms. He imagined waking up from the purple inside a sieged castle would have been a tiny bit inconvenient, and besides, such well drilled armies would have caused a lot more death and destruction in general¡­


    Or would they? A crown army in the service of a centralized state¡ª


    "DID YOU HEAR ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT I SAID YOU BARBARIAN MAGGOT?!" The burly Captain bellowed, showering Joffrey with spittle and a horrible smell.


    "Sir, no sir! I was distracted sir!" Joffrey said, still staring forward.


    "That''s it! Give me-"


    "Fifty Sir?" Asked Joffrey. Already on the ground.


    He was nonplussed for a second before he got even redder. "A hundred, Foot Scout!" he said, but Joffrey was already pumping the familiar exercise he''d done a million times before, since before he scaled the Mountains of the Moon even.


    Joffrey thought there might have been an error of communications somewhere along the way. As stern and disciplined as the Legions were, the Scouts, made of veteran members and used to a far harsher environment, were a lot more relaxed than the Garrison. Captain Xu however was used to receiving veterans, not a ''green'' recruit like him¡­ So he thought he had to break him before he was a usable asset. Worse, he thought that Joffrey''s normally relaxed demeanor was a product of arrogance or spite, when in fact he was just enjoying being ordered about.


    Being treated as just another man was an old delight for Joffrey, but he thought he''d never quite reached this level before¡­ The Captain treated Joffrey like a bug, something barely human. He was trying to break him, to strip him of his arrogance, his entitlement and his preconceptions, to cleanse him so he could learn the ways of the Scouts and the necessary skills to survive out there in the wastes, to learn that whatever past he had did not make him special¡­


    Joffrey approved the sentiment wholeheartedly¡­ the problem was another one. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn''t find a way to tell the Captain he''d already been broken. He had been stripped of his possessions, his arrogance, his pride, his self worth¡­ everything, even his mind. He''d been so broken he suspected he must have spent half a century just waking up and staring at his room''s ceiling in the Red Keep¡­


    His mind was wide open to whatever the world threw at it, and he knew he was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to other, far worthier men and woman. Hells, and that was only other people! Even nothing was too big a word when he thought about his place in the Cosmos¡­


    He was willing and able to do whatever the good captain demanded of him, willing to try and learn any skill (Being capable of learning it was an entirely different matter) and generally just enjoying the experience of hopefully being molded into one of the insanely competent Scouts that routinely arrived through the front gates.


    He would have to hope the Captain realized that fact eventually. Of course, imagining a galore of Westerosi Nobles chained to the side, seeing the treatment of Royalty and generally slamming their heads into the grey brickstones at the indignity didn''t help with that.


    "WHATS SO FUNNY YOU FILTHY BARBARIAN?! YOU THINK GOING OUT THERE IS SOME KIND OF JOKE?!" bellowed Captain Xu after Joffrey completed the exercises and stood up.


    "Sir! No Sir!" shouted Joffrey, struggling with all his will against an impending giggle.


    Oh Gods¡­ imagine their faces at this¡­


    He addressed my Joffrey as a filthy barbarian!? I''ll have his head on a pike over Maegor''s Holdfast! Shrieked a ghostly Cercei, and Joffrey''s mouth kept wanting to grin like a godsdamned fool.


    Gods¡­ please¡­ stop¡­ focus Joffrey¡­ focus. Pain! Pain!!!


    "THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL SMILING YOU WHORE''S SON!?" the Captain positively thundered.


    Ghostly Cercei''s head got so red it exploded, along with all the courtiers in the Red Keep as they shrieked into the skies like demented ravens at the sheer, preposterous unacceptable attack on princely dignity--


    Joffrey couldn''t contain himself any longer "BUAAAAHAHAHAHA!!!"


    Captain Xu''s head got so red he thought it might really explode.


    Oh boy¡­


    Red Gorilla incoming¡­


    -.PD.-


    The Scouts were a particularly odd bunch of individuals. Rumor on the Dawn Fort was that the constant exposure to the grey sand turned their brains to mush, making them incapable of feeling some emotions but opening up their senses to sights otherwise undreamt by normal humans.


    Joffrey thought that was a load of camel shit.


    He did think that the constant solitude they experienced travelling through the endless plains of the Shrykes or through the deserts to the north east, along with the frankly heart stopping night skies watchable even from the Greytower¡­ changed their perspectives a bit, regarding life. Joffrey couldn''t help but feel some sort of connection to the rough edged, quiet men. Each of them had a rich inner world, and every word they spoke had a real meaning or purpose. Of course, they were still human beings, which showed in the ribbing they delivered on the raw recruit. The jokes were unexpected and to the point, which endlessly amused Joffrey. They were all the funnier because of their rarity, and Joffrey retaliated as good as he had.


    It appeared that had been the right thing to do, because after that he was slowly integrated into their close knit community. They hadn''t invited him to their dice games though, they insisted Joffrey had to ''earn his horse'' before joining the ancient and hallowed traditional game which legends said the gods themselves had played right here in the Greytower before the beginning of time (ha!).


    They said it was for his own safety¡­ given that they betted water rations for when they were out there in the Beyond, he believed them.


    An odd bunch indeed.


    Months flew by as Joffrey struggled to internalize the Scout''s peculiar bow proficiency. From order or decision to engage, in three seconds the Scout had to get an arrow from its quiver to the air, and hit a man sized target in front of him or hundreds of meters away. Every single movement was there because it absolutely had to, the basics of bowery trimmed to their absolute minimum. Far more difficult than the reflexive and quick nock-draw-loose, was the sheer mental effort behind the technique. The physical part was ''easy'', a ''mere'' matter of grinding repetition, as Joffrey soon found out.


    From dawn till dusk, the recurve bow became Joffrey''s life. He awoke in the barracks, the den where the scouts slept, gambled and fooled around when not on duty, and clothed himself with a full Scout''s garb. A heavy thing full of pouches, knives, head and neck protections and a green-grey cloak.


    And two full quivers.


    Captain Xu made him loose arrows at the targets literally all day long. Sometimes the good captain would leave him there alone for the entire afternoon, loosing and loosing arrows without end until his fingers bled and his arms burned. Then the next day he''d make him sit in the shade as his fingers healed and watch a couple of Scouts turn the target into a hedgehog with arrows in barely a minute.


    When the toll on his arms became too much, one of the Scouts out of scouting duty would take him on tours through the ''nearby'' area, teaching him valuable survival techniques from how to find water to how to survive a sandstorm and more.


    Lieutenant Han, a young Scout that transferred from the Garrison two years ago was his most frequent companion. Together they travelled through the plains and the small nearby deserts that rose like grey hills from the otherwise flat pasture. Joffrey got to know the outer forts, a series of small keeps and watchtowers that marked the end of the Legion''s fixed presence out there, all manned by hardened Garrison threerays and half suns.


    Han taught him how the Scouts rode, a style made from firing from the horse without too much hassle but also suited for the longer missions out there. How to ride quickly without tiring the horse too much and how to maintain a steady pace in a pursuit were but two of the many other things he taught Joffrey.


    Of course, the archery lessons never stopped. Far from some innate skill, the ''Divine Wind'' school of archery was learnable, and Joffrey gradually internalized its movements as it had been intended. After so much repetition, it became so ingrained Joffrey could quickly do the movements while singing a (horrible) jig.


    The purpose behind turning the whole thing into instinct was to leave the mental space necessary to do the actual calculations behind every shot. In an unholy union between marksmanship and mathematics, the Dawn Scouts actually used those three seconds to calculate the math behind the shot they wanted to make. Very rough estimates of wind speed and velocity they may have been, but for their purposes a slight tilt to the right or to the left of a chest would still kill a man, and the use of such technique showed. Volley fire had long ago become an insult amongst the Scouts, when they loosed, they aimed... And the galloping raider sometimes didn''t even know what hit him, a lone arrow sailing over a slight hill and planting itself on his back without a sound.


    Joffrey spent the nights amongst the candle lights, calculating hypothetical shots on the ever present Yi-Tish white paper, trying to ingrain the mental part in just as he had the physical.


    They told him it took years, even decades for someone to master the technique, but Joffrey felt like he was already understanding the basics.


    He felt like in some kind of Acolyte''s final examination, combining and leveraging unsuspecting skills into the resolution of a problem. His arrow filled dreams often combined with memories of sailing through the seas or learning about numbers in the Citadel. It felt like combining different persons, different lives. Solving the intense equations below a peering Archmaester Ryam, instinctively judging wind speed in the midst of a storm, feeling the right speed for a parry against the Hound, gazing at sweeping parabolas and trajectories with Archmaester Vallyn¡­ He had been training for this technique his whole lives without realizing it.


    One day it all suddenly clicked into focus, paradoxically when he had been the most distracted.


    There had been some commotion in the gatehouse with an injured Scout and Captain Xu had been distracted dealing with the rushing horses and healers.


    Joffrey had been exhausted after a day of hard riding out in the interior perimeter and a night of long shot calculations. He''d been daydreaming about a lazy afternoon below Winterfells Heart tree, watching the play of red and scarlet leaves as they formed a slowly descending shroud, slowly tumbling down to surround-


    "SCOUTS! ENGAGE!" had suddenly bellowed Captain Xu.


    Joffrey had still been mesmerized by the leaves while his hands moved on their own account. He felt the wind and the tension on the bow as he drew.


    He almost felt like he had somehow been transported to Winterfell for a second when a sudden silence around him forced him to come back to reality.


    The Captain and the couple of Scouts that had been watching were silent.


    On the other side of the courtyard, Joffrey could see an arrow lodged into the chest of the target. He looked down and found his bow still in his hand, in a resting position while his other hand was barely grasping a second arrow from his quiver, ready for another shot.


    One of the spectating Scouts had tossed a water canteen to the other one, who had been grinning like a fool.


    Joffrey''s mind had been dominated by one thought however.


    Gods I''d kill a man for a bed.


    -.PD.-


    He was by far the worse shot of the whole organization, but he was now part of said organization and that filled him with joy. The instructions about how to fire from horseback synergized well, and before long Joffrey could proudly call himself a ''Horse Scout'', the bread and butter of the Dawn Scouts. He now sported three iron rays on his chest, and he could finally partake in the dice games, which if not for the Scout''s generosity for the ''barbarian'' would have left him a dehydrated pea smoldering in the desert sun.


    His ''graduation'' entailed a lot of Shrub Ale and a harrowing but gut wrenchingly funny session of ''hold this gol-pear on your head and don''t move!''¡­ after that every time his scalp suddenly itched every Scout within sight would burst into laughter¡­ and promptly scratch their own old scars in sympathetic reaction.


    Far from being over, Joffrey''s new comrades were more than happy to announce that this was just the beginning. His path to become a Dawn Scout had just begun¡­


    -.PD.-


    His continued training blurred with his assigned duties as months turned to years. At first Joffrey was assigned to Patrols that only edged the lands of the Shrykes, but that changed with time. The Beyond was gradually turning into an even deadlier place, month after month. As casualties started to take its toll on the Scouts, and as Joffrey''s skill grew, so did his rank within the Legion. Only six months after his graduation he''d already won his fourth iron ray (Scouts always had at least three). He fought against the strange and deadly Shrykes, and later still peacefully negotiated and traded with them in their small shanty towns, built around the remains of their once great cities. He learnt their sibilant tongue and once even managed to negotiate a stand down between them and a faraway keep from the Sunrise Legion, a bloody siege that had started over a misunderstanding. The act earned him the sunbeam, the highest rank a conscript or a simple soldier could acquire before becoming an officer.


    The decision to commission as an officer and extend his service for 5 more years had not been difficult at all. The two years he spent amongst the Scouts taught him a camaraderie Joffrey had never in his life experienced before. He had experienced close friendships before (though always with a painful end¡­ They always stared at him as either a stranger or a monster after he died and woke up again) but he had never felt that type of deep connection with another stranger, someone that only because he carried a piece of legion iron on his chest or a grey cloak on his back Joffrey knew he''d back him up in any situation, be it a skirmish, a battle or a tavern brawl. Within the Scouts he found a quirky and subtle community of companions, of brothers. A bunch of brothers whose Joffrey would sooner rip his own eyes out before tormenting, a band of brothers that, one day he was surprised to find out, he''d kill and die for.


    Every six months he''d receive a letter from Chief Vayon, or should he say Threeray Valyon? Despite having some difficulties with the language, the dependable Chief had made a name for himself as both an instructor of discipline and a bridge between the officers and the men of the Garrison. He was prime Sunbeam material, and command knew that. Occasionally they''d meet when Joffrey was rotated back to the Dawn Fort for ''down time'', and the Chief would regale him with old and new anecdotes while on his part Joffrey spoke about the dangers of the Beyond.


    His ascension to the Officers and transformation into a Lieutenant bore a lot more similarities with an apprenticeship rather than with conventional training. The Dawn Fort had its own ''Sun Academy'', but out there in the Beyond the Scouts could ill afford to lose a Sunbeam while it trained to become a Half Sun. So Joffrey joined a somewhat different type of Academy, one on the Greytower''s keep itself. The Scribe''s Tower, or much more commonly referred to as the ''The Trash Tower'' by the inhabitants of Greytower and the rest of the men, was the Dawn Scout''s very own miniature academy. Its unfortunate nickname came from the haphazard organization and teaching style of the place, which some Sunbeams likened to tossing whatever bits and ends command could find into a pile and see what happened. The pupils hardly attended there regularly, given that they had urgent duties on the Beyond themselves, and the teachers were no better. The officer on teaching duty was often someone who had been injured on the line and was on a mandated recovery period.


    Somehow though, they made it work. The Scouts played to the Trash Tower''s strengths and always managed to arrange a diversity of ''teachers'' for whatever future officers were attending at the moment. Joffrey learned from a wide variety of great men, from the Garrison siege experts who were sometimes invited to the most eccentric and lethal of Scouts who lounged on the Greytower for weeks after an extensive mission on the Beyond.


    The Scout officers ensured that Joffrey not only had the skills to survive out there in the beyond, but that he''d also be able to lead a small group of men out of there too. The Garrison invitees, on the other hand, polished his discipline and taught Joffrey the theory behind the practice, tactics and strategies and the principles of warcraft.


    To say Fol-Fing''s ''Elemental Principles of War'' was the Dawn Garrison''s Seven Pointed Star would have been an understatement. Joffrey had to learn the book by memory, something that was expected of every officer in the Dawn. The masterpiece had defined the course of warcraft in the east for thousands of years and legends had it, Fol-Fing, The General Who Fought a Thousand Battles and Lost None had been inspired to write it after a single match of Paigo with his dreaded nemesis, the Black Sorcerer. Needless to say, that particular game was a popular past time within the officers of the Legion.


    By the end of the year of his Academy training, Joffrey knew the book so well he swore he was having intricate conversations with Fol-Fing himself on his dreams¡­


    In one of his chapters, Fol-Fing wrote about the makeup of the Ideal Officer. One of the Ideal Attributes, the flowery named ''Aura of Serene Command'' was, according to the legendary general, one of the most important attributes the Ideal Officer possessed. The Aura of Serene Command could not be taught, it could only be gained by constantly clashing with danger, and after constant reflection when the after mentioned danger passed. It was an emerging awareness within oneself that, whether through inner skill or exterior purpose, the officer knew that his command was necessary. After danger and battle had been joined a hundred times over, the Ideal Officer transcended his fears and his doubts, he was transformed into an instrument of pure will. Thus, once the transformation was over the officer did no longer expect or hope his decisions were followed. He knew his decisions would be followed. He felt it like another fact of life, just like he knew that water was wet and that the sun rose from the east.


    Joffrey thought few people could achieve that state, and he knew only a handful that had.


    His current instructor had it in spades.


    The bamboo rod crashed right between Joffrey''s resting hands, not hitting them but startling him as the sudden sound echoed through the small room.


    Joffrey''s posture snapped straight, eyes forward.


    "Sunbeam Jof-Ri!" snapped Major Gashin. The old Garrison siege resistance expert had an aura of command that practically forced one to listen, though his was a bit more Grouchy than Serene.


    "Yes Major Gashin Sir!"


    "You are now in Effective Command! Retreat cut off, the enemy has surrounded you! Orders, fast!" snapped the Major. The small room was home to three other Scout Sunbeams, all paying supreme attention.


    Joffrey was not bumbling into that one though, a classic rookie mistake he''d already done a dozen times through the year. "I request to know my Mission Objectives, Sir!" he snapped at the Major, still sitting as straight as the bamboo rod which the Major carried.


    "You were ordered to link up with the main army to the north, but the route there is slow and treacherous. What is the fifth elemental principle of war?!" he suddenly asked. Joffrey could ask for the scenarios details in order to take a more informed decision, but that carried a corresponding penalty in the form of fast questions that aimed to disrupt his concentration, a pale equivalent to ''trying to think about what to do while raider stoneclimbers storm your position and your men die beneath a gale of arrows '' as Major Gashin had so eloquently put it. He''d know, he had lost his arm a decade ago courtesy of a Raider Camel Ballista.


    "''Fifth Elemental Principle of War: Dispersion and Concentration! With enough strength behind it, a dagger can fell even the mightiest of warriors, but a dagger too tightly grasped can be swiftly cut down in one single strike!''" Joffrey recited. "I request to know the estimated strength of the enemy as well as my own, sir!"


    "Three full Camel Tribes approaching from the east, as well as a Horse Raider Chief and his personal retinue closing off the south. You have Two Scout Patrols and a company of Garrison Irons. A mountain range blocks your west, you can only go north through a ragged, treacherous path, south through the horse chief, east through the camel tribes or stay in place and fortify your position. Now explain General Fol-Fing''s Fifth Principle in simple terms, so even barbarian would understand" The Major ordered.


    Joffrey still sat straight, thinking fast "Both styles have their strengths and disadvantages sir! To name a few, a concentrated force can outmaneuver and even win a battle against a superior, dispersed force, as long as the attacking force moves swiftly and with purpose. On the other hand, a dispersed force will know where the attackers are, in effect giving up the initiative for intelligence on the concentrated force, opening the ground for harassment strikes at their supplies, their rear, or even achieve an encirclement and destroy them in one fell strike¡­ I''d concentrate my forces and strike south sir. As dangerous as a Horse Chief''s retinue can be, they''d be defeated in detail. Then I''d march west around the mountains and then North, taking out the obvious ambushing force on the north route from the rear and linking up with the rest of the Legion" Joffrey answered.


    The Major looked thoughtful for a moment, before grudgingly nodding. "Acceptable¡­ but reckless. The raiders could have taken the northern route and concentrated before you arrived from the journey around the mountains¡­ Sunbeam Niam, an alternate plan?"


    The other sunbeam squared his shoulders, staring straight ahead. "Push through the north and the eventual ambush, leave a blocking force behind me!" he said.


    "But sir! That would leave my men-" Joffrey started.


    "Dead. Their carcasses rotting below the desert sun. Abandoned. But what if your reinforcements where just what the legion needed in the midst of a pitched battle? What if you''d been carrying an urgent message? What if the person needed to stop this conflict was in your care?" The Major suddenly asked.


    "I¡­ I''d¡­" But the Major did not let him finish. "I nothing! Oftentimes, willingly sacrificing the lives of your men, and even your own, can save countless more in the future. That is our duty as officers of the Dawn. To decide who dies, and if necessary, die ourselves¡­" Said Major Gashin, eyes looking a bit farther than Joffrey, almost through him.


    "Duty is heavier than mountains¡­" recited Joffrey, thinking.


    To spend people''s lives just like that¡­ I don''t like it¡­ It makes me remember how I¡­ used and discarded people for my wants, for my desires¡­ even for my own amusement.


    "But death is lighter than a feather" finished the Major. He refocused and quickly assaulted the third Sunbeam, who he must have thought had not been paying sufficient attention.


    "Sunbeam Yuan! What is the Seventh Elemental Principle of War?!" he snapped.


    Joffrey tuned out Deim''s response, thinking hard.


    Used and discarded like a rusted tool. Ser Barristan, kicked aside so that¡ªSer Jaime could take his place in the Kingsguard as Lord Commander¡­ Tyrion as hand of the King and then dropped without even a forethought in favor of Tywin¡­ The piles upon piles of dead smallfolk villagers on the riverlands¡­


    He felt distressed as he felt a bit of pain in his chest. If I follow this path will I become that again, a whimsy monster using everyone in his grasp?


    Not now, breath, he thought as he clutched his chest. He took a deep breath, feeling and willing his heart to beat more slowly, and the slight thrumming pain within his chest disappeared.


    Joffrey shook his head as he relaxed his posture, setting his mind back to the present and away from frightening futures.


    -.PD.-


    The work at the ''Trash Tower'' was only half of the hard road to the Half Sun, however. When not in the Greytower, the Scouts took their prospective officers and treated them almost like apprentices, working under the more experienced Scouts, teaching them what they knew.


    The recently promoted Coronel Jin took him, of course. His relationship with his superior was always more horizontal than what the huge gulf between their ranks would have otherwise suggested, and Joffrey spent months accompanying the Coronel on his diminishing missions as his new rank forced the realities of paperwork down the his throat. Joffrey half suspected Jin had chosen him only because of his bureaucratic shuffling skills, but in the end the outcome was the same. With the Coronel he learnt about the dirtier, hands on nature of command out on the Beyond.


    Joffrey was still not sure about being in any leadership position over other men, what with the disastrous experience that had turned his first dozen lives into hell. Clearly, he had difficulty thinking of a more incompetent king for the seven kingdoms. His time as a Ship''s Captain and as a Legion Sunbeam had chipped at his objections a bit, but he still felt ethereally incompetent when he found himself in command of larger groups of men.


    The Colonel treated his insecurities with some very moderate success as Joffrey learned about how to handle the discipline and when to relax it, when to command and when to listen. Eventually, he resolved to again ''faked it until he made it'' as Tyrion had said a long time ago¡­


    And then, about five years after waking up on his bed in the Red Keep, Joffrey was commissioned as a half sun in the Legion of the Dawn.


    Joffrey felt within his depth, barely. But events would conspire to jump him from lieutenant to Captain, a full sun, only six months later.


    -.PD.-


    "What do you think, lieutenant?" asked Captain Dsin, testing the toughness of his bow. Joffrey looked at the small village and the dozen wagons parked beside it. Sorrow''s Rest was a small community of goat herders centered around a tiny oasis, one of many such settlements that lived in abject poverty on the edges and borders of the Land of the Shrykes, toiling the hard soil for meager returns. Small villages like it often lived a hellish existence in between the different threats that whipped the lands beyond the Five Forts. Besides the droughts and the sand storms, the frequent raiders that emerged from the grey wastes were a like a plague for such communities, a sudden whirlwind of death and savagery that left what little they had in ruins and half their people dead, if they were lucky. The roving bands of young Shryke Braves were no joke either. Trade with the lizardmen was a common occurrence beyond the Five Forts, but for the younger Shrykes who searched for worthy opponents to prove themselves, these hardy goat herders were a workable substitution if a suitable Dawn Patrol could not be found.


    The half-starved looking camels that had been clearly pulling the carts a few hours ago were now resting and drinking from the small oasis, and the small wooden shacks that made up the village were quiet.


    Joffrey kept looking for a few minutes, reins tight on his horse. "Looks benign enough, Captain" he said, trying and failing to find anything out of the ordinary.


    "Always a bad sign, lieutenant" muttered the Captain as he kept gazing at the place.


    "The carts must be from a Shryke caravan looking to buy some goat pelts. Gods know the lizardmen need them¡­" Joffrey mused, looking at the carts themselves. They looked a bit ramshackle, and devoid of any typical Shryke ornamentation. "But the carts¡­"


    "Yes, I noticed too. Besides look at the camels. The herders would have never let them drink directly from the oasis for fear of diseases. They would have used wooden drinkholes¡­" said Dsin thoughtfully.


    "Dead men can''t refuse them the oasis though¡­ You''re thinking Camel Tribe?" asked Joffrey.


    Dsin frowned, thinking hard. "¡­ maybe¡­ if their Shaman was drunk enough. This would be the worst security I''ve seen from a Camel Tribe encampment though¡­ and the camels looked half starved, the Shaman would have fed his own men at them before risking that¡­ no¡­ I don''t think so¡­" he mused.


    He finally took out the arrow and nocked it on the bow. "Only one way to find out, we''ll take Sunbeam So-Min''s section and go in. If we find anything in there that''s not a bunch of very drunk, merry herders we call in the rest of the Patrol" he commanded.


    "Aye Sir. I''ll get the men organized" Joffrey told him as he spun his horse around and rode a couple dozen meters to the back, where 30 other riders sporting the cloak and bow of the Scouts awaited, silent atop their horses.


    Joffrey rode next to Sunbeam So-Min, who was watching the village like the rest of the men who were not on flanking duty. "What''s the trouble Split?" So-Min asked immediately. The strictness of the Garrison diluted quite a bit amongst the Scouts, especially amongst the soldiers and the conscripts. The nature of their posting demanded it.


    "Captain''s smelling trouble. We''re checking out the interior with your section while Sunbeam Gohl''s stays in reserve" Joffrey promptly explained.


    "Got it sir. I''ll get Red Section ready for an ambush" he said as his horse surged forward, speaking lowly and gesticulating at the fifteen or so men that made up his section.


    Typical Sunbeam. Always expecting the worse¡­ Can''t blame him, I''m starting to do the same.


    He rode his horse towards the other side of the small formation, reaching Orange Section and Sunbeam Gohl.


    "If you hear fighting or see the flare I want you to ride in there from the other side of town and try to link up with us quickly. If it''s an ambush we''ll want to turn it back on them" Joffrey told him.


    The Garrison transfer snapped a quick salute and a small "Yes, Lieutenant"


    We''ll have to introduce you to the gol-pear and the school of staying very still for you to drop the ''Lieutenant'' and pick up the ''Split'', Joffrey thought, slightly amused.


    He spurred his horse back towards the Captain as Red Section formed up behind him, two rows of seven men, plus Sunbeam So-Min.


    "All formed up, Split" said So-Min, readying his bow.


    Joffrey nodded and cantered forwards, back to the Captain. "Ready for a quick look-see sir" Joffrey told his Captain. Dsin nodded, spurring his horse onwards. "Let''s make this quick then" he said.


    The seventeen men quickly rode into town through the ''main street'', fast enough to mean business but not enough to seem hostile. The street was bordered by small or tiny shacks that sometimes made minute alleyways between them. Joffrey thought the street couldn''t be longer than a hundred meters before the houses stopped and the plains resumed.


    The houses looked uninhabited, but not deserted. There were still small foodstuffs on the outside, and the flocks of long horned blue-grey goats were out in the open, dashing in between horses and generally being a nuisance.


    They stopped when they saw a woman standing on the porch of one of the bigger houses, looking at them curiously.


    Joffrey and the Captain stopped in front of her while the rest of the soldiers formed a perimeter around their backs, wary of an ambush.


    "May I ask who comes to this fair town in this lovely night?" she asked, looking at them with a small smile that sent shivers down Joffrey''s spine. She had a hood over her face and a typical mottled cloak over her back, no different than the one used by a thousand other travellers on the Beyond.


    "Captain Dsin of the Dawn Scouts, Eighth Patrol. We got lost in a sandstorm and I''m trying to link up with the rest of my men" the Captain said briskly.


    "Oh but of course! Please, forgive me for my impertinence, come, come and rest from your weary journey" she said, gesticulating and entering the bigger house.


    "One word Captain and I put an arrow right between her eyes" whispered Sunbeam So-Min, looking at the door with apprehension and grasping an arrow that had already come out from its quiver, and was resting on his bow.


    "Not yet. Something''s definitively wrong, but we need to know what. Come on, be ready for anything" the Captain said as he dismounted and tied his horse to a post. The rest of the men quickly followed and half entered while the rest arrayed themselves into a defensive perimeter.


    "Fouray Cxi, stay out here with half the men and look alive, I want eyes everywhere and a signal arrow at the ready" whispered the Captain, grabbing the man''s arm as he spoke.


    "Yes Sir" The fouray whispered back, bow out and a second away from a draw as he directed the men outside.


    As they entered, Joffrey thought the house looked like it served as the village''s tavern, if one were charitable. The high table vaguely resembled the typical ''bar'' or longtable that seemed universal to civilization, in the corner surrounding a door that most likely led to some sort of kitchen.


    Opposed to the bar, on the other corners were several tables. A few of them were occupied by similarly robed individuals, muttering lowly between themselves. They were frequently drinking from some kid of white mugs, occasionally trying to restrain a giggle.


    The Captain, So-Min, Joffrey and the seven other scouts walked to the high table, Joffrey and the Captain sitting on the stools and the rest of the men only leaning on the table, discreetly surrounding both officers. "I don''t like this Split" Whispered Threeray Vol as he leaned beside Joffrey on the bar, "This is giving me vibes from some of the stories they used to spook Onerays in the Dream Room¡­" he whispered. Joffrey didn''t disagree, in fact his danger sense was now screaming at him. "Look alert Vol¡­ Anything happens you pepper the back audience with arrows, we''ll ask the questions later" He told him before turning back to the Captain. "Sir, they look Yi-Tish in complexion, they''re definitively not Raiders" Joffrey told him.


    The strange lady emerged from the kitchen doors then, carrying a tray filled with white mugs and a happy smile on her face. "Here you go!" she said, laying down the tray and spreading the mugs around.


    I''d break the Scout''s bow that would even think about drinking that¡­


    His thoughts must have echoed through the other men as most didn''t even look at the drinks.


    "We''ve come a long way to get here, but we still have a ways to go¡­ We''re searching for a new life you know?" she suddenly said.


    "I see¡­ what kind of new life are you seeking¡­?" Joffrey asked, following the sudden conversation and trying to fish for information. There were groups of outcasts out in the Beyond, people who willingly or otherwise left the grasp of the Empire for a new life. They usually didn''t last much.


    "Ah, we are looking for a place filled with wonderful people, people of great skill and¡­ vision... We want to find a teacher who will take us" she said gesturing at the rest of the tables. "All of us!" she said with a giggle as she gesticulated grandly with her long arms.


    "But please, drink. I''ll go get the main course" she said with a snort and a small chuckle. When she turned the slight light that the moon delivered through the window made her face visible, and Joffrey gasped. Her eyes were completely black.


    She walked through the kitchen door, sauntering happily.


    "Captain?" Joffrey asked urgently. "They''re Cultists¡­ wannabe Cultists¡­" whispered the Captain, looking at the mug and then again at the kitchen door.


    "Fuck¡­" whispered Threeray Vol, hands trembling.


    Magic, as Joffrey had learned through the years, was a lot more common in Yi-Ti than in Westeros while still being a very rare sight. He''d heard the Imperial University even had whole ''wing'' dedicated to the study of it, but even then there are still practices that are banned throughout the Empire¡­ forbidden knowledge that is always sought by a certain kind of people¡­


    And out in the Beyond it was common knowledge in the Legion that the worst of the lot ended up here. Too deranged and dangerous for the House of the Undying but not competent or skilled enough to receive an invitation from the Lord of Carcosa. And so, they searched for a place which would accept them, chasing legends and whispers in the night¡­


    She said they were looking for a place to teach them¡­


    Wannabe Cultists indeed. By the Gods, they''re searching for K''Dath.


    The Captain had seemingly reached the same conclusion a few seconds ago. He was looking at the white mug in green disgust. "I think I found the goat herders¡­ Darkness of the Midnight¡­" he muttered in shock.


    A warning emerged unbidden from Joffrey''s mind. ''A forbidden concoction similar to the Shade of the Evening, but spiced with Human Blood. Twice as powerful in half the time, for only triple the sanity¡­ If you see the black eyes, kill with no hesitation or you might end up inside the next cup¡­'' He remembered the strange, squinting officer that spoke at the ''Trash Tower'' for a few days. He was the only officer there whose rank insignia had been made of Jade, a lonely black sun.


    "Fuckfuckfuck, Cultists?!" urgently whispered Threeray Vol, swiveling his head from side to side before looking at the captain on the verge of panic. "We have to get out of here Captain! This is a job for a Jade Constellation or two, not the Scouts!" whispered Vol as the other soldiers shuffled, hands tightly grasping their bows and daggers.


    "Threeray! Calm down!" The Captain whispered in between his teeth with his command tone. The military discipline kicked in as the Threeray snapped into attention. "I said wannabe cultists, not Grey Word Whisperers. We are Scouts, we are the eyes and ears of the Dawn. Act like it." He said as a matter of fact, again looking behind at the tables where the aspiring cultists still whispered and giggled. "We''ll retreat slowly and link up with Sunbeam Gohl''s section, then we''ll evaluate the situation and see how to proceed" ordered the Captain as he looked to the kitchen door again. "For the Dawn" he whispered.


    "For the Dawn" whispered back Joffrey and the rest of the men.


    The Captain nodded as he stood up, turning back and promptly bumping into the black eyed woman.


    "Going so soon?! But the main course has yet to begun!" she pouted like a small girl as she placed both hands on the sides of Captain Dsing''s head, smiling.


    "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!" screamed the Captain as blood poured down his nose and ears, his eyes dissolving into so much goo.


    Joffrey snapped his bow up and loosed an arrow at her head, pointblank range. The arrow embedded itself on the cloak as it suddenly fell to the floor, empty.


    "Captain Dsin! CAPTAIN!!!" shouted Joffrey as he crouched and grabbed the Captains shaking form. He jittered so hard he rattled on the floor as pressurized blood kept coming out of his body like a broken Myrish sewer. With one final gurgle the Captain stilled, mercifully dead.


    The other cultists rose from their tables, all giggling manically as they dropped empty white bone mugs on the floor and walked quickly towards the group of Scouts.


    Joffrey almost screamed in panic at the sudden display of blatant magic, but a voice thundered inside his head, stalling that. It was Major Gashin''s, not leaving him time to think.


    ''You are now in Effective Command!'' Snapped the Major.


    Joffrey thought lightning fast as he rose from the floor, feeling as if time had slowed.


    Ambushed by Cultists inside a confined space, orders? He thought as he nocked another arrow.


    "Scouts! Midday Circle and shoot at will, now!" Joffrey bellowed as he tossed the stools aside and loosed an arrow at one of the walking cultists. The arrow seemed to have the same effect as the robe fell to the ground, as if only air had inhabited it before.


    The Scouts snapped out of the shock and formed up into a rough circle, leaving no area of the ''tavern'' uncovered. They started loosing arrows at the mass of approaching cultists, leaving only empty robes behind. But every time an arrow took one out, two more emerged from the shadows in the far corners of the building.


    "PACED ARROWS, DON''T LET THEM GET CLOSE!" Joffrey bellowed as he struggled to remember what the officer from the Jade Scribes had said about this. One day he had described something extremely similar, the ''shadowalk'' he had called it.


    A ''mere trick of blood and darkness, the pathetic staple of the inept, drunk on the power of blood'' he''d called it.


    If this is pathetic I shudder to think what he''d find great¡­


    He loosed another arrow, "Fouray Cxi! Send the signal arrow now!" he shouted at the tavern''s door as he kept loosing arrows at the swarming robes, each one falling to the floor a bit closer to the group than its predecessor.


    "YOU HEARD THE SPLIT!" bellowed Sunbeam So-Min as he grabbed Scouts and repositioned them so they were evenly spread, arraying them so that the quickly expanding mob of robes could not reach them, "PICK YOUR TARGEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!" he screamed as a torrent of blood emerged from his mouth, leaving his armor bathed in blood in merely a second. He collapsed belly first, revealing the smiling woman behind him. "JUST DIE YOU BITCH!!!" screamed Threeray Vol as he dashed and stabbed her from behind with his dagger. The robe collapsed with a giggle, leaving only the now still form of the Sunbeam.


    Joffrey struggled with his hammering, pained heart and the adrenaline as he tried to remember what else the Jade Scribe''s Captain had said.


    The illusions may be deadly, but their still form are never faraway, the¡­ gods¡­ the¡­ the darkness deepens with their fumbling, that''s what he said¡­


    He stopped loosing arrows and gazed intently at the black spots in the back. The corners and a few sections of the wall were very dark, darker still than the rest of the room. In fact, if Joffrey strained to look, he could see the vague silhouettes of men, made of pure darkness.


    One of the swarming mobs finally managed to reach the group. It grabbed a Threeray''s head, not in an almost caressing manner like the woman had done but grasping it as if it were a rock. The Threeray started to scream as blood poured out of his nose and he crouched, but the Scout to his side swiftly pivoted and planted a dagger on the robe''s back, collapsing it and leaving the Threeray alone, taking in ragged breaths as he struggled to stand back up.


    Joffrey aimed at the black spot and loosed an arrow. Suddenly, as if a gaslamp had been lit, that particular splotch of darkness regained color, reveling a stumbling man trying to grasp the arrow sticking out just above his collarbone.


    "SHOOT THE DARK SPOTS AT THE BACK! SHOOT THEM NOW!" Joffrey bellowed as he whipped his dagger out and stabbed a robe that had gotten too close.


    A few Scouts were on the ground, jerking and holding their heads as blood emerged from their bodies, but the rest quickly alternated their fire to the back, and soon stumbling and screaming cultists started to emerge from the shadows, clutching slightly bloodied bellies, chests and throats.


    The robes started to collapse by themselves then as more and more of the madmen were slain, oddly leaving very little blood behind. Soon, there were alone inside the tavern with the bodies of the crazed cultists, the back wall devoid of black splotches.


    "Out, now!" Ordered Joffrey as the men moved, quickly going out the door and out to the street.


    Outside Joffrey found Fouray Cxi''s body still grasping the signal arrow, blood pooling all around him and the rest of the dead scouts arrayed in a semicircular perimeter on the taverns entrance.


    "Shit, Threeray Jho! Get the--"


    Joffrey nearly jumped when the Threeray screamed, blood again pouring out of his body as a girlish giggle came from behind him.


    Several Scouts desperately stabbed the now falling robe, which pooled around the gurgling Threeray.


    Joffrey was now in command of four men.


    What!? There weren''t any more black spots in there! he thought desperately as he gazed now at the street. He scanned every inch of their small surroundings, but the moon was bright in the sky and everywhere Joffrey gazed looked normal enough.


    He started loosing arrows at every vaguely dark area he could see when another soldier gurgled to his knees, clutching his neck while the other two stabbed the apparition again. He fired desperately as he felt the pain on his chest increasing.


    Three men.


    Stop, He thought.


    Breathe¡­


    He tried to open his senses as he often did while meditating, trying to hear, trying to feel what was wrong like he always did, but this time trying to feel it outside, not within himself.


    Red twirling leaves in a shroud around ---


    He snapped his eyes open and looked to the other side of the street at an empty porch. In three seconds he loosed an arrow at the spot, and he was vaguely surprised to see a stumbling woman emerge from the dark, clutching her belly.


    She raised her head, looking at Joffrey in confusion mouth opening for a taunt or a spell or just maybe just another giggle. Joffrey planted another arrow on her chest before she opened her mouth, making her take a step back.


    Joffrey grunted as he loosed again, pinning an arrow on her left breast. The woman kept stumbling back until Joffrey placed an arrow right through her right eye. She fell on the ground, barely a sliver of blood dripping from her wounds.


    "Threeray Vol, light the signal arrow" Joffrey ordered as he took a deep breath, grabbing one of the tavern porch''s wooden pillars, feeling completely exhausted.


    He barely registered the explosion of light and sound above him, the signal arrow converting into a rain of yellow sparks.


    "Sir! Lieutenant! Where is the Captain?" suddenly asked Sunbeam Gohl, his horse whining nervously at the dead bodies as the rest of Orange section arrived in force, fourteen mounted scouts armed with bows, katanas and torches.


    "He''s KIA¡­ I''m assuming Effective Command" he told Gohl. The Sunbeam seemed to gulp as he digested that. "Understood, orders sir?" he asked.


    Joffrey shook off the deep weariness as he stood up, centering himself.


    "Slash and Burn, no prisoners. By dawn I don''t want to see a single house standing" he ordered, his voice gradually becoming less shaken and more hardened.


    "Aye Sir! Orange Section! Slash and Burn, burn it all!" he bellowed back as the men started throwing torches and flaming arrows at the buildings, igniting great bonfires and dispelled the cold dark.


    -.PD.-


    The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when what remained of the Eighth Patrol left the village ruins through the main road.


    Joffrey stopped his horse at the sight of a dozen or so dead cultists, faces locked in varying degrees of terror or fear. Their bodies were torn apart as if they''d been taken by surprise by a storm of jagged swords.


    "Your handiwork?" he asked Sunbeam Gohl who had just stopped his own horse beside Joffrey.


    "No sir. We were riding in after we saw the yellow flare and bumped into these bodies. They must have been waiting in ambush for us but¡­ it seems someone got to them first¡­" said the Sunbeam.


    "Someone or something" Joffrey muttered with a shiver. He stretched his legs, using the stirrups to rise a bit higher and look around him. There was nothing around, only endless plains and the occasional hill, all heavy with the smoke of the burning village behind them.


    "Leave them, we ride for the Greytower" he ordered the soldiers.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey looked glumly at the iron sun on his hand, flipping it slightly and seeing the way it glinted with the daylight. He was atop he Greytower, watching the sprawls of sand on the horizon that shimmered from the midday sun.


    Almost the entirety of Red Section KIA and they give me this¡­


    He regarded the iron sun with suspicion, looking warily at it.


    They ended up disbanding the Eighth Patrol because of the casualties¡­


    He stood there for a good long while, so long he saw the changing of the guard as the soldiers on watch duty switched, always scanning the horizon in search of threats.


    Gods¡­ if the General could see what I did with power in my past lives¡­ he sure as hells wouldn''t have given me this.


    By the Gods, he would have had me tied to the target post and shot. He''d know he''s making a terrible mistake, a terrible terrible mistake¡ª


    He grunted as he kneeled, feeling a deep pain on his chest. A thrumming deep within.


    Breathe¡­


    Haltingly he rose, breathing deeply and clearing his mind.


    Again¡­


    Joffrey had been feeling that strange pain for a while now, every time a bit stronger than the last. It had started as far back as when he''d still been onboard the Jade Dreams if he was not mistaken, though he suspected some strange sensations and ghostly pains that he''d felt in the longer of his previous lives had been one and the same with what was happening to him now¡­ and that scared him.


    He was starting to suspect he had a heart condition of some sort, one of the many he''d studied in the Citadel. That would explain why the pain kept getting worse the longer he lived, as his condition deteriorated.


    ¡­The other, far scarier alternative was that he was losing his mind again. The strange, painful thrum generally tended to assault him when he was distressed, though it seemed to almost have a mind of its own, so random it was in its timing.


    He took another deep breath.


    No use worrying about it. Something will happen, or nothing will.


    He spent a few more minutes up there in the tower, sitting with his legs crossed under him as he watched the Greytower''s surroundings again. The sun was now to the West, slowly moving downwards.


    He thought about the strange land he was discovering in the edge of the world, and about the strange and terrifying secrets it hid. The longer he stayed here, the deeper the dark hole of questions became.


    He gripped the iron sun strongly, fisting his hand around it with all his strength.


    I have to be ready¡­


    -.PD.-


    "Chin" Joffrey whispered at the threeray that crouched behind him, gripping the grey sandy dune and looking up at Joffrey attentively. "Yes Captain?" he answered.


    "I think I found our missing scouts, tell Lieutenant Hu to bring the men up" he ordered.


    "Yes Sir" whispered the man as he slithered backwards towards a gaggle of green-grey cloaked statues.


    Joffrey stayed there on top of the dune, gazing at the small camp below. His cloak almost hid his entire body, only his pale green eyes were visible, peering in between his neck guard and his hood.


    More than forty shrykes... that''s a lot of lizards, but their camp layout is a disaster. Four Scouts in the middle, tied. S?a??h th? N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The humanoid lizardmen had scales around their foreheads and sibilant tongues whose venom could kill a man in minutes, but generally they weren''t very hostile to the Legions. If one left them alone, they left you alone¡­ most of the time. It wasn''t rare to see them in some of the shanty towns that dotted the area, trading peacefully. It was called the land of the Shrykes for a reason after all¡­


    Joffrey had almost had a heart attack when he first saw one, but after four long years of patrolling the Lands of the Shrykes, he had long ago started to regard them as just another group of people, scraping by toiling the earth or attacking those that do.


    Four long years¡­ six since I woke up in this life¡­ Heh, I think this one may actually be my longest¡­ It certainly feels like decades since I woke up in the Red Keep¡­


    Four years and more getting to know the serene but deadly Beyond¡­


    The Lizard men looked a bit starved as they shuffled about, fixing tents or trying to sleep under the moonlight.


    This group is a bit close to the forts though, unusually close...


    No matter. We rescue our own.


    Lieutenant Hu, his second in command, slithered to Joffrey''s side with twenty five other men clutching their bows in between their arms. A Shryke watchman had ambled close in the meantime, too close to speak.


    Joffrey raised his arm slightly, palm up. He touched his leg and aimed at the dune, four fingers out. Then he fisted it and touched his chest two times, showing five digits to his men.


    Forty hostiles, five allies.


    He crossed his arm towards his heart and then swiveled his hand as if to open a compartment to his chest, only to sweep the camp with his forearm and finally touch his forehead.


    Engage and Rescue at my signal.


    The barely audible sound of fingers tapping bows in acknowledgment reached Joffrey as his men slithered and positioned themselves atop the dune, still kissing the ground. Joffrey tapped his bow twice and they all crouched in unison, readying their bows.


    His heart hammered within his chest as he tensed, preparing himself for the coming skirmish.


    He picked his target, a Shryke sharpening a knife besides a mumbling Scout.


    He clacked his tongue inside his mouth, a slight sound that was the first the Scouts taught him.


    Engage.


    One¡­


    His feet positioned themselves unconsciously as he took out a broadhead arrow and nocked.


    The wind was blowing strongly from the East, but Joffrey had chosen his men''s positions well. The wind reached them from behind, an aide to their arrow''s flight while their scent posed a negligible risk to the pathetic noses of the lizardmen.


    Two¡­


    A slight shift in the wind made Joffrey move his bow slightly to the right as he drew, feeling a slight prickling on his cheek from the arrow''s mongoose''s feathers.


    Three¡­


    He instinctively felt the wind and the string''s tension, eying the Shryke almost in slow motion. The thung''s of loosed strings resonated through the dune as the Scouts fired, almost as if in a volley.


    Not quite like a volley though, the arrows rained down with lethal, targeted precision, piercing scales and flesh, unleashing cries of fear and agony.


    Joffrey''s arrow landed on the Shryke''s upper chest. He tumbled back before collapsing, dropping the knife he''d been sharpening.


    The Shrykes shrieked in anger and defiance, their famous screams instinctively sending shivers down Joffrey''s spine as they charged haphazardly, running out of their camp in one and two''s.


    Their speed was incredible, quickly gaining ground with their bounding gaits, clawed fingers intent on tearing Joffrey and his men apart. The Shrykes were fearsome in a melee, but out here in the plains, the arrow was king.


    The Shrykes fell down almost as soon as they cleared their tents. Joffrey shot one in the neck, then another one in the leg (a botch). All around him his men kept firing, keeping silent as they picked their targets and sent them tumbling down the steep dune.


    The Shrykes soon stopped however, panic giving way to the realization about who they were fighting. You don''t fight the enemy on a ground that plays to their advantage, an elemental lesson they taught Joffrey when they made him an officer, one the Shrykes also knew all too well after decades and centuries fighting the Scouts.


    Can''t let them fort up¡­


    "Scouts! Diamonbacks now! Charge and Engage!" Joffrey shouted as he charged, arrow at the ready.


    "DAWN!!!" roared the men as they charged, grouping themselves in fours, each man watching a cardinal point with bows readied.


    Threeray Chin and two other men joined Joffrey, leaving him as the tip of the diamond as they dashed in between the tents. Shrykes ambushed them from behind every corner, but their reflexes were tuned to a heart string and the disorganized and famished lizardmen were soon exterminated to the last man, peppered with arrows before they could even graze their group.


    They''re shaken and disorganized, famished too¡­ must have been the remains of a larger group on the run¡­


    The ''diamonds'' converged on the camp center, where the five captive scouts were sagging in relief.


    "By the Night Lion¡­ I thought we''d be crocodile food for sure¡­" said one the more lucid scouts.


    "Well, they won''t be eating much now¡­ Captain Joffrey, Sixteenth Patrol" Joffrey introduced himself as he and Chin cut the man''s bindings.


    "Lieutenant Feng sir, Twentyfirst Patrol. We just bumped into them during a sandstorm and they spooked. Before we knew it they''d taken out Captain Tsin and half my Patrol. They were so scared and hurried they didn''t even stop to loot the bodies¡­" The half sun whispered, shaking his head as Joffrey''s Body Scribe eased him down to the floor and checked him for wounds.


    "Captain! We''ve got a live one!" said someone from the side.


    Joffrey turned and walked, quickly coming to a stop in front of the Shryke he''d shot. He was surrounded by four scouts, all aiming with their bows at point blank range.


    The Shrykes, while possessing bulked up legs, sibilant tongues, long claws and plenty of scales¡­ were still recognizably men. The man''s narrow, sharp green eyes were crazed as he rocked from side to side, his motion slowing down as he bled out.


    He kept repeating a phrase, hissing in the whispery tongue of the Shrykes, a mix of sibilant hisses and unnervingly normal sounding vowels.


    He finally stopped as he relaxed, hands unclenching their long claws and his eyes closing.


    "What was he saying, sir?" asked Chin as the rest of the Scouts lowered their bows.


    "''Burn the bodies''" whispered Joffrey as he gazed at the dead shryke in confusion.


    -.PD.-


    "That''s the fourth time this month¡­" muttered Jin as he walked around a table with a big map of the Beyond. A map of what they knew of it, of course. It showed the Five Forts and its network of fortresses, known settlements in the lands of the Shrykes and even the distant Bonetown, right beside The Dry Deep.


    Joffrey ''s rescue of the captured Scouts had almost merited a promotion according to Jin, another one on his lightning fast progression through the Scout''s hierarchy. Joffrey had told him to stop with the games and admit the real reason¡­ The Beyond was turning more dangerous by the week, and someone needed to replace all the officers that were getting killed in ambushes and raids¡­ or simply disappearing without a trail.


    Coronel Jin, had not disputed his point.


    "And it won''t be the last" Said Major Xu, removing the chip that represented the Twentyfirst Patrol from the board. The Red Gorilla had been another beneficiary of the sudden spike of danger.


    Jin, Xu, Joffrey and another ten assorted officers were gathered around the table, musing about the increased activity all over the land of the Shrykes.


    "Something''s got them running scared" said Joffrey.


    "Could be a mass migration from some tribe far to the east¡­" pondered Captain Han.


    "Or an invasion force barreling through the Grey Waste" said Major Xu.


    "Either way, we need to know. We need to send a big scouting force North East¡­ soon preferably" Joffrey pondered out loud.


    "Agreed" Said Jin as the rest of the officers nodded. "The General has already been informed of the situation by condor. He ordered me to don''t do anything drastic while he''s not here, High Command is still in talks with General Pol Qo''s emissaries, trying to assure him of our neutrality in the civil war, so we''ll wait for now. I want supplies readied and the patrols doubled though, we must be ready for anything" he commanded, his usual levity replaced by a deadly seriousness in an instant, a usual transformation which the soldiers had acknowledge when they acclaimed him, more than a decade ago.


    The ''Laughing Tiger'' they had called him.


    The assembled officers saluted placing their fists over their hearts, the uncertain danger on the horizon leaving everyone''s hairs on edge


    -.PD.-


    Plans for a deep scouting mission fell by the wayside as things got increasingly hectic throughout the next few months. Missing Patrols, reports of Winged Men fleeing to the south, entire shryke towns abandoning their homes and moving towards the Bleeding Sea¡­


    There was something in the air, even the raiders could smell it. The great bands of eastern Horse Bandits and Camel Tribes had tripled their attacks, increasing the Dawn Scout''s casualties even more. During the next few months Joffrey fired more arrows than the rest of his lives combined, getting quite a few scars in the process. In between them and his growing body he sometimes didn''t recognize himself when he gazed upon a still pond.


    The attacks seemed to be reaching a crescendo when they suddenly abated¡­ the feared great armies of horsechiefs that High Command had been so worried about never arrived, and discarded plans for a deep scouting mission into the Grey Waste were reexamined¡­


    -.PD.-


    "You always leave the center unguarded. Corners are all well and good but they won''t save you this time" Said Captain Biming with a smirk, removing a load of beads from the center as he finally closed them off with one of his own.


    Joffrey snorted, hand moving from its resting position atop his crossed legs and placing a bead of his own, taking out three black ones. "You overestimate the center, it is unimportant in the grand scheme of things" Joffrey shot back, eyes clouded as he thought about his next five moves. Captain Biming, the grey bearded commander of Lin''s Vigil was a tricky opponent, always with a move under his sleeve. They''d been having regular Paigo battles ever since Joffrey and the rest of the Sixteenth Patrol had been relocated to Lin''s Vigil, a stout little keep that kept watch over a small, thick forest that rose like a weed around the nearby oasis. It protected a small patch of greenery amongst the deserted foothills of the Mountains of the Morn, a rare water supply Scouts made full use off when ranging around the area.


    "Did you really see a Winged Man here? Last month?" Joffrey suddenly asked the question that had been bugging him.


    The old Garrison captain chuckled as he moved another piece. "You are the sixth scout to ask me that question. It was nothing spectacular really; I was looking through that window when I spotted the three of them. They had short legs and their wings were really long, wider than their whole body sideways¡­ they weren''t that scary" he said.


    "How so? A Shryke is one thing, they''re pretty common around these parts for one¡­ But a Winged Man? This side of the Morn? You must have been startled at least" Joffrey wondered as he retreated, white beads moving backwards but being defeated in detail despite his efforts.


    "Not that rare, there''s a few scant settlements around the back hills, amongst the tallest of the foothills where it rains a bit more¡­ but that''s not the reason they didn''t look dangerous" Biming said, scratching his trimmed whiskers.


    Joffrey waited for the Captain to make his move, but the hand that had been about to grab a black bead suddenly halted. It thoughtfully returned to Biming''s lap, atop his crossed legs.


    The captain looked at the window as he spoke. "They didn''t look dangerous because they were wounded. They were ragged and bleeding, and wings or not their expressions were as clear as day. They were scared. Terrified even. They were fleeing south in such a hurry that one of them crash landed as I watched, and the others didn''t even look back¡­ they just beat those huge wings faster¡­"


    Joffrey was nonplussed. "They just left their comrade there? Didn''t even take his belongings? For that matter, you saw it crash? The body must be somewhere on the outskirts of the forest then¡­" Joffrey said.


    "They didn''t even look back... As for the body..." here the Captain chuckled. "The men are planning on ambushing your boys tonight with it. To ''see if the crazed bastards shoot or hump the thing'' I believe was how Tworay Kim put it" Biming said with a smirk.


    Joffrey chuckled at that. "I''ll be looking forward to it¡­" he said as he thought, gazing at the steadily diminishing white beads.


    Everyone''s running scared from something¡­ but we don''t know what¡­


    The game proceeded in silence for a good twenty minutes before Joffrey spoke again "You think they''ll let us go soon?" he asked the captain. He didn''t need to elaborate more, the whole Legion was waiting with baited breath for the order, the Scouts most of all. If anyone out in the edges of the Beyond could take a good guess at it, it was Captain Kai Biming. He was an old garrison hand which had denied a promotion one too many times and had finally been shunted to a far off post and forgotten, though Biming certainly had a smell for the internal politics of the Five Forts. Maybe that was why he''d refused to keep going up¡­ a wise man.


    "It''ll be soon, no doubt about it. They say General Pol Qo--" he suddenly coughed "Excuse me, the Orange Emperor " he drawled the name with a heavy dose of loathing, "has finally accepted the Five Forts neutrality in the Civil War. We finally have room to flex our muscles and not send half the empire into a panic¡­"


    Joffrey snorted again as he played a bead "Until yet another would-be-emperor calls his banners and craps his¡­ how many colors are left anyway¡­? Until he craps his whatever colored robe in fear of fifty thousand legion katanas marching from the northern frontier¡­ and we have to spend another five months doing nothing to calm all the combatant yet again about not upsetting the ''status quo''¡­" He said, laying back on his seat with a sight as he enjoyed the view from the small window, looking at the small trail that snaked away from the hill and the keep into the lone forest.


    "All the more reason to do it now then, before the Empire buckles again¡­ Every moment Command delays you and the rest of the Scouts is another moment my soldiers won''t know what''s coming for them¡­" said Biming, placing a final bead on the board.


    "¡­And routed. I told you the center was important, all men need a leader" he said with a chuckle as he won the game, but he was barely hearing him.


    "Something''s going on" Joffrey said as he looked through the window at a speeding horseman, riding as hard as he could towards the keep.


    Biming stood up quickly and looked too. "I''d get your men ready, this reeks of trouble" he said as he put on the helmet he''d left beside the board.


    "I''ll get to it" Joffrey said as he grabbed his bow and checked his katana was still strapped to his side, jogging down the stairs.


    "Scouts! Ready for action!" he bellowed as he ran past the small room were Orange Section was resting. Red Section, the other half of his Patrol, was out there in the Morn''s foothills, too far out to help.


    He arrived at the small courtyard almost at the same time as the front gate''s portcullis opened, letting in a bloodied rider with a Scout''s cloak.


    The gates quickly closed behind him as Joffrey approached the man with a knife, wary of a raider trap. The ''bloodied messenger'' was a favorite of theirs.


    He took off the man''s hood and cursed.


    "Hold on Bai, hold on" he whispered at the Scout as helped him off his panting horse and unto the ground. The scout threeray had two arrows jutting out from his belly and another one on his leg, spilling blood everywhere. He was barely alive.


    What''s Bai doing here? He''s under Han''s command--


    ¡­Fuck.


    Captain Han commands the Eleventh Patrol¡­ our relief force¡­


    "¡­ help¡­ oasis¡­ help¡­ oasis¡­" he kept repeating those two words every breath¡­ Joffrey was not sure Bai had even realized he''d gotten here.


    He must have been repeating those two words the whole way¡­


    Bai''s breath suddenly hitched, only to let out a deep sight. His face slacked, the fear and pain giving way to peace.


    Joffrey cursed, closing Bai''s eyes as a soldier rung the small bronze alarm bell, calling up the Garrison to arms.


    Eleventh Patrol must have been ambushed on the oasis, Han''s men must be fighting for their lives right now¡­


    Han had been the one to teach him how the Scouts rode their horses, and the friendship they''d made had not diminished with the years. There was no way in hell Joffrey was going to let him die alone in the middle of nowhere.


    The first few scouts were barely dashing out of the keep, strapping their leather armor when Joffrey jumped on top of his horse, cutting the rope with his knife and riding it towards the front gate. "Lieutenant Hu!" he bellowed to his back, "Scouts ambushed on the oasis, arm up and take command, hit the attackers from behind while I run bait!" he commanded as he stopped in front of the opening gates. The ''Bait and Knife'' was one of the favorite tactics that Coronel Jin had taught him, though the use of the force''s commander as the bait was usually frowned upon. Not that Joffrey cared.


    Xiang will do well, but I can''t trust anyone else with this, he thought as Xiang shouted back acknowledgement. "ARCHERS TO THE WALL! ARCHERS TO THE WALL!" bellowed Biming as he jogged to Joffrey''s side, gesticulating at the garrison soldiers emerging from the keep. "I can give you forty more riders if you wait ten minutes!" he told Joffrey as the portcullis finally opened up entirely.


    "No time, besides you''ll need them if it''s a distraction and they strike at the keep. Send a rider for reinforcements if we don''t come back within the hour!" he said before spurring his horse onwards.


    He rode down the snaking path and into the forest. The pale brown trees swayed with a heavy wind as he entered the forest, tilting and bumping their branches against each other almost in distress. The forest was not too long, but the deep groundwater that made part of the oasis ensured that the trees that grew there grew big.


    Joffrey had scouted the path many times before, so he knew were every bit of hazard was. He spurred his horse at a dead gallop, gently steering it long before they crashed against the occasional fallen tree or rock.


    Suddenly the trees cleared into a tiny canyon, only a few meters deep but still a perfect spot for an ambush.


    No choice, speed is of the essence and I need to get any ambushers on my tail so that Hu can gut them¡­


    Sure enough, he was on the middle of the small canyion when several figures shambled from the sides of it, sporting ragged Scout cloaks.


    Clever bastards, though that ensemble isn''t fooling anyone¡­


    The raiders started shooting, and soon Joffrey could hear the sibilant whispers of mongoose feathers flying over his head.


    Fuck, those are Scout arrows. A Legionnaire got killed for those¡­


    Joffrey''s eyes unfocused slightly, and he swiveled his head incessantly from side to side, keeping all the archer''s positions on his head.


    To predict¡­


    He ducked as an arrow passed above him, almost piercing his skull. Joffrey snapped an arrow out of the quiver tied to the horse''s saddle, aimed and loosed in quick succession, each action taking a second. The force of the impact sent one of the archers tumbling back out of sight, and Joffrey moved his horse to the left of the trail, avoiding two arrows that would have pierced his horse''s chest.


    Do not try to see the arrow in flight! Jin shouted in his ear. See where it is being aimed!


    The Coronel''s advice was a bit difficult to follow when attacked by several sides however¡­


    He loosed again, this time nailing one of the archers in the head. There was no time to contemplate his work however, he quickly gazed back to his left and cursed when he saw another archer rising from the canyon''s edge, bow ready.


    Joffrey slipped to the horse''s right, dangling from the side with a foot and a hand as the arrow skimmed past his now empty saddle. He pulled up from the classic ''Lazy Seagull'' with a grunt of effort, getting back on his saddle and shooting at the offending archer. The arrow took him in the arm, though the raider didn''t seem at all worried by the wound as he nocked another arrow.


    They say they sell powders in K''Dath capable of making a man immune to pain and fear¡­ Hopefully I''m not about to run into a bunch of those maniacs right now¡­


    But Joffrey was already through, back into the forest. He smirked when he saw the remaining archers following him in the distance, but he quickly focused on the task at hand.


    He could already hear the sound of battle, and he let that guide him towards the oasis.


    With a jump, his horse barreled through the bushes and he finally arrived at the scene from the hells.


    The forest stopped at about ten meters from the small lake, and Joffrey was not prepared for the sight of Han''s last stand.


    Two flipped wagons made a crude perimeter between themselves and a few fallen trees that bordered the edge of the forest. Joffrey could see what was left of Han''s Patrol there, bows discarded in favor of katanas and lumber axes?


    All around them were scores of¡­ men in various states of decomposition, some sporting the sun of the Five Forts, while others looked more similar to Shrykes than to Legionnaires.


    Even less prepared for the sight had been Joffrey''s horse. It whined and buckled, waving its hooves into the air as couple dozen of the corpses suddenly scrambled towards Joffrey at different speeds and gaits, less cohesive than a mob and all the more terrifying for it. His horse panicked, rearing backward and falling, whining in maddened fear.


    They must have been twenty meters away when Joffrey landed on the ground, his horse tumbling to the other side and scrambling away, bleeding and terrified.


    Wha.. what the¡­ gods¡­ oh gods¡­


    Joffrey scrambled to his feet and loosed the arrow he had nocked before at the mob. It had some effect¡­ when it took off a skeleton''s skull. He shouldn''t have bothered though, the rest of the thing kept shambling on just fine.


    His heart hammered from within as his chest seemed to thrum with a heavy feeling.


    His hand rose to his back but grasped only air.


    My quiver was strapped to the horse, he remembered.


    Joffrey backtracked desperately, looking for a choke point for a last stand of his own. There were more than twenty corpses barreling in his direction, and if he didn''t find a place to hold them off he''d be joining them soon enough.


    Talk about being a distraction! Joffrey thought irreverently as he ran towards a workable spot. The remains of the old watchtower were not much, just a couple of large stone slabs arrayed in a semicircular pattern, facing the lake. He ran up the very light and short slope and squeezed through the hole in between the two stones.


    He cursed when he looked at the back of the ruin. Or rather the lack of it.


    Needs must, thought Joffrey desperately as he took out his katana and delivered a sundering blow on the closest of the corpses that had been following him and was now trying to get in through the hole.


    It''s just a matter of time till the circle through the back¡­ he thought in a panic as he kept bashing skulls and kicking at the shambling corpses. The katana sliced them to bits but Joffrey would have kissed Baelish for something with a bit more heft at that moment.


    What are these things!? How!? It shouldn''t be possible!? He thought as fought, barely containing his panic.


    He''d thought he''d seen magic? That had been nothing!


    He kicked one back down, always looking back to see if the things thought to outflank him.


    He wanted to scream when he saw one that did, shambling on all fours as it climbed the slight slope and reached the high ground of the ruin''s floor.


    Guess this is what the Jade Captain would have regarded as ''not pathetic'' he thought in a haze.


    Joffrey''s chest felt like it was going to burst when he pivoted towards the flanking corpse and delivered two cutting strikes, getting the thing''s arms and kicking him back down, only to pivot again and bash one in the skull who''d been trying to squeeze through the ''entrance''.


    I''ll be backstabbed in ten seconds at this rate.


    He pivoted again and cut another flanking corpse in half, but he could see three others behind that one, shambling up the slight slope. He turned back to the entrance and saw that one had almost squeezed through. He smashed it with the katana''s pommel as the thrumming in his chest caused him to clench his teeth in pain.


    Surrounded by the undead but died from a heart attack¡­ pathetic¡­ he thought in a daze as the thrumming on his chest reached unbearable levels of pain.


    Sometimes I just want to scream, he thought, almost feeling already the corpse''s weapons biting into his back.


    He screamed as he kept slashing and slashing and slashing at the entrance. He stopped screaming when he suddenly realized its sound was being drowned by a much deeper, ear shattering roar.


    He turned back and saw a lion the size of a horse crashing into one of the flanking corpses, tearing it to shreds with its huge fangs and shredding another one with long, ivory claws.


    The lion turned, face an inch from Joffrey''s, gazing at him with pale green eyes which combined sharply with its silver colored fur and its blonde mane, giving it an otherworldly air.


    Joffrey had already given himself to fate when he found an angry, hulking, silver colored lion at his back. "KILL CORPSES NOW! EAT ME LATER!" he told it as he turned back and kept stabbing and cutting, the veritable pile of corpses bunching in and trying to claw their way inside.


    Surrounded by the undead but eaten by his house''s heraldry. Slightly better! He thought with a manic chuckle as the pure pressure of corpses swarmed through the hole and pushed him back. He parried a rusty katana and then a broken axe only to retaliate with a swift cut, but now that he was no longer bottling up the ''entrance'' the corpses were bunching inside the ruins.


    His back bumped the lion''s back paws as he retreated, parrying and countering as quickly as he''d ever had. Back to back, Joffrey and the lion pivoted perfectly, turning and delivering strikes of raw power and fine skill, of swift claws and sharp steel, turning in circles and fighting in perfect synchronization as they moved in an entrancing dance of death. Joffrey shouted with all his might as he turned and parried a corpse''s sword up high, leaving just the right space for the lion''s claws to barrel in from below and cut it at its legs with a bone rattling roar.


    Joffrey pivoted yet again, this time going to the back end of the ruin, but there were no corpses left. He almost fell on his knees in relief when he saw forty or so living legionaries below, some of them making sure the corpses below stayed dead, hacking them apart as a few cavalrymen dashed by, securing the perimeter. Captain Biming had decided to screw his suggestion and help out after all¡­


    Most of them though were looking up at Joffrey in varying degrees of awe.


    What? Keep securing the perimeter you idiots! Joffrey thought, coming down from the adrenaline high, before he remembered about the little detail at his back.


    Ah, right¡­


    He turned back, lightning fast, but the lion was nowhere to be found. The big paw prints on the ground and the dismembered bodies were the only evidence that Joffrey hadn''t hallucinated the whole thing.


    Life''s full of surprises¡­ he thought, still somewhat dazed as he registered the dozens of cuts on his body and a painfully creeping, almost lethargic haze that started to envelop him from the inside out.


    Suddenly one of the soldiers below raised a fist to the air.


    "Silver Lion!" he shouted.


    "The Silver Lion!!!" suddenly shouted another one.


    "Silver Lion!!! Silver Lion!!!!! SILVER LION!!! SILVER LION!!!!!! SILVER LION!!!!!" they roared, acclaiming him as they pumped their fists into the air with each repetition.


    Huh, could be worse. I was afraid they''d eventually acclaim me as ''Fumbling Peacock'' or something like that. Damned Scout''s sense of humor.


    The shouting and cheering seemed distorted to Joffrey''s ear, and when he tried to focus on the why of that he felt he was suddenly falling backwards, falling into an endless black void¡­


    ¡­


    -.PD.-


    -----


    Hope its been a fun ride so far, I''m trying to make the Beyond feel like a place were stuff is happening all the time, irrespective of wether our POV is looking in that direction or not, and that can be hard. I dont know if I succeeded, but its certainly been fun writing about it.


    Things, of course, are in motion. And wandering Joffrey may not like what he finds out there in the wastes...


    Thanks for reading and remember to comment!

 Chapter 21: The Expedition (Departure)

    Right, a small chapter to wet the appetite fuel the speculation. This one''s dedicated to those posters who argued that the Legion was too competent for a chinese expy of an equivalent era.Enjoy!


    ----


    -.PD.-


    Chapter 21: The Expedition (Departure)


    Joffrey blinked his eyes open as he smelled the worst thing that had ever had the misfortune of entering his nose. He immediately puked to his left, emptying his guts as he felt an arm shaking him from the right.


    "I''m okay Hound, I''m okay¡­" he muttered as he spat the last bits of bile and the remains of a spicy Wo-shu.


    "You should keep to Yi-Tish Joffrey, you''re sounding twice as barbaric right now" said a voice to his right as the man helped him up.


    "Captain Biming! By the gods I could kiss you right now" Joffrey laughed as he stumbled , getting his bearings.


    All around him he could see Scouts and Garrison Irons mounting up and tossing final bits and bobs into the raging bonfires that had sprung all around the oasis.


    "And I hope to the gods that you don''t!" Biming chuckled as he shook a bit of dust off his shoulder and emptied a pewter cup with some foul smelling yellow herbs. "Come on, let''s get back to Lin''s Watch. Command will want my head if this really was a diversion" he said as he got back on his nearby horse.


    "Joffrey! Just in the nick of time as always!" laughed Captain Han as he slapped him on the back with the euphoric strength of a man who''d courted death. "If you haven''t distracted half of them while Captain Biming and his boys got here¡­ I guess we would have joined them¡­ gods¡­" he muttered, the euphoria going away with the realization of what he''d just gotten saved from.


    "Corpses come back from their graves¡­ I think I know where all our missing scouts are ending up¡­" Joffrey said as he shook his head.


    Han nodded too, swallowing something sour. "This¡­ this is bad. We need to get back to the Greytower as soon as possible" he said.


    "Agreed, but for now we should ride back to Lin''s Watch" Joffrey told him as he searched for a mount, confusing memories of power and death, grey and silver revolving inside his mind.


    Soon all the soldiers were back on the saddle and on the trail, leaving behind only ash and smoke.


    -.PD.-


    "We''ll leave the wounded here with Captain Biming, but the rest should be ready to make the journey back to the Greytower by tomorrow" Han said as him, Joffrey and a few of the Scouts walked through Lin''s Vigil, going to their small barracks inside the Keep.


    "Good, Red Section should be back from Patrol the day after tomorrow, assuming they''re still alive of course¡­ they''ll take the wounded back to the Greytower" Joffrey agreed.


    Han nodded, "In that case--" he shouted as he jumped back along with Joffrey and the other scouts, instinctively trying to evade the monster that jumped from the ceiling.


    Joffrey, Han and the rest of the scouts all whipped out their bows and loosed a hale of arrows on the deformed man, whose long wings were longer that its body and whose long teeth peeked out from its mouth.


    "Cease shooting! Cease shooting!" Joffrey shouted, examining the thing more closely. It was mangled and torn, with its four, well, all six of its extremities nailed to the table that had descended from the ceiling, suspended from thick ropes. All the arrows only left it worse.


    The scouts tried to control their breathing as they lowered their bows, and slowly started to chuckle.


    "Gods¡­ These Garrison Irons must have a Scout''s sense of humor to pull this after what happened¡­" Han said with a nervous chuckle. "I think they set it up earlier and forgot to tell us about it after all the¡­ well¡­" Joffrey muttered as Han approached the dead body.


    "Wait" Joffrey said, peering intently at the thing, watching for any sign of movement.


    Han froze as Joffrey took out his katana and walked in front of the thing, peering closely.


    He must have spent a minute just staring, katana at the ready.


    Joffrey shook his head as he turned back. "I''m sorry, its just-"


    He saw Han''s expression morph into alarm half a second before he felt a fierce pain on his left ear.


    He screamed as he tumbled forward, whipping his katana around and slashing at the thing.


    The reanimated Winged Man regarded him with grey, almost dissolved eyes as it snapped and shrieked, straining to get another bite out of his ear. Joffrey slashed and slashed as Han and a few other joined in, tearing the corpse apart.


    No one was laughing as Joffrey put a hand on his bleeding ear, looking at the now still corpse.


    "Burn it. Burn it now" he whispered, his mind trying and failing to comprehend what was happening.


    Living corpses and giant disappearing lions, what the hells is happening to the world¡­ He thought, dazed as someone pressed a bandage to his ear.


    -.PD.- s?a??h th? Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "The Silver Lion huh?" Colonel Jin asked with a smirk as they walked up the Greytower''s long stairs.


    "I''m not some kind of messiah!" Joffrey snapped, the mere thought of it bringing back memories of fire and madmen. Even worse, to think about an eventual group like that worshiping him, it made him want to puke again.


    "Not even close Joffrey¡­" Jin said with a fond snort. "Those R''hllorites must have filled your head with camel shit, all they see is Black and White¡­ Well, Black and Red I suppose" he chuckled at his own joke. "Great struggles between good and evil, saviors and gods amongst men¡­ we leave that kind of thinking for your seven obsessed priests and those poor souls on Asshai, all that Ghost Grass sneaks into their brains while they sleep¡­" he said with another snort. "I guess you could draw parallels with our ancient histories if you squint enough, our first emperor did descend from the Lion-of-the-night and the Maiden-of-Light, but believe me no one is going to start a cult around here¡­"


    "So the men aren''t going to start worshipping me as the son of the Lion-of-the-Night or something like that?" Joffrey asked in hope as they cleared another set of stairs.


    Jin''s chuckle morphed into outright laughter at that "Oh Joffrey, your Yi-Tish has gotten so good I sometimes forget you''re still a barbarian. A-a s-s-son!" He laughed again, trying to hold back tears. "I can see how an outsider reading from our books but not being brought up in our culture could think that, but what you are saying is so preposterous most Yi-Tish would just go ''huh?''. Without going into details, our whole cosmology works very differently than the other alternatives, a whole lot less ''dualistic'' as a monk sage once told me¡­ the son of the Lion-of-the-Night ascended to the heavens long, long ago and he''s not coming back. So don''t worry about it unless you have a sudden urge to worship something inanimate, like a black stone, that has gained traction before. Of course, you''re just as likely to get your throat slit than a cult around you if you did that¡­" Jin said.


    You''re wasted here, you should be on the Citadel forging a metal mask¡­ Joffrey thought for the umpteenth time.


    "And the whispers and the murmurs?" Joffrey asked, wanting to be sure.


    "Just soldiers being soldiers. Those who saw it spread the tale, and now the men think the gods delivered an omen for the Scouts, the Irons as a whole or the entire Dawn Legion according to who you ask. The fact that it was delivered through a barbarian is a subject of discussion amongst the men. The Scouts of course have taken it as a sign that the gods are devious tricksters just like them" he said with another small chuckle. "Whispers and murmurs of victory and silver for the Expedition, they''re good for morale and right now we need all of it and more, considering the circumstances¡­" he continued as they cleared the stairs and walked through a long corridor.


    "A pragmatic point of view" Joffrey muttered, thinking. It seemed that even after years living here, he still had ways to go before truly grasping how the Yi-Tish thought. He was right though, the stories about shambling, reanimated scouts were already percolating through the ranks, chipping at their much needed morale.


    He shook his head. "Still, acclaimed or not I''ll talk to the General about the damned extra sun. Soldiers of the Dawn can refuse promotions and I''ll--" Joffrey was cut off when Jin suddenly grabbed him and shoved him through a door, slamming him on the wall of a small room.


    "Get out and close the door" he told the two Threerays doing inventory on a pile of weapons arrayed around them.


    When they left and Jin turned back to look at Joffrey, the laughing part had been left behind. He was all Tiger now.


    "Now you listen to me Major, I''m not supposed to speak about the meeting we are about to attend but every oneray and his dog know what it''s all about, so I''ll speak clearly for once" he said, dead serious.


    "You''ll be going out on the Beyond in charge of good men, brave men. Men that need competent officers at their helm. I won''t be going with them¡­" he said the last part as if it physically pained him. "And that means I won''t be there to hold your hand if you panic about commanding again! You are a decent shot with a bow, know Fol-Fing''s ramblings upwards and downwards, learned by memory all the tactics I''ve taught you and proven yourself in combat to be at least no worse off than any other officer on the Scouts! The only thing that''s missing is that you shovel those little facts on that barbarian skull of yours" he said as he pounded his finger against Joffrey''s forehead.


    "Now you''ll keep that blasted extra sun on your chest, attend the meeting and do whatever the good General asks of you to the best of your ability, am I clear Major Joffrey!?" he snapped.


    "Yes Sir!" Joffrey snapped, not feeling very sure about it all but instinct commanding him to obey.


    "Good!" Jin said as he released him and dusted him off as if nothing had happened. "Then let''s get out of here before those Threerays start imagining things" he said, opening the door and strolling out.


    Joffrey shook his head, taking a few seconds to center himself.


    I''ve never seen Jin that shaken before¡­ the fact that apparently everyone but him is going out to find what the hells is going on must be getting to him too¡­


    A full Twosun¡­ gods how did I end up here¡­ besides the piles of better, dead officers that is¡­


    Living corpses and winged men and magic¡­ And now I''m supposed to be one of the people that decide what to do about that stuff¡­ I''m so out of my depth I might as well be a flopping fish on the Dornish desert¡­


    He banished those doubts as he walked out, intent on figuring them out later and focusing on the right now.


    As he and the Colonel walked by a smirking threeray sporting two water canteens for some reason, Joffrey took a deep breathe. They walked a bit more before entering the Plotting Room, its door guarded by two spear wielding Sunbeams.


    The room was full to bursting, filled with men in differing garments and armors, ranks and branches. Those of lesser rank stood leaning on the walls while those of higher rank sat in the great wooden table at the middle, talking between themselves and looking at a great map of the Beyond at the head of it, filled with different colored pins and woolen strings.


    A Sunbeam escorted them to their assigned seats slowly, excusing and vaguely shoving officers out of the way before finally arrived at their places, only a few chairs away from the great chair below the big Plotting Map.


    They barely managed to sit when they had to rise again.


    "THE HONORABLE GENERAL YU! COMMANDER OF THE DAWN SCOUTS!" Bellowed one of the Sunbeams, slamming his heavy spear on the ground. The assembled officers stood up in respect as the ''Night Hawk'' himself walked past the doors, gesturing at the men.


    "Please sit, it''s crowded enough as it is" he said quietly as he made his way to his seat.


    Those that had chairs sat as the General eyed his big chair with disgust. The Sunbeam''s eyes suddenly widened as if he had just remembered something, dashing in and removing the chair to the annoyance of the crowded room in general.


    The General nodded thanks at the Sunbeam, now using the space cleared to pace slowly in front of the Plotting Chart. "I think better when I walk, and I think everyone here has seared that map into their memories¡­" he said as he moved the platform that held the map backwards, earning a small chuckle from the assembled officers.


    "Let''s get this started then" he said as he turned back and regarded the men, hands clasped on his back, positively radiating an Aura of Serene Command. The General was still regarded as one of the best shots in the Scouts, despite the eye he''d lost decades ago. He was of average height for a Yi-Tish, and his eyes were a dark brown and pale white respectively, which combined with his bald, scarred head and small but bushy whiskers made his stare all the more powerful.


    "Many of you here are new faces, so I don''t need to tell you that this last year has been hard on the Scouts. We have lost many friends, but many other worthy men have risen to take their place, and Still We Stand" he said, repeating an old rallying cry of the Forts.


    "Still We Stand" muttered the assembled officers, faces set in hard determination.


    "Something is stirring in the Beyond, and High Command fears what that may be. Horsechiefs and Camel Tribe attacks have slackened to a historical low while entire Shryke populations have disappeared from their city ruins. We have received reports from the Dusk Scouts that the Winged Men are fleeing their Cliffside colonies that border the Bleeding Sea, escaping south. Cultist Aspirants roam the wastes preaching of madness and death¡­" he let that sink in for a second or two before delivering the killing blow.


    "And we have confirmed the rumors of walking corpses, shambling with only the intent to kill and destroy" here the discipline of the officers cracked as everybody tried to speak at the same time, only to silence when the General simply said "Quiet". He let the lull still as he looked at each officer, eyes boring like loaded ballistas.


    "Questions can come at the end, but for now know that the living corpses are a real and present threat to the Legion, though there have been no sightings of a controlling Sorcerer ¡­ yet¡­" he let the ominous implication hang in the air, and Joffrey could suddenly feel the deep and forgotten past emerging into the present, a looming presence of legends and horrors at his back, slowly enveloping the room in heavy foreboding. Magic was a bit more out there in the mainstream in Yi-Ti compared to Westeros, or at least in the Beyond and the Legions. But mass reanimation¡­ it was a fit of epic, horrifying proportions. It was whispered that the Lord of Carcosa himself, the ''Yellow Emperor'', was using the Beyond as his personal farming preserve, building an army of the dead to defeat the Azure Emperor and all the other contenders of the bloody Civil War.


    Joffrey had his doubts though. For one, why were the Winged Men fleeing south, the direction of the Sorcerer Lord''s stronghold, if he was the one responsible for the madness in the Beyond?


    "The condor arrived this morning¡­ Command has finally authorized a Deep Scouting Operation into the Beyond, and we are going inforce. Colonel Jin will hold the Greytower while I will be leading the majority of the Dawn Scouts for this operation, along with some reinforcements from the Dawn Fort which I will be introducing shortly. Know that this will be one of the few times such a large force has forayed so deep into the Beyond, at least within written records. The eyes of our ancestors are upon us, and they will accept nothing but our best. We will be out for an estimated six months, ranging all over the Beyond in search of clues, thought that may change regarding the circumstances as we know nothing of this enemy force beyond myth and rumors, not even their intentions beyond a penchant for killing" the General said, extending a hand to his left and receiving a white paper from the old Greatbeam who got there in the nick of time, giving him the paper and standing to the left and back at attention, face stoic.


    "For our equipment, aside from double the usual for a Long Patrol, Colonel Jin and I used a few favors back at the Dawn Fort and managed to procure a shipment of Heavy Camelry Sabers. That and the heavy broadpoint arrow tips Greatbeam Leng and his men have been forging for us should give our force a bit more of an offensive heft, as our sharp but light katanas and bodkin points have proved somewhat ineffective against the corpses" he said, reading from the paper. The Greatbeam was a unique rank, a kind of master of Sunbeams that mainly dealt with the forges, armories and equipment. He was a constant presence by the General, and rumor had it that they''d been saving each other''s lives long before they even joined the Legion.


    Thank the old gods for Jin and the General, Joffrey thought, acutely aware of how ineffective a katana could be when the limbs you cut kept moving. It could get the job done he supposed, but why risk it?


    "Good, tell him that I want double that by tomorrow" he told Greatbeam Leng, who nodded and walked out just as suddenly as he had arrived.


    "Now I''ll introduce a few additions Command has chosen to regale us with, some of the most capable, resourceful men in the Legion who the Dawn Fort feels might be of use during our operation. We welcome them to the Dawn Scouts with open arms, grateful for their assistance" he said with a small bow, deftly avoiding any interbranch nonsense from the start and leaving the ground set for cooperation.


    I guess at that level even military command has a measure of politics, Joffrey thought as the General nodded at a heavy, muscled man of dark complexion, a very, very rare sight in the Legion.


    "Major Yham commands the Garrison''s 6th and 9th Heavy Camelry, a potent hammer that will be a major component of our striking formation" he said.


    "Sir!" said Major Yham as he stood up. He wasn''t all that big, but he was wide. His upper frame was a mass of muscles, especially his arms, which rumor back on the Dawn Fort said were capable of splitting a Horsechief''s horse in half when on camelback and with a sabre. The ''Dark Rhino''s reputation however, did not come from his great strength but from his silent intellect. Always with an uncanny ability to strike down even the best laid of enemies plans, the rumors also said you could tie a bandana over his eyes and he''d still be able to lead a charge right at the enemy''s rear, with the perfect timing to break then as well. He spoke with a lilting accent, vaguely similar to what a summer islander must have had if he spoke Yi-Tish, Joffrey guessed. "I''m honored to have been chosen to support this Expedition, our bodies will lay eternally in the sands before we forsake that honor" he said with a swift nod and a glimmer in his eyes before sitting back down.


    "Honored to have you Major" Said the General, turning to look at the other side of the table.


    "Captain Biju commands the Dawn Fort''s 22nd Iron Guards, a mixed support unit who will be handling close in protection for our supply wagons" General Yu said, unleashing brief but speculative whispers amongst the audience. They were low but Joffrey could hear one thing whispered in repeated speculation.


    "The Sixth Fort" they said.


    "Sir!" Said Captain Biju as he stood up ramrod straight, a hulking monster of a man whose red bamboo overarmor made him seem even larger. The 22nd Iron Guards had a bit of a reputation within the Legion as fierce fighters always with a trick up their sleeve, especially when handling what were usually vulnerabilities on an army or fortress. Time and again had the unit been savaged by fierce attacks trying to get at their precious charges, only to be rebuffed. With time, the unit had acquired an elite status, and it was mostly conformed of veterans. "The 22nd Stands!" He said the unit''s unofficial motto before sitting down at the General''s nod, letting his reputation fill any gaps in that introduction.


    General Yu turned to look at a small man sitting in front of Joffrey.


    "Captain Xon-Mi commands the Architect''s 12th Flying Artillery, and the Wooden Irons have decided to regale him with double his usual load of ammunition" The General said with a smirk, one which was returned at full bore by the small, slightly scarred and burned man.


    "Sir!" He said as he stood up, not even sweating under his great fireram coat, "Be it foot support or siege combat, the Architects have sent nothing but their best for this operation, including a few surprises I designed myself¡­ " He let that hang ominously as he sat down after the General nodded, looking very comfortable. The officers around him subconsciously leaned away, an altogether reasonable reaction when seating next to a happy Architect combat officer. The Wood-and-Iron sun didn''t care however, probably musing about what kinds of dangerous gifts he could regale upon the mysterious enemies out in the Beyond.


    The General turned this time to the end of the table, where a man wearing a dark, dark-blue cloth sat silently.


    "And last but certainly not least, Captain Jhos commands the Jade Scribe''s Leaping Frog Constellation. I assume that his addition was not unexpected, given the nature of the environment we will be facing out there¡­" he said. The Jade Moon nodded as he stood up and spoke with a deep voice at odds with his diminutive frame and long black ponytail, "Sir" he said with a deep bow before sitting back down at the General''s nod. He didn''t say anything beyond that¡­


    There where whispers this time too. Ominous whispers. The captains of the Jade Constellations were very well known, as few as they were. For the Jade Scribes to have sent an unknown with not even an animal name that anybody knew of¡­ either he had join and been promoted yesterday¡­


    Or¡­


    Or his was the group that handled the unknown, darker problems of the Jade Scribes. Threats that even they preferred to keep under wraps after being dealt with.


    The Night Hawk nodded back one last time "And now for the Scouts themselves, I''ll introduce the formation''s commanding officers. Make no mistake, each of you have been chosen for their proven worth in their assigned duties, but this operation is likely to stretch your will and skill to the limit. However, I would not have assigned these commands upon you if I thought you were incapable of transcending said limits" he said, gazing at the sitting officer.


    General Yu stepped to the side as the Sunbeams brought back the Plotting Map, this time flipped and showing several rectangles arrayed in formations, filled with pins of different colors.


    "You will have all of tomorrow to meet your peers and commanders to work up a smooth chain of command, but for now I will read out loud our operational order"


    "Major Xu" Said the General.


    "Sir!" said the Red Gorilla as he stood up.


    "You will be in command of the forward formation. You will handle security and frontal scouting. That means the 9th and 10th Patrols, as well as the 2nd, 3rd and 7th Long Patrols," The ''Night Hawk'' commanded.


    "Yes General!" Xu saluted before sitting.


    Long Patrols, the hardy Dawn Scouts which routinely braved the outer reaches of the Beyond¡­ they''d know better than anyone else what awaited for them out there. The van was an excellent place for them.


    Van¡­ an obsolete term here¡­


    Three Long Patrols, they are usually made up of just a single Section, meaning 25 men each¡­ plus two normal Patrols of 50 men each¡­ Its 175 men in total¡­


    The General pointed to another formation with his bamboo rod.


    "Major Yham" he said.


    "Sir!" Said the Dark Rhino in a perfect inspection salute.


    "I''ll be riding with our heavy striking formation, which will be under your command. That means both the 6th and 9th Heavy Camelry as well as the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Rangers" he said, pointing at the different pins with a small bamboo rod he picked up from below it.


    Joffrey restrained the urge to whistle out out. That was three of all five Ranger groups, the Dawn Scouts that specialized in heavy combat. They specialized in melee weapons, especially the larger Dai-Katanas, heavy Naginatas and Battleaxes while wearing somewhat heavier armor and sometimes even tower shields. While their autonomy was shit compared to a standard patrol, well supported they could take a fortress by themselves¡­ and they were bringing 150 of them, plus 100 Heavy Camel Lancers from the Dawn Fort''s Garrison.


    "Major Wuhan" said the General.


    "Sir!" snapped the Major which Joffrey didn''t know all too well, besides his animal name that is, ''the Stout Eagle'' they''d acclaimed him.


    "You will be in command of the central formation, behind heavy strike. That means our main body, reserves and supplies. You will command the 12th, 13th, 14th and 15th Patrols as well as the 22nd Iron Guards" he commanded.


    200 Scouts plus the 22nd Iron Guards, which is always a ''reinforced'' unit. 300 men at the center¡­


    "Yes General!" he saluted before he sat down.


    "Major Pigu" he said.


    "Sir!" said the long, thin man as he stood up. The ''Patient Mantis'' was often regarded as gangly and awkward, a mistake that had been the last committed by many a Raider, who sometimes, it was said, were still smirking at the easy victory in sight as their necks opened and blood came pouring out of their startled mouths.


    "You will be in command of the rear, both security and trail confusion. We won''t be moving very fast, but we will be leaving zero clues of our passage if possible, or alternating trails if not. To that effect you will command the 16th and the 18th Patrols, as well as the 4th, 5th and 6th Long Patrols for rear and flank area coverage" the Night Hawk commanded.


    "Yes General!" snapped Major Pigu, the opposite hand curiously never leaving his dagger''s pommel.


    Another 175 men for the rear¡­


    Wait, that''s it?


    He suddenly sagged in a strange mix of relief and raging panic at the thought of being left behind.


    I-I-I think the General did the right thing. I''m not sure I''d-


    "Major Joffrey" said the General.


    "Sir!" snapped Joffrey as he stood up, ramrod straight.


    "You will be in command of our support formation, a kind of armory well equipped for dealing with any non-obvious problems we encounter. You will technically ride in between the rear and the center, but you will probably be detached often for smaller missions on the nearby areas around the main force. You have developed a bit of a reputation as being capable of figuring out and dealing with tricky, unexpected situations. You''ll serve the same role for the Expedition, a sort of tool wagon equipped for handling the unexpected" he said, punctuating his sentences with his bamboo rod, showing a formation on the corner of the Plot Map.


    "To that effect you will command your old 17th Patrol as well as Captain Han''s 11th, both understrength but veterans which fought the Reanimated and lived to tell the tale. You will also be commanding the 1st Long Patrol, the 4th Rangers, the 12th Flying Artillery and the Leaping Frog Constellation, a mixed bag which should prove deadly under your hands" Commanded the Night Hawk.


    "Yes General!" Joffrey said as he saluted, slamming a fist on his heart with all his strength before sitting down.


    A bit less than 275 men¡­ I''ll be commanding a bit less than 275 men¡­ by the gods¡­


    General Yu stood there for a bit, letting his officers think about the momentous task which awaited... Joffrey could see how a dark cloud settled over the men, a cloud of fear and something far worse: uncertainty. The General gazed at the Plot Map, slowly flipping it back to the Map of the Beyond. He briefly touched the five black pins on the south western corner, feeling their contexture. "I won''t lie... High Command is scared" he suddenly said, gazing back at them. "And now that there''s a relative lull in the Civil War they''re shoving the best that they have at me and hoping I''ll find answers behind what''s forming between the sandstorms of the Beyond¡­ and either we or our comrades of the Dusk Scouts may find exactly what we are looking for¡­" he let that hang there for two seconds, almost reinforcing the dark cloud.


    Suddenly, the General abandoned his usually quiet tone, his voice rising in intensity like a stoked fire, his sudden zeal all the more enveloping because of its rarity "But we will prevail¡­ Because we serve a cause far greater than emperors and empires, than gold or silver¡­ We serve every man and child, every mother and wife, every citizen and every barbarian throughout the Known World! Be it the Yellow Emperor or the Demons of the Night, whatever we find, We Will Stand! For more than ten thousand years the Legions have guarded the Five Forts, and they will guard them for another ten thousand more! Still We Stand!" the General suddenly shouted.


    "Still We Stand!" bellowed the assembled officers, standing up.


    "Dawn!" shouted the General, harder this time as he raised his sheathed katana to the air.


    "DAWN!!!" roared Joffrey and the rest of the officers, bumping katana sheaths on the floor or pommeling the table with their sabers, unleashing a rattling that must have surely been felt all the way to K''Dath and Beyond.


    -.PD.-


    The Greytower was a hive of activity for the next three days, but Joffrey would have sworn they spent only one long day getting ready for the Expedition.


    That''s what it felt for him anyway. He barely slept as he wrangled more broadheads from the Greatbeam, inspected the Long Carts and met the men he was supposed to be commanding.


    He barely had a moment to speak with them as it was, so frenzied were the preparations at the Greytower. He resolved to get to know them properly after they departed, feeling that having a good working relationship was paramount for the smooth working of the force he was suddenly commanding, the weight of which had not yet settled into his mind. After hearing and even witnessing more than a few military fuck ups on Westeros because of miscommunication between lords, he was eager to bury that problem before it even arose.


    As it was, he barely managed to have his force equipped and in formation when General Yu sounded the Scout''s Horn, a slightly smaller, black version of a typical one.


    "You''re trying too hard Joffrey" Suddenly said Colonel Jin, who was standing beside Joffrey''s horse, watching as the first scouts moved out passing below the crowded Greytower''s portcullis.


    "What?" asked Joffrey, confused.


    "''The Serene can only be felt within, not found" he suddenly quoted.


    "Fol-Fing?" Joffrey asked as the central formation started to move.


    "Do not dwell on your doubts and failures Joffrey. Look forever forwards and you might be surprised about what you find when you sneak a glance back inside¡­" Jin said.


    "Yes, Archmaester Jin" Joffrey nodded wisely, holding back a smirk.


    "I have no use for metal masks here. It''s hot enough as it is¡­ Good luck Major" Jin said suddenly, staring straight at him.


    "Good luck Colonel, you keep my seat on the barracks warmed up!" Joffrey said.


    Jin chuckled, "You should stick to the dice and leave the cards to me¡­ Anyhow, I will wait for your water rations in expectation. Dawn!" The Colonel saluted.


    "Dawn!" Joffrey saluted before turning his head back.


    "Support Formation! Move out!" he shouted, gesturing with his hand.


    The wagons, horses and camels lurched forward, and as the Greytower slowly fell out of sight, Joffrey put on his grey-brown Scout''s hood. He daydreamed as he rode, snugged in between the rear and the center, thinking about mysterious lions and corpses, of magic and blood, of riddles and answers.


    "I''ll be ready" he muttered as he rode.


    "I have to¡­" he whispered, the grey horizon beckoning, tantalizing.


    Waiting...


    -.PD.-


    ------


    Yeah, it seems the legion is even more competent now... oops? :O

 Chapter 22: The Expedition (Searching)

    Fresh from the ovens! Enjoy!-.PD.-


    Chapter 22: The Expedition (Searching)


    -15 days since departure-


    "Major Joffrey" muttered the officers under Joffrey''s command as they stood up.


    "At ease gentlemen" Joffrey said as he closed the tent flap behind him.


    The six men sat back down as Joffrey rounded the inside of his command tent, finally getting at the ''head'' of the imaginary table. His command tent, as with all the others of the Expedition, were but a far cry compared to Renly''s Grand Pavilion. The tent was round and squat, lacking any ornamentation besides its grey camouflage. His officers sat on top of small cushions, legs folded as they started on their meals.


    Getting this mixed bag to actually mix and integrate¡­ has been a little harder than I thought¡­


    A serious problem, one that reflected on Joffrey''s abilities as a commander in his opinion. A grave matter, but he was so hungry right now that he didn''t care.


    Oh gods yes¡­ Mixed Jihuan¡­


    Joffrey sat on his own cushion, devouring the spicy jihuan rice with his sticks, relishing the almonds and dry meats peppered throughout the bowl. To his left sat his former Half Sun and now commander of the 17th Patrol, Captain Hu. To his right sat Captain Han, old friend, commander of the 11th Patrol and his defacto second in command. Both of them immediately assaulted Joffrey for information in typical scout fashion.


    "What''s the word from The General, Joffrey?" asked Han after digesting a particularly hard rice ball.


    "Supplies are looking good for now but Major Xu reports there''s no sign of any of the Shryke shantytowns yet¡­ their inhabitants, that is¡­" Joffrey told them, eying Captain Xon-Mi warily as he pelted their resident mage with food. He was patiently using his sticks as makeshift catapults to now and then send a single rice grain sailing over the middle, trying to score a hit on Captain Jhos.


    None of the grains seemed to be hitting him though, to Xon-Mi''s growing interest.


    The newly promoted Captain Hu looked a bit shaken, trying to scratch his nonexistent Yi-Tish beard. "Damn¡­ it would be one thing if we found them burnt to the ground or full of sabered bodies¡­ but just empty¡­ I''m glad the Long Patrols are securing them before we get there¡­" he said with a shiver.


    "Speaking of which¡­ Captain Shah, Have you ever found them like this before?" Joffrey asked the Captain of the 1st Long Patrol, by far the most experienced man on the room.


    His face was full of creases and his hair was a silvery black. The veteran scout nodded once before setting his bowl down and placing his hands on his lap, always solemn.


    He spoke with a faraway look and a strange longing, clear signs of Grey Overexposure and Brain Mush.


    The Scouts are loyal and competent, but no one said they weren''t hypocrites, he thought, amused as he listened.


    "Aye Major" he almost whispered, only using the words as precisely as he could, almost a parody of what the rest of the Legion thought of the Scouts. "I had heard only rumors and tales from some of the older hands before me¡­ until I found one almost fifteen years ago. The signs of a struggle were evident, but there were no bodies, and no loot had been taken¡­" he said, earning the attention of Captain Jhos who shuffled slightly from within his black robe, turning his slightly pale head towards the man.


    "And no blood?" asked the commander of the Leaping Frog Constellation, his deep voice sending shivers through Joffrey''s back.


    "Hmm¡­ there was, old and dry. It was only the bodies that were missing" said the Deep Scout.


    Captain Jhos frowned slightly at that, as if confused by that piece of information.


    "Something not making sense with magic? Surely a momentary setback for those who wield the sword-without-a-hilt" Captain Xon-Mi mused, leaning back.


    "Not every problem requires an explosion, Captain" Jhos said as he contemplated Xon-Mi as one would a particularly intelligent dog.


    That little exchange summed up their problems quite nicely¡­ Joffrey thought.


    "A wise man has the tools for the work at hand, and the work at hand is rather massive. The shovel does not berate the pickaxe" suddenly said Sabu, commander of the 4th Rangers, resident formation straight man and wielder of both the biggest battleaxe and the greatest beard Joffrey had ever seen.


    For being the captain of the group of Scouts that specialized in pure destructive potential, Captain Sai was remarkably soft spoken and tranquil. He fitted right in with the Scouts.


    The Lion''s grab bag they''re already calling us, thought Joffrey in amusement and slight irritation.


    Joffrey thought each of the six officers under his command had been chosen for a reason. He supposed The General had not been lying when he said he had a knack for dealing with the unexpected, though he thought that had more to do with luck than any particular skill he might have. Still, each man brought with him a unique set of skills to his command, and Joffrey couldn''t help but feel that he was being somehow tested by the Night Hawk¡­


    The fact that The General had been looking alternatively at Major Yham and back to Joffrey in amused silence during their command lunch was¡­ ominous.


    He let the relative lull in the conversation (such as it was) guide his mind as he used the small bit of free time to think. He haven''t seen the Silver Lion since his surprise visit at the ruins beside the oasis¡­ and curiously, neither had he felt what he thought was his heart condition


    Where had it come from? There were no records of Lions within a hundred miles of Lin''s Watch, and he''d found no record in the Greytower''s library about silver furred lions sporting a white-blond mane.


    Joffrey thought it was somehow connected to the strange happenings in the Beyond, but he couldn''t figure out in what way.


    The Beyond¡­ the corpses and the disappearances¡­


    And that was another bag of mysteries. It was clear someone or something was harvesting living beings, and that at least some of those harvested beings were being turned into what he''d heard one of Jhos'' Quarter Moons refer to as ''undead'' in controlled awe and fear.


    I think¡­ Wights they call them in Westeros¡­ Perhaps all those children''s tales had something to them¡­


    Westeros¡­ Wonder how the War of the Five Kings is turning out¡­ maybe Balon Greyjoy sits on the Iron Throne, he thought, suppressing a snort.


    He suddenly realized all the officers had finished eating, and were politely staring at their empty bowls in silence.


    Joffrey shook his head. Damned Yi-Tish discipline.


    He pushed his bowl forward with a nod, "We''ll decide the marching order for our formation tomorrow at first light" he dismissed them.


    They stood up in varying speeds, some more determined than others.


    "Sir" they acknowledged with a small bow.


    Joffrey nodded back as the officers left and Sunbeam Loh entered. He cleared the bowls and made space for his ''Long Bed'', the warm, portable pseudo cocoon the Long Patrols used in their travels.


    A servant¡­ the world has a twisted sense of humor¡­


    "Thank you Sunbeam. That will be all" he told him.


    "Sir!" he saluted, turning back and exciting the tent.


    Its getting late¡­ but I think its time I get to know my officers properly. No time while out there in the field¡­


    He nodded as he stood up.


    He had work to do, and people to get to know.


    Is it work if you like what you do? He suddenly thought.


    ¡­I love this job.


    After all, his wonder sense could use both places and people.


    -.PD.-


    An hour had passed since the awkward dinner, and Joffrey was now looking at the Jade Half Moon leading both of his sections in some kind of ritualistic dance.


    "KHAI!" shouted Half Moon Dishi, planting both feet firmly on the ground and slightly flexing his knees as he slammed both of his fists together vertically, stopping right at the middle of his chest.


    "KHAI!!!" roared a bit less than 50 men, slamming their fists together in the same manner and in perfect synchronization.


    The Half Moon shuffled his hands in somewhat halting but powerful movements. He moved them around with strength, shaping strange forms with his arms that seemed to be contained to the area around his chest, always erect, his arms not sporting an inch of flexibility.


    The two sections were named Twilight and Moonlight instead of Red and Orange as the rest of the Legion. Both had their respective Quarter Moon''s (The Jade Scribe''s Sunbeam equivalent) in front of each, following the Half-Moon with the rest of the men.


    "KHAI!" Shouted the Half Moon, the rest of his men answering again as they repeated the motions, concentration supreme.


    There had been some rumblings amongst the men to kick the Leaping Frog Constellation out of camp when they practiced their strange, noisome ways, but Joffrey had put a firm stop to that. After the first week, the men of the Support Formation had decided to go with the flow instead of fighting it. At least those that belonged to the Scouts had taken it in stereotypical amusement, using the precise timing of both morning and night rituals to time their sleep like a smallfolk farmer would use a rooster.


    The members of the 12th Flying Artillery had to make due with shoving their heads under their Long Beds¡­ or just stared at their Fire Lances in longing.


    Joffrey walked to Captain Jhos'' tent, giving the assembled Jade Scribes a wide berth as he fought the doubts that were already forming within his head.


    The mysterious Jade Scribes¡­


    Rumor said that they''d originally been an order under the command of the Bloodstone Emperor, an order of powerful and ruthless magi who defected from their master at the height of his madness¡­ They said that was the reason why they didn''t go by Legion ranks.


    Whatever their origins, this small branch of the Legion worked differently than its sister branches. The higher ranks were scarce, and each Constellation carried four Half Moons instead of one, their Lieutenant equivalents. They were very picky about their men, and they usually served for life even after their service terms were done.


    All of this, besides the obvious area of expertise served to set them bit apart from the rest of the Legion, and it was something that Joffrey did not want to be reflected within his command.


    Arming himself with another bucket load of determination, Joffrey opened the flap to Jhos'' tent, which was curiously unguarded.


    The tent was flooded with incense, a relaxing scent filling Joffrey''s lungs as he closed the flap and coughed.


    He peeked again, this time holding his breath. He saw what was probably Captain Jhos, a bundle of dark robes sitting in the middle of a few cushions, right in the middle of the tent.


    A bundle of dark robes that shuffled slightly in Joffrey''s direction.


    He had already decided to close the flap again and call it a day when Johs extended a hand a beckoned him inside. "Major Joffrey, you want to speak with me?" he said in that deep voice of his.


    Joffrey swallowed, entering the tent and half expecting it to be full of spiked heads and body parts.


    Alas, aside from a few curious knickknacks the Full Moon''s tent was surprisingly mundane. "It''s nothing urgent, it can wait if you are busy with your¡­ ritual¡­" Joffrey muttered awkwardly, eying the Captain''s widened pupils and tranquil expression.


    "It''s not a problem Major. As for my¡­ ritual¡­ it won''t be affected" he said.


    Joffrey nodded as he walked inside the tent, sitting where the Captain pointed. It was a spot in between him and the metallic incense ball.


    Joffrey sat there in awkward silence yet again as the Captain seemed to leave the conversation''s initiative to him.


    Fol-Fing''s ninth battle strategy! When surrounded and outflanked, attack!


    "I was wondering about the fighting potential your men could bring to our formation, Jhos. Can I call you Jhos?" he suddenly asked.


    "Of course, Major" he responded.


    "Please, call me Joffrey" he countered.


    The Captain nodded and spoke, "As you will¡­ Joffrey. My men are well trained and ready to face whatever threats we encounter out there"


    Joffrey nodded thoughtfully, a pleasant buzz surrounding his body as he spoke. "I''m sure they will, but I was thinking about their more¡­ esoteric abilities¡­" Joffrey pronounced carefully.


    The good captain actually chuckled, a both unnerving and incredibly funny sight.


    "Are you asking whether we are all ''magi''?" he asked him.


    "If you put it like that¡­" Joffrey kind of agreed. He was wary around the subject, all of his encounters with magic had been¡­ scarring, to say the least.


    "The men possess no skill that would be considered ''esoteric'' as you say. However, they have a grounded theoretical knowledge of it, and they are trained in the ways to detect them as well as ending them¡­ permanently" he said.


    "And the Officers?" Joffrey pressed.


    "The Officers¡­ we are knowledgeable in some of the many Old Arts, both their history and their more¡­ practical uses. We have our ways¡­" he said in an exaggeratedly ominous tone, with¡­ a slight¡­ smirk?


    Is he making fun of me?


    "You''re not going to turn all shadowy and try to stab me in the heart, will you?" Joffrey suddenly blurted, immediately putting a hand on his mouth in surprise.


    Jhos'' eyebrows rose in surprise before laughing, harder this time.


    "Alas, I am incapable of doing that. Where did you meet a Shadow Binder anyway? A master one at that?" he asked, thoroughly intrigued and leaving behind a bit of his erect posture.


    "Oh man that''s quite the story, you know I''m some kind of exiled prince right??" he asked him.


    "I''ve heard some of the rumors" Jhos conceded, slightly tilting forward in interest.


    "Well, thing is, ''my'' supposed kingdom is a snake pit of treachery and intrigue. Like, ''hey, can I read some books over here for a while?'' and everyone like ''Nope! Stab stab!'' and I''m like ''I just want some quiet damnit!'' and everyone else like ''Excuse me? Did you say STABSTAB! We have poison too! And more staaaaabs!''" Joffrey said with an infectious giggle, "You know the type?" he suddenly asked the Full Moon.


    Jhos was chuckling, nodding again and again. "Oh I do, believe me I do! What do you think those five lumps of black rock are protecting?" he said with another chuckle.


    "Yeah I figured. So, I''m like minding my own business, reading stuff, when this pampered idiot who couldn''t find his own ass with both hands and a Tyrell helper comes around and kidnaps me. Long story short, he''s my ''uncle'' who wants ''my'' throne, though he could have had it if he just asked! Anyway, he''s living the good life being the hero the kingdoms deserve, when obviously reality comes knocking in typical westerosi fashion. Stannis, his brother who''s camping with his army right in front of him, comes around and says like ''Excuse me, did you want to be happy? But--"


    "STAB!" suddenly shouts Jhos, laughing his ass off.


    Joffrey struggled to contain his spittle as he laughed too, "Damnit that was my line! Anyway, he''s been surprise stabbed by someone in his tent, and everybody''s like ''Stabbed? Must have obviously been good old Ser Loras crying over there, forgot which hole he was supposed to stab and aimed for the heart instead of the butt!!!'' BUAAAHAHAHAHA!!!" Joffrey laughed and laughed as if someone were extracting laughter daemons out of his belly. Jhos was holding his mouth with his sleeve, struggling to contain his own amusement.


    "So! So, there''s no bloodied knife around and Loras keeps whispering about this ''shadow'' in between sobs, and everybody''s too busy running around like headless chickens to think about that. The rightful heir to the throne has been camping right in front of them for just one night and suddenly their pretender is dead, supposedly killed by the man that loved him the most, with no weapon in sight. The supposed murdered is in shock whispering about shadows and the wound on Renly''s heart is so precise you''d think Loras studied under a master surgeon in the Citadel! And the wound itself is so thin you''d think the stiletto that stabbed him would break with a heavy wind! So, what do you think the rebellious lords do?" he asked Jhos.


    "Bow down before the obvious Shadow Lady and beg for mercy?" he asked.


    "Nope!" Joffrey proclaimed grabbing his head.


    "Run for their lives?!" Jhos asked him, hoping that at least they did that.


    "Nope! Obviously the best course of action is to stand right there and proclaim me as king!" he suddenly blurted.


    "They didn''t!" Jhos whispered.


    "They did! So, Stannis waits all day in his camp grinding his teeth all like ''What''s taking these idiots so long?'' while said idiots crown me and place me in the same godsdamned chair that the pampered fool that just got murdered sat upon barely a few hours ago!"


    "That''s just bad taste¡­" muttered Jhos, shaking his head.


    "Tell me about it! And everybody''s feasting like nothing happened, all like ''Oh hello there King, remember when we were laughing about you being the bastard spawn of incest? We neither!!!''" Joffrey said, snorting so hard he had to take his napkin out of his pocket and clean his nose.


    He blew hard into it, and tried to fold it again so it could fit into his pocket.


    This seems to be taking an eternity, he thought as he struggled to fold the napkin back into his pocket for what he thought must have been a full hour.


    "And?" Jhos asked, curiosity supreme as he emptied the incense container and stuffed another chunk of herbs on it, the hot charcoals beneath warming it up.


    "What were we talking about?" Joffrey asked.


    "Hmmm, I think you stopped at a feast?" Jhos reminded him, scratching his chin.


    "Right! The feast! So, everyone''s there trying to manipulate me so transparently you could have built a pure glassed Myrish far eye so good Archmaester Vaellyn would have broken down in tears, and I''m like ''Seriously?!'' and all the fucking schemers are like ''Yeah seriously!'' And I''m like ''fuck this!'' and scramble back to my tent¡­ and that''s when he appeared." Joffrey said, trailing off ominously. This time he was the one fooling around with the good Captain.


    Jhos was on the edge of his cushion, almost falling back as he gripped it with strength. "And then?!" he demanded.


    Joffrey tilted forward, as if he was about to deliver a terrible secret, his face right over the incense container. He felt like some kind of ancient storyteller delivering his tales in between ominous amounts of arcane and mysterious smoke.


    "And then¡­ he was there¡­ Torso made entirely of shadows, legs but a whisp of air as it floated over me, his face unmistakable. It was Stannis, the Sorcerer Lord of Dragonstone Island, peering down at me with infinite rage and hatred, his face a rictus of disdain and fury¡­" Joffrey whispered as he trailed off.


    "And then?" whispered Jhos, this time leaning forward in total attention.


    "And then¡­ he rose his hand¡­" Joffrey whispered quietly, taking in as much air as he could fill in his lungs and cursing the damned smoke, he had to time it right.


    Jhos was quiet as he stared intently at Joffrey''s head, the only movement where the smoky whirlwinds that shuffled around him.


    "He rose his hand¡­ and he BLUAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGH!!!!!!!" he shrieked as he stood up with no warning whatsoever, hands raised and flailing around.


    Jhos screamed as he tried to stand up and fell on his back, arms flopping to his sides.


    Slowly, ever so slowly, he managed to sit back up. He gazed at Joffrey''s still form as his superior bit his arm, face red.


    Suddenly the tent''s flap opened up and a Jade Quartermoon entered, a silver shortsword grasped firmly in his hand, "Moon Jhos! We-"


    Jhos waved the man away, still staring at Joffrey, who was struggling with what he internally swore was, if it managed to get out, the greatest roaring chuckle he''d ever had. Joffrey was sure it would wake up half the camp and the Night Hawk himself would swoop in and clobber him senselessly, if it got out...


    Johs raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards slowly but surely.


    Joffrey grunted a bit.


    He grunted again, a bit louder this time.


    Jhon snorted as the corners of his mouth kept tilting up every time Joffrey grunted.


    "S-so¡­" Jhos struggled against the impending apocalypse.


    "Y-you could say¡­" Jhos stuttered, force of will supreme as he tried to get the words out.


    "Don''t say it!" Joffrey suddenly blurted, his voice slightly muffled as kept biting his arm.


    "Y-you could say you were¡­" Jhos closed his eyes tightly, tears of laughter trailing down his cheek.


    "P-please d-d-don''t!!!" Joffrey begged.


    Jhos took a deep breath, and his lips slowly settled, face relaxing as he managed to contain it.


    Joffrey lowered his arms, taking deep and slow breaths, trying to settle down.


    Suddenly Jhos'' face disfigured itself as he suddenly screamed with all his strength.


    "STAB STAAAAAAAAAAB!!!!" he screeched.


    "You just hahd toaa shay hhiiiiit¡­"Joffrey jabbered quickly, his speech decomposing as he grabbed the cushion he had been sitting on and slammed it on his mouth with all his strength.


    "MMMMMMMMMMMMMHHHHHHHUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHA!!!!!!" he screamed in muffled, demented laughter, the recoil making him fall on his back.


    He laughed and laughed until all the air on his lungs had been expended. Then he rose for another breath full of that damned smoke and slammed his head back on the cushion, giving up and just letting it out as one would a bad case of explosive vomit.


    He shouldn''t have bothered. Jhos'' laughter could have woken up half of King''s Landing.


    -.PD.-


    They spent a while more, talking and laughing, exchanging stories and anecdotes.


    "Thank you, by the gods I''m thirsty¡­" Joffrey muttered as he accepted the cup of cold tea, drinking it whole.


    "Aaaahh¡­ that hit the spot¡­" he muttered.


    "I''m glad you like it, it has a few bits of mashed gol-pear in between, gives it just the right touch of sweetness" said Jhos, drinking from his own cup at a much more sedately pace.


    Joffrey sighted, content as he enjoyed the pleasant buzz.


    Jhos was looking at him thoughtfully, "I''m still surprised you lived through that encounter" he said. "I''ve never seen one, but Shadow Spawns are a devilishly tricky bit of shadow bindery. You don''t even need line of sight to guide one to your target, and they''re fast¡­ the fact that you even saw it, much less managed to dodge its attack¡­ and the blood potency required¡­" he said as he shook his head.


    "Blood potency?" Joffrey asked, intrigued.


    "Yes, you need either a lot, and I mean a lot of blood, or else the bloodline of a powerful sorcerer¡­ Your uncle Stannis must have had a blood harem¡­ " Jhos said thoughtfully.


    "That sounds bad. Is it as bad as I think?" Joffrey asked.


    "Depends on what you are thinking. It''s a somewhat common practice for powerful Shadow Ladies in Asshai, though ''common'' is maybe too strong a word when you could count their numbers with both hands¡­ They have carefully cultivated bloodlines of previous, mostly fallen families of powerful magi, some of which stretch back for thousands of years. They have sexual intercourse with the men, sucking them dry like a Sothori Mosquito while they shriek in ecstasy. It is one of the most pleasurable ways to die¡­" Jhos said. "Or so I''ve heard" he added, nodding sagely.


    "Damn¡­ that''s fucked up¡­ wait, something is not fitting with that explanation¡­" Joffrey suddenly said.


    "I was confused as well. I thought that out west the likes of Stannis were deposed by their people immediately¡­" Jhos told him.


    "The likes of Stannis¡­?" Joffrey asked, confused.


    "Yes, a man with the sexual organs of a woman. That particular spell certainly needs that¡­" Jhos commented with both eyebrows raised.


    "S¡­S-stannis¡­ Stannis Baratheon¡­ hehe, haha¡­ hahahahaha!" Joffrey started laughing again, lowering his refilled cup so it would not spill.


    "You want to get half of Moonlight Section''s swords around you again?" Jhos asked with a chuckle.


    "Nonono¡­" Joffrey muttered as he controlled himself, taking a sip from the tea. "Its just¡­ Imagine Stannis¡­ no¡­ just no¡­" he said with another chuckle.


    "Ah, well¡­ He can''t wield that kind of powerful of magic without the equipment, so¡­" Jhos rose his shoulders in a vague shrug.


    Joffrey sat there, thinking. His mind was unusually flexible as he thought about that old assertion.


    Was Stannis really a powerful sorcerer? The man who broke the Iron Fleet in two and regarded the law as the ultimate liege lord?


    Stannis Baratheon?


    Stannis Baratheon???


    The more he thought about it the more ridiculous it seemed.


    There''s a missing piece somewhere¡­ blood¡­ powerful blood for spells¡­ gods why does that sound so familiar¡­


    He closed his eyes, chasing that slippery train of thought.


    "Didn''t the Red God give you Renly, Stannis? Didn''t he give you Tywin? Didn''t he give you this city for you to take with your armies?" whispered a voice within his skull. "A bastard he may be, but he still holds the blood of kings" said the red woman, walking towards Joffrey with a torch in her hand "Imagine what I could do with the blood of the Kings of the Rock" She said, eying Joffrey with hunger.


    "Holy seven fucks¡­" Joffrey muttered. "Hey Jhos!" he suddenly startled the dozing Captain.


    "Yes?" he asked, blinking.


    "The face on the shadow demon, baby, spawn, whatever. Does it have to be the sorcerers?" Joffrey asked urgently.


    "Hmmm, not necessarily. I''d have to consult my books at the Dawn Fort, but I remember reading that if the connection with the target was stronger with the ''giver'' than the sorcerer, then the shadow could sport the ''giver''s'' face, but it''s rare. For the sorcerer the giver is just fuel, why target someone connected to him?" he asked.


    "Why indeed! By the gods, Stannis is not the sorcerer, he''s the fuel. The Blood of Kings indeed! But it''s not kings, is it?" Joffrey spoke quickly, filled with adrenaline by the sudden deduction.


    "Not king''s blood, you need a sorcerer''s blood right?" he suddenly asked Jhos, who nodded.


    "Right, but they''re not necessarily incompatible!" Joffrey almost shouted.


    "Most families have buried or downplayed it since the Andal''s conquest, but even accounting for myths and legends, history paints a clear picture¡­ The most powerful First Men kings were sorcerer kings, Bran the Builder, Garth Greenhand, the Durrandons! The Baratheons have Durrandon blood!" Joffrey said as he pressed a hand to his palm.


    "By the gods it''s all making sense now! The red woman, some sort of R''hllorite fanatic, she''s the sorcerer, and she''s using Stannis as fuel for his own benefit!" Joffrey deduced triumphantly.


    ¡­


    "But why?" Joffrey muttered.


    Solve a question, another one rises to take its place¡­ The motto of my life¡­


    "Have you ever heard or read about a sorcerer serving the¡­ ''giver''?" he asked him.


    "Definitively not. As I told you, they''re barely anything more than fuel for the user. Precious fuel sure, more valuable than gold, but fuel nonetheless¡­" Jhos sentenced.


    "Damnit¡­ for once I hoped I''d solved one¡­" Joffrey muttered.


    "Life''s full of mysteries, Major¡­" Jhos muttered sagely, looking at some sort of silver medallion that hanged from the center of his tent.


    The mention of his rank brought Joffrey''s concerns back.


    "Shit, it must be late¡­ Captain Jhos, its been an honor. If I could join you some other night after our meal¡­?" Joffrey asked.


    "Please, by all means Major. I haven''t laughed this hard in ages¡­" Jhos said, his pale head regaining a bit of color as he chuckled.


    "Excellent! By the way, you''re not going to¡­ errr finish your ritual?" Joffrey asked lamely.


    Jhos blinked, confused. "Ritual?" he asked.


    "Yeah, the focusing¡­ stuff you were doing? With the incense?" Joffrey clarified, gesturing at the incense ball.


    "Incense..? Oh, oh! Nonono, the incense ball is back over there, I wouldn''t have let you enter the tent if any of those concoctions had been on. The Old Arts are a treacherous mistress, especially for the uninitiated¡­" Jhos said as he shook his head.


    Joffrey scratched his head. "But then¡­ the smoke¡­?"


    "Merely a soothing herb. We use it to relax ourselves after strenuous activity, or to help with finding a solution to a problem" Jhos said.


    "Huh... well its certainly effective¡­ I''ll see you tomorrow Jhos!" he waved good naturedly as he stood up.


    -.PD.-


    By the Old Gods and the New, I could eat a camel whole¡­


    Joffrey walked out of Jhos'' tent and closed the flap. He walked for a bit before he stretched, mouthing off a truly monstrous yawn.


    "UUuuuuaaaaarrrrghh¡­¡­ Well, that was a smashing success¡­" He said to no one in particular as he strode around the perimeter, his spirit unusually high.


    That herb stuff really takes the edge off after a day under the blasted sun¡­ I have to ask Jhos for its name the next time we talk¡­


    He saluted the guards as he walked around his formation, inspecting the troops. The Expedition made orderly and structured camps every time it stopped for the night, and Joffrey''s part was no exception.


    Stakes look good¡­ guards alert¡­ nonessential carts still on the outer perimeter¡­ essential ones on the inner¡­


    Everything seems in order. Though didn''t Han''s Orange Section had the dusk shift? I was pretty sure it wasn''t Hu''s Red Section¡­ they had the dawn shift¡­


    The dawn shift¡­


    ¡­ The Dawn Shift¡­


    Joffrey suddenly twisted his head towards the east.


    The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.


    I have a meeting with the General in about fifteen minutes¡­ he thought in mounting panic.


    "Sunbeam Loh!!!" he shouted as he ran towards his tent.


    -.PD.-


    "Good of you to join us, Major Joffrey" The General said without looking as he kept gazing at the map in the table.


    "Sir!" Joffrey saluted, rigid.


    "At ease" The Night Hawk said immediately, extending a hand and beckoning him forward.


    All the other formation commanders were there, they all shuffled slightly to the sides leaving just enough space for Joffrey to squeeze through. They were below a tarp supported by four long bamboo pillars and the audience was clearly using the rising sun to warm up quickly.


    "We were discussing our next destination, Major Xu was just giving us his opinion right now, if you care to repeat your point for Major Joffrey''s benefit, Major Xu?" The General said, Greatbeam Leng standing to his side as always, an eternal shadow.


    The Red Gorilla nodded at Joffrey, "As I was saying, my forward patrols have done a fine job combing the nearby areas for Shrykes, but that''s just it! They''re all empty, devoid of anything living. I say we''ve done enough zigzagging for now, we should march straight towards Shiz, they can''t have abandoned that" he sentenced, almost slamming his fist against its symbol on the map.


    "Unlikely" conceded Major Pigu, tracing an imaginary route with one of the small bamboo rods while his other hand still grasped the dagger on his belt. "It will take about two week if we march straight for it" he said.


    "Yes, and leave us a predictable target for any Horsechief brave enough to tangle with us" Joffrey said.


    "We can smash through them, Major Yahm can be the hammer and the Rangers will act as the anvil while we strike from the sides, we should obliterate any group foolish enough to attack us. They''ll strike at other, lesser armed prey" Xu said.


    Major Yham grunted, "I usually abhor following a fixed route, but time is of the essence. The longer we spend not knowing the exact details of what we are facing means the Legions will have less time to prepare¡­ I say we dash straight for Shiz" Said the Dark Rhino.


    "We could take an alternative route, it will take longer but it should be a lot safer. We take the southern trade route through Shmah and then Kish. We should take three weeks, four at most before entering Shiz from the south" Said Major Wuhan, tracing an alternative route.


    "This seems the most sensible option. It has the added benefit of scouting Shmah and Kish too" agreed Major Pigu.


    "Two more shantytowns like the last five others we''ve crossed, they''ll be as empty as the rest. I say we dash straight through. We are bound to find someone in Shiz if we move fast enough!" Said Xu, crossing his arms.


    "It seems our opinions are divided. Which course would you recommend Major Joffrey?" The General asked him suddenly before the debate could continue.


    Joffrey had been turning that very same question inside his head for a few moments now.


    We can''t delay¡­ we must find the answers as fast as we can¡­ but if we are annihilated then no one can report back to the Dawn Fort¡­


    Hmmm... Let''s take it cautious for now¡­


    "I''d say we take the alternative route, sir. We can''t report our findings if we are annihilated" he said, pointing at the route with his own bamboo rod.


    General Yu nodded, gazing intently at the map. He looked at it for a few minutes, his face still.


    "We''ll take the direct route. Time is of the essence" he said suddenly.


    "Yes General!" the officers saluted, though Joffrey was thoughtful as he placed his fist over his heart.


    He didn''t follow the majority of his advisors¡­ his officers¡­ but command is part of that, isn''t it? To be able to go against the current when you are sure you know the correct course of action¡­


    "Having said that, the survival of this Expedition is obviously a priority, and I have noticed a deficiency in the men''s saber drill. Some are still flailing it around as if it was a fat katana¡­" Joffrey shuffled awkwardly, willing that the rest of the officers didn''t look at him.


    They didn''t. The General did.


    "We will delay an hour each morning and each night for redoubled saber drill, the men must be ready for another attack by the reanimated¡­ Your own drill could also use a bit of polishing, Major Joffrey." he said.


    ¡­ You could say that¡­ Joffrey thought as he felt his head burn a bit.


    "The survival of my officers is an even more important priority, you, all of you, are not expandable. For that reason Major Yham has offered to tutor you personally during those hours. His considerable expertise with the saber should ensure fast progress" he said.


    Major Yham was looking at Joffrey with a predatory smirk, and Joffrey felt he was starting to sweat.


    And it''s not even that hot yet¡­ he thought dejectedly as he tried to stifle a sudden yawn.


    "Very well sir. May I ask when do we start?" Joffrey asked the General, already preparing his body for the pain.


    "Tonight" answered the Dark Rhino, his smirk widening.


    -.PD.-


    "Stop, stop stop stop!" Major Yham said suddenly, lowering what in Westeros would have been called a ''tourney saber'', if someone over there had actually used one anyway.


    Joffrey stopped his move in midpace, a bastard between a water lounge and a knightly cut. He was covered in bruises and sweat, the chilly night not doing much to cool him. Only a few nearby lamps illuminated the surrounding carts and supply crates as a few guards passed by, patrolling the camp''s perimeter.


    Major Yham raised a hand to his chin, nodding to himself. "You''ve got the principles all wrong. You''re dashing all around with the saber as if it were some sort of, not even a katana, a rapier maybe¡­ " he said thoughtfully.


    Joffrey just huffed, using the precious time to take more air in.


    "Come Major, let''s sit for a moment" he said in his strange, lilting accent.


    "Gladly, Major" Joffrey huffed as both of them sat on a small wooden bench beside a Long Cart.


    Yham was quiet for a bit, flexing one of his powerful arms before looking at Joffrey. "You know, the saber is not a flashy weapon. Here in Yi-Ti it its use has been adapted quite successfully for the Camelry, but at its core the principles of its use remain the same, principles which in the Summer Islands we know well¡­" he told him.


    "Ahh, a fellow barbarian then?" Joffrey asked with a smirk before taking a deep drink from his canteen.


    Yham chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. "Takes one to know one, though we are not exactly hard to spot, are we?" he asked Joffrey.


    Joffrey snorted, "Not really" he said.


    "In the Summer Island, the saber emerged from a different ancestor. It was first used as a tool for cutting down and making ones way through thick rainforests and jungles, and in battle they ultimately serve the same goal" Yham explained, grabbing Joffrey''s hand and placing his own saber on it.


    "Powerful cuts are the mainstay of the technique, powerful but swift strikes that can cut a man in half during the right circumstances¡­ Some think its brutal and ugly, but I think its use is even more complex than the water dancing instruction you have obviously received" he said.


    Joffrey was surprised at that, and quickly intrigued. "How so?" he asked.


    The Major took a sip from his canteen before speaking again. "The saber is heavier than many other weapons out there, something that gives it an advantage in striking power but a disadvantage in speed. Its technique emphases those traits even more" he said as he shuffled Joffrey''s hand on the pommel, changing its grip and mimicking combat motions.


    "A badly timed overextension is even more dangerous with a saber as the time required to reposition is longer than with a sword of similar reach. Other heavy weapons such as the longsword have the advantage of a longer reach to go with their heavier weight, but not the saber"


    "Hence the complexity" Joffrey said, mind churning.


    "Exactly" Smiled the Dark Rhino. "It''s a mental game, you have to decide not only where to place the strike, but its timing as well-"


    "Like your style of charging?" Joffrey suddenly interrupted.


    Yham nodded with a smirk "Indeed. While what I''m trying to say applies to all melee techniques to some degree, with a saber you should take it to the limit" he said, standing up with Joffrey and going back to the ring.


    He demonstrated the motions again, and Joffrey felt he was beginning to understand.


    "On camelback, such things matter less, but on foot they are compounded. Heavy saber users use a lot of small feints and parries, and while one might think the opponent is buying time or delaying in search of what to do, they are actually opening you up for a devastating strike" he said as he demonstrated, placing Joffrey''s arms in various positions as if he were attacking Yham with a normal sword.


    "Some have called it brutal and short, and they''re right. It is not a weapon for chivalrous combat. With an opening in sight you pummel through whatever weak parry or defense the enemy presents, and deliver a sundering blow on the place of your choosing. For expert heavy saber fighters there should only be one, fatal wound. Combat is decided quickly as a mistake is noted or created, a mixture of both skill and tactical awareness¡­" he sentenced as Joffrey''s ghostly parry crumbled under a well timed, powerful strike that Yham mimicked. "Do you understand now?" he asked him as they both faced each other again, sabers at the ready.


    "I think I''m starting to¡­" Joffrey muttered as he shifted his grip on the heavy saber.


    "Do not overextend yourself, and use the whole motion of your body for each strike¡­ the saber is but an extension of all that coiled strength" said Yham.


    An extension of the self¡­


    He nodded, readying himself under the light of the half moon. "Lets do this"


    "Very well" said the Dark Rhino as he charged.


    -.PD.-


    The dice rolled through the table, one setting on an eight and the other one on a two..


    "They didn''t roll right!" said Captain Han, slamming his head on the table.


    "You have no dice senses" Joffrey said with a chuckle, taking the dice and giving them to Captain Sabu.


    "Its all on you now Sabu! Show the uppity Major how real scouts roll em!" Said Han as he leaned back on his chair, trying to mask his shame at losing to his former pupil.


    "How real scouts roll em? If I remember right, riding properly was not the only thing you taught me Han, I''m pretty certain a game involving a couple of eight sided dice whose name I can''t recall right now was on the list of ''things to teach the rookie'' eh?" Joffrey said with a raised eyebrow.


    "More Siwine anyone?" asked Captain Hu, gesturing with the bottle as he entered the small supply tent. As the first to lose the game the young captain had been serving as their cupbearer for the whole evening.


    "By the Night Lion Hu! Don''t speak too hard or Yham is sure to find us!" Han said in near panic.


    "I thought the General had suspended saber drill for today?" Hu asked, confused.


    "Yeah, except for voluntary training. And everyone here knows what that means for the Dark Rhino¡­" Joffrey said as all four scout officers trembled in unison.


    Joffrey had thought about inviting the rest of his officers to the impromptu dice game, but apparently playing games of chance with one''s superior officer was bad form back at the Dawn Fort¡­ Not that the Scouts cared.


    All of Joffrey''s subordinates from the Scouts were there except for Captain Shah, who had said something about ''preferring to smell the evening in peace'', typical Long Scout cryptical nonsense. Han had translated that as ''need to mush my brain a bit more''


    Typical scouts, we''re a bunch of hypocrites¡­ he thought, stifling a chuckle.


    And now Captain Sabu of the 4th Rangers had finally grabbed the dice. He was looking at them as one would a shiny piece of rock found on the road.


    "Focus Sabu! Generations of Rangers are looking down upon you, rob the upstart of his dignity! Oh, thank you Hu, just what I needed" said Han as he nodded at the Captain, taking a sip from his refilled cup.


    "Come on Hu! I''m dying over her!" Joffrey berated his Captain, shaking his cup in longing.


    "I''m coming sir" said Hu as he suppressed a snort, refilling Joffreys cup with the cool Siwine.


    Captain Sabu had not been acclaimed as the ''Ice Bear'' for no reason, he was as chilly as a Winterfell storm, slowly shaking his hand and trying to defeat Joffrey against all odds. Only the two of them remained in the game.


    "Nervous Sabu?" Joffrey asked the Captain.


    "Not at all Joffrey. The dice will fall where they will, nothing to do about it" he said as he suddenly tossed them at the table.


    "Thirteen!" Hu almost shouted in excitement, a draw.


    "SSSSSSSHHHHH!" Han and Joffrey shushed him, possibly making more sound than his pseudo shout.


    "Shit, I thought I had this in the bag¡­ This requires some concentration, stay here everyone, got to pee" Joffrey said as he stood up.


    "I''ll go too, if I hold into it one more minute I think Siwine is going to start oozing down my ears¡­" Han said as he stood up too, "Siwine down my ears¡­ gods what a blessing that would be¡­" he muttered in longing.


    They had eschewed the usual water ration betting for obvious reasons, but that had just raised the stakes, as it was now dignity which was being betted. They exited the small supply tent as Hu started giving Sabu all manner of advice from throwing techniques to good luck charms.


    He was a bit salty after Joffrey had absolutely destroyed him during the first round¡­


    I''ll keep following Colonel Jin''s advice, stick to the dice and leave the cards to better men!


    Joffrey chuckled as they walked to the camp''s designated waste zone, a long trench which reeked of shit.


    Certainly beats throwing the waste bucket out the tent flap¡­


    Joffrey and Han relieved themselves in silence, looking up at the rising moon. Joffrey swore that out in the Beyond the thing looked even bigger.


    "Still having doubts?" Han suddenly asked.


    "No" Joffrey said reflexively before backtracking "Uh, what doubts?"


    Han shook his head. "You are a terrible liar Joffrey, it''s pretty obvious you''ve been having doubts about your promotion to the men¡­" he said.


    "Oh gods¡­ is it that obvious?" Joffrey muttered in near panic. "They must be praying I get an arrow through my skull and that the General chooses someone more competent¡­" Joffrey said as he shook his head in self-loathing.


    "Don''t be a barbarian. They actually find it endearing¡­ The Scouts have competent officers as the norm, but that doesn''t mean all officers care about the men the same way you do, nor does it mean that every officer that passes through the Trash Tower has the humility to admit he may be wrong sometimes¡­" Han said.


    Joffrey was nonplussed for a second. "They don''t think I''ll get them killed?" he suddenly asked.


    "Apparently that remains to be seen, but they''re slightly optimistic given the good word your former unit has put out within the formation. Putting the 17th in the supporting formation was a stroke of genius for the General, not surprising I guess¡­" Han mused.


    "As long as you act decisively when the time comes, the men will be with you Major" he said as he saluted.


    Joffrey was touched, paradoxically feeling a great weight lift as another one took its place.


    "I¡­ thank you Han. That really means a lot to me¡­" Joffrey said as he saluted back before lowering his sight a bit.


    "Ehh, you forgot to¡­"


    "Ah, right. The lower armament was getting a bit chilly¡­" he said as he stowed said armament.


    Joffrey chuckled as he turned, "Come on, we should get back before Hu convinces Sabu to load the dice¡­"


    They walked in companionable silence, taking a bit of time to check that everything was still in order around their part of the camp. They''d left suitable arrangements for their small escapade, and the Sunbeams of the supporting formation seemed to be doing their jobs just fine without the officers breathing down their necks.


    "You really think I''ll do well enough, Han?" he suddenly asked his friend.


    "More than well enough Joffrey¡­ Just remember what you are fighting for¡­" he said.


    Joffrey was going to ask what that was exactly when they reached the small supply tent and the question fell by the wayside as the quickly walked inside. Joffrey was already feeling the smoky taste of Siwine when he was confronted by the pale and deflated face of Captain Hu. Though it couldn''t be anything serious or Sabu would have changed his tranquil demeanor¡­ probably.


    "What now Hu? Don''t tell me the dice fell below that damned crate again¡­" Joffrey said good naturedly as him and Han sat on their stools.


    "I''m sorry!!! He must have followed me when I got back with the Siwine!" Hu suddenly confessed, almost on the verge of tears.


    "What?" Joffrey asked, confused.


    "Such a¡­ peculiar pastime¡­ especially considering the precious time it uses" A voice said suddenly from behind.


    Joffrey and Han both stood up, turning as the stools crashed back and they both took in a sharp breath.


    The wide form of Major Yham blocked the tent''s entrance, his smirk beatific and generous.


    "Time that could be spent so much more effectively bettering oneself¡­" The Dark Rhino trailed off ominously.


    Han looked back lighting fast, quickly scanning the tent for openings before remembering it had none besides the entrance.


    "It''s over lads" Said Sabu as he stood up and rolled his shoulders. "Best get it done with dignity" he added, shaking some crumbs from his massive beard.


    The scout officers exited the tent like deserters to the targeting post, followed by a happy Major Yham carrying an armful of training sabers.


    Joffrey suddenly felt movement to his left. He quickly gazed at it, and was surprised to find Captain Shah sporting a rare smirk.


    ¡­


    "Brain Mush my ass! Shaaaaaaaaah!!!! You damned traitor!!!!!!" Joffrey bellowed at the man, but in between breezes Shah was gone, no doubt intent on mushing his brain a bit more with the rest of his men as they laughed about their superior''s misfortune.


    ¡­


    I''m starting to hate sabers¡­ Joffrey thought in despair.


    -.PD.-


    The Expedition was only five days from Shiz when they were finally attacked.


    They had bumped with smaller groups of refugees or raiders before, but they''d all scrambled when they''d spotted over a thousand legionaries marching right towards them. The few groups that had been brave enough to trade with the Expedition had all shrieked about the shambling legions of corpses that roamed the Beyond to the north east, a thoroughly unhelpful summary.


    Joffrey had been cantering on his horse at a quick pace, the Expedition making good travelling time as the hardy wagons made for this type of long journeys sped along, the long column rising and lowering along with the small hills as the green pastures of the lands of the Shrykes very gradually gave way to grey sand.


    From one moment to the other, the long, clean horn of the scouts had resounded throughout the column. Three sharp blasts.


    Prepare for battle.


    "FORMATION! HALT! BATTLE BANNERS OUT!" Joffrey bellowed, reining in his horse.


    He peered intently at the standards that were flying in the middle of the striking formation, way to the front.


    A series of medium sized flags rose to the air, suspended by long bamboo poles.


    Mounted enemy sighted, Centre advance and hold, Support in reserve.


    "Reanimated?!" asked Han as he reached Joffrey atop his horse, quickly followed by the rest of the officers and three Sunbeams who carried a similar, if smaller, sets of flags and horns. One of them carried Joffrey''s personal banner as was his due as a Major of the Legion. A dozen Threerays that served as his bodyguards and messengers surrounded him too.


    "I don''t think so, they''re mounted so it''s either Horsechiefs or Camel Tribes, or anything else this deep¡­" Joffrey said as the center kept advancing and merged with the dismounted Rangers of the striking formation. Soon he could see sections of heavy camelry sallying out from the left, the Dark Rhino himself leading a flanking action if the medium sized black flag sporting two crossed white tusks was any indication.


    Joffrey''s own battle flag sported the generic two suns of his rank. He''d been delaying the creation of his personal sigil ever since his promotion, as he felt the two orange suns served their purpose well enough.


    "We need to join them sir! Our arrows will cut them to shreds before they can even get to melee range!" Said Captain Hu excitedly.


    "Not yet, we are in reserve. We wait for the General''s call" Joffrey sentenced as he looked back at his formation.


    "I want the men ready to spring out in any direction with but a word, get to it!" Joffrey shouted as his officers nodded and scrambled back to their men.


    Joffrey could see volleys of arrows being loosed from the center, though he couldn''t see the enemy because of the small hill strike and center were upon.


    There were sounds of indistinct battle to the front of him for a bit over half an hour with no signs of further orders from the General besides a hurried messenger who''d said ''Engaging horsechiefs, stay in place'', when someone shouted to his right.


    "Sir!" shouted a man from Hu''s 17th as he reined in his horse brutally. "We have wounded scouts coming in from the right!" he alerted Joffrey.


    "Show them to me!" Joffrey commanded, spurring his horse after the scout and being quickly followed by his command retinue.


    He rode with the man to the right where a gaggle of bloodied men were collapsing down from their horses, quickly being surrounded by Body Scribes and other men from his formation.


    They were arriving in threes and twos, bloodied and exhausted. "Who''s in command here?" Joffrey shouted.


    "S-Sir! I am!" shouted a Half Sun who sported the bloodied sigil of the 16th Patrol.


    "What happened?! Where''s Captain Fihua?" Joffrey asked him quickly, still astride his horse.


    "He''s, He''s dead sir¡­ Major Pigu detached us for screening duty on the right flank when the Horsechiefs jumped us¡­ it was a perfect dune ambush¡­ By the Night Lion¡­ we didn''t even see them until the sand erupted all around us and another force suddenly charged from the side¡­ We must be all that''s left of the 16th sir¡­" the scout muttered desperately.


    Shit, that''s at least half of the 16th Patrol gone in a heartbeat and our right flank is now so opened you could fit the Greytower in it¡­


    "How many men?!" he asked the dazed soldier.


    "At least¡­ at least some four hundred sir¡­" he said as he finally collapsed and the Body Scribes took him into one of the hospital wagons.


    Joffrey looked desperately to the front, willing the signal flags to move.


    None of them were raised, and the fury of pitched battle had even intensified in the meantime.


    Over four hundred horsechiefs hitting from the side¡­ we could even loose part of our supply wagons if we are unlucky¡­ they could even decapitate our command if we are really unlucky¡­


    Fuck it.


    He turned his horse back and pointed at the scout that had originally warned him. "You! Ride to the General and tell him exactly what you heard here, and that I''m going to try and stop them at that hill!" he said, pointing now at a small hill perfectly positioned for intercepting the strike.


    "Yes Major!" shouted the man as he rode his horse as hard as he could towards the front.


    "Threeray, tell Captain Shah he''s in command of the formation and to await for further orders!" he told one of his bodyguards. The man nodded as he galloped back.


    "Sunbeam Jehi!" snapped Joffrey.


    "Sir!" said his Horn Scout.


    "Sound ''Fast Gallop on Me''!" he snapped.


    "Yes sir! ''Fast Gallop on Me''!" repeated Sunbeam Jehi as he took his horn and quickly started sounding out the order.


    "Sunbeam Colba, signal for the 11th Patrol, the 4th Rangers and the 12th Flying Artillery!" He ordered.


    "Aye sir! The 11th, the 4th and the 12th!" the Sunbeam repeated as he took out the respective flags, each one being snapped on a metal socket at the end of the main bamboo pole and being raised to the air before being removed and making way for the next one.


    Joffrey took a deep breath.


    "On me!" he ordered as he charged for the nearby hill to his right, the perfect spot to defend against the flanking attack.


    "With you sir!" shouted Sunbeam Lho, his aide and personal sigil bearer as he galloped slightly behind him and to his right, quickly followed by the rest of his retinue.


    Joffrey quickly reached the small hill, and he could already see the enemy. Must have been over 450 riders clad in bronze, sporting javelins, spears and sabers. They screamed their famous battlecry as they spotted Joffrey and the first soldiers to reach him up the hill, slightly altering their course to meet him. They couldn''t wreak havoc in the rear without leaving their backs exposed in turn to Joffrey''s force. They''d have to kill him first before they could flank the General.


    "uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!" they screamed as they charged, quickly eating up the distance.


    "Orders sir?" asked Captain Han as he reached Joffrey with the rest of his unit.


    "Get a bit downhill and pepper them! Be ready to fall back at my signal!" Joffrey commanded, not having the time to doubt his own orders.


    "On it!" he said as he turned back. "ELEVEEENTH! ON ME!" he bellowed as he rode a bit down the slope, the 11th Patrol scrambling after him, still mounted.


    "Sir, where do you need us?" asked Captain Sabu next as he reached Joffrey at the top of the hill. He was clad in heavy iron lamellar over chainmail, his helmet imitating some kind of shrieking monster with its mouth opened.


    Joffrey thought furiously for five seconds before nodding.


    "Get your rangers dismounted a bit back over there and form a line of stakes! You''ll be the final surprise for the fuckers!" he told the big man.


    "It will be done" he said, cool as ice as he rode back to his men, just a tiny bit downslope to Joffrey''s rear.


    "SCOUTS! LOOSE AT WILL AND PREPARE FOR FALL BACK!" Han bellowed from the other side, his orders quickly being drowned by the sound over 40 bows releasing their deadly arrows.


    The Horsechiefs started taking casualties, arrows suddenly appearing in necks, chests and heads¡­ but that didn''t seem to faze them much as they started reaching the beginnings of the slight slope, screaming.


    "uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" they bellowed as Joffrey felt the hair at the back of his neck raise in foreboding.


    Joffrey waved a hand forward at Captain Xon-Mi, who''s speedy, sturdy cart cleared the back slope surprisingly fast. Three other carts followed him, each pulled by six horses.


    Joffrey sped forward on his horse, quickly getting on Xon-Mi''s side. "What could you bring!?" he shouted at the Captain.


    "My Light Support Section! Four repeaters and twelve Fire Lances!" he shouted back, gesturing at his driver.


    "Put half on the right and half on the left, pound their sides! Make them funnel through the center!" he commanded before spurring his horse again and getting back to the center of the hill himself.


    The 11th Patrol was to his front and below, loosing arrows and taking down Horsechief''s every three seconds.


    Behind him he could hear Captain Sabu repeating his orders again and again.


    "STAKES ON THE GROUND! WIELD HALF PIKES! HALF PIKES OUT!!!" He bellowed powerfully, calmly walking behind the rapidly forming line of stakes and rangers wielding half pikes, his big lungs making sure every one of the armored Rangers could hear him as they took their equipment and heavy weapons from their horses waiting twenty meters behind them.


    The Horsechiefs were a quarter of the way up the slope when Xon-Mi''s carts stopped at Joffrey''s flanks, two on each side.


    The sides of the carts collapsed to the sides, revealing six men each who quickly jumped to the ground. Half of the men were carrying long bronze tubes whose top ends ended in snarling snake heads, while the other half carried packs full of long, serrated spears.


    Joffrey could see three soldiers atop each cart after the six man teams got out, operating a stubby ballista full of levers and small springs.


    "REPEATERS! AIM AT THE FLANKS AND LOOSE AT WILL!" he heard Xon-Mi shout at his men as the repeaters swiveled to the sides and down, facing the enemy. S?a??h th? N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    THUNNG! Snapped the four carts almost simultaneously as the superbly drilled operators finished setting them up and loosed.


    The short bolts slammed into the flanks of the Horsechiefs, sending men flying back and horses tumbling down in agony.


    KA! The ballista''s screeched as their operators pulled from levers and the loader placed another bolt from the top, letting gravity jam it in place.


    Barely five seconds after loosing their load, the repeaters spoke again. Their strangled THUNNG''s were short but high pitched, a sound that meshed with the shrieks of agony of horses and men.


    They were halfway up the slope when the Fire Lancers got into the action.


    Twelve men on each flank ran to the edge of the slope as the repeaters loosed. Six crouched and stabbed their ''Y'' shaped wooden aiming aids on the ground before placing their bronze tubes upon them. At the same time, the other six crouched beside the tubes, taking off long backpacks and taking out wickedly serrated spears from them.


    The spears were quickly loaded into the tubes, and Xon-Mi''s voice was unmistakable as he shouted from atop one of the carts.


    "BY VOLLEYS! FIRE!!!"


    ttttthhhhhsssssssshhhhhhhTSHUUUUUUUUU!!! Screeched the bronze tubes as tongues of fire erupted from their mouths, propelling the spears with an immense force. They weren''t very accurate, but with over 400 horsechiefs riding up the slope, they didn''t need to be.


    The spears made a sibilant screech as they rained from the sides, tearing off limbs and impaling men to their horses. Joffrey saw one graze one man''s arm, taking it out entirely as the spear kept going and implanted itself on the horse of another.


    As the combined pounding from the Scouts and Xon-Mi''s light support section reaped a bloody harvest on the barbarians, Joffrey could see their resolve finally starting to unravel. Some of the raiders were looking to their sides in panic as their flanks bunched up in the middle, making an even better target for the 12th and the 11th.


    They''re about to break! Yes! YES!


    Suddenly, Joffrey saw one of the horsechiefs taking the lead from the rest of the mob. He wore bronze shards for armor, and his helmet was made from a Sandrake''s skull.


    The massive man, their Horse Chieftain himself, raised his two handled battleaxe into the air, and bellowed a battlecry that was soon taken up by the rest of the men, hardening their resolve.


    "UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" they roared, a quarter of the way up the slope.


    They''re still coming¡­


    They keep dying and they keep coming¡­


    Joffrey shook his head, hard.


    "Jehi! Sound ''Fall Back''!" Joffrey snapped, hands tight on his reins.


    "''Fall back'' aye Major!" the Sunbeam shouted back, looking at the horsechiefs in near terror as the great, ragged mob neared.


    The Sunbeam blew his horn, sounding fall back. As soon as the 11th heard the sound they spurred their horses back to the line¡­ but Joffrey''s command had been too late.


    The front line of horsechiefs threw their javelins with surprising strength, the long leaping darts looking more like ballista bolts than javelins. "UUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZHHHHAAAAAA!!!!!" they roared as they threw the long darts.


    They rained on top of the 11th with force, brutally piercing backs and horses, the scouts screaming as they died.


    Han was at the middle of his unit, roaring and rallying his men back to the line. The horsechiefs were almost upon them when most of them managed to control their horses and disengaged.


    "TO THE LINE!" bellowed Han, desperately gesturing at his men "FALL BACK! FALL B--" He suddenly stopped shouting as he wobbled atop his horse, a javelin emerging from his chest.


    "HAAAAAAN!!!" Joffrey screamed at the top of his lungs.


    Han looked drunkenly at the javelin that peeked from his chest, before looking up the hill at Joffrey.


    He mouthed something before the Horse Chieftain suddenly appeared to his left, emerging from the whirlwind of sand all the horses had unleashed, battleaxe descending and cutting off his head.


    Joffrey gazed at the barbarian, hands trembling as a red cloud started to envelop him "Sir! SIR!" suddenly shouted Sunbeam Lho at his ear, "THEY''RE ALMOST ON TO US! ORDERS SIR!?" he roared as the bloodied riders of the 11th struggled by, rushing for the line.


    That served to shook Joffrey out of the haze as the last of the 11th passed him by.


    "To the line! Now!" he ordered, turning back and galloping as fast as he could.


    His command group made it back intact as they rode through the small holes in the line of stakes, the 4th Rangers setting the last of them.


    "ELEVENTH! PREPARE ONE LAST VOLLEY! CAPTAIN SABU! PREPARE TO RECEIVE CAVALRY!" Joffrey bellowed at the men as he dismounted and rushed to join the front line.


    Captain Sabu was walking just behind the line of rangers, his battleaxe over his shoulder "RANGEEEEERS! PREPARE TO RECEEEEEIVE CAVALRYYYYYYYY!" he roared as the 4th Rangers lowered their half pikes with a snarl.


    Joffrey raised his saber, gesturing at the 11th as they readied their bows "DAAAAAAAAWWWWN!!!" he screamed.


    One second, the top of the hill was empty.


    One second later, the horizon was filled with hosechiefs, eyes wide in fear and excitement, sabers and spears raised in killing intent.


    "UUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" they roared at the same time as Joffrey slashed down with his saber and the men of the Dawn Legion screamed their defiance.


    "DAAAAAAAAAAWWWWNNNNN!!!!" roared the legionaries as the 11th loosed and the mass of horsechiefs slammed against the line of half pikes and stakes like the Hammer of the Smith upon His Anvil.


    It was madness, madness and chaos. Joffrey stumbled back with the force of the blow, the comrades behind him shoving him forward and reinforcing the line. Horsechiefs rained from the heavens in demented shrieks, crashing down on men and sabers. The melee soon became even more chaotic as the swirling vortex of death dragged Joffrey around with a will of its own.


    Joffrey slashed with his saber left and right, screaming, roaring, crying as he unleashed fountains of blood from severed limbs and crushed chests. He sabered a horsechief''s neck from behind as he prepared to execute a downed ranger, and he stabbed a raider in the eye with an arrow when his saber was stuck on the man''s ribcage.


    Suddenly, somehow, a clearing formed around him. He saw the Horse Chieftain''s battleaxe descend with a roar into the torso of a scout on the ground. The scout''s chest exploded as the Chieftain rose his weapon to the air, screaming.


    "UUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZZHHHHAAAAAAAA!!!" he bellowed, the cry being taken up by his men.


    "DAAAAAAAWWWWN!" Joffrey roared as he charged the man with his saber, trying to cut him in two from the clavicle to the hips.


    The Chieftain parried the blow with the head of his battleaxe, shoving Joffrey''s saber to the side before trying to gut him at the neck.


    Joffrey crouched, feeling the sharp iron whistle above him.


    Deliver the killing blow! An extension of the whole body!


    He crouched slightly, coiling and delivering heavy strikes on the Chieftain, who somehow managed to block them each time, grunting in exertion.


    Joffrey tried to saber the Chieftain''s head, but he overextended. The barbarian parried the blow and went low, taking out Joffrey''s legs from below him with the wooden haft.


    "UUUUUUUUZZZHAAAAAA!!!!" he bellowed as the battleaxe descended faster than a dragon for Joffrey''s torso.


    He rolled to the side, barely avoiding the strike. Joffrey leaped to his feet in what the Braavosi called a ''Deck Recovery'' twisting his legs and rolling back to his feet just in time to avoid a blow that almost took his right arm.


    Find the Point! Deliver the Killing blow!


    Joffrey was standing again in front of the Chieftain, semi crouched as he feinted without end, trying to make the man commit a mistake. The Chieftain attacked relentlessly, and Joffrey was soon covered in shallow slashes, near misses all. The immense strength of the Chieftain made Joffrey''s bones rattle painfully every time he parried, breathing desperately.


    Suddenly the Chieftain raised his battleaxe and lowered it diagonally, trying to bisect Joffrey with his great strength.


    There.


    He tilted minutely to his left, and the battleaxe wisped by, cutting a bit of his cheek.


    Joffrey roared with all his might as his right hand moved in a slashing motion, his whole body twisting and uncoiling his combined strength as if his hand were a kind of whip.


    The saber broke the Chieftains clavicle as it kept going, stopping just above the sternum.


    The Chieftain dropped his battleaxe as he grabbed Joffrey by the arm and then the neck, bringing him closer and strangling him with the last of his strength.


    Joffrey raised his hands to his neck, trying to get the barbarian of him and gasping desperately for air, but he was too strong.


    He grunted as he took his dagger and stabbed him on the side of the neck, opening a small river of blood that quickly spurted sideways. He kept stabbing and stabbing but the man kept squeezing¡­


    Suddenly the Chieftain''s incredible strength evaporated and he was suddenly propelled on top of Joffrey by some inexplicable force, slack.


    Joffrey kept stabbing. He was thoroughly confused for a moment, not knowing where up or down was as the still eyes and blood filled mouth of the Chieftain seemed to sneer at him.


    Abruptly he realized he was on the ground, and the dead Chieftain was top of him, pinning him with his great weight.


    With a roar of strength he shoved the body aside, taking in gulps of air as he struggled to get up.


    Suddenly a couple of hands helped him, and Joffrey had to resist the impulse to stab them too.


    "You okay sir?" asked a Ranger as he handed Joffrey his saber.


    "¡­ ¡­ I¡­ Yes¡­ What''s the situation..?" he asked in between breaths.


    "We annihilated them sir, they broke when you almost split their leader in half" he said with respect.


    Joffrey looked around him. He was surrounded by the dead and moaning, both scouts and barbarians.


    "Major" nodded Captain Sabu, his heavy plate positively bathed in blood.


    "Captain" Joffrey nodded, looking at the all the dead bodies in a bit of a haze.


    Why didn''t I position the men better?


    "Sir! At last!" Suddenly said a scout with a messenger''s band around his arm, reining in his horse and bowing quickly from atop it.


    "Threeray" nodded Joffrey, urging the man to get on with it.


    "From General Yu: Enemy force routed, consolidate and establish camp at my position. Request report as soon as able!" The Threeray said.


    "Flanking force defeated, casualties¡­" Joffrey trailed off as he looked at the battlefield again.


    Why didn''t I sound fallback sooner¡­?


    "Sir?" he suddenly asked.


    Joffrey blinked. "Estimated moderate to substantial, moving out soon" he told the man.


    "Aye sir!" he saluted before spurring his horse back down the slope.


    "Captain Sabu, I want the officers here for a quick status report in five minutes¡­ and find me my damned banner scout¡­" he said, looking around.


    "I''ll get to it. Some of the horsechiefs can still be saved if they''re attended by our Body Scribes. What do we do with them?" he asked, tilting the head of one of the moaning, surviving horsechiefs on the floor with his battleaxe.


    Captain Han mouthed something, blood seeping from his mouth as the Chieftain emerged from all the stirred sand behind him, cutting his head off.


    ¡­


    Joffrey shook his head.


    "We don''t have the supplies nor the time. Execute and loot them" he commanded.


    Sabu nodded as if Joffrey had asked him to bring him breakfast.


    "I''ll tell the men" he said as he raised his battleaxe.


    The fallen barbarian screeched something in his arcane tongue before Sabu cleaved his head in one blow, killing him instantly.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 23: The Expedition (Whisperers).

    Not sure about this one, but after catching a glimpse of author burnout I decided to just get this one out. Enjoy!-----


    Chapter 23: The Expedition (Whisperers).


    -25 days since Expedition departure-


    "Just tell me damnit¡­" Joffrey whispered, hands on his command tent''s table.


    "Sir!" The bloodied Half Sun had a bandage over his right eye and another one on his shoulder, both red. "We lost a total of 26 men, with another 5 wounded, 3 of which are not expected to survive the night¡­ Regarding officers, Lieutenant Gu-Ya died in the melee, and Captain Han from a javelin¡­"


    And they were already understrength¡­


    "The 11th has now been reduced to 12 combat capable soldiers¡­ sir!" Half Sun Dong sounded like he was going to break for a second before he finished with the ''sir'', ramrod straight and trying to find comfort in the familiar discipline.


    Joffrey took a deep breath.


    Not now¡­


    "You did well Lieutenant, you''re now in command of the 11th Patrol until further notice¡­" Joffrey commanded him, his voice trailing off at the end.


    "Sir!" Saluted Dong, swaying lightly. "Go get some rest Lieutenant, and see the Body Scribes after that¡­" Joffrey told him.


    Dong saluted again, still overdoing the discipline as if the familiar routine would help him cope with the fact that his unit had been practically annihilated and most of his friends and comrades had been slaughtered. He shuffled out of the hastily deployed tent, holding his head with one hand.


    "Captain Sabu, report" He then ordered the commander of the 4th Rangers.


    Sabu was sitting on a half opened crate, grimly cleaning his battleaxe. "9 killed, another 23 wounded, 6 of which will probably not survive the week. Our heavier armor gives us a lot more durability compared to a regular patrol and that means that most of the wounded suffered non-fatal wounds¡­ We''ll be a bit short handed for a while, but nothing we can''t handle" he said, still as calm as if they''d just played a dice game.


    "Captain Xon-Mi?" Joffrey asked the Wood-and-Iron Sun.


    He was standing beside him, grim but otherwise functional. "Just the one sir. One of the Fire Lance''s back end gave out¡­" he said, resigned. For all his talk about magic being a sword without a hilt, the Architect''s combat formations were not all that much better.


    Joffrey nodded as he looked back at Jhos, Hu and Shah, "Any casualties back at camp?" he asked.


    "None sir, we took out a few of the stragglers but my force remains fully combat effective" said the Captain of the 1st Long Scouts.


    Jhos nodded and Hu as well, "Same for us sir" said the commander of his old 17th.


    "Very well¡­ I''ll go report to General Yu¡­ Shah, you''re in command until I get back" Joffrey told them, not waiting for acknowledgment as he quickly strode out.


    He walked rapidly and with his head down, as fast as he could without running to the General''s tent.


    The main camp was a mess. Teams of soldiers carrying stretchers were constantly moving back and forth, shuttling the wounded¡­ or the dead¡­ in and out of the hospital carts, making room for the critically injured. Great bonfires were alight all over the camp where both the enemy and the legionnaires burned, and piles of looted weapons and armor were being handed over to whoever needed them¡­ there would be no regular resupply this far from the Dawn Fort.


    Joffrey scratched the bandage over his cheek, somehow feeling as the greatest hypocrite in the known world.


    Han got his head cut off like a fucking chicken¡­ his former second in command, Dong¡­ he lost an eye¡­ and here I am walking about with a much needed bandage on my fucking scratched cheek.


    I knew this was going to happen¡­ I FUCKING KNEW IT!


    He suddenly stopped, giving a muffled scream because he was unwilling to open his mouth and distract the brave soldiers actually doing their duty.


    He grabbed the bandage and tore it out, stamping it on the floor. He despaired when he felt barely any pain coming from the wound.


    WHY DOESENT IT HURT?!


    He was just about to jut his hand into the wound when he remembered where he was going.


    Right, final duty first. I''ve got to get something right¡­


    He kept walking, avoiding the wounded and the bonfires.


    He entered the tent and found the assembled officers of the formation there. All of them had varying amounts of blood on their armors, though most of it did not seem theirs.


    "General!" he saluted.


    "Major¡­ You''re bleeding" said Yu as he turned back from the map, for once the Greatbeam not at his side.


    Joffrey looked down and saw a small sliver of blood trailing down his chest, pouring slowly from his cheek.


    "Just a flesh wound, sir" he said.


    "Get it looked at later. Report?" Yu asked quickly.


    "The 11th has 12 soldiers combat capable right now, and the 4th Rangers lost 9 men while about half of the unit is wounded in some form or another. Additionally, the 12th lost one man to a malfunction with their weaponry" Joffrey reported, before taking a deep breath.


    "I take full responsibility for our losses and present my immediate resignation from the officer corps, sir!" he added.


    "Denied. Major Xu, what''s the situation with the refugees" the General said quickly.


    "A bit over two thousand woman and children sir. Most of them looked starved and thirsty, they were most likely going to Shiz, same as us. They looked ready to drop dead¡­ I don''t think they would have made it, and now that we slaughtered all their men and the entire group dispersed¡­" Xu trailed off, looked uncomfortable for once.


    "With all the Horse Chieftains we spotted on the frontlines, plus the one Major Joffrey got¡­ that makes what? Six? Seven?" asked Major Wuhan.


    "Eight" said the General, looking worriedly at the map.


    "Sir, I must insist on that resignation. My actions led to the direct death of more t-" Joffrey started.


    "Denied" interrupted the General.


    "Eight Horsechief Maghars¡­ And their combined families sum up two thousand people? That can''t be right, eight Maghars should mean around fourteen to twenty thousand men, woman and children¡­" Said Major Pigu, nonplussed.


    "Eight Maghars?! Impossible, that''d be a whole fifth of the estimated entire Horsechief''s population!" exclaimed Major Yham.


    "General I--"


    General Yu turned to face Joffrey, face stern and red.


    "MAJOR JOFFREY!" he snapped.


    "SIR!" Joffrey straightened.


    "That flanking force could have reaped five times the casualties if you''d let them pass. You led a perfectly adequate flank defense, using the terrain to your advantage. Good men die in war, Major, and there''s nothing you can do to stop it, NOTHING!... only mitigate it. Now shut it and give me my officer back" Yu snapped.


    "YES SIR!" Joffrey said, denying the whole thing entirely inside his head but frightened at seeing the General loose his composure like that.


    "Good¡­" he said, taking a deep breath. "Now, where were we?" he asked the officers who had somehow found the tent''s sides very interesting all of a sudden.


    "The refugees sir" said Xu as he looked back to the General.


    "Yes¡­ nothing we can do for them except hope they somehow manage to survive out there and not turn into sorcerer fodder. We lost a lot of good men today, but we can''t afford to delay¡­ we depart tomorrow at midday for Shiz. We should reach the Shryke city in five days or so¡­" he said.


    "As for what few prisoners we managed to get, did they say anything useful Major Pigu?" he asked.


    "They were vaguely coherent General, they kept talking about the Kransna and how the gods had sent them again to purge them of their sins¡­ Most of the few I spoke to where completely inured to death and only asked for their bodies to be burned. Many seemed grateful to have fallen in battle and not to the elements¡­" Major Pigu said.


    "My Meherz is a bit rusty, what does that mean?" Asked Major Yham.


    "It means ''Demons of the End''¡­" Said the General with a faraway look.


    "They must have been lying though" said Major Pigu, as I trying to convince himself.


    "Why?" asked Wuhan.


    "They kept insisting that they''d started out with twelve Maghars¡­" he said.


    There was silence after that statement.


    "Eight or twelve, our mission remains the same. Get back to your duties, we have a lot of work to do¡­" Yu said as he raised an arm to his side as if to receive something, but quickly lowered it as he seemed to remember something.


    He sighted as he sat on his chair, "Go, Still We Stand" he muttered.


    "Still We Stand" muttered the officers as they saluted, thinking about the last words of a wounded, dying Horsechief.


    -.PD.-


    "Hey Shah¡­ want one?" Joffrey asked as he sat beside the Long Scout, jiggling a bottle Siwine.


    The Captain thought for a moment before nodding as Joffrey opened the bottle again, this time filling a cup.


    "Here" he said as he passed Shah the cup, who nodded thanks as he took a small sip.


    They were sitting atop one of the small sturdy carts from the 12th Flying Artillery, looking at the dark horizon. Groups of scouts frequently patrolled the perimeter, and a few Sections were forming up throughout the Expedition''s encampment, getting ready for another day of hard marching.


    Joffrey was drinking directly from the bottle as if it were water, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.


    "You know¡­ this bottle was part of Han''s stash¡­ he really did love his Siwine¡­" he muttered, drinking again from the cool bottle but barely feeling its smoky, wood like flavor.


    He spent twenty minutes there, just staring at the horizon and drinking the Siwine. He thought Shah had fallen asleep when he spoke all of a sudden. "Some of the men say that when we die, we rise to the heavens and become one with our ancestors¡­ maybe Captain Han is with them right now¡­ cursing you for stealing his stash¡­" he mused halfheartedly.


    Joffrey drunk from his bottle in silence, still as he looked up at the stars.


    "Tell me Shah¡­ do you really believe that?" he asked him.


    The Long Scout lowered his cup, leaving it on top of one of his crossed legs.


    "¡­ No¡­ not really¡­" he muttered thoughtfully.


    He spent a while with his eyebrows creased, clearly in thought. "After all this time riding out in the Beyond with nothing but a few companions¡­ the endless plains below and the eternal sky above¡­ our affairs and heroes, our Gods and Ancestors¡­ " Shah trailed off as he joined Joffrey in his stargazing.


    "They seem¡­ small don''t they?" Joffrey mused, "Tiny even¡­" he added as he took another sip.


    "''Gods and Emperors thought themselves the pinnacle of creation, but every time they looked up at the black starred sky they would lower their heads in shame at the boast. Powerful beings and ancient heroes, all were laid low under the eternal expanse¡­''" he quoted.


    "What sage said that?" Joffrey asked him after a few minutes, thinking.


    A rare smile grazed the Long Scout, "Meh-Shin, my predecessor as leader of the 1st Long Patrol¡­" he said wistfully.


    "Han''s not really looking down with his ancestors, is he?" Joffrey suddenly asked him.


    Shah let out a long breath, turning back from the stars to the horizon.


    "That I can''t say¡­ but I like to think that his memory is carried by the men who knew him, thus, his immortality is assured. Regardless of the whims of Emperors and Gods, Captain Han lives through the people that knew him¡­" Shah muttered.


    They sat there for a while longer, contemplating the horizon.


    "They say that Long Scouts see reality in a different way because of the beyond¡­ Except it''s not the physical part of it, is it?" Joffrey asked him.


    Shah kept quiet as Joffrey continued. "It''s just the whole¡­ grandness of the place, its emptiness so to speak, it forces one to look within instead of outside¡­ It''s strange¡­ sights such as the Beyond forces one to reconsider the place one inhabits within the order of things¡­ when faced by such expanses, it makes some of our struggles, some of our problems seem so-- "


    "Irrelevant" Shah said suddenly.


    "Yeah¡­ but not in an uncaring way. It''s almost paradoxical. For me at least they really serve to underscore how small and insignificant we are¡­ but somehow that makes people, all of us, all the more-"


    "Precious" said Shah, eyes steady on the horizon.


    "¡­ Precious¡­ yes¡­ and then when you look back down and see so much bloodshed, such chaos and intrigue all around us, it''s all¡­ all that life squandered and destroyed¡­ it''s all quite pointless, isn''t it?" he asked the Scout suddenly, feeling some kind of deep wariness, a void at his core.


    Shah was silent for a while, looking at the slowly brightening horizon.


    "Not pointless" the man said all of a sudden, startling Joffrey.


    Shah seemed to focus on the horizon even more, as if reading the answer straight from it.


    He spoke slowly, intently. "Those who realize that truth, those who look at the horizon and see themselves in it¡­ those who have realized that the vast Beyond is not some physical frontier, but merely a sign of our reality, merely a mirror which we give meaning¡­ Those who understand and see the bigger canvass beyond the chaos and the madness¡­" Shah trailed off.


    He looked at Joffrey, serene as the sun rose from the east.


    "They know what''s really at stake after each long patrol, after every skirmish and battle¡­ They understand the preciousness of each life, of each person. They understand that the spark of life is but a small candle in the night, and that every single ember is worth protecting from extinction¡­ Those who understand¡­ they know that they have a duty to the others, a duty to protect the flame and even prune it, kill if needed those that would seek to snuff it out¡­ "


    He turned his head back to the horizon, the sun not bothering his eyes. "Han, like all those who die protecting that flame receive no praise, no recognition. They carry that recognition within themselves, they have transcended the need for it¡­ ''They are the masters of their fate, they are the watchers of stars, they are the ones who stand in vigil¡­''" Shah said.


    Joffrey swallowed something heavy, blinking and lowering his gaze from the strong sun.


    "Did Meh-Shin say that too?" Joffrey asked after coughing a bit.


    "Yes¡­ His last words to me¡­ he wasn''t as great an arrow dodger as he was a sage¡­" Shah said with a slight chuckle.


    Joffrey was so startled by the sudden joke he had to chuckle with Shah. It was short, bittersweet chuckle, a small thing that accompanied them as the sun kept rising and their duties demanded their presence back to the land of the small flames.


    -.PD.-


    Supposedly, Shiz had once been a great city of stepped pyramids. Its remains however were torn apart and vaguely unrecognizable after thousands of years of erosion and salvage. The once great, legendary capital of what the Shrykes called their ancestor''s kingdom looked like one long, flat ruin. Barely a building was still standing, and the grey brickstones looked battered and weathered.


    Supposedly the city had been home to the Shryke''s ''Fathers'' many, many thousands of years ago: The Shaurs, great and powerful builders, able with both claw and hammer¡­ or so the Shryke shamans said¡­


    If such beings had ever existed, thought Joffrey, they had long left the world¡­ Only their ruins remained.


    The Shrykes refused to live within them, preferring instead to build their great shantytowns around the ruined cities. And Shiz as the greatest of the old cities had the biggest population settled around it, a city of shacks and grey stoned buildings that surrounded it completely.


    A great, empty city.


    The silence was deafening as the Expedition entered the city, following the gestures of the 3rd and 4th Long Patrols who''d arrived there the day before. Some parts of the city were burned to the ground, while others looked pristine as if its inhabitants had suddenly decided to stop what they were doing and had just walked out.


    "I don''t like this one bit¡­" Joffrey muttered as he rode beside Captain''s Hu and Jhos, his hand never leaving his saber''s pommel.


    "I think no one does" Jhos said as he looked around warily.


    The Expedition finally settled into one of the ruined city''s great stone plazas, erecting their own camp right there.


    "Alright, the Gorilla''s Long Patrols were clear, there''s plenty of food and supplies just strewn about the place in houses and granaries. Captain Shah, take Captain Hu and his men with you and pillage our assigned sector¡­ which would beeee¡­" Joffrey trailed off as he stared at the small makeshift map on his hands.


    "East, that direction. Priorities are food and water, all else is secondary" he commanded as he pointed.


    Both subordinates acknowledged the order as they got back to their units.


    "What does our formation have scheduled for tonight, Lho?" he asked his aide and personal standard bearer.


    "Saber practice with Major Yham sir" he said, vaguely trying to hide a smirk.


    "Oh joy¡­" Joffrey muttered.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey and Yham stared at each other intently, as if trying to read each other''s thoughts. All around them members of the support formation fought against the members of the 6th and 9th Heavy Camelry. Most of Joffrey''s men were getting their asses handed to them by the far more experienced members of what was already referred to within the Expedition as the ''Rhinos''s Hammer''.


    But they were getting their asses handed to them with dignity.


    There''s a difference¡­ thought Joffrey as his saber kept feinting.


    There!


    He tried to deliver a heavy strike upon Yham, but it was unsurprisingly parried.


    Unsurprising too was the counter that left a tingling pain in Joffrey''s arm.


    "Your style is evolving in quite the different manner from the norm¡­" Yham mused as he helped Joffrey up.


    "What do you mean?" Joffrey asked him.


    "Its like you''re absorbing the moves into your own strange fighting style, instead of learning them as a separate technique¡­ I feel like I''m not really teaching you saber fighting but merely expanding your repertory of moves¡­" he said with a slight chuckle.


    "That''s good or bad?" Joffrey asked


    If Joffrey was honest with himself, all the different style had started to mesh inside his head after a while. It''s not as if he had forgotten them, they had just kind of¡­ gradually become instinctual. He thought his fighting style must be one of the ugliest and strangest in the world by now, a mesh of influences and moves that sometimes were even paradoxical to each other.


    Well, it has served well enough until now¡­ kind of¡­ he thought.


    "Neither, merely interesting¡­ I know you''ve received water dancing instruction before, but some of those lounges and stabs have an interesting style I''ve never seen before" Yham said as he lowered his saber, allowing for a bit of conversation before the next bout as they always did.


    "Ah, I know a bit of Ibbenese spear fighting. Some of those powerful blows are not too dissimilar to your own style in fact¡­ The pressure behind a Chanak for example¡­" Joffrey explained as he showed him an angled stab, "Puts the weight in the spear''s pommel for--"


    A sudden, gurgling scream stopped his imminent reminiscing, and both Twosuns turned in unison towards the camp''s northern perimeter. Everyone on saber drill stopped as they too strained to listen.


    The clashing of swords and the screams of dying men were unmistakable. They were under attack.


    "MEN! TO ARMS NOW!" Yham bellowed as Joffrey turned back to his men.


    I''ve only got what''s left of the 11th and the 17th here¡­


    I''m going to finish what I started and get them killed.


    I''LL GET THEM KILLED!!!


    Joffrey started breathing hard, hands trembling as he gazed at his men.


    A huge palm slapped him in the back and he stumbled forward, barely managing not to fall on his face.


    "LEGONARIES ARE DYING! COME ON MAJOR!" Yham shouted as he got his real saber out and bellowed at his men to follow him.


    Fight now, doubts later, he thought as he took out a real saber.


    Die now, doubts later.


    "Scouts! On me!" he shouted as both him and Yham dashed to the camp''s northern perimeter.


    No time to sort anything out. If an attacker breaches the outer perimeter they''ll wreak havoc¡­ he thought as he ran, his scouts switching their own weapons and following him.


    ¡­


    The Shrykes have come to kill those who dared trespass, he thought as he gazed at the dying scouts of the 13th Patrol. A veritable swarm of reanimated Shrykes were flooding over the stakes and the ditch, clawing and tearing into the defending scouts. Their blue-grey, demented eyes almost glowed in the dark, intent on closing in on the defenders and tearing them apart.


    They had already pushed through the outer defenses when Joffrey and Yham reached them.


    Yham seemed to take in a breath of both horror and determination before bellowing as he raised his saber to the air.


    "SABERS HIGH!" Bellowed Yham as he charged.


    "SABERS DOWN!" roared his men as they followed him. Both their units were thoroughly mixed by now, so Joffrey decided to just follow Yham and make sure a corpse didn''t stab him from behind.


    Yham was a force of nature as he crashed against the surging corpses, his broad slashes frequently cutting corpses apart or pummeling them to the ground. Even so, the flood of corpses seemed to have no end in sight as more and more kept scaling over the ditch and assaulting the living.


    Joffrey stayed on Yham''s side, cutting and dismembering corpses. The Major seemed spooked by them as were the rest of his men but the steadiness of Joffrey and his own scouts, veterans and survivors of a similar attack, provided some much needed calm. They were living evidence that the otherworldly monsters could be fought and killed¡­ again.


    Joffrey fought desperately, adapting his style as he remembered the particularities of his enemy. Attacks on the vitals were useless, but disabling hits on limbs were practical and crushing their chests sometimes seemed to drop them like a puppet with its strings cut, so that''s what he did. Fortunately, the survivors of the ''Grey Ambush'' had spread the lessons to anyone who would hear them, and Yham''s men had certainly listened.


    The tale was no match for the reality though, and still the legionaries were unprepared for the actual experience of fighting the undead. Soldiers fell from behind as they failed to check their kill, while others got their sabers stuck on corpses and fell easily as they were ravaged from the sides. Joffrey fought in a haze, somehow hoping for that strange chest pain¡­ but no pain and no strange lion came to his aide as his comrades died and the dead kept coming.


    The heavy sabers did their jobs adequately, their bigger heft an advantage against the nature of their enemy, but Joffrey was uncertain about their odds when the flood suddenly diminished and only the living remained.


    "¡­ That can''t be all of them¡­" Joffrey muttered as he looked over the ditch and saw only dark streets beyond.


    "I don''t think so either¡­" Yham said as he clutched a small wound on his right rib. He looked dazed as the adrenaline started to fade.


    "That¡­ They¡­ how¡­" he muttered. For once Yham was at a loss for words, staring in horror at a gnashing shryke skull on the ground.


    "¡­That''s what we are here to find out Major" Joffrey said as he crushed the skull with his boot a half dozen times, making sure the damned thing stayed dead this time.


    They stayed there guarding the perimeter for a few seconds before Joffrey voiced the obvious.


    "Where are our reinforcements?" he asked.


    The sound of battle coming from their backs said it all.


    -.PD.-


    When dawn was finally upon them, the Expedition had lost more than 250 men, almost a quarter of their remaining strength. The attack had come from every direction in the midst of the night and the flood of dead shrykes had not stopped till the early morning. Most of the death toll came from the collapse of the eastern perimeter and the resulting rampage as the dead let loose on the soft innards of the camp.


    And this time the officers had not escaped unscathed. Several soldiers saw Major Xu, the Red Gorilla himself go down fighting a score of the reanimated, a saber on each hand and bellowing like a madman as the remains of his unit broke under the repeated pounding on the eastern perimeter¡­ though his corpse was not found afterwards.


    The bastards behind it didn''t even leave a corpse to bury. A legend within the Scouts was now just another chunk of sorcerer fodder¡­


    There were whispers about a possible retreat to the Greytower after the savage beating they had taken, but the General put a swift stop to those. Their objectives had not been accomplished yet, and so the Expedition was to continue further out into the Beyond.


    Further out in search of answers.


    -.PD.-


    As the Expedition ventured further and further into the Beyond, grey consumed green and hills became dunes. The Land of the Shrykes became the Grey Waste as fewer and fewer deserted settlements and groups of refugees came across the expedition.


    Three months they zigzagged throughout the Beyond, occasionally skirmishing with bands of corpses which emerged from the dunes with no warning, tracing a path from oasis to oasis and from settlement to settlement when supplies ran low.


    Nearer to the source of whatever madness was stirring, a somewhat clearer picture had begun to emerge from hushed tales and abandoned notes. Terrified refugees and fanatical pilgrims all told variations of the same story and the same man.


    No matter which version one believed, one thing was certain.


    It was bad news for the legion.


    "This¡­ Vahram fellow, do the Jade Scribes know anything about him?" Joffrey asked as Captain Jhos sat on the small carpet inside his tent with a kettle of tea.


    Jhos looked thoughtful as he refilled Joffrey''s cup. "Only that he''s the latest of a long line of Grand Whispers¡­ but like anything else related to that damned cult, there''s not much information to go around¡­" he said.


    The Grey Word Whisperers were one of the most secretive and dangerous cults out in the Beyond¡­ And the rumors amongst the few settlements, refugees and traders the Expedition had bumped with all agreed on something¡­ He was the man responsible for the growing legions of the undead, and his Grey Whisperers roamed the Beyond preaching to all that would listen about the celestial purge that was to come, a great cleansing¡­


    They spent a while in heavy silence as Joffrey looked around the tent a bit, eying the curious knickknacks and arcane devices hanging or just laying around. "You mind if¡­?" He pseudo asked, gesturing at the stuff.


    Jhos nodded simply as he took another drink from his cup and Joffrey stood up, stretching and walking to the hanging artifacts.


    "What''s this?" Joffrey asked as he tilted the small bracelet. It had two rubies on each side, both sets surrounding a single jade stone.


    Jhos smiled wistfully at the sight, "A keepsake from an old love¡­" he said.


    Joffrey was a bit surprised, he guessed there was no reason why the Jade Moon couldn''t have had a life before the Legion, but it was hard to imagine all the same...


    "And this? Components for a ritual of some sort..?" he asked as he gestured to a bunch of small multicolored sea shells.


    Jhos snorted as he looked at them. "Not at all. I liked collecting them" he said with a small smile.


    "You know Jhos, this is all awfully normal for the tent of a deadly magi¡­" Joffrey suddenly said.


    Jhos just shrugged as he looked up "Magic takes for everything it gives¡­ there are precious few physical instruments which help with that simple equation¡­" he said, looking at a silver medallion which hanged from the ceiling.


    "That one?" Joffrey asked, gesturing at the small, round silver plate filled with scribbles.


    Jhos did not look down as he shook his head slightly and spoke, "A symbol of duty and humility¡­ every officer in the Jade Scribes receives one when he finishes his training alive" he said.


    "¡­ wait, alive?" Joffrey asked as he processed that.


    Jhos looked back down as he nodded, "Yes¡­ we can''t let anyone into the secrets of our branch just like that¡­ there are enough cultists as it is¡­" he said. "There is a final test before you can become a Jade Quarter Moon. Suffice it to say that dreams and temptations are presented in a very special way¡­ and those who succumb to them never make it out alive¡­" he trailed off as he gazed back at the medallion. "This simple piece of inscribed silver helps us remember that episode, and our victory over it¡­ " he said.


    Joffrey wanted to ask what exactly had happened to Jhos, but he restrained himself.


    Everyone has their secrets¡­


    Joffrey thought about his own peculiar ''medallion''¡­


    Even now he felt it if he strained to listen. Feeling the whalebone tablet had become a bit of a relaxation exercise for Joffrey, and sometimes he spent the night just feeling it get gradually farther away and wondering if it was still in the Jade Sea or farther still. It certainly felt a long way from here¡­


    He wondered if the tablet was feeling as lost as he was right now.


    "More tea?" asked Jhos.


    "Please" Joffrey said as he sat again, deciding to simply let his mind enjoy the simple moment.


    -.PD.-


    Five months had passed since departing from the Greytower when another disaster struck the Expedition.


    "Who the fuck poisons an oasis out in the Beyond!?" roared Major Yham as he struggled against the impulse to draw his saber and hack the small table.


    "It''s unprecedented. Absolutely everybody out here would unite and destroy whoever did that¡­ Water is not tampered with, not here¡­" Said Major Pigu, dumbstruck. He was the only Major to have come from the Long Scouts and he knew just how precious the network of oasis and wells were to literally everyone out here.


    Everyone living, that is¡­ Joffrey thought in anger.


    "It just doesn''t make any sense. If these ''Grey Word Whisperers'' poison the wells, then they''re at the mercy of the sand too. Unlike their reanimated soldiers, they actually need water!" Yham said, enraged at the mystery.


    "We don''t even know if they were the ones behind this. For all we know they aren''t even behind the reanimated. All we have is guesswork and rumors, we need something more¡­" Joffrey said as he adjusted his coat. Even though they were inside the General''s tent, the falling temperatures were still felt. Some of the old hands said the winter would only get worse with time¡­ Joffrey shivered again as he thought about how it must have felt in Winterfell if the cold was this strong so far from the pole.


    "That we do¡­" Yu said. The General looked somehow diminished, his demeanor had been steadily eroding with the rest of the men as they spent weeks marching through sand storms and met nothing but grey, grey and grey. Morale was low, and with not even a smidgen of a clue in sight and now facing the possibility of poisoned wells, the mission and heck, even the expedition itself was in dire straits.


    "Have there been any recoveries?" Asked the Night Hawk, turning back as if to receive something and then immediately turning towards the officers again with a sight. The death of Greatbeam Leng at the hand of the Horsechiefs had gouged a deep wound on the man, but still he soldiered on.


    As long as the General stands, the rest of the men will, Joffrey thought.


    "None sir. The central formation was the most affected, it looks like we will be losing most of the 12th and the 14th Patrols¡­" said the newly promoted Major Lhij, the Long Scout which had taken over the forward formation after the death of the Red Gorilla.


    "And Major Wuhan?" asked Joffrey.


    "He''s¡­ he''s still¡­ not quite himself yet¡­" Lhij muttered, uncomfortable.


    "They say he only took a sip¡­" Pigu whispered.


    The Stout Eagle was dependable no more. Major Wuhan, former commanding officer of the central formation was restrained inside his tent, ranting and raving of death and doom, urging anyone who would listen to run for their lives. That sight had served to wreck the Expedition''s morale harder than a hundred poisoned scouts.


    Yu nodded warily. "Captain Biju will be taking his place as commander of the central formation¡­ but this cannot go on, not much longer" he said as a bit of his old zeal returned.


    "Something huge is stirring, something grander than sorcerer lords and powerful cults¡­ I can feel it¡­" he said as he stood up from his stool. "We must find something better than rumors¡­ something concrete before we return to the Greytower¡­" he said, staring at the map as if trying to extract the answers from it.


    "We have no choice¡­ if the answers are anywhere else than damned K''Dath, they will be in Bonetown" he sentenced.


    "That''s prime cultist territory! And that''s if there''s anyone alive left!" Pigu said immediately, and Joffrey didn''t blame him. Having faced mere cultist aspirants, he shivered to think what an actual Grey Word Whisperer could do.


    "We will have to risk it, we have no choice. Everyone here knows time is running out and we need to know what''s coming for the Five Forts¡­" Yu said, determined once again. It was an all or nothing gamble, and the prospect of resolving the uncertainty that had plagued them since departure for good or ill had a riveting appeal amongst the weary officers the more they thought about it.


    "But sir, how can we continue without water? There''s no way we''d make it to the city¡­" said Major Lhij, shaken.


    "That would be true if all of us were to go¡­ We will split our water reserves between the main body and the supporting formation" he said as he suddenly gazed at Joffrey.


    He can''t be -


    "Major Joffrey, your formation is both the least depleted and the best suited to meet whatever surprises await for you there. Get to Bonetown as fast as you can find the answers we need" The Night Hawk commanded.


    ¡­


    Fuck it.


    "Yes sir!" he said with a salute. He was sure it would be the last one the General would see him make¡­ it was a suicide mission, even more so with him in command¡­


    But he didn''t care any longer. If he woke up again in the Red Keep without answers¡­ he didn''t know what he''d do, probably go crazy again, but the prospect of ridding himself of the eternal grey expanse was an alluring thought.


    He was suddenly assaulted by a memory from long ago, not even a memory really. A smell, a taste, a color. A white chilly wind which tasted of raw meat and victory.


    He took a deep breath, flexing his hands.


    "The rest of us will turn north towards Kohl''s Refuge. The oasis there is regularly replenished by water currents below the earth, and faster than most. If its poisoned it won''t be by the time we get there" said the General.


    The General ended the meeting there, but he stopped Joffrey when the officers were moving out.


    "Major Joffrey, a word" he said.


    "Sir?" Joffrey asked.


    "We''ll be waiting for you at Khol''s Refuge" he said.


    "I know sir, you just said so" Joffrey told him, confused.


    "We will keep waiting until you come, no matter what. Do you understand?" he said, determined.


    Until you come or we die, Joffrey translated inside his head.


    He nodded slowly, "I do" he told him. The General walked him out with a strange look and this time he was the one who saluted first.


    "You''ll depart tomorrow Major¡­ Dawn!" he said.


    Joffrey just stood there for a second before he snapped, "Dawn!" he said.


    He shook his head as the General entered back inside his tent. He had a long night in front of him.


    -.PD.-


    The journey towards Bonetown was eerily uneventful, a fact which left absolutely everyone on edge. Detached from the Expedition itself, Joffrey and his men made quick time throughout the Beyond.


    What had been left of the 11th Patrol had been disbanded after the ambush at Shiz. The remaining scouts merged with Hu''s 17th which barely brought it back to fifty men. That and the 1st Long Patrol, the 4th Rangers, the 12th Flying Artillery and the Leaping Frog Constellation were the only forces Joffrey had in his hands to face whatever awaited for him at Bonetown.


    "So you decided to run away?" Xon-Mi asked, shifting again as his cart rode over a small stone the driver didn''t dodge as he guided the horses up the next dune.


    "I realized there was nothing left there for me¡­ only death and suffering" Joffrey said from atop his horse, riding next to Xon-Mi''s cart. He''d been riding with one of his subordinates every day, exchanging stories and tales to pass the time. Getting to know them better was certainly preferable than perpetually staring at the Grey Horizon.


    "I don''t know if I would have been capable of doing that¡­ power over everyone else, riches beyond counting¡­ gods think about all the beautiful women¡­" Xon-Mi mused.


    "All the riches in the world mean nothing if you''re surrounded by the dishonest and the power hungry¡­ believe me I know" Joffrey said as both his horse and the wagon crested another dune. He could see the head of the formation from here and the small lines of horsemen at his flanks, screening incessantly under the punishing sun.


    "Surely it was not that bad¡­" Xon-Mi asked, lifting one of his bushy eyebrows. Joffrey sighted as he looked up at the blue sky, thinking as he trusted his horse to watch the ground, "¡­maybe. It''s just that¡­ more than the danger and the intrigue¡­ it was¡­ seeing everyone juggling a dozen different masks each. It was so¡­ fake. At some point I realized that if I stayed I''d get lost with a dozen masks of my own¡­ I''d lose myself and turn into them¡­ it''s not worth it. Staying there meant turning back into what I once was, I''ll never do that. Never" He sentenced with all his will.


    Xon-Mi was startled by the sudden determination, nodding as he looked back to the front.


    "And you Captain?" he asked back, "Where do you come from?"


    Xon-Mi didn''t look back at him as he smiled slightly, "Ren-shi, it''s a small town in the middle of nowhere" he said.


    "A quiet life?" Joffrey asked.


    "Indeed, our town has nothing of value for the squabbling princes to fight for, and it sits upon rugged terrain perfectly suited for defense" he said.


    "Why did you leave then?" Joffrey asked as he looked back and made sure his rear was where it was supposed to be.


    "I''d like to say it was because of boredom at the idyllic country life, but the truth is the same rugged hills that secured our de facto independence from the neighboring princes had other, less beneficial effects¡­" Xon-Mi said with a sight.


    Joffrey had never added a mental pewter link to his chain, but his time with Archmaester Casto had taught him the basics of agriculture all the same.


    "It was the soil, wasn''t it?" he guessed.


    "Damn right it was. Hardly anything grew on it and everyone knew another drought was approaching¡­ So I left, met a few people, got mixed up on a princely takeover, poached a few estates¡­ eventually I arrived here and I never looked back" he said.


    Joffrey let the silence stretch as he leaned a bit back and to his side.


    "Sunbeam Jehi, tell Captain Shah to send another team to the left, I don''t like those dunes" he ordered one of his signalmen.


    "Yes sir" the man said as he spurred his horse forward.


    "You don''t regret your choice¡­ but do you still miss them? Your family, your friends¡­?" Joffrey asked after pondering the question inside his head for a while.


    "Always" Said Xon-Mi with not a shred of doubt.


    Joffrey leaned back once again, thinking about all the people he''d left behind in Westeros.


    Such certainty¡­ I think I''ve never experienced that kind of¡­


    ¡­


    With a start, he suddenly realized he was missing them right now. Clegane, Tyrion, Jon, Sansa¡­


    They brought a strange, bittersweet longing deep within his chest. A strange mixture of muted sadness and distant happiness.


    Is this how it feels to miss one''s¡­ friends?


    Friends that couldn''t remember him, friends that now despised him.


    Joffrey sighted sadly as he shook his head, returning to the present as Jehi returned.


    "Captain Shah reports that scouts are on the way sir" he said before taking over his left flank again.


    "Very good¡­" Joffrey muttered, looking once more at the steadily sinking sun.


    -.PD.-


    When they finally arrived they had only three days left of water, counting what little they had managed to scavenge on the way. The city itself had no walls, more similar to a great Shryke shantytown than a proper city.


    It was, however, still inhabited.


    Joffrey felt as if a thousand eyes were staring at him as they marched through the main road. The people of Bonetown looked small and quiet, scurrying from here to there in restrained haste. Their buildings were unsurprisingly made of bone, but knowing that fact beforehand didn''t detract from the awe Joffrey felt as his column marched through the streets looking for clear ground.


    Pillars made of enormous ribs rose to the air, jagged and weathered but still somehow standing. Skeleton remains of strange beasts filled every corner of the city as if the houses themselves had once been great animals, laid to waste by the unforgiving desert sun.


    The cramped alleyways and streets looked badly maintained and full of malnourished, staring eyes which kept gazing at the men as they marched. As disturbing as they were, Joffrey would have been fearful of an ambush if they haven''t been there¡­ For at least they were alive.


    They made camp in a cleared area, a deserted plaza which judging by the waste and the wrecked wooden stalls had been in use as some kind of marketplace not too long ago.


    They fortified their little encampment as best as they could and spent the night awaiting an ambush that never came. And so it was on the early hours of the morning that Joffrey decided to sneak around the city, trying to find out what was going on the way he knew best. Not with a unit of soldiers around him but as simply another traveller.


    Bonetown was a city that had been built with one purpose, to support the extraction of bones found in the Dry Deep, a former sea that had dried out thousands of years ago or more. Nobody remembered the traders that had first founded it, but the city had grown organically with each merchant and trader since, seeking to support the extraction of the strange and precious bones.


    Joffrey wandered from street to street, loosing himself and his grey cloak amongst a sea of similar ones. Every few minutes he could see a caravan leaving the city, armed guards and carts full of colored bones departing in all haste to the east. He came across a couple of thugs robbing and beating a man in plain daylight in the middle of the street, but no one even looked. The city had been gradually falling into anarchy for a while it seemed, and the process was accelerating, Joffrey thought, given the amount of abandoned houses and empty streets.


    He wandered between the crowds, looking and listening. It appeared that the undead had not yet reached Bonetown, but the threat was readily apparent to every inhabitant of the city. Beyond caravan guards and a few of the wealthier merchant''s personal retinues, it appeared that the city was defenseless. The sudden arrival of a cohort of ''suns'' had not changed that assessment it seemed, it had merely seeded more doubts into the cauldron of fear and uncertainty that permeated the settlement like a thick fog.


    A fog which was reinforced by the presence of the Grey Whisperers¡­


    Joffrey saw them at every small plaza or main road intersection. Anywhere a vaguely sizable crowd formed, they were there, preaching.


    "The wait is finally over! At last! At long last!" shouted one from a street corner as Joffrey walked behind a loaded cart pulled by tired looking camels. "They come again to finish their holy mission! To grant us eternal life!" the man screeched in genuine joy, gazing at the crowd in pure exaltation.


    Who comes?! And to finish what exactly?! Joffrey thought angrily. The mystics never made any sense.


    "Prepare yourselves! The time is at hand, a time of renewal, a time of destruction, a time of rebirth!!!" screamed the grey robed man.


    I give him 4 out of 10 Burning Benerros¡­ Joffrey thought, unimpressed and slightly unnerved.


    Eternal life¡­ does he mean the wights? I guess you could say that if you squinted hard enough¡­ if you squinted so hard you couldn''t even see that is¡­


    But would he refer to his boss, high priest, whatever as ''they''? It sounds as if the force behind the wights is something¡­ superior, beyond them. Not something to be understood but something to stand in awe of¡­


    He suddenly realized the man had gone quiet.


    He also realized the man was staring at him along with the few people who had stopped to listen.


    Joffrey turned back and hurriedly walked away, quickly using a moving cart as a sight breaker before ducking through an alleyway.


    He ran for a while before he convinced himself that no one was following him, repeatedly palping both of his hidden daggers and regretting the fact that he didn''t bring his saber.


    I can''t risk much more time in this city, I''ll have to do a bit more than skulking about if I want to find something useful, he thought as he crossed a street and joined another crowd as just another traveller.


    He entered a building which sported a sign of three crossed bones, some kind of mix between a tavern and a small market. The architecture of the place looked sturdy, using long rib like bones as pillars and smaller ones for everything else, including chairs.


    Inside he saw a few tables and the universal long table which seemed to adorn every serving place on the world, half of which were filled with peoples of differing garments. The other side of the room sported several small stands that were filled with bones of every color and size imaginable, and different densities too he imagined.


    He sat on the stool by the long table, keeping to himself until the man on the bar came to him.


    "The usual" Joffrey grunted in heavily accented Yi-Tish before the man could speak, slipping a brown note.


    It really says a lot that they take the Golden Bank''s notes here of all places¡­


    The man nodded as he crouched below the bar, getting a tankard which he filled with some strange, green liquid. He took a couple of small, compact bone knuckles which he tossed inside the tankard.


    Joffrey watched them descend with a fizzle, twirling down until they rested on the bottom.


    He grunted thanks at the man as he took the cup and drank a swill with no hesitation. The foul liquid seemed to bubble inside his mouth, purging it of everything, even bits of his flesh.


    Joffrey struggled to keep his face composed as he took another swill. The bar keep looked vaguely at ease after seeing that, relaxing a bit to the back where he could rest leaning on the wall.


    "Place''s gone to shit since last time¡­" he commented in the same mangled Yi-Tish. The barkeep nodded agreement as he leaned slightly forward this time. Conversation seemed a rarity around Bonetown¡­ Fear did that to a city.


    "You could say that¡­" the barkeep agreed cautiously as he looked at the door.


    Joffrey was in the interesting predicament of having to extract information about absolutely everything without actually knowing anything to start with. So far out in the Beyond, the Legion had scant information about the city itself.


    "All this stupidity, it''s bad for business¡­ everybody should see that¡­" he fished again, talking almost to himself.


    The barkeep nodded to himself, a vague scowl adorning his features. "Don''t tell me about it¡­ if the damned Guild would have stuck around then everybody else would have too, then we''d have a functioning city and not a carcass waiting to be devoured by the Returned¡­" he said.


    A Guild?


    Joffrey snorted, "The Guild couldn''t find its ass with both hands, much less stop em¡­" he trailed off.


    Maybe it''s even true¡­


    The barkeep looked thoughtful as Joffrey took another sip. His mouth felt a bit swollen, but he was feeling incredibly less thirsty than he was when he entered. "You know, some people would kill you around these parts for saying something like that¡­" the barkeep trailed off ominously as lifted his sleeve and showed Joffrey three crossed slashes on his forearm, kind of like the sign out front.


    Joffrey internally tensed, but did nothing else as he took another ardent swill. To react was to show weakness, and to show weakness was to court death.


    The barkeep snorted as he lowered it back, "Then again maybe you''re right, if the bastards would have just stayed then everyone else would have too¡­ we would have had a city ready for a fight and not a race east seeing who can kiss the bloodless harder¡­ for two hundred years the Soldier''s Guild kept order in this shithole for a fair price¡­ and at the first sign of the Returned they packed their shit and made for Blhadhahar like a dog with its tail rammed up its ass¡­ may the cannibals eat them whole¡­" he said.


    "Not sure about the cannibal part, must be few of em left. I reckon'' its hard to survive in the sands when your meal fights back after you killed it¡­" Joffrey said with a snort.


    The barkeep chuckled at that, "Ha! You could say that! I like you stranger¡­ Call me Tak¡­" he said as he took out another tankard and cleaned it with a rug.


    Joffrey reciprocated the man''s trust without hesitation, "I''m Jhei, I used to sell pretty bones to the greens¡­ but after Shiz¡­" he trailed off. His shiver was entirely unfeigned.


    The barkeep looked interested, "They have plenty of bones now huh? They say it was bad, did the whole city just¡­ die?" he asked in hushed whispers.


    "Dead and raised again, I''m never going back there again while I still breathe¡­" Joffrey said as he shook his head.


    The conversation was interrupted when two short, clean shaved men entered. Joffrey almost drew his sword out, but they didn''t look like Grey Whisperers. Their heads looked vaguely shrunken, and their eyes were red.


    They had some similarities to the cultist aspirants Joffrey had bumped with when he''d still been a Half Sun, but only in the sense that they were pale, very pale. There was something almost alien to them that the aspirants never had¡­


    The pair calmly walked to the bar quite a few stools away from Joffrey, and the barkeep excused himself in a hurry. Both ordered the same as Joffrey, but drank them in one single swill. After they were done they took the bone knuckles that had been inside and tossed them inside their mouths, chewing them softly.


    When in doubt, mimic, Joffrey thought as he finished his tankard and chewed the knuckles. They had a peculiar almost-flavor, but the vaguely pleasant sensation they elicited after each small chew came from a whole different source. He could feel his mouth gradually losing some of the swelling, bits of the green liquid filling his mouth again after each chew.


    Joffrey tapped his tankard twice when Tak returned, leaving another brown note. They kept talking as he was refilled.


    "So, I take it that you''re out of a job now? What with the clientele having more bones than they could spare right now¡­" the barkeep fished.


    "You could say that, been thinking of emulating the Guild and getting out of here. Blhadhahar sound nice right now, hell anywhere else sounds nice right now" said Joffrey as he shrugged.


    "Well if you want to do that I suggest befriending the two gentlemen right there before they too flee east to their homeland¡­" he said as he looked discretely at his two pale costumers before shaking his head. "Not that it would do you much good, word is the bloodless are stopping anyone who''s not sufficiently loaded with enough silver, gold or yish¡­ or even blood some whisper. So unless you want to rot beneath the walls of Blhadhahar until the Returned come roaring from the north, what I''d really suggest would be to earn some Yishs for that toll¡­" he said as he lowered his voice, leaning on the bar.


    In for a stag, in for a dragon¡­


    "I''m able in trade and can handle myself in a fight, I think I can earn them just fine¡­" Joffrey agreed as he too leaned closer to the bar.


    "A mercenary as well as a trader huh¡­ What do you say if we check a few of the more interesting bones I have for sale out the back, a good deal is worth a bit of time eh?" Tak suggested.


    Joffrey rocked his head slightly as if he was pondering the matter inside his head. "I''m always willing to listen to a serious proposal, as long as I have something to drink and pass the time of course¡­ " he said as he spat the knuckles, making them tumble over the floor like he''d seen the rest of the costumers do.


    "Please" said the barkeep as he refilled Joffrey''s cup, showing that ''Jhei''s time was at least worth the price of a drink. "This one''s on the house" he said before gesturing slightly with his head.


    Joffrey took the cup with him as he followed Tak through a back door, his other hand never too far away from his dagger.


    They passed through two corridors before they entered a small storeroom full of crates. Tak opened one and showed him a few of his wares, all of them bones of different kinds. Hard but brittle, long and green, short but full of small lumps.


    More than looking for a deal, Joffrey realized Tak was testing him. His knowledge of trade and economics was put to the limit as they discussed possibilities and prices, speculation and possible trends. In another strange merge, Joffrey found his knowledge of bone carving incredibly useful too. His cover was of a gritty, down on his luck bone merchant and adventurer after all, so it only made sense that he should know something about his wares.


    After Tak closed the third crate with a satisfied nod, he turned to Joffrey. "It seems you are who you claim to be Master Jhei, one can never be too careful these days¡­ but one last question, if you would?" he asked.


    He''s planning something¡­ and he''s giving me one last chance to back out before this turns serious¡­


    Joffrey thought for a few seconds.


    What the hells, I''m already on the edge of the world, what''s one last leap?


    He nodded at Tak, who nodded back as he walked a bit back and called out to another door. "Gish, if you would" he said.


    The wooden door opened and a Shryke clad in light armor came out, wielding a bamboo fire lance. He was pointing it right at Joffrey, holding it from the upper part with his right, clawed hand, at the height of his hip. Gish''s other hand was crossed over his chest, holding a string that was attached to the fire lance''s back end.


    Its spear was plain but sharp, and Joffrey carefully thought about which direction to jump if the Shryke pulled that string.


    The primitive fire lance was identical to the one used by the Wooden Iron''s flying artillery units more than two century ago, a one shot spear designed to give a small edge in a melee. One could find them in certain Garrison keeps and outposts, or rarely out in the Beyond when a Garrison Iron sold his brothers for a bag of silver or a red note. Its accuracy was even worse than the modern bronze ones used by Xon-Mi''s men, but with a target four meters in front¡­ it would be hard to miss.


    "Do you understand anything about what I''m saying or should I just ram this through your chest?" Gish said in Shryk, all hisses and vowels.


    "I''d like to see you try, greene" Joffrey answered back in Shryk, ready to twirl to the left at a moment.


    Gish gazed at him for what seemed an eternity, before he nodded back at Tak, lowering the fire lance.


    "I''m sorry for that but what we are doing here, while certainly lucrative¡­ has attracted some attention from some of Bonetown''s most recent arrivals" Tak said as Gish brought two stools.


    Both Joffrey and the barkeep sat around one of the crates, it was all business now.


    "You mean the suns?" Joffrey asked, keenly aware of his luck if he''d just discovered a plot to take out his own formation.


    Tak shook his head quickly, "No, I don''t know what possessed them to stray so far from their forts but they''re not a part of this, in fact they may even prove to be a useful distraction. I''m referring to the Grey Whisperers, you''ve seen them surely? Preaching about arrivals and cycles out in the streets?" he said.


    "I''ve seen them, they''re the bastards behind all my former costumers walking around with no heads right?" Joffrey asked.


    "Oh I wouldn''t say that, I''ve lived my whole life in this shithole and believe me I''ve seen some stuff¡­ ain''t nobody human who could reanimate whole cities just like that¡­ no, I guess there''s a connection, but I wouldn''t say its them" he said as Joffrey took another drink from his tankard.


    "So what''s your problem with them?" Joffrey asked, visibly interested.


    "With them? Nothing. With what they''ve done..?" he shook his head. "Were you here when they found the Carved Hall about half a year ago?" he asked.


    All the bells in King''s Landing were ringing once again inside Joffrey''s skull. He had to restrain himself lest he jump Tak and bodily shake the knowledge out of him.


    "Carved Hall? I don''t recall, must have been out of town¡­" He trailed off, leaving the silence to work for him.


    "Well, thing is, one of the miners found something. He''d been spelunking for Rho bones way past the end of the Bonesteps when he found some hall full of carvings etched into the walls, deep within the Dry Deep. The real find however were the slabs of obsidian within, rows upon rows of the stuff stashed in small holes all around the hallway. Two months later the Grey Word Whisperers arrived in force, a full two dozen of em'' and more than I''ve ever seen in one place at the same time¡­ but the preaching was just a side job I suspect. They halted all further mining and exploration around the Dry Deep and closed off the Bonedocks with no warning" he almost whispered.


    Joffrey had seen them patrolling in the early morning, grey robed men and woman that serenely waked the streets closest to the former sea. The last glimmers of the moon had illuminated the vast complex of abandoned cranes, pulleys and great warehouses that bordered in between the city and the Dry Deep.


    "So, what''s so special about these carvings, have you seen them?" Joffrey asked, feigning mild interest and only barely succeeding.


    Tak shrugged, "Nobody really cares. The cultists were after the obsidian, you see? They confiscated what had already been taken¡­ and the strange thing is they''d been content to just sit on it. No further mining carried out by themselves to get the rest out, no offers to sell them either. It''s not that expensive really, a lot of the bones that are routinely mined from here are a lot more valuable¡­ but it''s the obsidian the mineral that drove them crazy for weeks, searching for every last remnant of the stuff and tossing it down the Dry Deep¡­"


    He shook his head before continuing, "Minerals or carvings, whatever. What I''m much more interest about are the loads of abandoned shipments just strewn about the docks. Crates upon crates of packed bones of all types, many of them already stashed atop carts and only missing a couple of camels and a brave driver for a clean getaway and a rich life in Blhadhahar or whatever bloodless city you care to mention¡­" Tak said, the greed and the prospect of the huge payoff shining unabashedly through his eyes.


    Joffrey had to bite his tongue. ''Jhei'', trader and mercenary would have spat upon the carvings too and gone for the bones. He couldn''t break cover, not now.


    "That must be a lot of Yishs¡­ and the merchants just gave it up?" Joffrey asked, suspicious.


    "They didn''t have much choice, not with the Guild gone. One day everyone was going about their honest business, the next over fifty grey assholes marched to the docks and told them they had five minutes to leave or else¡­ Still, one of em tried his luck, one of the shifty ones from Nefer and his retinue¡­ over five hundred people got to gaze at what exactly ''or else'' meant¡­ " Tak said with a shiver.


    Joffrey swallowed. He tried to drink again but he realized his cup was empty.


    "And you want me to rob these maniacs?" he asked, frowning.


    "Look, just as we give a rats ass about the stupid obsidian, they too don''t give a damn about a pile of bones, never mind their huge value. I''m assembling a team to go get them at night, a very simple task for which I''m willing to pay handsomely" he said as he raised an eyebrow.


    An excellent opportunity to scout the opposition¡­ but appearances must be maintained though¡­


    ''Jehi'' corossed his arms, leaning back. "How do I know you''ve got the Yishs for this?" he asked.


    "You didn''t, but now you do" Tak said with a smile as he took out a wad of purple Yish bills for Joffrey to see, only to hide them again in a pouch that hanged from his neck at chest height.


    For a rundown merchant, Tak was definitively sporting a lot of script¡­


    "This isn''t the first time you''ve sent people in for this job is it?" Joffrey asked suddenly.


    Tak looked vaguely startled but quickly recovered. "It isn''t, but as you see the payout is extreme--"


    "What happened to the other team? Why aren''t they doing this again?" Joffrey asked, a vague tingling setting his neck''s hair on edge.


    "There was a bit of trouble last time but I assure you--"


    "What. Happened." Joffrey asked menacingly as he stood up and Gish aimed his fire lance again.


    "I hope you have another one of those because you''ll need more than one to stop me" he snarled at Gish in the Shryke''s tongue.


    Tak quickly stood up trying to calm everyone down, "Please, please it''s no trouble¡­ The last team that went in¡­ it appears they may have wandered too close to the Bonesteps themselves and¡­ incurred the wrath of the Whisperers¡­" he answered as he scratched his neck, uncomfortable.


    "When was this?" Joffrey asked as Gish lowered his weapon again.


    "Last night, but I assure you the route has been changed and--" Tak tried again but Joffrey was already taking a step backwards in bone chilling realization.


    "Did any one of them know about this place?" Joffrey asked, fingering his hidden dagger.


    Tak looked annoyed as he sighted, "Master Jhei, I thought you were a reasonable man, the-"


    "I am, they''re not! Did any man in that team know?!" Joffrey snarled.


    "I have taken every pre-"


    "DID THEY?!" Joffrey shouted.


    "They did! They did alright?!" Tak snarled back, but Joffrey was already running through the corridor.


    He bursted out of the corridor and back into the tavern proper, but both Tak and Gish bumped with his back due to his unexpected stop.


    The whole room was oddly muted and strange wisps of darkness fluttered about in the edges of Joffrey''s vision as he gazed upon the costumers of the place. All of them were slumped on their tables or on the bar, eyes closed and faces tranquil as if they''d just decided to take a nap. It wouldn''t have been an uncommon scene given the beverages these kinds of places served but for one thing.


    They were pale, almost white. All of them except for the two bloodless men who had sat on the long table¡­ those had been dismembered.


    Joffrey almost screamed when he saw movement to his left, taking out one of his daggers and quickly turning towards it.


    He saw a slight man in simple grey robes, his shaved head a healthy pink and his brown eyes looking back at Joffrey, serene.


    "sssssshhhhh" He whispered with his index finger close to his mouth, asking for silence as his other hand slowly lowered a costumers head.


    He turned back to his victim, slowly easing his head down to rest on the table with both hands now. Like a mother carries a sleeping child to bed, so too the man settled the pale costumer, easing him into a comfortable position almost caringly, even combing a bit of his hair.


    "And now, he knows the truth¡­" recited the man, nodding in respect at the pale body before turning to the three men on the door.


    "W-who the f-fuck a-a-a-re you?!" stuttered Tak as he leaned to the door''s side and grasped a hand axe, shaken.


    "I am Liosh, a mere whisper, a carrier of the good news¡­ But you, Tsajkin¡­ you have travelled dangerously close to things best left alone¡­ come, know the truth of our world¡­" the cultist said as he took a step towards them.


    "GISH!!!" Shrieked Tak.


    The Shryke bodyguard snarled as he pulled the string on the bamboo rod''s back end.


    ttttthhhhssssssTHHHUUUU¡ª


    A small tongue of fire erupted from the primitive fire lance''s front end, propelling the spear forward. Liosh grabbed the spear in midair with both palms, stopping its great force and looking at it thoughtfully.


    "A weapon of a dying age" he said as he looked at it. "Clever tricks and mechanism, an obsolete weapon after the gifts of the Red Comet¡­" he muttered as he dropped the spear.


    The Shryke snarled again as he took a bronze short sword from his hip scabbard, but the Cultist moved.


    There was no disappearance or darkness to cloak it. In one single step Liosh strolled from one end of the room to the other, right in front of Gish. The Shryke warrior had not yet unsheathed his sword completely when Liosh grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand and pierced the Shryke''s chest with the other. The cultist''s hand might as well been made of Valyrian Steel, piercing through leather, scales and flesh in one stroke.


    "It''s been some time since I''d tasted a Half-Scale''s blood¡­ murmurs and half whispers of clawed giants and shifting flesh¡­ " whispered the cultist as Gish shrieked to the heavens, his blood whirling around Liosh''s hand and somehow entering it. In two seconds the Shryke was a dry husk, his face frozen in a rictus of horror.


    Joffrey used those two seconds to sidestep and brutally stab Liosh through the kidney, turning his dagger in a swift motion as he cut all the veins he knew about after his time under Archmaester Ebrose.


    Liosh seemed to grunt as Joffrey took out his blade, but before he could stab him again the cultist whirled and intercepted Joffrey''s arm. He delivered two strange strikes on his arm, hard enough to draw blood before he punched Joffrey right on the sternum and sent him flying back with incredible force. Joffrey saw how, for some reason, Liosh''s hand fisted just before he punched him. The cultist could have pierced him in one blow but decided not to.


    Joffrey crashed against a table, tumbling down and clamping down a scream of pain. When he struggled to get up he realized he couldn''t move his right hand, it hung limp by his side, unable to grab the silver dagger.


    Tak was frozen in fear, screaming as he tossed his axe down. "I''m sorry, please I''m so sorry!!! I''ve got script, a-a-and bones and--AUUGH" His hyperventilated pleading stopped abruptly as Liosh''s hand pierced his sternum. Bits of bronze from the small armor he had been wearing discreetly below his shirt tumbled to the sides, mixing with the whirling, shredded fragments of purple bills.


    "Boring and useless" said the cultist as if to himself as he drained Tak dry, the blood from his own wound flowing faster for a second before it tapered of completely and his fleshed mended. Liosh now looked as if he''d never been stabbed at all.


    "But you¡­" he whispered as he turned back, walking towards Joffrey.


    Joffrey stumbled to his feet and dashed to the exit, taking the dagger with his left hand.


    He shouldered the door open, but he didn''t find the street outside. He was again inside the tavern, but this time entering again from the back door. He could even see Gish and Tak''s corpses to his sides¡­ it was as if the whole room had duplicated.


    He whipped his head back and saw Liosh walking sedately towards him, gazing thoughtfully at one of his arms, the one that had struck Joffrey. The arm still had a few drops of Joffrey''s blood, but they were shrinking. Slowly, very slowly the drops disappeared into the cultists body.


    He sighted in near ecstasy as he kept walking. "This¡­ This is a pleasant surprise¡­ you taste of power, stranger. Clever tricks and righteous anger, wielded determination and roaring pride¡­" he muttered as he kept walking.


    Joffrey ran towards the door again, opening it and stumbling into the same room again.


    "Why run? The rebirth is close at hand once again, as it has always been¡­" Liosh said as Joffrey kept running, breathing hard. He ran and ran and ran through the rooms before something suddenly changed. After opening the door one more time he spotted ten other Whisperers, hoods hiding their faces and hands clasped in front of them, covered by their long sleeves.


    He whirled back and bumped against Liosh, right on his back. "You will be quite useful¡­" he muttered as Joffrey tried to stab him again. He leaned to his right and Joffrey missed the heart by a hair''s breath. Liosh grabbed him by the back of his neck and Joffrey suddenly couldn''t feel anything below it, as if his spine had been cut.


    "We''ll do it now" he said as he dragged Joffrey to the bar table and the other cultists cleared the area of bottles and everything else.


    "They are outside" Joffrey heard another one whisper. He was now looking at the tavern''s ceiling and Liosh''s anticipating face, surrounded by countless black, shadowed cowls.


    "No matter, it will be too late" said Liosh as he opened his arms wide and started muttering, whispering, swiftly followed by the rest of the cultists.


    Joffrey''s breathing hitched, and he could somehow feel his blood bubbling, sluggishly being redirected. He tried to scream but found he couldn''t, his whole body was tingling in pain and foreboding.


    He felt most of it concentrating on his neck, about to somehow burst out when a huge explosion rocked the building, the cultists stumbling as pieces of wood and stone rained upon them.


    tttthhhhhssssssssssTHHHUUUUUU--


    Liosh looked back up a millisecond before a blurry spear got him in the gut, sending him flying back.


    "DAAAAAAAAWWN!!!" bellowed several voices before the sound of battle flooded the room, shrieks and cries and roars pounding Joffrey''s ears.


    Joffrey started to feel the rest of his body, very slowly as if he''d been waking up from a long nap. He rolled with all his strength to the side, falling on the other side of the bar table and covering under it.


    A cultist suddenly appeared over the table, grabbing him and raising him back up. Joffrey head butted him in the nose as he grappled with the man, lifting him and crashing back to the floor. The space in between the wall and the long table was too constricted for the cultist to use any of its strange unarmed combat moves and Joffrey used that fact to full effect as he let slip his other hidden dagger, stabbing the man in the heart and twisting the blade brutally, severing his coronary artery before stabbing again and cutting through his right atrium.


    The cultist convulsed for a second before he was suddenly still, and Joffrey grabbed the bar as he struggled to stand back up.


    The tavern was a battlefield as a multitude of Jade Glimmers engaged the cultists in furious melee combat, silver short swords glinting as they parried arm strikes and gutted cultists. The cultists seemed to blur as they pivoted perfectly, engaging the soldiers with arm strikes and powerful kicks that were eerily similar to the martial style used by the Jade Scribes. Each cultist seemed to have two shadowy appendages growing from their backs, appendages that were used to parry and deliver horrifying strikes that seemed to bypass any and all armor. For every cultist that fell, four Jade Glimmers paid the price.


    "MAJOR! OVER HERE!!!" Shouted Captain Shah as he loosed arrow after arrow, looking more like a repeater ballista than a man as he pierced eyes and mouths, dropping cultists to the ground.


    The melee was a mess with no organization, but Joffrey could see he was isolated from his main force, about half a dozen cultists cutting his path.


    He looked to the other side and saw Liosh snarling as the lance that had him pinned to the wall slowly extracted itself from his belly, seemingly guided as if by a force of its own.


    "MAJOR JOFFREY! GET OUT OF THERE!" suddenly bellowed Captain Xon-Mi from the gaping hole that used to be the Tavern''s front wall. He was directing two of his men as they set some sort of wooden rectangle on the floor.


    Twirling red leaves surrounding a face¡­


    He took a deep breath, emptying his mind before dashing through the assembled cultists, running faster than he''d ever had in his lives. His mind was in some sort of haze as he dodged to his right and then to his left, narrowly avoiding the black shadowy tendrils that tried to gut him like a pig. He rolled on the floor as he dodged another one but crashed against one of the cultists that moved to block his path. The bastard lifted him in the air with but a hand as if he were nothing, both tendrils forming to his sides and preparing to pounce.


    Before Joffrey could even react an arrow emerged from the man''s eye. Both of them fell to the floor, Joffrey bouncing into a water recovery as he leapt back to his feet. The cultist tried to do the same, arrow and all but his movements were awkward and constricted. He started to convulse, repeatedly crashing against the floor.


    He eyed Shah as he got another poisoned arrow from his secondary quiver, clearing the way forward as he kept piercing hearts and heads with his arrows. "Sir!" shouted one of the Glimmers nearby as he tossed a saber at Joffrey, only to get promptly gutted from behind by one of the cultists.


    Joffrey grabbed the saber in the air just in time to parry a cultist''s arm which somehow didn''t cut open with the strike. He delivered a devastating riposte on the man''s neck with a bellow, severing his head entirely as he kept running. The legionaries retreated with him, all of them falling back to the tavern''s entrance.


    "No" rasped a voice than threated to split Joffrey''s head in two as Liosh suddenly exploded in shadows, uncountable tendrils erupting from his every orifice and body part, killing and maiming every man it touched as he glided forwards towards Joffrey.


    Xon-Mi hefted a heavy looking bronze contraption towards the abomination. It was made of three bronze Firelance tubes which had somehow been fused together, though only one tube still had a lance. He roared as he pulled the cord, filling the room with even more acrid smoke.


    thhhhhhhhssssSSTHHHUUUUUU--- roared the lance at the same time as Shah loosed a spread of three arrows at the abomination, the close range making accuracy irrelevant. Liosh seemed to laugh, a hollow, muffled sound as he buffeted the arrows and lances to the sides with his many tendrils. As he kept gliding forward every surviving acolyte opened their arms wide and screamed as Liosh''s tendrils reached them, draining their blood and leaving only dry husks behind him. Every time he did it the shadows grew longer and thicker, and when Joffrey and the surviving Glimmers finally reached the exit the man was two thirds of the way towards them.


    "LETS GO! LETS GO!" Joffrey shouted as he saw one of Xon-Mi''s men light a fuse, leaving the wooden box and running like a man possessed. The legionnaires tumbled out into the street, the last of them not quite making it as huge tendrils of darkness bursted out of their chests as they screamed in agony.


    Right in front of Joffrey, in the middle of the street, stood Captain Jhos surrounded by a dozen Glimmers, all with their eyes closed as a heavy wind shifted the Jade Moon''s robes. He was moving his hands in an almost sedately manner, reminiscent of the many times Joffrey had seen him training his strange moves with the rest of the men.


    "DOWN!" Joffrey bellowed as he jumped to the hard street, followed closely by Xon-Mi, Shah and the rest of the men as they hugged the floor.


    Jhos suddenly opened his eyes and gave a long step forward, his palm flat as he shoved it in front of him with all his force.


    Liosh emerged from the tavern''s hole, towering over the men for just a second before something slammed into him, driving him back as he shrieked in pain to the heavens, flailing helplessly.


    Then an explosion so loud that Joffrey swore must have been heard at the Greytower picked him and the legionnaires up into the air and tossed them at a rapidly approaching wall.


    -.PD.-


    "I was inside that tavern for three days?! How''s that even possible!?" Joffrey asked, exasperated.


    "Not even Captain Jhos knows, he managed to find you a couple of hours ago and we went for a quick strike" said Captain Shah.


    Joffrey winced as the Body Scribe put another bandage on his head, the pain and the heavy sun that was somehow not blunted in any way by the tarp only serving to worsen his mood.


    "Three days well spent as the shadowy bastards attacked our camp again and again, we thought they''d gotten you for sure¡­" said Xon-Mi as he cleaned the bulky Threelance on the ground, caringly pouring over the impractical weapon.


    "I find it harder to believe we got them all, you said they pulled all their men back towards the tavern as our forces kept advancing on it?" Joffrey asked Captain Hu.


    Hu nodded as he took another seep of water from his canteen. "They kept rushing us, trying to delay us at the cost of their lives. Whatever they wanted to do with you must have been pretty important. They even left the Bonedocks deserted In favor of the tavern and according to the locals they had been guarding it ever since they arrived here¡­"


    Joffrey nodded, wincing again at the tendrils of pain ran through his head at the sudden movement.


    The camp seemed to be the only bastion of order within the city as the fear and the uncertainty reached a boiling point. The few cultists that survived the battle had fled the city, and apart from Joffrey''s formation (which he was unwilling to use as a policing force) there was no central power figure left. Total anarchy had taken over the city as the people abandoned it in droves, many storming onto the now unguarded Bonedocks and carrying crates full of heavy bones in a desperate attempt to reach Blhadhahar and pay the fabled toll in exchange for safety. Joffrey doubted more than half would survive the journey east through the Cannibal Sands and then south through the Blood Plains. He guessed most of the precious bones would be left to rot under the desert sun.


    "Your blood must be quite the price to have mustered such a defense¡­ Are you sure you don''t descend from a sorcerer''s line, Joffrey?" Jhos asked, intrigued.


    Joffrey thought about lions and Lannisters, ancient tales and first men Kings.


    ''You taste of power, stranger. Clever tricks and righteous anger, wielded determination and roaring pride''


    It was not the most common interpretation of Lann the Clever, but Joffrey guessed it was close enough¡­


    "I''m not sure about anything really, Jhos¡­" he said as he shook his head. "They had already taken what they''d wanted from the Bonedocks anyway, Tak, he was the barkeep that had been robbing them by the way, he said they''d tossed the obsidian down the Dry Deep. Did you find anything Sabu? Anything at all?" he asked the Ranger Captain.


    "Only a small piece. Found it beneath the bed of some minor trader, must have been one of the first to buy one from the miner" said Sabu, showing them a block of jagged obsidian the size of his head.


    "Why would anyone stash these so far below the Dry Deep?" asked Hu, confused.


    "More questions" bitterly muttered Joffrey.


    They had lost more than 60 men and no useful clues had yet been found. The only good news were that their food and water reserves had been replenished, with more than enough left to resupply the Expedition at Kohl''s Refuge. And that they''d taken out a small group of powerful cultists¡­


    Joffrey let out a deep breath as he leaned back, letting his subordinates coordinate the more immediate, pressing matters as he considered the only place he could think of that seemed to have more answers than questions.


    The ''Carved Hall¡­'' the obsidian the cultists found there is not the only secret that place holds.


    "I''ll need a climbing rope, a long one" he suddenly said, prompting every single one of his subordinates to look at him.


    -.PD.-


    The aptly named Bonesteps had formed organically, with time. As successive generations of miners had mined clear the levels nearer the surface, the need to go deeper into the Dry Deep had necessitated the creation of a great stairway miners could use to get at the precious bones that lay petrified on the walls of the former sea. The steps had been chiseled on the ''walls'' of the former sea, similar to the great switchback stairs Joffrey had glimpsed during his brief stay at Castle Black, searching for climbing knowledge. The steps were reinforced by bones, though they seemed to get more rickety and half hazard the deeper Joffrey descended into the abyss. The great canyon was so deep that darkness clouded the lower reaches, where spirits were said to snatch those miners that got too greedy and descended too deep into the darkness.


    Step-step-step-step


    A sudden gust of wind forced Joffrey and the two men following him to duck to the side, hugging the ''wall'' as hard as they could. To the other side, barely a few meters away, was a long, long fall¡­


    A deep, low throttled humming started to pick up all around them, an eerily synchronized low note that seemed to get stronger the faster the wind blew, humming louder and louder until Joffrey could hardly hear his breathing.


    The gust of wind perked up, shrieking without end as the ''appeasers'' clanked and whistled, adding their shivering cacophony to the whirlwind of noise. The appeasers were strings that hanged from the ''ceiling'' of the steps, holding pieces of hollowed out bone through which the air shifted, adding a lower tune to the sound the wind made as the bones clanked and clashed with themselves. The miners of the Dry Deep placed one of those after every empty ''dig site'' the Bonesteps passed, a sort of apology and plead for the bones they had taken.


    After centuries of mining, the whole upper canyon thrummed with the low tune of a thousand, a million appeasers all twisting madly from their strings and chanting as the wind blew.


    HHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMmmmmmmsssssss¡­.


    The sound stopped with the wind, and Joffrey shook himself as he stood up. "Let''s keep going, we''ve got no time to waste" he said, gesturing at the two men.


    Jhos nodded silently as Sunbeam Loh nervously gripped the long piece of rope he held hanging from his shoulder.


    The three of them kept going down, following the steps deeper and deeper into the abyss as the light from the sun seemed to get weaker and weaker. A while later the found the last level of the Bonesteps, a large rickety platform made of bone which was filled with cheap mining equipment and broken strings of rope. It was here the most destitute of miners tried their luck, risking their lives to their ropes and climbing down the dark abyss without a single step below them in search of a great find. If their ropes suddenly gave out there was nothing stopping them for the next half dozen kilometers or more¡­. beyond that, the abyss turned too dark to even measure distance¡­ some said the hole had no end and that the people who fell were doomed to fall and fall and fall until the end of time¡­


    Joffrey took a deep breath as he approached the correct platform, a beam of bone with a few steps nailed on top for a few meters until both tapered out, leaving only the edge.


    He turned back, "Loh, the rope if you will" he asked his camp aid.


    Sunbeam Loh looked determined but thoroughly spooked as he passed him the rope, "Good luck sir" he said before saluting, as if still not believing his commander''s bravery.


    Bravery¡­ thought Joffrey, unamused. Is it bravery if you know you will come back? He asked himself.


    The question was moot however, because was so scared he thought he might shit his pants.


    "Are you sure of this, Joffrey?" asked Jhos as he warily gazed down the abyss.


    "I''m the only one here who can make the climb, and I''d rather not risk anyone else" he said, cursing as his shivering hands struggled to secure the rope to the edge and to himself. He gritted his teeth into a silent snarl.


    I will have answers.


    The shaking lessened considerably, and Joffrey used the lull to secure it tightly before throwing the other end down. S?a?ch* Th? ??v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "If I don''t come back up in a day¡­ well, everyone knows what to do¡­" he said as he stared into the abyss, gulping hard.


    "I''ll assume command, take the men to Khol''s Refuge and report our failure to the General¡­" Jhos trailed off as Joffrey stared at the abyss once more. "Joff¡­ are you sure?" Jhos asked intently, for once using his nickname. "We know that a group of powerful sorcerers are linked with mass resuscitations and mass killings¡­ Killings that are only growing more prevalent¡­ that''s enough to mobilize the Five Garrisons¡­" Jhos almost pleaded.


    Joffrey took another gulp, genuinely thinking it through.


    ¡­


    Sansa had an uncharacteristically focused look, as if trying to decipher a deep meaning.


    "But, Joffrey¡­ What is a different song if not a sequence of changed keys?" she said.


    ¡­


    We make our own songs¡­ he thought, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again.


    "Dawn, Major" he said with a salute.


    "Dawn" Jhos said as he placed his fist over his heart.


    And then, he jumped into the Abyss.


    -.PD.-


    Darkness surrounded Joffrey as he let the rope free again, jumping from the wall once more as he descended another dozen meters with a single leap. Midway through a gust of wind seemed to pick him up like a crazed pendulum, driving him to his left with deceptive force as the wind roared.


    "AUGH-!" Joffrey grunted as he slammed against the uneven ''wall'', feeling blood ooze from the reopened wound in his cheek. The deep thrum from the millions of appeasers that hanged from the upper levels sounded distorted from here, an echo that seemed to multiply their sound while at the same time muffling it¡­


    It sounds like¡­


    It sounded like the sobs of the earth itself¡­


    HHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­.


    He let the rope loose again, descending deeper and deeper as the light from the dusk sun seemed to disappear altogether, leaving Joffrey coated in darkness.


    They said it was right here¡­ did I skip it without seeing it? He asked himself as he jumped again.


    This time though he felt no wall when he landed, instead it was as if a hole on the earth had opened up and swallowed him as he kept going and crashed into the ground.


    "Thank the gods" Joffrey muttered as he disentangled himself from the rope, trying to find the oil lantern inside his backpack.


    The lazy glow from the lantern slowly illuminated Joffrey''s surroundings, revealing some kind of cave that opened wide into the Dry Deep. Joffrey turned back and gazed at the crumbled and cracked stone arch that seemed to lead into a perfectly squared tunnel.


    I''m here, he thought as he secured the rope to a nearby rock.


    Why the hells would someone build this here?! Joffrey thought as he mustered every pitiful ounce of courage he thought he had and walked towards it. It was immediately apparent that the tunnel was long, a straight line of unending black, light absorbing black stone.


    Just like Hightower''s foundations and the black obelisk.


    Oh gods¡­


    He looked at the hallway''s walls as he walked, trying to decipher drawings and scribbles that seemed all but destroyed with the passage of time. He briefly stopped as he discarded one of his gloves, feeling its contour with his fingers and bringing his head closer, frowning.


    The erosion¡­ it was not caused by wind¡­ it was caused by water. Salted water.


    They built this when the Dry Deep was an actual sea?!


    He kept walking, trying to decipher what had been drawn. Everything was thoroughly eroded by time, air and water, but the hallway was so long that something vaguely comprehensible began to emerge as Joffrey compiled an eventual image inside his head with the help of a small fragment of charcoal and a smooth slate. He felt it was missing a lot, but after so much time¡­ thousands of years¡­ hundreds of thousands if it had been built at the same time as the Hightower''s foundations and the black obelisk¡­ a lot had been lost.


    The mural depicted the same pattern over and over and over again. Some kind of army, all moving intently towards an opposing figure that wielded some kind of weapon in his hands.


    Joffrey scribbled like a madman as he kept moving, frequently stopping to gaze at the hallway with his lantern and piecing in details that he''d previously missed, thanking the gods he had decided to take painting as a hobby in Tyrosh all those years ago¡­


    The pattern was recurring, showing the army or mob as it advanced and tore apart the figure. When the figure was gone the army seemed to spread everywhere, flooding the entire section of the hallway, even the ceiling. After that though, there was an interruption. For several dozen meters the carvings stopped, only to then resume again in a very similar matter. Joffrey didn''t know if the pattern recurred again exactly or if it showed some differences, as the passage of time had taken a heavy toll on it¡­ but the central theme was the same.


    Army appears, figure stands and pleads or maybe defies them, gets torn apart and then nothing¡­ again and again and again¡­


    He kept walking, checking the small holes that frequently appeared below the mural. According to the stories that had circulated through Bonetown the holes had been full of obsidian slabs.


    There was none left though, the Grey Word Whisperers had seen to that.


    Maybe the obsidian interferes with their magic or harms them? But if so how could they get rid of it themselves?


    He kept walking until the hallway suddenly ended and opened up into a great dome the size of the Red Keep''s throne room.


    A hall filled with carvings.


    Joffrey narrowed his lamp''s beam as he inspected the walls and the ceiling. All across the room he could see one great carving, jagged and eroded but still somewhat understandable. The area around the entrance was taken by some kind of group, people in various states of dismay or alert, spreading and running all across the first third of the hall. To the sides he could see armored figures with swords drawn out, looking in every direction.


    To the other side he spotted some kind of table filled with people of distinguished bearing, most of them standing, shouting or maybe screaming, looking at the center of the ceiling¡­


    Joffrey walked to the center of the room and looked up, hands trembling slightly.


    ----


    ----


    At the center were four figures, two of them surrounding the third while the fourth stood apart. One of them was clearly female and though the erosion had long since erased her expression, the way she tenderly held the figure in the center of the ceiling clearly showed some kind of deep anguish. The other one was clad in some kind of armor, shaking the one at the center.


    Joffrey frowned as he kept looking, shifting the beam towards the central figure. His hands seemed to be twisting the wrong way but only barely, as if their movement had just began. His chest seemed to be giving out as his neck coiled like some kind of maddened snake. And his face, his face¡ª


    "Joffrey, Joffrey what is it?!" wailed his mother as she held him, the pain unbearable.


    His face, was, bloated¡ª


    "Joffrey!!! Please! Don''t, Joffrey--"


    Swollen, twisting in a rictus of agony as the poison clogged his airways and the purple whirlwind erupted from the sides, tiny wisps of it already reaching for his form.


    He shifted his gaze from the wedding to the side as his head pounded, following the wisp as it passed beside his uncle Tyrion, dazed as he held a cup... He kept following it as it reached the ground.


    Joffrey suddenly realized he was standing on the purple, the whole floor of the hall was one big whirlwind. He could see the eddies and twirls carved in loving, degraded detail, a perfect image of the curse that tormented him.


    Joffrey took a breath every half second, hands shaking out of control as the trembling light followed the whirlwind of twirls and eldritch fractals as they kept getting more and more complicated, finally reaching a crescendo as they suddenly stopped, right in the place he was standing upon.


    He fell to the ground, hyperventilating under the weight of a million years as the lantern clanked to the side, illuminating the circle in the middle of the room which was devoid of the purple, right in front of his now sagging head.


    He saw something carved on the circle, two sets of them. The first set was a string of half destroyed figures and dots, all arrayed one after the other on a line, while the other¡­


    The other set was written in the common tongue of Westeros.


    His hand seemed as if with the palsy as it grabbed the lantern and slowly, ever so slowly, pointed it at the jagged and gritted letters.


    E¡­V¡­N¡­ P¡­R¡­ U¡­H¡­


    The damage was too great, the time too far away¡­ the rest of the letters were illegible¡­ he couldn''t figure it out.


    He couldn''t figure it out.


    The answers were staring at him right at his face and he couldn''t understand them.


    I can''t figure it out.


    Joffrey suddenly screamed as he sagged back on his knees, a long, harrowing screech which mixed with the appeasers the miner had left in the room, a sudden gust of wind making them shake and tumble, thrum and clank.


    HHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMmmmmmmmm¡­. They thrummed.


    "WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!" he screamed at the Purple.


    "PLEASE! ANSWER ME PLEASE!!!" he screamed as he pounded at the floor with his fists, his eyes red.


    HHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUMMMMmmmmm¡­ the appeasers thrummed with the faltering wind, growing quieter as the gust petered out.


    "please¡­ please¡­" he muttered as he fell on his side, tucking his arms close to his belly and feeling an empty, all-encompassing wariness that seemed to pull him down to the floor.


    The hall was still, the winds gone, the carving unmoving, the Purple quiet.


    Whatever answers had been left for Joffrey, they had long since gone with the salt and the wind.


    -.PD.-

 Fanart: Eat Me Later!

    A small Fanart appreciation for a great storythread, sir author.I hope this is acceptable --


    Spoiler: KILL CORPSES NOW - EAT ME LATER - Fanart


    Reference point chapter is ==== Baurus ..SB CF CH20a - Chapter 20: The Silver Lion S?a??h th? ??v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    also... repeat.. last update.


    Baurus ..SB CFCH23a - Chapter 23: The Expedition (Whisperers)

 Chapter 24: A Man.

    AN: Another update on the Beyond (not Yi-Ti, this story has spent about a single chapter on Yi Ti actually), so those that have been suffering through those updates may want to skip this one too. I understand some are frustrated by the lack of Westeros, or by the ''change of pace''... know that I understand those concerns but this arc (and this update too) are pivotal moments for Joffrey''s character development, and necessary for the progression of this story too. No point to keep posting about it, besides, there''s not much left of the arc anyway. I''d also appreciate that those who only skim through the chapter (or dont read it at all) refrain from commenting, for obvious reasons... seriously, you are only wasting electrons .


    But enough of that, enjoy!


    -----


    Chapter 24: A Man.


    "Storm''s picking up again¡­" Said Captain Shah as he rode besides Joffrey, away from his position at the front.


    "Godsdamnit, again!?" Joffrey cursed as he stopped his mount and stood over his spurs. He could see the characteristic dust prophets forming up on the horizon yet again, small, contained whirlwinds of sand and fury barely more than a couple of meters in diameter.


    Joffrey cursed again, signaling the formation to stop.


    There was a reason they were called ''dust prophets'', and it was not because of their oratory skills.


    "Sunbeam Colba, signal ''Form Camp'' and ''Brace for Sandstorm''" he commanded to his back.


    "Aye sir" said the sunbeam, getting out the relevant small signal flags.


    "This one''s the fifth in a week, it''s as if the winds themselves don''t want us to reach Kohl''s Refuge¡­" he muttered to Shah. The long scout nodded warily, "It''s very rare to see them so bunched up¡­ and absurdly coincidental for that to happen when we need the most haste¡­" he said as he scanned the grey horizon, watching the dunes intently.


    "Nothing we can do about it¡­" Joffrey muttered.


    Another motto of my life¡­ maybe I could write a compilation?


    "Tell the others to meet at my tent after they''ve set up, we might as well use the time productively" He said.


    "I''ll see to it" Shah said as he spurred his horse, and Joffrey stared at the steadily darkening horizon as a grey curtain slowly enveloped his surroundings.


    We need to get to Kohl''s Refuge as soon as possible¡­ before the Expedition''s supplies run out¡­


    -.PD.-


    "Alright, so what do we know?" Joffrey asked as he paced inside his tent, hands clasped behind his back in a manner very similar to the General''s, not that he noticed that.


    "We know an army of undead is being resurrected by unknown means, and that their numbers are building up" Said Captain Sabu, stating the obvious as he loosed the straps on the heavy armor he was carrying.


    "We also know that a powerful group of cultists known as the Grey Word Whisperers, led by some man named Vahram, is responsible or at the very least consorting with the force behind the mass resurrections" Said Jhos, frowning as he thought about it all.


    "We know the reanimated can be destroyed or killed if sufficiently damaged, and that fire seems to light them like torches if the circumstances permit it¡­ and there''s something about the obsidian that fits in with all this, but I don''t know how¡­" Xon-Mi muttered out loud, walking forward and leaning on the small table.


    Joffrey kept pacing as the sandstorm outside the tent redoubled in intensity, the eerie shrieking and the slamming sand an ominous backdrop to the thoughts inside his head.


    Obsidian does something bad for the Whisperers or their allies¡­


    Obsidian¡­


    Obsidian¡­. Also known as Dragonglass in Westeros.


    For a student of history, the connection wasn''t that hard to make, even though he''d been trying to deny it again and again.


    Dragonglass, one of the few if not the only weapon known to have been lethal against¡­ the White Walkers¡­


    Incomprehensible abominations that sought to exterminate all life on Westeros¡­


    Also known for raising the dead, whom were called wights¡­


    Thought of as a myth by almost everyone on Westeros¡­


    Godsdamnit, the cosmos can''t be that cruel. It can''t be¡­


    He dismissed the possibility out of his mind, furiously shaking his head before he looked back to Xon-Mi, "For now though, can you do anything with the chunk of obsidian we recovered? Make a couple dozen daggers maybe?" he asked the Wooden-Iron Sun.


    Xon-Mi shook his head "Not with the equipment here. With the mobile forges at Kohl''s refuge¡­ maybe, thought that''s doubtful. If we were at the Greytower¡­" he shook his head again. "There is something I can do now though, I can use all the scrap bronze we''ve collected to make metal knuckles, not very dangerous but if I coat the outer part with jagged pieces of obsidian, and assuming the stuff actually does something to our enemies¡­ well, at least it ''be something" he said, showing his palms and shrugging.


    "Do it" Joffrey told him, briefly opening his tent''s flap to gaze outside.


    "We need to get to Kohl''s Refuge and warn the others" Joffrey said as he gazed back at his officers, "Whatever the cost, we must get back" he said as he stared at the storm outside, eyes as hard as granite.


    -.PD.-


    The sandstorm raged eternally, only seeming to get worse after each day of hard marching.


    Joffrey was stared fixedly at the slate in front of him, puzzling over the few figures he''d managed to recover from the Carved Hall. He''d written down everything inside the circle in the vague hope of puzzling something out, though that hope remained scant.


    It''s no use to keep pouring over the letters, they could say anything¡­


    The pictograms though¡­


    He sketched in a different scroll what he''d been slowly reconstructing out of the strange string of figures, trying to figure out its meaning.


    This one looks like some kind of soldier or warrior¡­ And this one looks like some kind of tree surrounded by three dots¡­


    There was no denying it now. Someone in the deep past had, somehow, left a message for Joffrey. They''d carved his death at his wedding in almost perfect detail. After recovering from his breakdown, Joffrey had identified Tywin, Tyrion, Olenna, Maergery, Ser Jaime and even Sansa on it. They''d somehow known what was going to happen¡­ it would not be farfetched to say they were probably the ones behind his condition, or at least extremely knowledgeable about it¡­ there was no way in hells that someone who had not seen the purple could have carved such an¡­ accurate depiction of it, twirls and forks and fractals that made his head hurt included.


    But what were they trying to tell him? And why leave a part as some sort of puzzle and not as plain text as they had clearly done but a few centimeters below¡­


    He thought the pictograms perhaps represented some type of spell, maybe, perhaps foolishly, a key to resolving his curse in some way¡­


    He''d shown the pictograms to Jhos but he couldn''t make heads or tails of it. He said he was sure it was not some kind of spell or written magic that he knew of however¡­


    What does a soldier, a tree and a mace have all in common?


    ¡­


    He shook his head as he stood up, securing yet again the heavy scarf around his neck and mouth before putting on his helmet.


    He stepped outside into the raging sandstorm, taking a moment to get his bearing before walking determined to the northern perimeter.


    The scouts on watch there were all staring at differing angles, almost buried under a sea of cloaks. So good were they camouflaged that Joffrey almost stepped on them.


    "Anything out there?" he asked as he crouched beside them, peering intently and trying to shield his eyes with his hand.


    "All quiet sir" said one of the Threerays, clutching his bow in one hand while the other was not too far away from his saber.


    "Good, let me know if the storm shifts" he told him before getting back. He walked back around the perimeter, inspecting positions and gazing at the damned storm. Someone was trying to keep them pinned here, he was sure of it.


    He was a bit skeptical of coincidences after all he''d lived through.


    He crouched beside a few scouts in the eastern perimeter, peering intently at the grey storm. "Anything out here?" he asked them.


    "Sir!" one of them said as he turned back, "Nothing so f-"


    "Ssshh¡­ look, to the right" one of them said, readying his bow.


    All the scouts slowly rose from their dune, readying their bows for a quick ''volley''.


    Joffrey could see some kind of figure approaching from within the sandstorm, a slow, lumbering shadow.


    His heart clenched as he slowly got his saber out, his mouth dry as he peered intently at the silhouette. The undead were coming for them again.


    I will not falter, I will not be stopped, Joffrey thought furiously. He had to get to the oasis.


    Suddenly the silhouette stopped, and somehow seemed to¡­ open itself?


    Joffrey narrowed his eyes before he suddenly shouted.


    "CAMEL BALLISTA! GET DOWN!" he said as he jumped and tackled one of the scouts. A few of the others jumped in a second, but the others were too slow. With a strangled Kchik vaguely audible over the sandstorm, a hailstorm of meter long bolts rained all over their position, piercing and impaling Joffrey''s men.


    "SOUND THE ALARM! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!!!" he bellowed back as he peeked over the small dune again, cursing as he saw the big silhouette disappear and be replaced by dozens of Camel Tribe Raiders, shooting arrows without end at the camp.


    The horns started to sound as Joffrey took out his bow and placed an arrow on a raider''s chest, doing the same again before he ducked down and narrowly avoided one that would have taken him in the eye.


    "SCOUTS! LEAPING FALLBACK NOW! To the inner perimeter!" he shouted as the camel riders seemed to multiply, emerging from the cover of the sandstorm and raining arrows upon the camp with their short bows.


    "YOU HEARD THE TWOSUN! LOOSE AND LEAP MEN! LOOSE AND LEAP!" roared a Sunbeam as he loosed an arrow before pushing one of his men back. The scouts started retreating towards the inner perimeter, running for a few meters before loosing arrows at the raiders, forcing them to keep their distance lest they give the scouts a bigger target. The enemy camelry aborted their incipient saber charge, splitting in two and falling back to their sides as they peppered the scouts with their own arrows.


    Joffrey heard vague screams of agony and grunts muffled by the all-encompassing sandstorm as he got another raider in the neck, running back again as a few of the scouts in front covered him, forcing the camel archers to shoot quickly and with lesser accuracy lest an arrow found them instead.


    He leapt up and over the inner perimeter, formed by the circled wagons of the supporting formation. The circled wagons served as a last line of concentrated defense, and he could see most of the legionaries converging on them as the ones that had already made it tried their best to cover them.


    Joffrey quickly joined them, shooting arrows like a man possessed at the dozens of raiders that had formed a ''skirmishing circle'', a Camel Tribe favorite which consisted of circling around a moving center as the closest riders shot their arrows, this way a continuous stream of them was always in the air (as the circle was always rotating), making the scouts duck continuously lest they get killed by a lucky arrow.


    "SUNBEAM JEHI!!!" he roared as he got a raider on the shoulder, dropping him to the ground.


    "Sir!" shouted his horn scout, clutching the multitude of horns close as he ran and ducking beside a light foodstuffs wagon, right next to Joffrey.


    "Signal ''Fallback and Hold!'' Right now damnit!" he said as he crouched, planting his back on the cart and letting it cover him from the deadly arrows.


    "Aye Sir! Fallback and--" the entire light wagon Jehi had been leaning on erupted in splinters as a spread of heavy bolts pierced it, impaling Jehi and four other scouts brutally, some of them flying back from the bolt''s force.


    Joffrey tried to drown their harrowing screams from his mind as he jumped and grabbed his horn scout by the shoulders, dragging him back to his own wagon as a hail of arrows rained all around them.


    "SOMEONE GET THAT DAMNED BALLISTA!" Joffrey roared to his back as he peeked again, the scouts closest to him aiming and loosing arrows at the Camel Ballista. They didn''t seem very effective; planting themselves harmlessly on the sturdy looking carriageas it once again disappeared into the sandstorm, making use of its infamous mobility to quickly reposition itself gods knew where. He saw Captain Hu jump over the barricade of crates and carts and take command over the scouts to his right.


    "JEHI! SUNBEAM!!!" he shouted at the man to his side, but his horn scout looked listless, eyes still as blood oozed from his mouth and his mangled shoulder¡­ the bolt had taken his entire right arm.


    Joffrey took one of his horns, taking a deep breath.


    He blew ''Fallback and Hold'' again and again, taking his saber with his other hand as he left his bow there.


    "ON THE LEFT FLANK! PACED ARROWS!" he roared at the men taking cover all around him, behind wagons and crates. "KEEP EM DISPERSED! COME ON! COME ON!!!" he shouted as he aimed at another skirmishing circle to his left with the saber. S~?a??h the ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    He blew the horn again as arrows rained all around the area, planting themselves on wood and flesh, one of them grazing his right arm.


    "Sir! Sir!!!" shouted a Sunbeam as he shook Joffrey. He lowered the horn as he took a gulp of air, cursing the storm as a bit of sand entered his mouth. He ducked with the sunbeam behind the wagon, trying to hear him over the shrieking of the sandstorm.


    He realized with a start it was his camp aid, Loh. "What is it Sunbeam?!" he asked before taking a quick peek up to look at the left most skirmishing circle again.


    "Shit¡­ ORANGE SECTION! WITH ME NOW!" he shouted as he stood and ran to the northern perimeter, dragging Loh with him.


    "Captain''s Shah and Xon-Mi are on the South side sir, they request orders!" his aide shouted as both him and Joffrey slammed against the sides of the wagons, crates and carts that served as the northern ''wall'' of the inner perimeter.


    He could see legionaries running towards the inner perimeter and getting sabered in the back by Camel Tribe raiders, their bloodied, curved swords reaping horrifying harvests of blood and flesh that quickly dissipated into the storm. The sparse arrows from the few scouts on the northern perimeter no deterrents for the slaughter. Most of the ones manning the line were dead, riddled with arrows.


    "ORANGE SECTION! COVERING ARROWS!" he shouted as the scouts from the 17th''s Orange Section reached him, jumping behind carts and bodies. The extra bows took out many of the most adventurous camel raiders, making them fallback in haste as the surviving legionaries reached the relative safety of the inner perimeter.


    Joffrey stood up despite the occasional strays that peppered his position, frowning as he watched the retreating raiders. He looked back, serenely surveying the other parts of the inner perimeter.


    They''ve smelled blood here, they''ll try to break the north.


    "Loh" he said as he grabbed the Sunbeam by the shoulder, "Get Captain Sabu and his Rangers here, tell him they''ll try to break through the north!" he shouted at his face, willing his voice to be heard over the sandstorm.


    "Aye sir!" he saluted quickly before dashing back.


    He pivoted back, relentlessly scanning the horizon in search of the dreaded charge.


    He strained against the wind, squinting as the sand pounded his face and the sparse arrows stopped landing near the perimeter altogether.


    "Sir¡­ is it over?" asked one of the men, lowering his bow slightly.


    Joffrey kept squinting, one hand on his saber while the other grasped the wagon''s tail wheel. He spotted a single rider, emerging from the sandstorm as he pumped his saber.


    "No¡­ but it will be one way or another soon enough¡­" he said, a calm peace taking over as he saw the rider slash his saber forward. Dozens of camel raiders emerged from behind him, wielding sabers and light leather shields.


    Joffrey raised his arm, holding his saber high, "PICK YOUR TARGETS, GUT THE CAMELS!" he shouted, the sandstorm making his grey cloak swirl behind him.


    The scouts rose as one, aiming and nocking their bows.


    Wait¡­


    Wait¡­¡­.


    Wait¡­¡­¡­.


    "LOOSE AT WILL!!!" he shouted, slashing down with his saber. The range was optimal and it showed, the accurate rain of arrows felling men and camels all over the outer perimeter of the camp, but they weren''t stopping.


    Only one faction would emerge from this battle.


    "PREPARE TO RECEIVE CAMELRY!!!!" Joffrey roared over the chorus of thungs, pitching his voice to carry. He braced himself against the wagon as the camels approached, a veritable tide intent on smashing the small circle, crazed by the prospect of supplies.


    The sound of rending wood and smashed flesh consumed all other sounds of battle as Joffrey crashed against the sandy ground, bodies and camels falling all around him. He struggled to get up, letting himself fall again as he spotted a dismounted raider trying to cut his head off. He felt the saber cut a small wound in his nape before he leapt up with a roar and tackled the man, tumbling through the sand and the melee. Joffrey lost his saber in the struggle, trying to stop the man from gutting him with his dagger. He batted the small dagger away and punched the man in the nose before he reciprocated with a wild fist to Joffrey forehead, making him see shimmers in between the sandstorm.


    He closed his hands on the man''s neck where his protective scarf had been lost, squeezing with all his strength. The Camel Tribe raider tried to get him off, struggling to lift Joffrey''s hands from his neck and punching his head repeatedly when he failed to move him.


    The raider looked just as desperate as Joffrey, and starved to boot. They were most likely fleeing from the same danger, and the prospect of food and supplies had been too much for the tribe to ignore, most likely.


    Joffrey kept squeezing and squeezing, panting with ragged breathing. After an eternity, the man seemed to slump slowly, ever so slowly as his head descended upon the ground and stayed still.


    He stood up, using a nearby upside down cart as support. He grabbed his head as he saw Captain Sabu''s Rangers flanking the raiders from the side and reaping a bloody harvest. That was too much for the raiders, breaking almost at once as the heavily armored Ranger''s of the 4th slammed into their flank. The other scouts had taken their bows out again and were planting arrows on the backs of the fleeing camel raiders.


    "Captain Sabu! Take command and make sure they don''t come back!" he shouted at his armored Captain before dashing to the south side. There he found Xon-Mi and Shah, taking cover behind some supply crates and fiddling over a small two wheeled cart no larger than a big dog.


    He jumped down to them just as the crate to their side was tossed backwards with impossible force, showering a couple of scouts with splinters and a spread of heavy bolts. Joffrey peeked through the hole the attack left in the inner peremeter and saw the form of the sturdy carriage, swiveling its small contraption to his left. The heavy wooden shield that covered it was peppered with arrows, but they didn''t seem to have caused any damage.


    "That Camel Ballista is tearing us to pieces, tell me you have something Xon-Mi" he said as he turned back to his officers.


    "We''re working on it!" Captain Xon-Mi grunted as he too peeked through the hole. He turned back and received a harried looking Wooden-Iron Tworay, who carried a stubby, fat tube the size of his arm with a golden, twisting dragon painted on its end.


    "A coiling dragon?! You told me they were like throwing dice!" Joffrey exclaimed as Xon-Mi, Shah and the Tworay loaded it on the small wooden cart. "You have a better idea?!" Xon-Mi shouted back as they placed it on the small cart and attached a string to it.


    Joffrey could see the discarded tubes of previous attempts, all scattered around the cart. They were too far away to score a meaningful hit with the incredibly inaccurate weapon¡­ they needed to get closer without the damned ballista turning them into shreds.


    Joffrey took a deep breath before grabbing a bow from the hand of a fallen scout. "I''m going to distract him, you two get the ''dragon closer while its focused on me and blow it back to whatever damned sandy shithole it came from!" he ordered them, leaving no place for doubts as he peeked once more.


    "Ready?!" he shouted back.


    There was silence for two seconds before Xon-Mi shouted back, "Ready!"


    Joffrey leapt like a tiger, dashing in a zigzag pattern and unleashing small eruptions of grey sand behind him as he ran towards the Camel Ballista''s rough north west. The stubby ballista peeked through the featureless wooden shield as it turned, following him as he kept running and loosing useless arrows at the cart¡­ They couldn''t ignore the flanking menace that the madman running towards them represented.


    The strangled kchick reached him a moment before the arrows. He jumped and rolled on the hard sand, hearing the sibilant whispers of the bolts flying or slamming into the sand all around him.


    He jumped back after the roll and cursed when he saw the wagon move. He was now parallel to them and he could see the whips that emerged from the wagon''s front franticly spurring the camels to move.


    I have to take down its mobility or we''ll have to do this all over again, Joffrey thought quickly as he let his knees fall and let his momentum slide him forward, quickly aiming his bow and planting an arrow on the lead camel''s skull. That set the other camels in a panic, but the ballista was now swiveling towards the nearby dune to the other side where he could see Xon-Mi and his man aiming the ''dragon atop the cart at close range.


    Nonononononono


    "OVER HERE!!!" he screamed as he let loose arrow after arrow, killing the rest of the camels, but the ballista continued its traverse towards Xon-Mi, undeterred.


    "XOOON-MIII!!!" Joffrey screamed just as a puff of smoke erupted from the dune and a shrieking projectile from the hells itself flew in a whirling pattern towards the carriage.


    THPSTHuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUWWWWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!


    The coiling dragon slammed itself right into the wagon''s front wheel before obliterating itself in a brilliant, orange explosion, tossing the wagon''s smoky remains to the side. It tumbled three times over before it stayed still, small wisps of smoke lazily crawling out of its interior.


    Joffrey ran towards it, arrow ready as he arrived to its side. He saw the mangled, still body of a Camel Tribe warrior half leaning out from the hole the explosion had left on the carriage, along with the smell of cooked flesh and rivers of blood.


    Joffrey lowered his bow with an exhausted sight, looking to his side and seeing Xon-Mi and his Tworay descending towards him.


    "By the Night Lion Joffrey¡­ that has to be one of the most insane stunts I have ever seen¡­" said Xon-Mi as he reached him, patting him in the back as he gazed at the wrecked Camel Ballista.


    "Motto of my life Captain" Joffrey said with another sight as he grabbed Xon-Mi by the shoulder, glad he was still alive. The sandstorm had decreased in intensity by a bit, improving visibility.


    Joffrey turned back towards his disheveled camp, "What a mess¡­ We should be fighting the reanimated, not amongst ourselves¡­" he said as he shook his head. Poisoning the water wells had been a stroke of genius for the enemy commander, assuming he had ways to hydrate his living forces¡­ the lack of water turned even the best of allies into desperate gamblers, and the Legion and the Camel Tribes had been far, far from allies¡­


    "We should--"


    "WATCH OUT JOFFR--!" suddenly screamed Xon-Mi as he tackled him, ending his warning with a gurgle. Joffrey rolled on the ground in a sloppy water recovery, stumbling over the sand before placing an arrow on a bloodied camel tribe archer that stood over the upside down wagon a mere ten meters away.


    The archer fell on the sand with a muffled thump as he turned back.


    "Xon¡­ Oh Gods¡­" Joffrey muttered as he saw the arrow on Xon-Mi''s neck, blood coming out of the wound like a fountain.


    "YOU!" he roared at the Tworay that was now confirming Joffrey''s kill, cutting the wounded raider''s throat. "GO GET A BODY SCRIBE! NOW!" he shouted before turning back to Xon-Mi and kneeling beside the Captain.


    "Hold on¡­ Hold on Xon-Mi¡­" Joffrey muttered desperately as he put pressure on the wound and the Captain coughed even more blood, his dazed eyes focusing on Joffrey. The diagnosis was automatic as it was unconscious¡­ the Captain was, for all intent and purposes, a dead man.


    His breathing kept getting more erratic as blood filled his lungs, but Xon-Mi found one last burst of strength to grab a hold of both of Joffrey''s forearms in an iron grip.


    He couldn''t speak, but Joffrey could see his lips moving.


    He felt a deep anguish as he read what the struggling Captain was trying to say¡­ a desperate request repeated over and over again as the blood kept sliding down his neck and his eyes bored into Joffrey, pleading.


    "Y-Y-Yes¡­" Joffrey said as he felt his throat clench, "W-We''ll burn the body, we''ll burn the body Xon-Mi¡­" he said as he grabbed him by the shoulders, keeping him close. The Captain seemed to find that answer satisfying, his arms suddenly falling limp as he leaned back on the dune, closing his eyes with a final sight.


    Joffrey kept him close for a while, breathing raggedly.


    "Sir!" shouted a man from his side as he stopped running, one of the few surviving Body Scribes from his formation.


    Joffrey swallowed once more before speaking, "Gather¡­ gather all the wood from the wrecked wagons¡­ prepare a pile¡­" he ordered, still staring at Xon-Mi''s body. He realized the Captain had been holding something on his hand, a bit of scrapped bronze.


    Scrapped bronze tipped with obsidian.


    "Godsdamnit Xon¡­" he muttered as he held him close. "I would have come back Xon-Mi¡­ I would have come back¡­" he whispered, willing himself to stand back up and get back to the camp.


    Because he was sure Xon-Mi had not been the only one to give his life this day.


    -.PD.-


    The beleaguered supporting formation could have broken into a sprint if not for the iron discipline that the Beyond had imprinted upon them¡­ or if they hadn''t been so tired.


    Kohl''s Refuge was a small oasis surrounded by the remains of a low earthen rampart that protected a tiny, abandoned village. Joffrey''s heart almost gave out when he saw the Legion''s banners flying from the rampart, but he knew something was wrong the moment not a single rider came to greet them.


    The wary, battle hardened survivors of the supporting formation slowly marched through the big hole in the middle of the rampart. They had to toss to the sides two upside down wagons that had been covering it before they could march through.


    And the bodies¡­


    No¡­


    The tiny village was full of them, both unmoving wights and dead legionaries. It was obvious a massive battle had taken place here, and Joffrey felt his mouth hanging wide open as he gazed upon the remains of the Expedition.


    "Major!" one of his Threerays said. "Smoke! Over there!" he said as he pointed towards the village center.


    Joffrey spurred his fatigued horse forward along with the formation''s van as he followed the smoke. He arrived soon enough and was greeted with the sight of huge bonfires, being fed bodies by men clad in the now damaged, characteristic bamboo overarmor of the 22nd Iron Guards.


    The men looked even more weary and exhausted than Joffrey''s, but when they looked up at him and his van a spark seemed to light up in their eyes.


    "Its.. ITS THEM!!! THEY''RE BACK!" shouted one.


    "IT''S THE SILVER LION!!! THE SILVER LION IS BACK!" shouted another one.


    A dull, weary roar of joy went up as Joffrey and his men entered the village center, whose tumbled down houses and wrecked wagons served as some kind of makeshift barricade.


    Joffrey dismounted and was promptly hugged by men from the 22nd, the sheer joy at seeing their brothers alive again overpowering them.


    Joffrey grabbed one who seemed coherent enough, bringing him in close and shouting in his ear, "Where''s the General?!" he shouted.


    The budding crowd was suddenly very, very quiet.


    "¡­Where is General Yu?" he asked again.


    -.PD.-


    Captain Biju''s bright red overarmor had seen better days. Barely a scrap of bamboo was left, showing the metal lamellar he wore beneath it. The Captain of the 22nd Iron Guards looked even more weary than his men, exhausted both morally and physically. To his side stood Major Yham, his head full of cuts, bites and bandages.


    Both of them stood to the sides of General Yu''s bed, looking solemn and stiff as metal rods.


    They were what was left of the Expedition''s high command.


    "General" Joffrey said as he kneeled on the floor of the tent, now level with the General as he placed a fist over his heart.


    General Yu was but a shadow of what he''d once been. His now thin chest was partly covered in bandages, and the smell of rot and infection flooded the tent.


    His eye though¡­ his eye shone with a determination Joffrey had never seen before, as if all his remaining willpower had been consolidated for this one moment.


    "Find¡­ answers?" The Night Hawk asked, haltingly.


    Answers¡­


    Joffrey took a deep breath before lowering his head in shame, "¡­Some¡­ The cultists and the corpses definitively share an important connection, though we are not certain as to which¡­ obsidian seems to do something to either the corpses or the magic behind them¡­"


    He was still for a great while, so long Joffrey had thought he''d drifted to sleep again.


    Suddenly, the General grabbed Joffrey''s shoulder with one arm as he took out the string that was tied around his neck with the other. It held the Scout''s Horn, a black, small horn no bigger than his hand, flanked on both sides by two clear gems. He placed it on Joffrey''s hand before he slowly took out one of the golden rimmed suns from his uniform and gave it to him.


    "Give¡­ this¡­ to¡­ Jin¡­ May he serve¡­ the Scouts¡­ through dawn¡­ and¡­ dusk¡­" he muttered.


    "I will sir" Joffrey said after swallowing, understanding the meaning behind it as he took them.


    Colone¡ªno¡­ General Jin will lead the Scouts now¡­


    He was standing up when Yu''s hand suddenly clamped down on his again, passing something else to his hand.


    He looked at his hand, which trembled slightly. It was another one of the General''s gold trimmed iron suns.


    Yu seemed to gather the last of his strength as he leaned forward slightly, staring right at Joffrey as he squeezed his arm with all of his faltering strength.


    "End this¡­ Colonel¡­ End this before they consume the world itself¡­" he said before slumping back, gritting his teeth in pain at the exertion before falling into blessed sleep again.


    Joffrey gazed at his trembling hand, the dying words of his superior resonating inside his head again and again.


    The trembling stopped, and Joffrey squeezed the sun in his hand tightly.


    "I will¡­" he whispered.


    -.PD.-


    The General died the next night, and as the expedition slowly prepared itself for its return home, illuminated by the burning pyre that had been their leader and commander, Joffrey nodded once more.


    "One week Captain Biju, one week at Gurhem''s Vale and no more. With so many of the men gone¡­ the supplies should last you that and much more, and the Returned will hopefully never find you there" he told the Captain of the 22nd Iron Guards.


    "I''ll wait there one week for you, and then bring the news and the obsidian to the legion" the burly Captain confirmed the order below the light of the burning fire.


    "Joffrey¡­ please reconsider this madness, you will achieve nothing!" said Jhos, exasperated.


    "If there''s even a one percent chance that killing Vahram will end this¡­ then I will end it one way or the other¡­ besides, if there''s a place left in the Beyond which will have some kind of answer¡­ it will be K''Dath" Joffrey said, staring at the horizon for a moment before clasping Jhos''s back. "Take care of the men, make sure they reach the Greytower alive if I don''t make it back" he said.


    Jhos sighted deeply before nodding, "I will" he said before saluting.


    Joffrey nodded back before getting on one of the small, covered wagons that had not been turned into wooden kindling.


    It was loaded with enough firepowder to blow a half a dozen taverns to kingdom come, including shrieking, shadowy cultists inside them.


    He rode it out Kohl''s Refuge slowly, carefully avoiding the legionnaires who stopped whatever they were doing and saluted, the weariness evaporating as soon as they saw him as they stood ramrod straight.


    He was about to leave the earthen rampart behind when a he noticed another wagon was blocking the way.


    "You may have convinced Sabu and Jhos¡­ and outright intimidated Hu with that shiny new sun¡­ but everyone knows the Long Scouts never did respect authority in quite the same way¡­" said Captain Shah as with an easy smile.


    He was on the driver''s seat, right next to Major Yham¡­ who sported a look that seemed outright dangerous, just begging him to say no.


    He saw another six men climbing the same wagon, all covered in rags and cloaks, indistinguishable from the many other travellers of the Beyond.


    "I.. Ah¡­ I¡­" Joffrey struggled to find an answer that would not make him a hypocrite.


    He found he couldn''t.


    "Fine" he grumbled as another man took the driver''s position on his own wagon.


    And just like that, Joffrey''s suicide mission towards the feared city of K''Dath was expanded to accommodate another nine men.


    -.PD.-


    The long line of carriages and refugees was a sight that constantly baffled Joffrey. As the line kept moving and the grey bricked walls of K''Dath kept getting bigger and bigger along with his mounting sense of dread, Joffrey puzzled again over the hundreds, thousands of men, woman and children slowly entering the city.


    It was with a start that he realized the people were not refugees.


    They were pilgrims.


    The two wagons that carried their strike team looked like any other. Dirty and worn down, but they hid both a group of some of the most tenacious men Joffrey had ever met and an explosive surprise. Hopefully, the complete lunacy of turning back and attacking now would work in his favor, it was, to his mind, a completely unexpected plan¡­


    The huge, grey walls of K''Dath loomed over as they passed below the portcullis. They followed the rest of the pilgrims, many of which had stopped to pray or cry as they kissed the floor in joy.


    Joffrey had dozens of plans all geared towards bypassing any complications they might meet at the gatehouse, but he was shocked to find no one searching or interrogating the pilgrims. In fact, the wall hardly seemed manned. Only the two towers that flanked the gatehouse and presumably controlled the portcullis showed any signs of activity, grey robed men and women who silently peered down at the great mob that surged into the city.


    Cultists¡­ Joffrey thought with a shiver as he covered a wisp of his hair under the grey loak.


    No amount of cloaks could contain his mounting sense of dread however. The hair at the back of Joffrey''s neck stood on edge as he gazed upon the dread city of K''Dath.


    He could see great, massive stone pyramids that rose to the heavens, grey stepped behemoths that lumbered over the streets and squares like titans of a bygone era, casting long shadows that seemed to leave the city in perpetual darkness as they blocked almost every bit of sunlight, so tall and numerous they were.


    Joffrey could see them everywhere, everywhere he looked. The people, pilgrims, were converging on the huge plazas that surrounded them, just sitting and¡­ waiting.


    He stopped the carriage in a nearby alleyway, jumping off quickly as the one behind him carrying the firepowder stopped too.


    Godsdamnit¡­ it doesn''t make sense! Why leave their Capital so unguarded?!


    "Something''s wrong¡­ " he whispered to the tarp as he lounged on the carriage''s side, eying the streets as they gradually emptied.


    "Are they unto us?" came Yham''s voice from the inside. As much as he''d wanted to come alone, he was glad he had the fearsome Dark Rhino himself at his side.


    "I don''t think so¡­ but they''re doing something, something important¡­ a speech or a sermon maybe¡­" Joffrey said as he kept looking to both ends of the alley.


    "I''m going in for a quick reconnaissance, stay near the gatehouse" he said.


    Two knocks gave him the answer as he nodded to himself and walked out of the alleyway as just another pilgrim.


    As he walked, Joffrey could see the people, both residents and new arrivals just walking out and joining the crowds, sitting in front of the nearest pyramids. Entire families awaited below the shadows as if preparing to hear the greatest preacher that had ever been born, filling the vast grey plazas in silence.


    Joffrey walked towards the big hill in the middle of the city that seemed to dwarf even the pyramids in height. The streets were near deserted when he reached it, and he felt awfully exposed with not another soul in sight.


    He suddenly realized the hill that dominated the city was not in fact a hill, but the greatest of the pyramids. The grey stepped monstrosity emerged as if organically from the grey bricked plaza around it, rising into the air to tower over all others, a structure bigger than Aegon''s hill¡­ though no crowd had assembled here.


    He gulped as he took in the sight.


    If Varham is anywhere in this godsforsaken city¡­ it will be here¡­


    He hoarded every scrap of courage he had as he started ascending the steps. Every five seconds he would stop and gaze at the rest of the pyramid or the city below, but he couldn''t see anyone who was not congregating around the ''smaller'' pyramids.


    He kept going up the stairs, the wind and a chill in his neck making him go faster and faster. Soon the hairs on his arms were standing on edge too, and Joffrey could feel something monumental approaching as his quick walk turned into a sprint, climbing the eternal steps three at a time.


    He ran as the chorus of the crowds around the pyramids was reduced to a dull roar, as the sun slowly hid beyond the horizon to the West.


    He took out his saber as he reached the final steps, some indescribable feeling overpowering his senses and making him run at a dead sprint towards the doors.


    The double stone doors were five meters tall and three wide. They seemed to be the only way inside the great building that crowned the pyramid, and they were wide open.


    Joffrey dashed past them, entering some kind of cathedral full of rectangular stone benches, benches that stretch throughout the building¡­ until they reached some sort of altar.


    Sitting right before it was a man clad in simple grey robes no different from the ones Joffrey had seen cultists wear. The man though¡­ he was no simple cultist. There was something about him that made Joffrey''s stomach curl and his hands shake.


    Joffrey stopped immediately, cursing his stupidity and the strange feeling that was metaphorically screaming at his ear as he pivoted to his right and ducked behind a pillar.


    The man did not move however. He appeared to be as still as a statue, facing the altar.


    Joffrey approached slowly, trying to understand what was happening around the city as he fingered his hidden dagger with the other hand. It was poisoned with the deadliest concoction Shah had ever devised, enough to kill an elephant in a torrent of pure agony.


    He walked quietly, barely making a sound as he glided from pillar to pillar. He was barely a dozen meters away from the man when he suddenly turned back and gazed right at Joffrey.


    ------


    ------


    His face did not differ greatly from the general Yi-Tish stock, brown, slanted eyes and a single ponytail that reached to his hip, leaving the rest of his head shaved clean.


    "A bit far away from home little sun, aren''t you?" he asked, his tone conversational. His voice was light and serene as he gazed at Joffrey with a satisfied smile.


    Joffrey felt his heart hammering inside of him like the most obvious gong in the world.


    The one behind it all¡­ If I can get to him¡­


    Joffrey slowly walked from behind the pillar, waving his saber threateningly as he slowly walked towards him, trying to keep the cultist''s eyes on the obvious weapon as he prepared to throw the poisoned dagger.


    "Vahram, is it? You have killed quite a lot of my friends¡­" Joffrey said, trying to keep him engaged as he kept walking slowly.


    "That is my name¡­ and you will get to meet your friends soon enough¡­ All will be quiet soon, all will be peace¡­" Vahram said, his sincerity shining through his voice as he turned back to look at the dozens of stone benches which also surrounded the altar.


    He kept advancing, wary of a trap as the man left his back exposed. Suddenly Joffrey dashed forward, slamming a knee into his leg as he grabbed him by the back of his neck, leaving him kneeled with the poisoned dagger right at his throat.


    "Stop it! Stop the ritual now!" Joffrey roared, an eye blink away from gutting him like a pig.


    "¡­ritual?" Varham asked, apparently confused and not struggling at all as Joffrey held him.


    "Ritual¡­ a¡­ ritual¡­ you''ve really¡­ you''ve really got no idea do you¡­?" Varham said, an incipient chuckle starting to emerge deep within his throat.


    "Stop the corpses or you''ll be joining them right now!" Joffrey bellowed as he drew blood.


    "You''ve really got no idea do you?!" said Varham as he laughed, as if Joffrey had told him the funniest thing in the world.


    He kept laughing and laughing, shaking with mirth.


    "Do you want to know the truth of this world, young soldier?" he said as he suddenly stopped laughing. "Do you want to know the answer?" he asked in a whisper.


    Joffrey''s hand were shaking as he held Varham by the neck, his sharp dagger cutting bits of the man''s neck accidentally¡­ though the Grand Whisper didn''t seem to care.


    Varham''s voice dropped to a low whisper, his voice filled with relish and restrained joy like a child with a big secret.


    "The Cycle begins anew young soldier¡­ driven by forces far, far beyond the ken of mortal understanding¡­ they come at last, to repeat once again their ancient duty¡­ like they always have, like they always will¡­" Varham whispered as the ground itself seemed to shake. Joffrey heard dozens of dull thumps coming from all around him, multiplying by the second.


    "They are beyond our control¡­ they are beyond our understanding¡­" Varham said in a trance, as if reciting from memory.


    Thump-thump-thump-thump


    Joffrey swiveled his head from side to side, looking at the stone benches that surrounded the altar as they kept rattling and thumping.


    "They are beyond ourselves... They are here¡­" Varham said with joyful smile as the thumping and rattling expanded all along the hall.


    They''re not benches¡­ they''re tombs¡­ Joffrey thought as he dropped Varham, trembling as he took a step back, his mind paralyzed.


    "A TIME OF RENEWAL!!!" Varham shouted in joy as the stone tombs all around the altar started to collapse, revealing old, ancient bones which shrieked as they tried to get out.


    Gods¡­


    "A TIME OF DESTRUCTION!!!" Varham roared as Joffrey started running through the cathedral back towards the entrance. All the coffins arrayed over the cathedral were rattling and thumping now, their dull noise getting louder and louder as Joffrey ran past them and the corridor seemed to stretch to infinity, as something made its presence known.


    Oh Gods¡­


    "A TIME OF REBIRTH!!!" Varham shrieked in joy as the first wights shambled out of their coffins near the altar, dashing towards Varham.


    He''s just a fanatic, he''s just a tool¡­


    "AND MY PREDESESORS RETURN AT LAST! TO MAKE ME ONE MORE! TO TOGETHER BE REBORN!!!" Varham shrieked as the corpses jumped at him, tearing and biting and butchering him.


    All around him Joffrey could see coffins bursting open and releasing wights as he kept running and running and running towards the slowly dying light beyond the entrance.


    "YO-U C-CANT RUN!!!" bellowed Varham from the altar as he was tore apart. "YOU CANT RUN FROM FATE YOUNG SOLDIER!!! NO ONE CAN--!!!" he shrieked before his speech was suddenly cut off with a gurgle.


    Joffrey left the cathedral at a dead sprint, only slowing down slightly as he got to the stairs and started going down as fast as he could.


    He started hyperventilating when he saw shambling, shrieking mobs of corpses emerging from the pyramids all over the city, tearing into the crowds that had assembled in the plazas around the temples.


    They aren''t temples¡­ they''re cairns¡­ tombs filled with the corpses of hundreds and hundreds of generations, he thought, taking in a breath every half second as he kept descending through the open air stairs and feeling goose bumps rushing all throughout his body.


    He could see the great stepped cairns releasing swarms upon swarms of undead, feasting on the flesh of everyone in the plazas, everyone in the city¡­


    Oh Gods, Oh Gods, Oh Gods, Oh Gods---


    He could hear screams of joy and pain, gurgles and scuffles as he ran through the streets, a sound from the hells themselves. He saw swarms of undead wights filling side streets and alleyways, butchering every living thing in their path¡­ even animals.


    After an eternity of running he arrived at the gates, almost collapsing from exhaustion when he saw the two wagons from his strike team already there.


    "Colonel Joffrey! Thank the Gods-!" started one of his men.


    "THEY''RE RIGHT BEHIND ME!" Joffrey roared as he finally got to the portcullis.


    The closed portcullis.


    "WHY ARE THE GATES CLOSED?!" Joffrey shouted at Shah, who was hacking at the tower''s wooden door with a hand axe like a man possessed along with another soldier.


    "The cultists manning it dropped the portcullis without warning and barred the tower''s doors! We''re trying to get in now!" Shah shouted back as he hacked at the door with all his strength.


    We are all going to die and become wights¡­


    "There''s no time! By the gods Shah there''s no time!" Joffrey said as he desperately looked around the area. He could see a mob of undead coming for them through the main street far behind them, still a fair distance away but closing in fast.


    He spotted one of the team''s wagons, the one filled with every bit of firepowder he''d managed to pry from what was left of the 12th Flying Artillery.


    "Take that one!" he roared as he pointed. "Get the wagon beside the portcullis and blow it up! Move damnit!" he said as he dashed towards it and started to push . The horses tied to it had been slain by arrows shot from above, though the cultists manning the gate had not peeked over since Joffrey had arrived at least.


    Major Yham and four other legionnaires quickly joined him, cutting the dead horses harnesses and pushing the wagon towards the gate. "Look out! Above!" shouted one of the soldiers when they were halfway through, and Joffrey gazed up.


    He saw the cultists leaning over and falling down from the gatehouse, crashing on the ground with dull thumps all around the small strike team.


    "What the¡­" Yham muttered when he saw the dead cultists stand back up again. The reanimated, blue eyed cultists all withdrew the daggers they had jutting out of their chests before charging at them from all directions, shrieking.


    "KEEP THE WAGON MOVING! FOR DAWN!" Joffrey bellowed as he charged the nearest one, taking its head off with his saber before impaling another one through the chest. The reanimated cultist kept writhing as he withdrew his saber and cut him down again with a roar. Yham bellowed as he charged and cut another one in two with a brutal, two handed slash.


    The men kept moving and defending the wagon with all they had, fighting as the great mobs of undead kept moving towards them and dead cultists kept raining from the skies in one''s and two''s.


    Joffrey cut another wight down as the wagon neared the gatehouse before he turned back to gauge the mob''s distance.


    And then he saw him, standing less than twenty meters behind him.


    Stars above¡­


    He wore some kind of lamellar armor made of ice and chunks of grey rock in a strange pattern that twirled towards the chest plate''s center. His knees and pauldrons ended in wickedly sharp ice spikes, and his long sword seemed made entirely out of ice and grey sand.


    His head looked shriveled and sunken, sporting a long white hair that almost reached the floor¡­ and his eyes were a deep dark blue that seemed to stare right at Joffrey''s soul.


    The White Walker seemed to survey them for a brief moment before striding forward, walking at a steady pace towards the Legionnaires of Dawn.


    ¡­ they intend to consume everything upon this world¡­


    He stared at the White Walker as the distant mob behind it kept advancing and he felt a cold wind that seemed to bite deep into his bones.


    Is this my purpose..?


    Joffrey felt as if on a cloud as he strode towards the white walker, right hand holding his saber steady as the other drew the only obsidian tipped bronze knuckle Xon-Mi had ever made, a gift from beyond the grave.


    The White Walker kept its pace steady as Joffrey''s quick walk turned into a jog, wielding the knuckles on his left while holding his saber with the right.


    There was no roar or warcry when their swords met, only an ear splitting screech as the White Walker parried before delivering a swift, slashing riposte. Joffrey pivoted to his left feeling the bone numbing frost of the blade as it missed him by a millimeter. He punched the White Walker two times in the ribs with the knuckles, unleashing spurts of steam and an ear shattering keening from the monster itself, which whirled about and delivered two heavy strikes upon Joffrey.


    He felt as if the Mountain was pummeling him, such was the being''s strength. He parried the first of the lighting blows, but the second¡­


    The second shattered his saber in two.


    Joffrey''s reflexes screamed as he tried to dodge the sword. He felt the edge of the bone chilling blade cutting through his face before the vision from his right eye was suddenly cut off. His neck tingled as he gave another step backwards, dodging the backblow. The White Walker didn''t reposition however, he gave another step forward and slammed Joffrey in the chest with his hand.


    He flew backwards with a snap before tumbling through the floor, rolling and smashing against the wagon that had been placed against the portcullis.


    He tried to get up, but found his arms couldn''t support his weight. He could feel a fierce, cold pain coming from his chest as he raised his head sideways, rivulets of blood coming out from the deep slash on his face and his destroyed eye. He felt as if some primordial heat had taken over his head, a dull, painful ache.


    Nakaro''s sure hands where at the tiller as he berated a lazy Baleo, the Eastern Winds cutting through another wave.


    He saw Yham fighting against the Walker, trying to keep him in place as Shah and another soldier finished setting up the wagon against the portcullis. Joffrey''s eye tried to find the discarded brass knuckles, but they were nowhere to be found.


    Tyrion chuckled as Joffrey collapsed upon the Umber''s table, incapable of holding his liquor.


    He drunkenly stood up as the men kept fighting around him, shambling towards the back end of the wagon. He saw the lit fuse steadily approaching the barrels of firepowder as he grabbed one of the stacked coiling dragons, holding it with both hands as he carried the stubby tube out of the wagon.


    Jin and the rest of the scouts laughed as Joffrey lost yet again. "You should stick to dice, Joffrey" said Jin, his face full of mirth.


    He shambled towards the Walker as it fought against Major Yham, the corpses less than three hundred meters away. Yham and the Walker had pivoted and they were now perpendicular to Joffrey as he kept walking, limping towards the duo.


    "Who the fuck ate the chickens?!" bellowed Sandor as he tossed the empty piece of cloth. "It was Jon I swear!" the Imp shouted as he ran from the campfire and Jon spluttered denials.


    He aimed the ''dragon by hand, standing less than ten meters away. The Walker shifted again as he delivered a powerful strike upon Yham, breaking his saber before impaling him through the belly with his ice sword.


    "You can''t run from fate young soldier, no one can¡­" Varham said as he was tore apart by his predecessors, Grand Whispers from age''s past.


    The Dark Rhino snarled as blood came out of his mouth and he dropped the broken saber, grabbing the Walker''s sword hand with both of his. He screamed as his hands froze, pulling his pierced stomach deeper into the icy blade as he crept closer to the Walker, making himself a dead weight and pinning the Walker in place.


    "DOOOOOO IIIIIIIIIIIT!!!" he roared at Joffrey.


    "But, Joffrey¡­ What is a different song if not a sequence of changed keys?" Sansa asked him, the gentle winds making the leaves sway around her.


    Joffrey did not have the string nor the launch cart, but he flicked the small lever on the back of the ''dragon all the same. He unleashed a torrent of sparks for two seconds as the firepowder inside the golden dragon took its time to ignite completely. Joffrey screamed as the fire burned his right arm to a crisp, but he held it steady all the same, aiming it at the abomination which seemed intent on devouring the world itself.


    And then the ''Dragon ignited properly, launching itself from Joffrey''s arm like a terrier following a rat, flying with a with a deafening, god''s defying roar right towards the White Walker as it finally disentangled it''s sword from the Dark Rhino.


    THPSTUUUUUUUUUUUUWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!


    The explosion slapped Joffrey as if he were a mere toy, sending him flying back as his arm screamed and the world itself seemed to end.


    Darkness claimed him before he crashed against the ground.


    -.PD.-


    "I think that if you can''t find the worth of living on outside of yourself, then you have to search inside of you" Ned said, looking thoughtful.


    Joffrey stared with mildly unfocused eyes, his head resting on the Weirwood''s strong trunk as Ned spoke once again. "You have to learn, to find a deep respect for yourself. Not a kind of arrogance, but an understanding that you are who you are, and that only you have the means to change yourself" Eddard said.


    ------


    AN: Track on autoloop.


    Non looping link for those on mobile:


    ------


    "¡ªoffrey¡­ Joffrey! JOFFREY!!!" bellowed Shah, right on his face.


    Joffrey blinked slowly, watching the wagon''s interior as it tumbled again and again, almost as if the horses that drove it were galloping. A small oil lamp hanged from the small wooden beam that bisected the roof''s enter, swaying lightly.


    "WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?!?" he heard a voice unside his head scream as if from a great distance, a muffled echo.


    The wagon suddenly stopped, "We can do it here!" came the voice of someone outside.


    "Joffrey, Joffrey listen to me" Shah said as he approached from his left side, coming into focus.


    "We need to amputate your right arm right now or the rot will set in¡­ We need to do it now or you''ll die¡­ do you understand Joffrey? Joffrey?!" he seemed frantic as another soldier emerged into his reduced field of view, carrying a short saw and looking shaken.


    If I say no¡­ the pain will soon be over¡­ If I abandon them¡­ it will all be over¡­


    Joffrey could see his room in the Red Keep, beckoning. A quiet, warm realm where he could be the spoiled prince, the brat that ordered the servants around.


    A realm where he could be the boy.


    His wavering eye seemed to focus on Shah again, razor sharp. He struggled to speak, something sticky trying to close his throat tight.


    He coughed weakly, still staring at Shah like a loaded ballista.


    "D-d-d¡­" he whispered before coughing again.


    He took a harrowing breath, his chest burning in pain as it expanded.


    "Colonel? Joffrey?" Shah asked as he leaned close, trying to hear him.


    "Dh..Dho¡­" Joffrey closed his eye for a second before shouting.


    "DO IIIIT!!!..." He bellowed weakly, his voice strangled and distorted to his ears.


    Shah looked at the soldier with the saw and nodded. The soldier lowered his saw as he crouched beside him, but Joffrey quickly lost sight of him as he entered the unknown penumbra that used to be lighted up by his right eye.


    Joffrey was breathing quickly, his mangled right arm tingling in agonizing anticipation.


    "Colonel" Shah said as he crouched again, his hands holding a bit of cut rope. "Be brave sir¡­ be brave for the small flames¡­ Be brave for the living¡­" he said, grabbing his other arm as the rope approached his mouth.


    Joffrey opened his mouth and bit the length of rope with all the strength he had left as another soldier grabbed a hold of his legs.


    "''They are the masters of their fate''" recited Shah as he felt a harrowing agony enveloping his right arm.


    "mmmmMMMMMMMMMPHHHHH!!!" Joffrey screamed. It was vaguely audible, muffled by the rope.


    "''They are the watchers of stars''" Shah said as the pain seemed to multiply somehow, a white, all-encompassing mantle of agony that spread throughout his whole body as if all his nerves were firing up at the same time. He was shaking wildly, his muscles screaming as they tried to move in any direction¡­


    "mmMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHH!!!!!!" he screamed.


    Joffrey focused on Shah''s face as the rest of the wagon seemed to fall into darkness, a void which swallowed everything else.


    He could hear Shah''s voice steadily losing volume, dissipating to nothing along with the rest of his sight.


    "''They are the ones who stand in vigil¡­''" he heard, echoing distantly as if said from the deepest cavern¡­


    -.PD.-


    "WHAT ARE YOU?!" he heard a distant, disheveled voice shouting.


    "The masters of their fate¡­" he heard another one say, serene and determined.


    "Every great beauty needs a watcher, someone to gaze and sit in awe, someone to give it meaning¡­" he heard another voice, wry and wise.


    "An understanding deep within you¡­ you are who you are¡­" he heard another one say, warm and caring.


    "WWWWHUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!" roared another voice, exalted and happy, triumphant and determined as the cold wind blew and the world beckoned beyond all around him.


    Joffrey''s eye flickered open. He could feel the wagon moving, accompanied by the vague backdrop of a distant sandstorm, a light skimming of wind and sand that constantly pelted the wood around him.


    He saw Shah sitting by his side as the wagon moved lazily, seated next to a wounded soldier from the 22nd.


    We have rejoined the rest of the expedition then¡­ he thought sluggishly. He''d had something very important he was going to tell Shah¡­


    What had it been..?


    "Shah¡­" he croaked.


    "Joffrey" said his Captain, snapping off from his light doze as he looked at him.


    What had it been?


    "Shahh¡­ My Banner¡­" he strained to say.


    "We made the new one a few nights ago, it has three suns now instead of two" Shah said, trying to calm him as he crouched to his level and checked his bandages.


    "N¡­ Nho¡­ sigil¡­ silver lion standing¡­ upon mountain¡­" he mumbled.


    "You decided upon your sigil?" Shah asked him with a slight smile, a smile that turned alarmed when he saw something on Joffrey''s chest.


    "The silver lion¡­ it''s gazing up" Joffrey mumbled as Shah beckoned another soldier to come and they did something to his chest.


    "Shah..!" he struggled to speak as he grabbed him with his left arm, the only one he could feel right now.


    His Captain stopped as the other soldier and a Body Scribe kept working on him, their whispers and orders becoming more frantic by the second.


    "It gazes up! Up to a¡­ vast¡­ a vast field of stars¡­ Shah¡­" Joffrey whispered, feeling so cold he could barely speak.


    "A silver lion atop a mountain, looking up to a vast field of stars, I understand Joffrey, I understand" Shah said as he grabbed Joffrey''s hand, holding it tight.


    "Every¡­ great.. beauty¡­ needs a¡­ watcher¡­" Joffrey whispered as he felt himself slip beyond the wagon, slowly floating up as his eye grew heavy.


    -.PD.-


    He awoke to the wild shrieking of a sandstorm, a whirlwind of fury and despair that seemed to encompass everything around him. Joffrey was bundled in blankets in the middle of the sand, and he struggled to focus on a vague blob in front of him.


    The shape of the cart he had been riding on slowly took shape, but it was somehow tilted. Joffrey realized the axels had broken, and he could see a few soldiers moving crates and supplies from it to another one.


    He tried to stand up but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Don''t worry sir, they''ll come and get you in a moment" said a Threeray who was crouched by his side, ineffectively trying to shield him from the storm.


    "Help¡­ help me up¡­" Joffrey told him, struggling against the blankets. His soldiers needed him.


    "It''s alright sir, they''ll come s--"


    "Help me up Threeray" he commanded, looking at him serenely as a strange peace seemed to envelop him like a mantle.


    The soldier obeyed by instinct, helping Joffrey out of the blankets and supporting him as he stood up.


    "Go help them" he commanded as he walked back, following the trail of soldiers as he was propelled by some unknowable force, a certainty that compelled him to walk.


    I''m not leaving anyone behind, he thought as he trundled through the storm, vaguely even feeling the sand as it slammed against him. He was wearing bits and bobs of his armor and a heavy scarf which trailed behind him along with his old, battered grey cloak.


    He saw the lines of legionnaires shambling through the storm, huddled against each other as they tried to make way through the fierce gusts of wind which attacked them with no warning, fighting off the cold and the sand that seemed to strike with unnatural force. Joffrey felt some sort of indescribable will lighting up deep inside him when he looked at them.


    Their postures straightened up when they saw him, some shaking their heads and looking at him again as Joffrey got to them.


    "KEEP MOVING! OUR BROTHERS NEED US AT THE FORTS!!!" he bellowed, trying to focus his eye on them and succeeding somehow.


    "SIR!" some bellowed back, while others just saluted, jaws hanging open for whatever reason. They renewed their struggle against the sand and wind with replenished vigor as Joffrey marched past them, scanning his surroundings incessantly.


    Joffrey suddenly spotted a lone legionnaire on the ground. He was in a fetal position, rocking slightly under the blows of the wind.


    "COME ON SOLDIER!" Joffrey bellowed as he grabbed him by the arm, making him stand up. The man had a vaguely crazed look as he gazed upon Joffrey, fearful and scared¡­ though his look quickly turned stunned as he gazed upon him. "I-I-I-I-I can''t sir! P-please l-l-leave m-me here!" he pleaded, shaking as the gusts of wind shrieked and grey sand slammed into his face.


    Joffrey thought he was as scared as the Threeray under the unnatural storm, but come sand or snow, gods or magic, White Walkers or Demons of the Night, he knew one thing.


    He was not going to leave his brother to the grey beyond.


    "KEEP MOVING!!" Joffrey shouted as he stood erect, as if the storm was but an enjoyable breeze, "It''s a d-d-demon m-made sand!!! H-H-How sir!?" the scout asked, on the verge of tears as the force of the wind threatened to push him back down.


    "ONE STEP AT A TIME SOLDIER!!!" Joffrey bellowed as he trundled forward against the sandstorm, walking steadily and never letting go of the legionnaire''s arm. "FOLLOW THE MAN IN FRONT! ONE STEP AT A TIME!!!" he bellowed as he shoved him forward, literally incapable of leaving the man behind him.


    "s-ss- sir! YES SIR!" he shouted back, his eyes taking in a determined glint as he stared at his commander for another second.


    Joffrey didn''t notice as he kept walking back, marching as the sand kept pounding the exposed parts of his face.


    He spotted a big wagon that seemed to have stalled, despite being pushed by over ten soldiers. Joffrey recognized it almost immediately¡­ it was the Expedition''s Hospital Carriage.


    "Sunbeam! What''s the problem!" Joffrey asked as he arrived at the back of the group of men, the wagon''s back shielding almost nothing as the sand pelted his face.


    The Sunbeam took him in in stride, his despair drowning whatever surprise he might have had. "It''s stuck Colonel! No matter what we do it''s not even swaying! And the men inside are hardly breathing¡­ If we get them out they''ll die in minutes!" the Sunbeam shouted back.


    "We''re not leaving them behind!" Joffrey shouted as he slammed into the men''s back, "Legionaries!!! Push!!!" he roared as he struggled to move the men and the dead weight in front of him.


    "eeeaaaaAAAHH!" bellowed the men, pushing in force.


    The storm seemed to laugh at their efforts as the wagon didn''t even move, the gusts shifting direction and slamming into them from the side.


    Joffrey shoved the men aside, walking directly to the wagon''s rear and trying to hug its back rail. He misjudged and hit his head against it when his right arm failed to grab a hold.


    Joffrey tilted his head to the right as far as his neck could go so he could see his arm with his good eye.


    Most of his right forearm was gone, leaving a stump that started just a bit before his elbow.


    He staggered up, helped by the soldiers around him. There was no one behind them, the confusion wrought by the storm seemed to have left them the last ones in the caravan... Behind the Sunbeam at the back only the grey sand remained.


    "Our brothers depend on us!!! Both here and at home!!! Push for your brothers!" he bellowed as he turned back and he pushed with all his strength, using his left shoulder.


    "eeeeaaaaAAAAAAARRRRrrr" the men screamed as they slammed into the cart and Joffrey, the cart barely moving at all. Joffrey saw trails of saliva hanging from his mouth as he pushed, feeling his muscles burn as his head got redder and redder.


    The books had all spilled to the ground, but Joffrey felt his smile take a vaguely manic turn despite the fact that he was drenched in sweat and bone tired.


    "I''m ready" he told the Hound, feeling it deep within him.


    He remembered the carvings on the hallway, showing the great army spreading all over the tunnel, over everything.


    "PUSH!!!" he bellowed, thinking of his brothers, of Jin in the Greytower, of Valyon in the Dawn Fort.


    "mmmhhhaaAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRrrr" roared the men behind him.


    He remembered the White Walker, indefatigable as it slew his men, indefatigable as it sought to consume everything.


    "PUUUUUUUUSH!!!!!"Joffrey bellowed, pain gradually mounting in his arm and back. He thought of all his friends, people he had grown to love and cherish, people who had showed him the way.


    "mmmmmMMHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!!" roared the men as they pushed, the cart unmoving.


    "You can''t run from fate young soldier¡­ no one can" Varham''s last words echoed inside his head, said as if they were the only certainty in this world.


    A great gust slammed into them again, tearing off Joffrey''s scarf. He felt the nape of his neck being shredded of skin as his face burned, the flurry of grains almost flaying him alive, the storm''s roar drowning everything else.


    He thought of laughing Tyrion, never late with a jape or a smile. Of Sandor and the wry demeanor he hid beneath his half burnt mask. He thought about Archmaester Perestan and his dreams of copper, of Archmaester Benedict as he constructed artifacts within his mind, of Archmaester Vaellyn as he showed him the stars¡­ He thought of dauntless Nakaro aboard the Eastern Winds, of Baleo''s simple companionship and Voqo''s antics. He thought of shy Jon and his thoughtful silences which gave way to deep insights. He remembered Art and the rest of the Ib-Wogan''s crew, hardy sailors and better friends¡­ He remembered Tommen and his silly cat, Myrcella with her kind eyes. He remembered his mother beyond all the intrigue and the fury, her caring smile and her fierce love.


    He thought of beautiful Sansa, of the faraway look she had sometimes when she thought no one was looking. He thought of Ned, the father he''d never had, the father who''d picked up his remains and made them whole again.


    "PUUUUSH FOR DAAAWN!!!!" he bellowed, forgetting about everything else. His doubts, his past, his mistakes, all slowly ceased to hold meaning inside his mind for that moment¡­ he struggled against the winds and fate as he pushed.


    "mmmmMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!" the men roared their defiance at the sandstorm, at fate, the cart moving just a centimeter forward.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, spitting a gobble of blood before taking in as much as air as he could. His chest was burning with pain, and he could feel blood slipping past his bandages.


    He remembered the bustling of King''s Landing and the calm teachings of Oldtown. He thought about quiet Winterfell and serene Braavos, of mysterious Ibben and fierce Volantis.


    He thought of all the people in the world who stood on the edge of a fate worse than death. The maesters and the sages, the mages and the knights, the merchants and the farmers.


    The shrieking of the storm seemed to intensify as Joffrey took a half step back.


    Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.


    Everyone he had ever met, everyone he had ever hated, everyone he had ever loved.


    The small flames that inhabit the expanse¡­


    "PUSH FOR THE LIVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!" he roared as his mind was sheared of anything else but the will to move forward.


    "mmmMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!" the men thundered with him as they slammed into the wagon, pushing with their entire being, a chorus of defiance that seemed to drown the storm itself, a roar of hope and determination.


    An open promise, a vow beholden only to themselves. To become the masters of their fate, to watch the stars above and the ground below, to become those that stood in vigil.


    The Hospital Wagon moved, propelled by dreams and memories.


    Propelled by the promise of a man.


    -.PD.-


    ------


    ---


    This chapter was going to be a bit different but... well, then Joffrey decided to become a man as he pushed a wagon of all things.


    At the risk of sounding obvious... Joffrey''s life experiences (especially the ones during this arc)have been quietly building up for this moment, and the various bits of his personality, his dreams, his experiences... they all somehow clicked together. He has, in a sentence, become a man. This is by no means the end of his growth as a person, ohhh no, not even close... but its a significant milestone, an integration of his self if you would.

 Chapter 25: Together.

    Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.Seriously though, life has been... hectic since March, but better late than never right?!


    -------


    Chapter 25: Together.


    "We''re not going to make it" Sabu said as he drank from a small cup, taking care not to spill the precious water.


    "We will not give up" Joffrey said as if it were a law of nature, his pale green eye as hard as stone.


    He tried to grab his own cup but instead his stump just bumped it over the small crate. It landed on its side, spilling.


    "Fuck" Joffrey cursed as he tried to stand up to grab the cup, grimacing as the pain in his chest intensified.


    "It''s okay, its okay¡­" Shah said as he stood up from his own, smaller crate and picked up the spilled cup.


    "Again¡­" Joffrey sighted as he dropped back down, grimacing as he looked at his right stump.


    "You know, both are not mutually exclusive¡­" Shah said as he grabbed the cup and tried to refill it, only to be stopped by Joffrey.


    "Don''t, I spilled my share¡­ save it for the men" he said as he kept gazing at his stump, as if something in it confused him.


    "Joffrey, you-"


    "Captain" Joffrey interrupted him, lifting his eyes from the stump to look directly at him.


    "¡­ Aye sir" Shah said with a sight as he left the kettle and the empty cup atop the crate.


    The surviving officers of the Expedition were all sitting around the crate, as the small tables and chairs they''d used before had long since been converted to fire wood.


    Joffrey sighted as the shrieking outside got louder, the tent shaking with the force of the gusts.


    "It''s the damned sandstorm, isn''t it?" He asked, weary.


    Captain Biju nodded reluctantly, "It is Colonel, while the men and the¡­ officers" he said, vaguely trying not to look at Joffrey''s eye, "Have been making a superhuman effort, and the distance we''ve covered has indeed been tremendous for this weather¡­ this never ending storm is slowing us down too much"


    Shah nodded as he left his own cup atop the crate, "We simply do not have the supplies to keep going at this rate. If the storm doesn''t clear up soon we''ll never make it back to the Greytower" he said.


    Joffrey dispelled the miasma of defeat as his fist slammed into the crate. "There''s got to be something we can do¡­ we need to get the news back to the Dawn Fort, whatever the cost¡­ do you understand?!" he said as he stood up and paced furiously. "Whatever the damned cost! We must stop the legions of the damned and their masters before they breach the Five Forts. If they''re breached¡­ they''ll devour the entire north east of the empire before a sufficiently big army can be assembled¡­ and by then it will be too late! All those corpses¡­" Joffrey sighted again as he stopped and placed a hand on his forehead.


    Why? Gods be damned, the world was sufficiently screwed without¡­ without¡­ this¡­


    Jhos suddenly stood up, his face pale as he looked at Joffrey. "There is something I can do¡­" he said.


    Joffrey looked at Jhos, thinking hard.


    Fight magic with magic¡­ its better than nothing¡­ he thought, grasping at straws.


    "Some sort of ritual I presume¡­ How soon can it be done?" He asked him.


    "I can prepare it overnight¡­ tomorrow by dawn" he said before taking a deep breath.


    "Alright, do it" Joffrey said as he looked at the rest of the men. "Unless anyone else has a better plan..?" he asked, hoping.


    The silence was deafening, only punctuated by the slamming of sand and wind against the tent.


    "Very well, I want the men prepared by dawn. Without the sandstorm in the way we can more than triple our rate of advance, make sure the men know I''ll personally shove forward anyone who strays behind" he commanded, and the officers knew he meant it.


    We must bring the news¡­ whatever the cost¡­


    -.PD.-


    The sandstorm was still in full swing as Joffrey strode through the assembled men, speaking with Sunbeams and a few of the painfully young Captains he''d promoted recently, making sure the men were in order. The only tent which was still standing was Jhos'', it was surrounded by the few surviving Glimmers and a Quarter Moon, all sitting in the sand. They seemed oblivious to the sandstorm around them, as still as statues as they meditated.


    Or concentrated on the ritual¡­


    It was strange though, Jhos had told him it would be ready by dawn¡­ as it was the sun had peeked over the horizon more than an hour ago.


    He stopped in front of the tent''s entrance, unsure if it would be dangerous to step in now. There was a lone Glimmer by the side of the tent''s entrance, hand on his sheathed short sword as he stood guard.


    "Threesun" he said, preferring to use Joffrey''s traditional title rather than its reformed counterpart.


    "Glimmer" Joffrey responded as he walked slowly towards the flap, waiting for the soldier''s warning.


    None came though, and Joffrey walked inside.


    He hadn''t known what to expect, perhaps tendrils of darkness swirling in strange patterns, or dazzling patterns of rainbow colored beams like some of the legends said the Children of the Forest used to wield.


    Instead, he found Jhos kneeling on the ground with his back facing the entrance, his robes covering only his legs. Joffrey kept walking slowly, giving him a wide berth just in case.


    He was looking at a silver dagger in his hand, his expression a mix of frustration and sadness. His chest was pockmarked with tiny slashes and half a dozen bigger pinpricks which centered around his heart.


    Jhos looked up from the dagger when he heard him, giving him a sad smile. "This is¡­ harder than I thought¡­ I''ve been trying all morning but every time I get close I¡­" he shook his head as he looked at his dagger.


    "Jhos, what the hells?!" Joffrey bellowed as he dashed and took the dagger from his unresisting hands.


    His Jade Captain took a deep breath as he looked at him, "Whatever the cost¡­ that''s what you said remember?" he said. Joffrey gasped, looking at the dagger in hand in disgust.


    "So what?! You were going to kill yourself?! Great plan Jhos! What a fucking great plan!!!" Joffrey shouted as he shook his head, pacing around like a caged lion.


    "You were right too. The threat that is feasting on the carcass that used to be the Beyond is greater than any other the Five Forts have ever faced in recorded history¡­ they need to be prepared, whatever the price¡­ remember?" he said.


    "Fuck that! I''m not letting you kill yourself! We''ll find another way" Joffrey said as he shook his head.


    "There is no other and you know it. Every single settlement we''ve come across was already looted or in ruins, and we haven''t spotted another caravan in two months¡­ there is no other way Colonel" he said, using his rank to remind him of his responsibility.


    "Jhos¡­ please¡­ please don''t" Joffrey said, reduced to begging when reason compelled him to say yes.


    "Magic always has a price, one way or another. Think of your men Colonel, think of Shah, Hu, Sabu and all the rest, think of all the people under your responsibility¡­ they''ll all be dead within the week. You know this¡­" Jhos said as he took a deep breath, centering himself before taking off a large, silver medallion inscribed with arcane runes and leaving it to his side. "Give that to High Moon Vhenzi back at the Dawn Fort¡­ tell him I did not falter" he said.


    "I can''t do it alone though¡­ I realized that today¡­ I don''t have the willpower¡­" he said with a sad smile as he left the medallion and looked at the dagger on Joffrey''s hand.


    Joffrey stared at the medallion before shaking his head. He walked right towards him and kneeled in front of him, "I''ll do it¡­ I''ll be the sacrifice" he said, a calm certainty enveloping him.


    A calm certainty that was soon shattered by Jhos'' amused laugh.


    "Oh Joffrey¡­ may you never change" he said with a wistful smile before he shook his head. "Won''t work though, it must be me" he said as grabbed Joffrey''s hand and placed the dagger, still grasped firmly in Joffrey''s hand, right over his heart.


    "I can''t do it by myself though¡­ no matter how hard I tried¡­ you will have to do your duty as my commanding officer¡­" he said


    Joffrey gazed at the dagger in his hand, he realized it was shaking again.


    "Everyone¡­ everyone is leaving me alone Jhos¡­ first Han, then Xon-Mi¡­ then the General¡­ And I might as well have killed Yham¡­ all the men¡­ Jehi, Zhei, Dong¡­ names upon names¡­ Gods please¡­ Jhos¡­ please¡­ not you as well" Joffrey pleaded as the dagger kept shaking.


    Jhos however was unmoved, staring right at his eye as he grabbed both of Joffrey''s shoulders, bracing himself. "I''ve lived my life the way I wanted, and I have no shame in ending it like this¡­ do it for the men Joffrey¡­ do it for your men" Jhos said, pleaded even.


    Joffrey kept staring fixedly at the dagger as it kept shaking, his eyes paralyzed.


    "Joffrey¡­ do it for me¡­ do it for a friend¡­" Jhos whispered.


    Friend.


    Joffrey looked up to Jhos'' eyes, serene and at peace.


    His hands stopped shaking.


    Friend¡­


    He stabbed the dagger into Jhos'' heart with unexpected strength, twisting it and severing several veins and arteries in one quick, instant motion.


    Jhos grunted at the sudden pain, but his grateful eyes were already halfway closed when Joffrey carefully held his back with his stump, letting him fall quietly to the ground as the Jade Sun''s arms stopped grasping his shoulder, falling limp by his sides.


    Joffrey''s breath became erratic against his will, taking in air at random as his eye stung. A gentle breeze seemed to surround them both for a little while before dissipating to nothing.


    I must be strong¡­ I can''t break down¡­ not here¡­


    Joffrey closed his eye with force, taking in a deep breath as he calmed himself, not letting a single drop fall.


    He closed Jhos'' eyes fully before taking the medallion and walking slowly out of the tent. Outside, the sandstorm seemed to have lifted entirely, revealing only the grey expanse.


    "Dawn" said one of the Glimmers, looking at Joffrey in both sadness and gratefulness.


    "Dawn" repeated the other Glimmers in unison.


    Joffrey looked at the medallion on his hand before slowly raising it his chest and saluting back, slamming his left fist to his chest, not having the strength to answer back.


    -.PD.-


    The Expedition was a far, far cry of what it had been. The men didn''t even have the strength to cheer as they marched below the raised portcullis of the Greytower''s gatehouse. Less than a third had made it back, a bit less than four hundred men.


    Joffrey rode at the head of the column, carefully getting off his horse. He was still a bit unfamiliar with the basics of riding one handed, but his previous training with horse archery had helped immensely with the task.


    "By the gods¡­ you are a sight for sore eyes¡­" Joffrey muttered to himself as he gazed up at the tower. The Sunbeam that had been manning the gate was hastily jogging towards him with the look of a man that had gazed salvation.


    "¡­ Major Joffrey?! Thank the Maiden-of-Light!!! We thought you''d been¡­" he stopped when he saw the extra sun on Joffrey''s chest. He then took a moment to really look at him and the rest of the expedition.


    "Colonel¡­" he muttered, saluting as he tried to get his thoughts in order.


    "Sunbeam" Joffrey saluted back, "The men are starved and thirsty, please make the suitable arrangements" he said as he gazed back upon his weary men.


    "Of course Colonel¡­ but¡­ where is General Yu?" he asked, shaken.


    Joffrey took a deep breath as he looked back at the Sunbeam, "The Night Hawk fell in battle¡­" he said before quickly continuing, determined on accomplishing the Foursun''s final order. "Colonel¡ªnow General Jin leads the Dawn Scouts¡­" he said before shaking his head. "Where is he by the way?" Joffrey asked as he looked around, puzzled that his old friend and mentor wouldn''t be out in the courtyard already.


    The Sunbeam''s pained flinch and his deafening silence might as well have been a dark spell as Joffrey felt his small, budding hope be crushed like Robert''s warhammer to a pebble.


    -.PD.-


    "Joffrey..! You look like shit¡­" Jin chuckled as Joffrey kneeled by his bed, grasping Jin''s hand with his own as he swallowed.


    "You too Jin¡­ you too¡­" Joffrey said with a raspy half-smile as he slowly lowered his gaze. The heavy blanket couldn''t hide the fact that below the waist there was nothing left of Jin to cover.


    "I see you met the¡­ tender mercies of the saw as well¡­ eh old friend?" Joffrey said with a small chuckle, blinking rapidly.


    "You could say that¡­" Jin said before coughing a bit, settling his head back over his pillow as he still grasped Joffrey''s hand. "I was inspecting the inner wall''s repair crews when the whole fucking section gave way¡­ I still can''t believe it¡­" Jin said as he shook his head slowly, "Fifteen freaking years in the Scouts¡­ and it was a damned brick that killed me¡­" he said with a snort.


    Joffrey swallowed again before snorting halfheartedly, trying to smile and failing. "Come on Jin¡­ you paid the price, now it''s time to get better¡­" Joffrey told him, the pungent, rotten smell that filled Jin''s room giving away the lie.


    "Didn''t stop the infection¡­ the damned Body Scribes have had me sedated for quite a while trying to slow the cursed thing¡­ the bastards¡­" Jin snorted again, with less strength. "I threatened them with eternal pain if they didn''t wake me up after the expedition returned though" he said, summoning a chuckle from deep within. "Luckily I still had it in me¡­ I still¡­ had it¡­ in me¡­" he murmured as his gaze steadily unfocused.


    "Bo" he said suddenly, looking up to the Body Scribe in the corner. The healer''s white, long whiskers twitched in distress "Colonel¡­ You''ll die--"


    "Bo..." he whispered again before somehow summoning some inner force. "Bo! Another one¡­" he commanded. Even in death''s door, the Laughing Tiger still had claws.


    The Body Scribe stood up and slowly filled up a cup with a dark brown liquid. He sat on the bed''s side before slowly tilting it, letting Jin drink at his own pace.


    "Ahh¡­ tastes like grey sand¡­ only worse¡­" he said as he shook his head, his eyes already looking more alert. "Another one" he commanded.


    "You won''t last the night Jin¡­" Bo said as he refilled the cup, resigned.


    "A night¡­ a week¡­ what''s a few hours between friends eh?" Jin chuckled before drinking again.


    Bo silently retreated, shaking his head as he carried away his implements. "I''ll be outside" he said as he opened the door.


    Jin looked revitalized, color flooding his face as he gazed at Joffrey, now serious. "How bad is it?" he asked, bracing himself.


    Joffrey sighted, "It''s bad Jin¡­ very bad¡­" he said. "The Demons of the Night¡­ what my people called the White Walkers¡­ they''re coming, and they''ve got an army of undead bigger than the legions combined¡­ an army that only grows victory after victory¡­ They are more than an army¡­ they are a sea of death and destruction Jin¡­ and I fear nothing can stop them¡­" Joffrey whispered, his despair growing as he kept talking. He blabbered almost incoherently as the tale from the hells escaped from his mouth, telling Jin about the horrors he had seen, the horrors that came for them all.


    "¡­I see¡­" Jin said, looking at the ceiling, taking a bit of time to process the world shattering revelation. "Did General Yu fall?" he suddenly asked, gazing back at Joffrey.


    "He did¡­" Joffrey murmured as he took out a pouch from his belt, cursing when his stump uselessly fooled around the strings. He finally got it open before taking out two things.


    One of the Night Hawk''s suns and the Scout''s Horn.


    "He ordered me to give you these¡­" Joffrey said. His hand tightly grasped the gold rimmed iron sun and the string from which the Horn hanged as he slowly moved it towards Jin.


    "No" Jin said as he suddenly lifted his own hand and stopped Joffrey''s. "I am unable to continue my duties¡­" he said as he gently pushed the hand back toward Joffrey''s chest.


    "Jin¡­" Joffrey whispered, feeling the weight of the sun in his hand.


    "You lost more than just an arm and an eye out there Joffrey¡­ but you gained something too¡­" Jin said with a small smile. "Sometimes¡­ sometimes men have to become something greater than themselves¡­ something¡­ grander" he said as he gazed back at Joffrey''s eye.


    "Jin¡­" Joffrey said again, voice half strangled. Jin however, was unrelenting. "Night approaches Joffrey¡­ You have seen it better than I ever could, you understand what is to come¡­ You understand what needs to be done¡­" he continued as Joffrey shook his head in denial.


    "A beacon of light and hope, an unshakable pillar, a father¡­" Jin trailed off as his eyes seemed to bore on his friend.


    "You must become that, Joffrey¡­ if our civilization can withstand the coming storm you speak of¡­ you must become something grander¡­ you need to be that beacon to our men, to our brothers¡­ You must become that unshakable pillar, that banisher of despair, that father to the men¡­ you must lead¡­ you must lead them Joffrey¡­" Jin continued, still pushing back Joffrey''s fist.


    "I am unable to continue my duties as leader of the Dawn Scouts¡­" he said.


    "Jin¡­" Joffrey half whispered, looking as his own fist finally touched his breastplate.


    "Open it" Jin said.


    Joffrey felt as if his entire being were made of needles as he opened his fist and looked at the Horn''s strap and the lone, gold rimmed iron sun.


    "General Joffrey¡­ May you serve the Scouts through Dawn and Dusk, through Light and Dark" Jin recited, his voice echoing inside Joffrey''s skull like a command from Fate.


    He slowly closed his fist, taking a deep, long breath.


    Jin smiled as he let his arm fall back down, "Now... I do believe we still have a few hours before dusk¡­ and you do owe me a game you barbarian bastard¡­" he said.


    Joffrey took another deep breath, "I do believe you are right" he said with a slight smile.


    "Dice?" Joffrey asked, barely keeping the stinging in his eye under control.


    "Of course not! The damned brick fell on my legs not my head! And thank the gods for that¡­" Jin exclaimed, laughing outright.


    Joffrey chuckled alongside him, grasping his hand again. "Cards then?" he asked him.


    "Cards it is" Jin said with a satisfied nod.


    It was one of the best games they played, full of both outrageously skilled moves and embarrassing blunders. Joffrey and Jin laughed at old stories and fallen friends, and a whole lot of Siwine was drunk. And as the sun slowly settled in the west, the game slowly came to an end and Joffrey snorted in disbelief.


    "I can''t believe you''ve won yet again Jin¡­ no one can be that skilled¡­" he mused as he gazed at his cards in shock. "Jin?" he asked as he looked back up.


    The Laughing Tiger sported an amused, satisfied half smile, his eyes half lidded and still. His limp hand held only a few of his cards, the rest had slipped. He had more cards than he should though, and many of them seemed to be concentrated around his left sleeve.


    Joffrey blinked a few times as he saw the cards, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement against his will. "You cheating bastard¡­" he said as he shook his head, unable to contain the strangled chuckle that emerged from his throat.


    He took in a deep, halting breath as he looked at the window, dazed by the last rays of the setting sun. He blinked rapidly before closing his eyes and breathing once more.


    The sun was almost gone when Joffrey placed his hand on Jin''s shoulder. "Through Dawn and Dusk Jin¡­ through Light and Dark¡­" he promised him as he grasped him tight and the sun hid completely, giving way to a dark, starry night.


    -.PD.-


    ¡­and I''ll be personally leading the Dawn Fort''s contingent. What few obsidian shards we have managed to find are being turned into arrow tips as you read this, for if the Enemy is as tough as you''ve seen ranged combat may be the only way to take them out. The rest of the Fort Commanders agree with your assessment given the Reanimated''s characteristics, our defense in depth will be useless against such a foe. The best of the Legions will assemble at the Noon Fort and meet the enemy in open battle as I stated before, where we will make use of our mobility and superior might to our advantage and crush them.


    You and your men''s sacrifice shall not be forgotten General Joffrey, and I look forward to personally meeting you once this is all over.


    Still We Stand. S?a??h th? N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Signed,


    General Fei-Pi, the Green Elephant, Dawn Commander.


    Joffrey sighted as he read the letter yet again, promptly unleashing sounds of protest from his right. "Is it ready?" he asked as he tilted his head to the right so he could see what was going on.


    "Not quite General, though it would go faster if you didn''t move so much" grumbled the old armorer as he kept fidgeting with the metal piece and the harnesses, jumbling Joffrey''s stump about and making it itch terribly.


    "You can keep reading it again and again, the orders there won''t change" Said Sabu as the burly man took a drink of water from his canteen. Him, Joffrey and a few other officers were inside the Greytower''s smithy, mostly passing the time and weary about it after the maddened race throughout the Beyond.


    "I can''t believe they''re leaving us here¡­ They''re assembling the might of the Five Forts to take out the Demon''s out in the open and end this once and for all¡­ and they''re leaving us here¡­" Joffrey spitted as he shook his head.


    "In all fairness, almost all the units here are at half strength or worse, and that''s not counting the Expedition Remnants¡­" Hu said as he shrugged.


    The scouts that had been left garrisoning the Greytower and the surrounding Outkeeps hadn''t had it much better than the expedition. The Wight raiding parties had only increased in frequency since the time the expedition left, though their attacks had almost completely stopped shortly after Joffrey and the rest of the survivors arrived.


    It was obvious the White Walkers were concentrating their strength, it seemed they knew the Legions was prepared to face them in open battle¡­ and they were willing to oblige.


    "I know¡­" Joffrey muttered as the itch on his stump became almost unbearable, "It''s just¡­ after the hell we went through¡­ to not see the bastards faces when the Legions smash them¡­" he shook his head. "It doesn''t matter, we did our part¡­ the Legions now know how to fight them" Joffrey said, hoping.


    "And done, despite the constant movement¡­ you will have to use the strength in your torso even more now though¡­" said the elderly Sunbeam as he stood up, not an ounce of respect and not the least bit intimidated by Joffrey''s new rank. A refreshing attitude after seeing the more green recruits stopping what they were doing and gazing in awe every time he strode by.


    Shah and the rest have been spreading too much tales¡­


    "Hold this for me" he said as he handed Sabu the letter and gazed at his prosthesis. It was a short steel pole that connected to what was left of his forearm, making his new ''arm'' just a bit longer than what it was before. Instead of a hand though, it ended in a mace head with wickedly sharp flanges.


    He moved it around awkwardly, giving it a few experimental swings. It was uncomfortable and a bit heavy, but being able to use both hands in battle was well worth it. Joffrey would have preferred a blade, but the mace was simply more effective at crushing wight skulls. He didn''t have the dexterity he used to with the saber, but he could swing the thing from any direction and one of the flanges would still connect with the enemy, assuming it didn''t dodge it.


    "Major Yham would weep if he could see you know¡­" Sabu said with a small smirk, looking at Joffrey''s clumsy swings.


    "Your style is evolving in quite the different manner from the norm¡­" Yham mused as he helped Joffrey up, the icy blade still piercing his chest.


    Joffrey stopped mid swing, before shaking his head harshly.


    "He would weep even harder if he saw what Sabu and I will do this afternoon¡­" Joffrey said with a snort, trying to leave the sudden image behind quickly.


    "What?" Sabu asked suddenly.


    "Helping me train in saber fighting with my left hand of course" Joffrey answered glibly.


    "Gods¡­ we''ll be at it all day" Sabu murmured in between exasperation and amusement as he stood up.


    "All week, rather" said Hu as he raised his eyebrows.


    "Not that we have much else to do. The scouts can at least patrol the usual routes, the expedition survivors that weren''t scouts were ordered by high command to stay here and recuperate¡­ a little bit of entertainment should make their lives a little bit less miserable" Joffrey said as he grabbed his saber with his left hand. "Alright" he said as he promptly fumbled with it and dropped it to the ground, "This might take a while¡­"


    "Oh and by the way" he said as he walked out of the smithy with Sabu, "I''m making all of you Majors" he said with a smirk.


    "What?!" "But Jo--General!" "Huh" various cries followed him outside as Joffrey chuckled.


    "They didn''t think I was going to sit at the head of this disaster without dragging them in too right?" Joffrey asked himself as he kept walking.


    He suddenly stopped.


    "What are you smirking at, Major Shah?" he asked the Long Scout as he lounged on the smithy''s entrance.


    "Oh" was the only thing the normally deep meaning officer said before Joffrey strode outside into the sun.


    "Gods this thing itches!" he yelled, flailing the mace about and startling some of the newest recruits around him as they ducked.


    -.PD.-


    The Expedition remnants and the rest of the Scouts used the next two months well. The ample supplies at the Greytower seemed to do wonders for both morale and weary bones as their bodies took their time recuperating from the harsh mission.


    Apparently, word of ''The Silver Lion and his Men'' had spread around the Dawn Legion, as the resupply caravans carried with them the strange and often amusing rumors that had spread through the Dawn Fort unleashed by Joffrey''s outlandish, no nonsense report, signed by all surviving officers in the expedition to boot. Tales that only seemed to grow as the caravans returned to the Dawn Fort carrying with them the Scout''s take on the events, which were obviously even more outlandish. Tales and whispers of the ''unshakable'' officer which had led his men out of hell itself, climbed down alone into the abyss in search of answers, made war against legions of cultists, corpses and raiders. The man which had blown up a Demon of the Night at the cost of his own arm¡­ managing to exaggerate those events even more left Joffrey stunned, stunned and assaulted by the urge to clobber the heads of his men and the greener recruits. It sickened Joffrey that they whispered in awe of him of all people, and not the courageous friends that had left their lives out in the Beyond so that he could live.


    Joffrey thought that by interacting little with the resupply caravans he''d be able to keep the stupid rumors to a minimum, but that proved to be a fatal mistake. His few appearances served to entrance the wagon drivers, loaders and escorts even more¡­ His grey eye patch now glowed with pure sunlight and was capable of spotting lies, and apparently his mace prosthesis doubled as a coiling dragon in times of emergency, just in case he had to blow another Walker to smithereens and there wasn''t another artillery piece on hand. And of course, there was always someone who claimed they''d seen the silver lion itself prowling nearby the General, always vigilant and apparently fed up of eating shadow demons for lunch.


    He very much doubted Jin had meant this sort of thing when he''d told him to lead, but Joffrey didn''t have it within him to smash the optimism the caravans (and quite a few of the recruits) departed with.


    They needed all the hope and optimism they could get.


    Joffrey didn''t spend the two months idly by, however. Besides training every morning and every afternoon with his left hand and a saber, he made sure they made the most of the obsidian they had recovered, making a dozen daggers and two hundred arrow tips from the big shard. The Expedition survivors shared their hard earned lessons with the rest of the Scouts, both soldiers and officers, and tactics for how to counter them were discussed and demonstrated in mock battles.


    Mostly they waited for the both hoped and dreaded condor which would carry the latest news from what the supply caravans had called the coming ''Battle for the Light''.


    The Five Legions marched against the great enemy.


    Joffrey knew sheltering within the network of keeps and forts wouldn''t work against the kind of enemy they were up against. There would be little or no supply routes to cut, nor lines of communication to sever without copious use of the Jade Scribes, which were already overstretched. Their heavy arrows were not exactly useless, but their effectiveness dropped sharply against enemies who didn''t bleed.


    All in all, Joffrey thought that meeting them out in the open, in a terrain of the Legion''s choosing, was the best course of action¡­ but that didn''t stop the nightmares and the anxiety, and as the days kept passing by and the winter kept getting colder and colder, Joffrey shivered at the thought of what exactly would happen if the Combined Legions couldn''t stop them.


    All of that apprehension skyrocketed at the third month after their arrival, a month where there was no supply caravan, no riders, and no condors.


    Twenty seven days after the last known contact, the tension around the Greytower was so thick it could have been cut with a dull knife¡­


    And then the 2nd Long Patrol found a raving, sobbing wreck of a Legionnaire running from the north.


    He was clad in the tabard of the 143rd Dusk Garrison.


    -.PD.-


    "Tell me again, from the beginning this time" Joffrey said. He was sitting in front of one of the Kitchen''s tables, right in front of the ghost of a soldier, bone thin and almost crying as he gulped the small bowl of soup he had been given.


    The soldier kept eating, eyes shifting from side to side as if distrustful of the room''s corners, as if waiting for some beast to appear out of nowhere and pounce on him.


    Joffrey''s aide, Sunbeam Loh, was at his side as always. He frowned as he walked around the table. Just like his superior, the Sunbeam had seen too much shit already to mince words. Just as his commander, Loh had returned from the Beyond differently from how he had departed. The hard work he''d done during the expedition had left his frame bigger and meaner. His long, black beard made him look larger than he already was, and his closed scars had a tendency slightly swell when he scowled.


    "The General asked you a question Tworay!" Loh said as he slammed his hand on the table. The soldier looked startled, but quickly shook his head, almost maniacally. "The Generals couldn''t save us¡­ no one can¡­" he gibbered as he kept eating from the bowl.


    Loh lowered himself to the man''s ear, his face red. "Mind your words Garrison scum! That''s the Silver Lion you''re talking to!" he threatened.


    "Loh! That''s enough please¡­" Joffrey scolded him, holding up his palm.


    "Aye sir" said his Sunbeam, standing back and at ease to the side of the Tworay.


    But somehow, he had shaken the Tworay out of his trance, "The¡­ the Silver Lion..?" he asked dumbly, raising his head from the bowl again.


    "That''s what I was acclaimed as¡­" Joffrey nodded, waiting for the soldier to get on with it. The man opened and closed his mouth repeatedly as the rest of the officers arrived, taking seats around the table and murmuring between them before Joffrey silenced them with a look.


    "I have seen them¡­ seen them and killed them¡­ There''s nothing to fear here, you are under my protection" Joffrey told him, holding the man''s eyes with his own and meaning it.


    The Tworay swallowed before reluctantly leaving the bowl on the table, a smidgen of determination struggling to take control of him.


    "I¡­ I.. I was there¡­ the combined might of the Five Legions all arrayed¡­ arrayed in a splendor of color¡­ gods¡­ the swirling banners and the horses and the camels--" The Tworay jabbered.


    "The Legions had assembled¡­ they marched to meet the enemy..?" Joffrey prodded before the tangential details threatened to break the man''s sanity again.


    The man nodded maniacally as he was seemingly entranced by Joffrey''s eye, "Yes yes¡­ we marched¡­ we chose the field of battle¡­ we fortified the valley''s entrance¡­ near a dozen miles away from Iron Hill¡­ but they were so many¡­ so many of them¡­" the man said as a sob escaped from his mouth and he started to tear up, rocking slightly.


    "What happened then..? Tworay¡­ Tworay, we need to know what happened¡­" Joffrey pleaded with him, leaning forward and willing the man to talk.


    He was shaking as he stared at Joffrey, his mouth moving haltingly as the words poured out of him.


    "The.. The corpses kept hitting us in waves¡­ like the ocean in an autumn storm¡­ and¡­ and then¡­ the legions of flying creatures¡­ oh gods¡­" the Tworay whispered as his eyes grew wild, "Whole swarms, armies of them, they fell from the sky with swords and axes and claws, the buzz was so loud I couldn''t hear my own voice..!" he said, starting to hyperventilate as he raised a hand to his mouth in dead horror.


    Joffrey stood up, the rest of the officers looked on in dread as the soldier''s rocking doubled in speed. Joffrey walked to the man and kneeled beside the chair, holding the side of his head with his left hand as he kept staring at his eyes, "And then¡­ what happened then soldier? What happened then?" he asked him.


    "¡­They¡­ they took out our artillery¡­ and then the waves of undead doubled, no, tripled¡­ and then¡­" the soldier''s crazed rambling stopped while he looked at Joffrey as if he had suddenly remembered an incredible idea.


    "Where are they now? Where did the Legions regroup..? Where''s the frontline now?" Joffrey asked as the man kept staring at him. The soldier''s gaze twitched slightly, his face white.


    The silence in the kitchen was deafening, and Joffrey''s steadily controlled voice sounded vaguely muffled under its heavy weight. "How many units made it to the rally point..? Soldier¡­ How many units..." He calmly questioned the soldier again.


    His rocking had lost all momentum and he was staring at Joffrey in pure dread, the bowl of food long forgotten. His voice sounded mechanical as he let out the rest in regular intervals. "Then they came¡­ from everywhere¡­ at the same time oh gods¡­ ice and white¡­ oh gods white¡ªwhite-white¡­ mounted atop¡­ shambling beasts with cold eyes and a¡­ a¡­ cursed breath that tore the skin out of Sunbeam Gheh and Tei screamed as his face--- oh gods oh gods oh godsohgodsohgodsohgods--- " he started screaming as he leapt out of the seat and fell on the floor, shaking and raving as he rocked back and forth.


    "Bo, please give him something¡­" Joffrey told the Body Scribe as he slowly stood up and gazed at his officers, his vision a bit slow as something slowly crawled up his throat. The silence was overwhelming when the Tworay promptly fell asleep to Bo''s concoctions and the officers gazed at the now still man, some confused, others in pale white shock.


    Joffrey closed his eye as he thought, slowly shaking his head.


    He opened them to find his officers, both survivors and newly promoted additions staring silently back at him as Bo carried the Tworay out of the kitchen.


    "¡­We have no choice¡­" Joffrey said with a sight, the newer hands shaking their heads in disbelief and the older survivors closing their eyes.


    "Our position here became untenable around a month ago¡­" he said as he gazed at every one of them, regretting what he was about to do but finding no way around it.


    His tongue tasted of acid when he commanded, "We depart for the Dawn Fort tomorrow at first light, get the men ready" he commanded, the wound behind his grey eye patch twisting ominously.


    With the bulk of the combined legions gone¡­ The corpses will swarm the forts like a high tide¡­


    ¡­We have to get back¡­ we have to get back now¡­


    The officers were unmoving as they took a second to digest the order. "Move it men! Weapons and food have wagon priority, let''s get it done now!" He bellowed at them as he gestured with his hand, unleashing a chorus of orders and muffled shouts as the officers and their seconds scrambled out of the kitchen, conferring between them and bellowing for aids and Sunbeams.


    "¡­ it''s this it sir..?" suddenly asked Loh when the kitchen was emptied, still behind and slightly to the left of the empty chair.


    Joffrey turned back, his eye narrowing in concentration. "No Loh¡­ this is barely the beginning¡­" he muttered as if to himself. "Come on, let''s get the obsidian tipped arrows out of the armory, I''ll want them at the middle of the convoy¡­" he ordered as he suddenly turned and started walking out of the kitchen at a fast pace.


    "Aye sir" said Loh as he effortlessly caught up with him, gesturing for the couple of soldiers that had been guarding the kitchen doors.


    "Give ten arrows to each of Shah''s men, and tell the smiths to turn the rest into arrow tips as well, time''s up for any kind of fancy glass battleaxes¡­" Joffrey said without looking as he kept walking. The two soldiers jogged past him and Sunbeam Loh quickly, barely managing to open the keep doors as Joffrey strode past them.


    "Aye sir. Shui, tell the Forgemaster to turn the rest into heads, and get Yazhu here. Each man in the first long and the seventh are to get ten arrows each, go!" bellowed the Sunbeam at one of the accompanying soldiers.


    The soldier dashed to the side as Joffrey walked out to the courtyard, stopping for a second to let four frantic soldiers carrying a crate go by. "¡­and I want the tents dispersed, by several wagons at the back and center¡­" He said as he walked to the middle of the big courtyard, surrounded by bellowing officers and grunting soldiers, moving crates and animals around in controlled chaos as more men kept pouring out of the barracks and the noise and the shouting rose exponentially.


    "What about the furniture, General?" Loh asked, already anticipating his next request.


    "Wood¡­ Yes, turn it into kindling and assemble it by the stables, we''ll need all we can get¡­ and where the hell is Hu?!" he said, turning around the middle of the courtyard and deftly dodging a camel pulled wagon.


    "Nuan!" shouted his aide to a nearby Threeray.


    "Sunbeam!" the Threeray snapped as he jogged quickly beside Loh as Joffrey kept scanning the area with his eye.


    "Find Major Sabu and tell him the General wants every bit of nonessential furniture piled beside the stables and cut into kindling! Go! Now!" he ordered.


    "Yes sir!" the Threebeam saluted quickly before dashing towards the keep.


    "There he is¡­" Joffrey muttered as he walked towards the Gatehouse. "Dust open the storage and fill every canteen you can find, we''ll carry them on the hospital wagons¡­ there''s bound to be more survivors out there¡­" he told his aide as they rapidly approached Major Hu.


    "Aye sir" Loh said as split to the right and quickly spoke with a few soldiers. "Hu!" Joffrey bellowed as he cleared another scrambling wagon. "General!" Hu shouted as a soldier gave him a helmet which he promptly put on after gesturing at a few scouts with it.


    "Where were you? Never mind, do you know what''s going on?" Joffrey asked as he reached him.


    "Close enough sir, Shah told me just a minute ago. I''m doing inventory with Ho-Xeng just now" Hu said, his own aid briefing a few Threerays as he jotted something down in a slip of paper.


    "Not anymore, you''re taking the 17th and the 21st out north for a long sweep, find and bring any stragglers or survivors you can, try to corroborate their stories¡­" Joffrey told him.


    "Aye sir, we''ll find as many as we can" Hu said as he nodded, "Xeng, get the men saddled and ready for a quick sweep" Hu ordered the Sunbeam to his side.


    "Yes Major!" the Sunbeam saluted as he turned back.


    Joffrey was already walking back, Sunbeam Loh by his side again. "Tell Bo to ransack the hospital tower, we''re taking everything that''s not nailed to the wall. We''ll be needing those supplies¡­" Joffrey said as groups of two men emerged from the armory, carrying small chests full of obsidian tipped arrows. "Get half of those to Hu''s men by the Gatehouse, move!" He commanded as he kept walking at a quick pace, his stump itching slightly as his mace hand tingled.


    "This is barely the beginning Loh¡­ barely the beginning¡­" he whispered as the men parted ways in front of him, taking a moment to nod or bow slightly as they carried on with their duties.


    -.PD.-


    The morning sun was radiant as it rose from the east, a red-yellow blob that illuminated the green-grey hills as far as the eye could see. The rolling plains extended far to the north and east until the horizon itself turned pure grey, its color barely touched by the orange dawn. Joffrey was standing upon one of the hills, not too far from the Greytower. He was crouched, feeling the swaying, rough clumps of grass between his hands as the wind shuffled them about. He took a deep breath as the wind picked up again, driving the clumps of grass down with force.


    I wonder if after we''re all gone, someone will remember them?


    Yham¡­ Jhos¡­ Xon¡­ Han¡­ Jin... Jehi¡­ Yu¡­ so many¡­ so many of them gone¡­


    Will they be forgotten in time? Will their sacrifices be evaporated by my death? Wouldn''t it be better that the world be consumed by ice and death rather than be reset..? If the Walkers win, at least their sacrifice will have meant something, at least its existence will not be violated¡­ but if the world is reset yet again¡­ no one else will remember them, their courage, their unshakable loyalty, their last defiant cries... they''ll be lost like howls in an autumn storm, faded from existence itself¡­


    ¡­But¡­ if I gave up now¡­ wouldn''t it be even worse..? A betrayal before dissipation¡­


    To leave a whole world to be consumed¡­ to leave my brothers in their time of greatest need¡­


    No.


    "Sir¡­ they''re ready" Lho said, standing a respectful distance to his left and back.


    Joffrey took another deep breath before standing up, grasping a bunch of grey sand with his left fist.


    The sand is moving¡­ soon all that was the Lands of the Shrykes shall be Grey. Soon the world itself shall be white and grey¡­


    He squeezed his fist, grey sand slipping past his fingers and flying away with a strong gust of wind as he gazed at the Beyond.


    He turned back and walked towards Lho, taking the horse''s reins from his hand and mounting up. "Let''s ride Lho" he said as his aide mounted his own horse.


    "Aye sir" Lho said as he rode behind him, hefting a long pole with a banner attached to it which flew defiantly over them. It sported a silver lion sitting atop a mountain, gazing up to a field full of stars bigger than the lion and the mountain combined.


    "Let''s ride for Dawn" he said as he spurred his horse towards the line of bristling steel and well-worn plates, of hardened eyes and firm grips.


    -.PD.-


    The marching line of men and wagons was tense, but well disciplined. They marched steadily through the dirty road, faces stern and eyes alert. Most of them were veterans from the Expedition, men who had walked through the hells to deliver a strike against their hated enemy. The distinction between their branches had slowly lost meaning throughout the last half year, and they marched with an easy grace that was beyond the physical, a grace of mind and soul.


    Joffrey was with the van, his horse cantering at a quick yet measured step. He was eying the shrubbery to the sides of the road warily as an itching sensation tingled from his nonexistent right arm.


    The hairs at the back of his neck were tingling as he tried to listen beyond the sound of moving men, grim but determined to fight for life and dawn.


    Suddenly he raised his left fist to the air, steady.


    "LEGIONARIES! HALT!" Lho bellowed back.


    The column snapped to a standstill as the wagons halted, and Joffrey used the sudden silence to listen as he turned his head slightly.


    Shah approached slowly atop his own horse, face weary as he halted beside Joffrey.


    "Do you hear that?" Joffrey asked him abruptly.


    "¡­ I do¡­" Shah said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.


    It was a dull, low level thump repeated a thousand times, as if a crazed bed servant were shaking a corrugated leather blanket again and again.


    Joffrey stood atop his stirrups, his eye squinting against the sun as he looked towards the north. On the horizon he spotted a dark cloud moving towards them, accompanied by the dull, leathery sound which was now a continuous buzz.


    "MEN!!! PENITENT TURTLE NOW!" Joffrey roared back as his new horn scout sounded out the order. He spurred his horse back to the center as the column contracted, the men taking out half pikes or other heavy weapons as they made a circle around the many wagons. "ARCHERS AT THE BACK! EYES ON THE HORIZON!" he bellowed as he drew his saber, the men nocking arrows as the frontline kneeled.


    Joffrey could see the individuals within the dark cloud as it got steadily larger, revealing hundreds, thousands of flying men, the combined flapping of their wings steadily drowning all other sound.


    His horse whined in near panic as the men shuffled, some of the half pikes trembling as the all-consuming roar of the wings seemed to drown even their own breathing.


    "STEADY!!! STEADY MEEEEEEN!!!!" Joffrey''s bellow cut over the incipient panic, his voice somehow being heard over the buzz that surrounded them as the legions of Flying Men kept going, their course unmoving as they flew towards the Southwest. They didn''t even look down as they flew through the skies above them, their course strangely steady even if many of them struggled to stay aloft, broken wings and hollow, blue eyes single-mindedly following their unknowable objective.


    They were Flying Men no more. They were flying wights.


    The overwhelming buzz slowly died down as the last of them passed by, and soon their hazy forms were vaguely distinguishable against the glare of the horizon. Joffrey watched them go as his eye swiveled back to Lho with frightening intensity.


    That course will not take them to the Dawn Fort. Was the thought that dominated Joffrey''s head as he looked at his aide.


    "Where?" he asked simply.


    Loh was pale as he looked at his map, slowly tracing a line with his finger. "Assuming they don''t deviate¡­ most likely¡­ the Free Imperial City of Lanzhou" he said.


    Joffrey looked back south at the foothills of the Mountains of the Morn, and slowly stared back down. "May the Gods be with them, if there''s any left¡­" he whispered before looking up again.


    "What are you gawping at?! We''ll reach Hulang Keep by the morrow at this pace!" he shouted at his men, startling them. "Stop envying the wings and get your feet moving again, you''d think I''m in command of a snail trail!" he shouted in overt exasperation. The men laughed nervously as some of the shock slipped by and Joffrey rode forward again, bellowing. "Officers! Get your men in order! And Lho!" he shouted.


    "Sir?" Lho asked by his side as he rode.


    "Get me some of that damned ointment again, this thing itches harder than Sabu''s ass!" he shouted at him, waving his mace prosthesis about. The men behind him chuckled despite themselves, and Joffrey''s mouth tugged slightly in a private smile as his men''s demeanor lost a bit of the shock and they started to march again, a few scout''s eyes vigilant on the horizon.


    -.PD.-


    "OPEN THE GATES!" shouted Lho as Joffrey and his retinue stopped in front of the gatehouse. Hulang Keep was a respectable fort that dominated Rockbowl vale''s southern entrance. The vale itself was nothing too special, as the hardy soil was hard to grow crops upon, but beyond it was the only road that would lead to the Dawn Fort in anything less than months.


    "Who commands so?" a voice bellowed back from the tower.


    "General Joffrey, Commander of the Dawn Scouts!" Joffrey shouted back, his voice clipped and formal. The guards atop murmured confusedly between themselves before Lho bellowed again.


    "OPEN THE GATES FOR THE SILVER LION!" he shouted as he soldier to his right hefted Joffrey''s personal sigil.


    Joffrey sighted as that made them move, quickly raising the portcullis.


    "This is going to be fun¡­" he murmured as he rode past it.


    -.PD.-


    "¡­What do you mean annihilated?!" shouted Major Genshua of the 331st Iron Garrison as Joffrey supervised his men, watching them prepare their tents in the big courtyard.


    "I mean destroyed as an effective fighting force, scattered survivors may have reached as far south as Rockbowl Vale by now" Joffrey commented as he surveyed his men.


    "But¡ªbut-but the Legions..! They¡­ they can''t be gone!!!" he almost shouted.


    Joffrey pivoted perfectly to face him, his eye as hard as granite as it bore on Major Genshua, "When you address a superior officer, you will do so as ''sir''" he said, his stare unwavering.


    Genshua snapped straight despite being twice as large as Joffrey, adding a halfhearted ''sir!'' as Joffrey kept staring at him.


    "Have you received any condors from the Dawn Fort? Any resupplies?" he asked the Major.


    "N-none, sir¡­ and the riders I''ve sent back have not yet returned" he said.


    "Must have been the roving bands of flying wights" Major Sabu said as he reached Joffrey, "Supplies are good, but the men here seem green and shaken. They won''t last a week against a concerted attack" he told Joffrey.


    "Agreed, Major Genshua" he said as he looked back at the commander of Hulang Keep.


    "Sir!" said the Major, feeling slightly burned by Joffrey''s eye.


    "You and your men will come with us on the morrow, back to the Dawn Fort" he ordered.


    Major Genshua spluttered as Joffrey suddenly strode forward, grabbing a soldier which was howling on the ground, "Get that crate up!" he commanded as he reached him, two other soldiers lifting the crate that had tipped over from the nearby wagon. "Can you feel the leg soldier?" Joffrey asked him as he helped him up.


    "Augh¡­ aaaaah¡­ I¡­ Yes sir¡­" said the soldier as he shut his eyes in pain.


    "Take him to the local infirmary" he told one of the Body Scribes that had arrived a second before, helping him limp towards one of the healers. They promptly took him by the shoulders as Joffrey turned back to a still stunned Major Genshua.


    "Why aren''t your men moving Major?" he asked as he strode forward dangerously.


    "I-I cant abandon my post just like that! W-We have rations and strong walls and--"


    "You have nothing, Major!" Joffrey cut off the man''s stutter brutally as he tore off his grey eyepatch and grabbed him by the collar, shoving his vacant eye socket at the man''s face. "The last Demon I met gave me this before I killed him. And it took my arm to do that. Do you have heavy artillery here Major? No? Perhaps a Hemisphere of Jade Scribes then? Hmm?! How many units of heavy shock? How many armorers?! How many piles of wood to burn the dead!?!" he asked brutally.


    Genshua looked pale as he stared at Joffrey''s empty eye socket, muttering incoherently as the restrained, heavy weight in Joffrey''s voice seemed to drag him into an abyss he''d only heard of before.


    Joffrey let him loose as he took a step back, extending a hand to his left. "I know where all those things are Major. They''re at the Dawn Fort. There we shall make our stand, there will shall win or die, there We! Will! Stand!" he roared as Lho handed him his eye patch.


    He turned back to the sea of faces that stared at him in silence, veterans and recruits, serious expedition members and pale Iron Garrisons.


    "We shall not go quietly into the Dark! We will not whimper as the monsters come! Through Dawn and Dusk! Through Light and Dark! WE! WILL! STAND!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs as he lifted his mace arm to the air and the expedition veterans gave a vaguely restrained growl of defiance, slamming swords against shields, spear shafts against ground. The Garrison Irons still seemed scared, but the zeal of the Silver Lion and his men seemed to infuse renewed vigor into their backs.


    He turned back as he shook the dust off the patch before placing it back over his empty eye socket, deftly tying it to the back of his head one handed. Genshua was already ordering his men about, bringing their stores out to the open.


    "Orders, sir?" Sabu asked as he looked at Joffrey strangely.


    "Help them clear the keep, we move tomorrow at dawn" he said, looking at his men again as they prepared.


    -.PD.-


    The ''Lion''s Army'', as the men were starting to call it, made its way through Rockbowl Vale at a vaguely slower pace than before. They encountered small clumps of terrified survivors all over it, men who had fled south in the hopes of escaping certain death. Their stories corroborated the ones they heard from the survivors that had reached the Greytower two weeks before¡­


    The Five Legions were gone, their corpses added to the Army of Darkness.


    The mishmash of somewhat starved survivors swelled Joffrey''s forces to more than a thousand men, straining but not yet breaking the ample supplies they had raided from the Greytower and Hulang Keep. Joffrey spoke with the shattered and terrified men from the 32nd Noon Garrison, hollow stared Half Moons from the Hiding Tiger Constellation and even a couple of almost mute Dusk Long Scouts. They all told the same story.


    It was readily clear that the Forts had been stripped bare, with only the worst equipped or least reliable forces left behind, and few of those at that. Joffrey made sure to speak with each group of survivors personally, trying to transmit the urge to fight back against the despair and stand once again with their brothers. To fight for the living and the world itself.


    He was not sure if he''d succeeded, but after dozens of skirmishes against roving gangs of wights without the survivors breaking he was sure that at least something had gotten through.


    They left Rockbowl Vale a week after departing from Hulang Keep, their force numbering almost two thousand men as Joffrey spread out mounted foraging parties and linked up with isolated outposts and their supplies, outposts that were occasionally ruined, the food and supplies spoiled or destroyed¡­ with no sign of bodies present.


    It was clear the Walkers did not want them to reach the Dawn Fort, and Joffrey''s suspicions about the enemy''s strategic acumen were confirmed when his forward scouts found a group of scared and wary Iron Garrisons manning a makeshift barricade on the road.


    A barricade which faced the direction of the Dawn Fort¡­


    -.PD.-


    "There was nothing we could do, by the gods it was all so fast¡­" jabbered Lieutenant Jiki, the commanding officer of what was left of High Watch.


    "Calm done Half Sun, take it from the beginning again, okay?" Joffrey asked, trying to calm him down by example.


    "Y-Yes sir¡­ I¡­ We were returning from a routine patrol around Rockbowl Vale in search of survivors from the Fall when we saw them attack the castle¡­" Jiki said before taking a steadying breath.


    Joffrey took a moment to stare at High Watch, biting his lower lip in an annoying tick he had picked up somewhere he couldn''t remember. They were camped on the road, right behind the barricade. In front of it the cobbled way kept going up and up, winding through the mountains as it left Rockbowl vale behind until it reached the top. There, guarding the only mountain pass between the vale and the Plains of Dawn was High Watch, a formidable redoubt which had, somehow, been stormed by the undead. The command tent''s walls had not yet been rolled down, giving a clear view of the winding path, offering no protection against the sudden gusts of cold, chilly mountain breeze.


    "They came from the air sir¡­ Flying Men with blue eyes and terrible claws of bone. Each of them carrying a wight with their feet, but only barely¡­" Jiki said, shaking his head slowly.


    "Must have marched until they were on a nearby hill before lifting them up for a short ride over the walls¡­" Hu muttered, looking intently at the nearby hills which only seemed to rise higher the longer one marched up the road.


    "Yes¡­ there were hundreds, each carrying a fallen Legionnaire¡­" Jiki muttered, as if struggling to believe it.


    "Gods¡­" muttered Shah, the tale too much for even his silent demeanor.


    "No one made it out, they didn''t even manage to open the portcullis before getting slaughtered¡­ and the few times we tried to storm the place with makeshift ladders we were bloodied hard, that''s when Captain Aqu got an arrow in the eye¡­ We''ve been trying to hold them here for half a week now¡­" Jiki said, ending his tale with a desperate sight.


    Joffrey had been listening with half an ear, looking intently at the lumbering tower.


    An ''air assault'' using their superior mobility to pin us down¡­


    "Major Genshua" he suddenly said.


    "Sir?" asked the Major, looking up from the map on the table and back to Joffrey as a small gust of wind entered through the opened tent flap.


    "Do you have any men who can climb worth a damn?" he asked as he turned.


    "Hmm¡­ A couple dozen sir, they find it useful for lookout duty over the vale¡­" he said, trailing off when he realized what Joffrey was thinking.


    "It''ll be a hard climb, but I''ll lead with the rope. Wights can''t see worth a damn and their hearing is barely any better¡­ if we climb the east side at night we can open the portcullis before they even realize there''s an attack¡­" Joffrey said, a vague smile showing through as he nodded to himself. "Yes¡­ yes¡­ have the men ready by tonight Major. Sabu, I''ll want our heavy infantry ready to ride like the damned and help us hold the gate while the rest of the men¡­" he trailed off, confused at the strange looks the assembled officers were giving him.


    "What?" he asked.


    "¡­ sir¡­" Hu said, vaguely uncomfortable.


    "Your arm Joffrey" Shah said grimly.


    Joffrey looked down at his right stump.


    "Oh" he said simply.


    ¡­Fuck¡­


    "I can get a good Half Sun that can climb sir" said Major Sabu, his tone of voice completely at ease as usual.


    "¡­"


    "Sir..?"


    "Joffrey?" he suddenly asked.


    "Do it" Joffrey said suddenly, looking back at the table. "Lets get this one in order then" he said as he approached the map.


    Half an hour later the various officers had dispersed back to their men, all except for Shah.


    "What''s the problem Shah?" Joffrey asked him as he twiddled with the disassembled mace arm, looking at the leather straps.


    "Have you thought what would happen to the men if you died Joffrey?" he asked him suddenly.


    Phase out of existence? Be smashed against the shores of the purple just like me but having their memories stripped from them like hide from a pig?


    He shook his head, trying to banish the despairing thoughts. "They would carry on, as they always have Shah¡­" he said half heartedly.


    "Wrong" Shah said as he took one of the stools and sat in front of Joffrey. "They would despair and panic, the whole unit would disintegrate¡­ perhaps the scouts and the expedition survivors would stay together, but in between the resulting mess¡­ we would all be prime pickings for the undead" he said.


    "So what, you''re saying I''m some sort of hero?" Joffrey asked him angrily.


    "No Joffrey, you are their leader. You are the one that has brought them together and carried them this far, you are the one that has carried them so close to safety, you are the man with whom they have deposited their trust and their hope, even their dreams. I was speaking with one of the Fire Lances from what''s left of the 12th¡­ you know what he told me?" Shah said, staring straight at Joffrey.


    "What?" Joffrey asked despite himself.


    "He said he was more afraid of disappointing ''The General'' than facing the Demons of the Night" Shah said with frightening intensity.


    "Please¡­" Joffrey scoffed as he laid back, snorting hard.


    More afraid of disappointing ME?! More afraid of Joffrey Waters than a freaking White Walker!?


    He snorted again, and again as his incipient laughter could not be contained.


    He chuckled for a good long five seconds before looking back at Shah, "By the gods Shah! I hadn''t laughed this hard in what feels to be ages ago! ''More afraid of--"


    "NOW LISTEN CLOSELY YOU SELF DEPRECIATING IDIOT!" Shah roared as he grabbed Joffrey by his armor''s collar and slammed him down on the map table in a frighteningly rare display of rage.


    "Shah what the hells-!"


    "SHUT UP!" he roared as he pinned him there. "You may as well believe you are the scum of this earth not worthy of being stepped on by a dog!" he shouted as he leaned closer. "But the men believe in you, we all believe in you! You brought us back home from the edge of hell! You''ve made certain we''ve kept fighting and dying with our heads held high and with a purpose in our hearts! You have made us remember we are soldiers! Legionaries! Not panicked sheep''s to be led to the slaughterhouse!!!" Shah roared as he let him go, standing back as he took a deep breath.


    Joffrey stood uncertainly, too shocked to say anything.


    "Even if you''ve had your hand, hells if you''d had four hands to help you climb, to do so would have been the greatest stupidity I would have ever witnessed! You are no longer a mere Major Joffrey, not even a General. You are more than that! You are the talisman that the men out there fervently believe will lead them to victory, and if not¡­" Shah suddenly trailed off.


    Joffrey swallowed before asking despite himself, "and if not..?".


    "And if not¡­ they believe that under you their deaths shall have meaning" Shah finished.


    "¡­ I see¡­" Joffrey said, genuinely trying to understand but failing all the same. He just couldn''t get it, he genuinely couldn''t understand.


    "Lead them Joffrey, please, whatever you think of yourself, think of them¡­ lead us to the end. Stop trying to do everything yourself and stop jutting your thick barbarian head into every conceivable danger under the sun¡­ if you can''t see for yourself what you truly are, what you mean for all of us¡­ then look at their eyes and see your reflection upon them, for that is where the truth lies now" Shah said, his voice getting steadily quieter as he wound down.


    Joffrey munched mechanically for a few minutes, staring hard at the floor.


    "I won''t lie Shah¡­ I won''t say I understand but¡­ I''ll be more careful¡­" he managed, shaking his head.


    "Sir!" Shah saluted rigidly after a few seconds of quiet.


    Joffrey saluted back as he sat back down looking at his lap, confused as Shah took his leave.


    I don''t know why they all believe in me, but I can only try to make sure they don''t find me wanting¡­


    He was genuinely more afraid of failing them than being permanently killed by a White Walker.


    The irony of that thought was lost on him though.


    -.PD.-


    In the end, Joffrey commanded the attack from the middle of the formation, safe from stray arrows. His nonexistent right arm tingled every time he heard a roar or a scream, and he was about to spur his horse into a gallop when a bloodied, mounted Ranger found him.


    "The wights are destroyed, High Watch is ours sir!" The man almost shouted.


    The men around Joffrey did shout, in both joy and relief.


    Joffrey took a deep breath before nodding, "Send the officers my regards and get some water" Joffrey commanded, a vague smile adorning his features despite the hole he felt at his heart for not being there in the thick of it with his men.


    From here on out its nothing but plains for two days¡­ and then¡­


    And then, the Dawn Fort beckoned.


    -.PD.-


    The last stretch of the journey seemed almost eternal to Joffrey, but just as the sun rose from the east the ''Lion''s Army'' finally arrived at the Dawn Fort, the last line of defense before the Beyond gave way to the Empire and the lands of the living.


    The enormous, black fortress was burning.


    -.PD.-


    "MEN! WITH ME!!!" Joffrey roared as he galloped forwards, riding past the huge unmanned gatehouse, the triple portcullis and the double iron doors wide open.


    They emerged from the other side of the thick, great black wall to a sight that stunned Joffrey. He was ready for legions of undead, or perhaps masses of White Walkers, but not¡­


    Looting. Looting and raping.


    He saw men clad in legion armor dragging women out of their houses, their breeches down and their expressions crazed. He saw soldiers¡­ no, animals storming into stores, some killing the inn keeps and merchants while others just grabbed every ounce of food they could before dashing outside.


    "Shah, with me, Sabu, secure the East Gate" he barked as he spurred his horse onwards, followed by a dozen Threerays plus Loh and his signal scouts, including his standard bearer. The mounted soldiers quickly crossed the big plaza that surrounded the East Gate, the various looters stopping what they were doing as they spotted him. To his left was Shah and two dozen of his Long Scouts, all taking out their bows.


    Joffrey reined in his horse brutally as he got within ten meters of the plaza''s center, where a big amount of food and sobbing women had been deposited, surrounded by armed soldiers.


    "Well well well¡­ An officer which isn''t a complete coward! That''s a sight¡­" bellowed a man out loud as he walked past a few of the soldiers, a Sunbeam by the look of it. The stench of alcohol was coming so strong from him that Joffrey could smell it from where he was. "Well, there''s bound to be a few wenches around that are still alive, we can share, soldier to soldier!" he bellowed as he wielded a hand axe about.


    Joffrey''s remaining eye might as well been made of ice as he stared at him for a second.


    "Major Shah, kill that man" he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.


    "Aye General" Shah said almost leisurely as he whipped out an arrow from his quiver and loosed at the speed of lighting. The heavy broad head slammed against the Sunbeam''s neck, unleashing a fountain of blood as he fell on his back, gurgling. The rest of the looters took out their weapons menacingly, shaken but already beginning to close down on Joffrey''s men.


    "THAT''S ENOUGH!" Joffrey bellowed as he stood upon his stirrups, scanning the whole plaza and daring them to move, "I AM GENERAL JOFFREY, THE SILVER LION, COMMANDER OF THE DAWN SCOUTS! AND I SWEAR BY ALL THAT IS HOLY THAT I WILL PERSONALLY RUN YOU DOWN IF YOU DON''T DROP YOUR WEAPONS RIGHT FUCKING NOW!" He bellowed, a red fury threatening to overtake him as his eye bored on the looters, his mind still struggling with what he was seeing.


    He bellowed again as the rest of his men emerged from the gate, serried ranks of iron already spreading throughout the plaza, being directed by the Sunbeams and the officers.


    "I''LL IMPALE YOU MYSELF AND THEN SMASH YOUR SKULLS AFTER YOU REANIMATE! THIS I SWEAR BY ALL THE GODS UNDER THE SKY!!!" Joffrey screamed in fury, a part of him begging them to refuse.


    Something about what they''d heard or seen must have frightened them, because they dropped their weapons almost at once, raising their hands and vaguely cowering on the floor. Joffrey took several quick breaths, struggling under the red blanket that seemed intent on enveloping.


    "Joffrey!" Shah snapped him out of it.


    "Major" Joffrey managed.


    "Orders, sir?" he asked.


    That served to lift him out of the trance, "Sweep the entire Fort with whatever men you need, imprison those that surrender, kill the rest" he ordered.


    "Understood" He said as he spurred the horse back and shouted to a few of his units.


    "General, we have the East Gate" Sabu said as he rode at his side, followed by roughly half of the formation''s heavy units, an eclectic mix of dismounted Heavy Camelry, Iron Guards, Rangers and Shock Irons.


    "Good, take the south mainway and secure the West Gate, no one comes in or out without my say so" he commanded.


    "Aye sir! Heavy Formatiooooon!" he bellowed as he waved his battleaxe in the air and spurred his horse, his own horn scout relaying the orders by sound.


    "And Lho" Joffrey said as he spurred his horse into a canter.


    "Sir?" asked his aide.


    "Clap these animals to some irons and get someone to guard them, I''ll deal with them later" He said as his retinue assembled around him once again and the black and silver banner swayed in the wind, "VAAAAAAN!!!" He bellowed as he looked back, "With me! We''re going traitor hunting!" he said as he took out his saber and maneuver his horse with his knees, in direction of the East Inner Gatehouse. They had three rings of walls to secure and Joffrey''s stump was tingling with blood thirst.


    -.PD.-


    The Outer and Inner districts were, to varying degrees, a mess of mutinies and looting. Joffrey encountered a few groups trying to maintain order but they had been reduced to fixed positions trying to defend refugees. His mace smashed more than a few skulls as his retinue galloped past the second wall and into the Inner District, his saber reaping a bloody harvest from the backs of those that refused to surrender. Soon word started to spread that the Silver Lion was back from the Beyond itself with reinforcements, boosting the morale of the loyalists while most of the deserters lost hope and surrendered.


    He dreaded the scene that would greet him in the Bastion District, the most heavily fortified redoubt within the Dawn Fort, its third wall the last line of defense if the enemy managed to storm the other two. If the looting had gotten out of control there then it was very possible that the Dawn Legion''s siege supplies had been lost¡­ which would mean certain doom for any kind of armed, organized resistance north of the Red Marshes.


    When he reached the third wall''s gatehouse though, he found it manned and armed, its towers flying the banner of the Dawn Legion: a peeking red sun over a black fort. Joffrey rode past houses and barracks up to a respectful distance from the gatehouse, ready to gallop back at the first sign of hostility. The archers up there didn''t look ready to kill him, though they seemed wary.


    "I am General Joffrey, commander of the Dawn Scouts, acclaimed as the Silver Lion! Who''s in command up there?!" Joffrey bellowed, warily eying the archers, the ballistas, the mangonels and the murder holes spread around the wall. Quite a few of those were manned.


    That unleashed speculative whispers and agitated shouting before someone bellowed back, "We are under the command of Sunbeam Valyon of the 87th Dawn Garrison!"


    What?!


    "Joffrey!!! Is that you sir?!" shouted the familiar voice of his old chief as a figure appeared amongst the archers.


    "By the Old Gods Chief! You are a sight for sore eyes!" Joffrey shouted. The figure stormed out of sight and soon the triple portcullis was rising.


    -.PD.-


    The smoke unleashed by the sporadic fires still lingered throughout the cold chill of the night, giving the charged air around the Dawn Fort a grim aura. The looting and the pillaging had been stopped by the ''Lion''s Army'', Valyon''s loyalists and the other scattered pockets of defenders. For Joffrey though, the whole event still had him somewhat shell-shocked.


    "Valyon¡­ how..? No, Why..?" Joffrey asked in confusion as they walked through the Inner District''s great courtyard, the Bastion District''s gaping gatehouse a dark maw that towered over the assembled men in the great plaza.


    His old Chief was looking sadly at him as Joffrey kept asking as they walked towards the assembled army. "How could they?! At a time like this¡­ to betray their brothers¡­ my brothers¡­" Joffrey muttered, shaking his head again and again.


    Valyon took a deep breath as they neared the wooden stand, stopping for a moment as he eyed Joffrey. "General¡­ Joffrey¡­" he said as he looked at him, as if searching for something in his eyes. "You really don''t know?" he suddenly asked.


    "Know what?!" Joffrey asked, feeling something freezing inside his stomach as his stump itched.


    "After the Legions were slaughtered¡­ the White Walkers didn''t regroup Joffrey, they swarmed the Five Fort''s center like a hurricane¡­ the Noon Fort is gone, slaughtered to the last man¡­ and like an avalanche they used the corpses of the slain to swarm the Sunrise Fort two days ago¡­ the undead have already invaded the Red Marshes"


    Joffrey felt as if his vision was slowly being reduced to a pinprick as his heart hammered inside his chest like the bells of King''s Landing.


    The Sunrise Fort¡­


    With the fall of the Sunrise Fort, their entire left flank was gone. The Dawn Fort was the southernmost of them all, flanked by the Sunrise Fort to the north and the foothills of the Mountains of the Morn to the south.


    But with them and the Noon Fort put to the sword and added to the army of the damned¡­


    The Five Forts have been breached. Forward elements and Flying Wights are probably reaching the Yitish Hinterlands right now¡­


    And we must be days away from being swallowed and consumed ourselves. The Walkers will not leave such a sizeable force at their backs for long now that they''ve secured the area, logistics or not.


    Joffrey took a deep breath as the pieces of what happened here started to fall in place inside his head. "Where is High Command?" he asked Valyon, his mind strangely calm.


    "When they heard the news¡­" Valyon stammered as he looked downwards.


    "Where is High Command Valyon?!" Joffrey almost roared as he stepped closer.


    "They deserted Cap''n" Valyon whispered, the stress bringing out old forms and old dreams from the older man. "Dawn Commander Fei-Pi had been slain in the battlefield, the few broken remnants that survived the battle and made it here carried the news. Two days after that, High Command read the frantic script carried by one of the few condors that made it here¡­ the Sunrise Fort had released all of them at the same time, all carrying the same message¡­ that their Bastion had been breached and the dead roamed free¡­"


    "And they left their men¡­ the officers in charge of defending the realm.. no, the world against this apocalyptic menace¡­" Joffrey interrupted, shaking his head in incomprehension.


    "They loaded up a train of horses with supplies and left before dawn. When the Garrison found out that their officers had deserted them in their hour of greatest need¡­ they are only men Joffrey, they are only men¡­" Valyon muttered.


    ¡­that beacon to our men, to our brothers¡­ Echoed Jin''s voice inside his head.


    ¡­that unshakable pillar¡­


    Joffrey shook his head violently. Everyone was shaken, and morale was close to a breaking point. The chief instigators of the mutiny had been executed, along with the worst offenders, but with the coming storm Joffrey was not sure if what remained of the Dawn Legion could hold itself together.


    ¡­that banisher of despair¡­


    Joffrey walked again, taking the makeshift platform''s wooden steps two at a time and rising above the assembled troops below, both mutineers and loyalists standing at attention. The worst of the deserters, the rapists and the murderers, had been either summarily executed or taken to the dungeons depending on the severity of their crimes.


    The men were quiet as Joffrey surveyed them, slowly scanning the assembled men with his good eye.


    He regarded the disciplined veterans, the scared new recruits, the soldiers that had been too old to accompany the Legions out and those that had been deemed to mediocre to join the march against the Demons of the Night. He looked at the hundreds of different remnants under his nominal command, from the Wooden-Irons to the Scouts to what was left of the Dawn Fort''s Jade Scribes and more, a disorganized and eccentric mix. They were now his men, whether he wanted it or not.


    It was his duty.


    When Joffrey finally spoke, he seemed to take them by surprise. "The rumors are true" he suddenly shouted. "The Noon and Sunrise Forts have fallen" he said, the shock and abruptness of the statement leaving a window of silence even deeper than before, one that would give way to incipient panic in seconds if left unattended. "We are the last coherent fighting force north of the Red Marshes, and if we fall¡­ the Demons of the Night will have an uncontested corridor straight into the heart of Yiti, and from there to the rest of the world" he said.


    His powerful voice cut through the budding, panicked whispers like a blade, "I will not lie. Forward elements of the enemy are already invading, and any kind of reinforcements from the Empire will most likely be far too late to save us" he shouted from the stand. The men and the surviving officers were looking at him in confusion and fear as Joffrey paced atop the wooden platform, his eyes constantly scanning the army of men below.


    "No matter what we do, there''s a high chance we will fall all the same. In a way, we are already dead, all of us" He bellowed.


    The men looked absolutely shaken by the strange madness that had seemingly possessed their commander, almost breaking lines at the accurate summary of their position.


    Joffrey seemed to be possessed by an inner fury all of a sudden, stopping his pacing as his lone eye surveyed the Legion like a loaded ballista. His voice rose to a fevered pitch, acquiring the tone of a promise or an oath. "We may be dead already, but we have something that the wights will never have. A choice! We can choose to betray all our bonds of fellowship, brother against brother, every man for himself as the worst of us already did! To die like scared rats!!! To say yes to the melody of despair!!!" he bellowed.


    He let the silence build for just two seconds before plunging himself metaphorically into the fray, speaking from his heart like the serene conversations he had with Shah, staring at the horizon.


    "But there is another choice¡­" he almost whispered, his voice still somehow carrying itself all over Great Plaza. "To stand with our brothers, to fulfill vows muttered from times immemorial" he said, his voice raising in intensity as he barely thought about what he was saying. Joffrey had somehow given up on orders or morale raising proclamations somewhere along his speech, instead he was now conveying pure emotion, pure will, the essence of what he dreamt of, the essence of a spirit that tasted of raw meat and beautiful sunrises, of awe and serenity, of courage and determination.


    "We can stand together! Stand as one against the madness and the chaos!!! To delay as much as we can an enemy that would see our civilizations extinguished! Our monuments torn asunder! Our cities turned to ash! Our families forever made slaves!!!" he bellowed, feeling a deep thrumming inside of him as he spoke.


    "Yitish or barbarian! Man or woman! High born or peasant! Those distinctions are now meaningless! In front of the apocalypse we are but one people! For every minute We Stand, more of our people will live, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, friends and lovers!" he shouted, his voice resonating throughout the plaza like a powerful horn. Some of the soldiers were entranced, others stood still as statues while others blinked rapidly and swallowed hard as Joffrey''s voice reached its peak and the will within him seemed to flood the plaza.


    Joffrey could barely see the plaza and the men as he devoted all of his strength to what was struggling to come out of his chest, looking at the dark sky and gripping the wooden hand rail with his hand and bracing himself as the words poured out of him like a powerful stream.


    "For every Wight we destroy, a life shall be saved! For every Demon we kill, a Wonder shall be seen!!! For every minute We Stand, our people shall be free!!!!!" he bellowed before tilting his head back from the sky and gazing at his men once more.


    "What will you Choose!? To lay down our arms and go quietly into the Long Night!?" he said, his heart hammering wildly as he finally couldn''t hold it any longer and he raised his fist to the air and he roared his dream, his will.


    "OR TO STAND TOGETHEEEEEEEEER!!!!!!!!!" he bellowed with all his might at the same time as an ear shattering, primal roar erupted from his left. From the corner of his vision he saw the silhouette of the Silver Lion in all its glory as it stood on its haunches, silver fur and black mane bristling as it roared the very same message, the very same will Joffrey was trying to convey.


    Joffrey own bellow hadn''t ended yet when the men raised their weapons almost as one with a battlecry fit to tear down walls, slamming spears and swords, shields and axes.


    "TOGETHEEEEEEEEEEER!!!!" roared the Legion as they raised their weapons. It was not a bellow of cheer, nor was it a cry of victory.


    It was a promise.


    "STILL! WE! STAAAAAAAND!!!" Joffrey roared as he punctuated each syllable with his now unsheathed saber, raising it up and towards the coming storm.


    "STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!!!!!!!!!" roared the men, officers and soldiers, the echo rebounding through the Fort''s walls and up to the night sky.


    When Joffrey lowered his saber and took in a lungful of air, he realized the Silver Lion was gone. As the men kept bellowing and slamming their weapons against shields and armor, Joffrey looked back towards the North East.


    He had a promise to keep.


    -.PD.-


    ----------


    AN: This was originally meant to be the Ark''s last chapter, but it got a bit long for that, so I decided to trim a bit and split. Not sure if it turned out alright, especially given the long wait but as long as we are moving forward and it doesn''t suck outright... I''''l take it!


    Remember to Comment!

 Chapter 26: The Siege, (1).

    -----Chapter 26: The Siege, part 1.


    Joffrey eyed the huge, half empty underground storage cellar in mild shock as the Greatbeam by his side shuffled nervously. "¡­And the rest of the cellars?" Joffrey asked, his voice dangerously quiet.


    "They¡­ ahh¡­ Cellar three has a bit less than this, but Cellar seven is quite full" the Greatbeam said as he nodded again and again, sweat pouring down his neck.


    "¡­ so¡­ bit less than two full cellars then" Joffrey pondered out loud.


    "Yes General" confirmed the Greatbeam.


    "I see¡­" Joffrey commented as he suddenly whirled around and grabbed the Greatbeam by the neck, lifting him and pinning the man to the cellar''s wall.


    "There should be enough supplies here to last us five years! We will be lucky if we last six months!!!" he roared as he slammed him against the wall again and again. "Where is the rest?!" he bellowed right at the Greatbeam''s ear.


    "Ahh! AAh!!" grunted the Greatbeam as Joffrey kept slamming him against the wall.


    Right¡­


    He stopped for a moment, letting the man get his bearings for a second.


    "They''re¡­ they''re gone okay?!" the man finally pleaded, his eyes vaguely unfocused.


    "What do you mean gone¡­?" Joffrey asked, his voice barely stronger than a whisper.


    "Th- the soldiers sell them all the time! The stores haven''t been full in years!!!" he finally confessed.


    Joffrey was struck speechless as the man kept blabbering, "Its been this way for decades! How could we possibly know the returned-- how could we have known¡­" he mumbled.


    "And the officers..? What about the Colonel in charge of supply?" Joffrey asked.


    "They all knew! They all took their cut! They were never going to be used anyway! They--"


    "You mean we took the cut, don''t you Greatbeam? As the Greatbeam your cut must have been quite generous¡­ no?!" Joffrey shouted as he slammed him against the wall again.


    I¡­ I thought I had escaped the corruption and the pettiness when I arrived at the Five Forts¡­


    Gods, how could I have been so stupid¡­ Even after all this time I''ve learned nothing¡­


    He slammed the Greatbeam against the wall one more time before lifting his mace prostheses and cutting the piece of cloth that held the man''s twin iron rays, using one of the mace''s flanges.


    He let him go as the man collapsed over the hard stone floor. "Take this scum to the work crews, he''ll feel right at home" he told one of Threerays that stood at attention beside the cellar''s door.


    The soldier saluted respectfully before kneeling and carrying the vaguely conscious ex Greatbeam out the door.


    "I told you the situation was desperate, even with half rations we could last less than a year, assuming they don''t storm us" Valyon said as he looked at the piles of crates and foodstuffs.


    Joffrey grunted as he tossed him the Twin Beams "Congratulations Greatbeam Valyon, now I want you to round up any scrap of food you can find both within and outside the Dawn Fort, conditions permitting. Half of the civilians already left, and half of what remained has accepted my offer of escort to whatever river barges remain at the Swamp Docks... That should leave fewer mouths to feed¡­" he said as he walked outside the cellar and into a long corridor lit by oil lamps.


    "That combined with some aggressive foraging before the siege starts should help a little" he pondered out loud as he kept walking, Valyon accompanying him alongside Loh and the rest of the soldiers that had been waiting for him outside. "Loh, what''s next?" he asked as they took a great staircase up.


    "Major Fengge at the Outer District sir, he''s been having trouble tearing down some of the bigger houses" Loh said as he shuffled a bit of paper and handed it to Joffrey. He felt as if he hadn''t slept for three days¡­ and that was probably true. The preparations for the coming siege were titanic, so much so that Joffrey had discovered he didn''t have enough hours in a day to keep up with all the various tasks. Loh had taken to annotating a queue of concerns in paper so that Joffrey didn''t forget anything. The thing was useful, but watching as Loh kept annotating stuff on it faster than Joffrey could complete them threatened his sanity.


    "Right, send a runner for Shah and tell him to meet me at the Outer District, we''ll talk on the way before reaching Major Fengge. I''ll need him to lead the foraging parties" He commanded as they emerged from the shadows and out into the open air.


    -.PD.-


    "Bo, I brought you some apprentices" Joffrey said as he arrived at the horribly understaffed Bastion Hospital, bringing a dozen men and woman with him.


    The great healing hall was full of beds and patients¡­ and precious Body Scribes. Most had been killed when the Combined Legions were massacred, and Bo had taken charge of the ones that had been left at the Dawn Fort¡­


    "Apprentices..?" Bo asked, confused as he kept working.


    "Yes, we''ll need all the healers we can get, make use of them and teach them as you work" he said as he shuffled a bit of leather that had been scratching his neck. Joffrey had taken to wearing Scout armor whenever he left the room he had appropriated near the top of the Dawn Fort, within one of the towers that surveyed the entire Bastion District and the rest of the Fort.


    Bo stopped mixing herbs on the nearby alchemical alembic and promptly looked up "A-A-apprentices?! They haven''t even been inducted into the Bronze Scribes! It takes years of training just to prepare oneself for an apprenticeship! Do they even know anything?!" he asked.


    "Well, Jingfei here knows a bit about herbs, Boqin and Peng know how to read and write¡­ the rest¡­ well the rest are very eager to learn" Joffrey finished lamely.


    "B-but--"


    "No buts! Get me more healers Bo! Or a reasonable facsimile of one, the casualties will start piling up soon and the bottleneck here needs to be expanded!" Joffrey commanded, serious.


    Bo had no time to respond as Joffrey was already outside the room, leaving the confused would-be apprentices staring at Bo.


    He didn''t have time for spluttered denials, the dead were coming.


    -.PD.-


    The day was clear if a bit cold, and the rest of the trebuchets had long stopped with their training.


    "Again" commanded General Joffrey.


    "Crew! Prepare three hundred! 25 degrees North!" Bellowed Sunbeam Wei.


    The loaders grunted as they placed stones inside the counter weight basket before winding up some pulleys and turning the wooden platform below the trebuchet slightly to the right. Then they started to retract the winch, slowly turning the gears with their long rods as the trebuchet''s long arm gradually bent down. The great trebuchet sat atop one of the many towers that adorned the Outer Wall, a piece of heavy artillery no different than the scores of twins that crowned the dozens of towers located along both the walls of the Inner and Outer districts.


    What distinguished the crew of Piece 24 was not the trebuchet they manned, but what they did with it.


    "LOAD!!!" bellowed the Sunbeam.


    Groups of Onerays grunted as they carried the great stone projectile inside the small cart, stopping by the great sling and placing the big stone within it.


    "Ready!" shouted a Twobeam after securing the stone.


    "LOOSE!" shouted the Sunbeam after examining the piece briefly, his eyes franticly looking for any defects or failures.


    A Oneray grunted in exertion as he lifted a big hammer with both hands and brought it down on the metal lever. The lever screeched as the pulleys winded down, the rope making a sizzling sound as the great counterweight fell back towards the piece''s center and the arm was lifted up, the sling giving the stone even more momentum as the projectile was released for a long flight.


    The General brought the far eye up to his head, leaning its far end on his hammer''s steel shaft as he adjusted the eye piece with his hand. The Sunbeam did the same with his own far eye and saw a brief plume of smoke as the big stone tumbled for a few seconds before stopping well before reaching the blue flag. And way to the right of it too.


    Shit, another miss, thought the Sunbeam as another drop of sweat travelled down his forehead.


    The General lowered the far eye as he contemplated the horizon once again, scratching the part of his right arm where leather met flesh before speaking once more.


    "Reset the piece" he said as his belly suddenly rumbled.


    The crew looked mortified as they got to work, exchanging wary glances as they reset the trebuchet to its starting position.


    When the Silver Lion had told them to land a stone within thirty meters of the flag (like the rest of the crews had finally managed a few days ago after weeks of intensive training) he''d warned them that he''d personally supervise them until they either did it or the sun gave way to night.


    That had been five hours ago.


    The General didn''t seem to mind, he had skipped his meal alongside the rest of the crew, though that hadn''t stopped him from working. He''d spent most of his time atop the tower dispatching and receiving messengers, sending orders and organizing the work crews that were tearing down some of the buildings of the Outer District or receiving manifests of supplies and unit readiness. In between messengers the General would sometimes give them pointers or observations, never losing his patience as he calmly waited for them to finally get it right.


    Wei had never seen anything like it¡­ the officers of the Dawn Fort had, for the most part, never been very interested with the artillery units. The prospect of a war that managed to get all the way to the Dawn Fort was almost unheard of since the last siege had been more than half a thousand years ago. Before most of them deserted, the majority of the officers had been content to see that the pieces were well cared for and the ammunition supplies filled.


    The Silver Lion though¡­ he was has cut from a different cloth. In the two weeks since he''d taken command the Scout General had overseen the transformation of the Dawn Fort into a veritable beehive. Work crews, intensive training, foraging runs¡­ He''d somehow managed to meet every Sunbeam under his command and briefed them on tactics and tips for dealing with the wights, and even the Demons¡­


    Beyond the skill, Sunbeam Wei had felt something else within his commander. He''d cautiously breached the topic with his peers and many had said the same thing. The man seemed possessed by a drive, a will that was almost overwhelming, a vision that shined through even the smallest of moments, be it when he ordered the execution of a deserter, when he asked for a bowl of food at the great barracks or when he simply commented on a job well done.


    An expectation to do their jobs to the best of their ability. A vision of a grand whole which encompassed them all, a shared endeavor that seemed make them one will, one purpose that the Sunbeam knew, somehow just knew, the wights and the Demons would never have.


    "LOOSE!" he suddenly found himself shouting, before shaking his head and cursing.


    What?! The General hadn''t even called the target flag¡­ had he?


    But he had. ''Red flag, two hundred meters'' the General had ordered, he could remember it now. Wei had gone through the motions automatically¡­ same as the rest of the crew, he suspected.


    He scrambled for the far eye again and barely managed to spot the red flag as the stone landed right beside it, almost slamming into it.


    He turned back and saw the General slowly lowering his own far eye with a slight smile.


    "Excellent work gentlemen" he said, and Wei could somehow feel how he and the rest of the crew slotted into the Silver Lion''s Vision.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had taken to eating in the great barracks so that the men could see he was not taking more than his share of rations, but today circumstances called for another location.


    Him and his officers, both the veterans from the ridiculously named ''Lion''s Army'' and the somewhat recently promoted officers from the Dawn Fort were seated around a great wooden table as they discussed the plans for the coming siege, finishing their breakfasts as they turned their minds over to tactics and strategy. Joffrey preferred to confer in the evenings, but for some reason almost all of his officers had been too busy last night, they had all insisted that they could only meet at breakfast, before dawn if Joffrey did not want the meeting to disrupt the ongoing preparations for the coming siege.


    He was a bit sleepy as a result, but he didn''t care that much.


    "We have plenty of oil, so that''s not a concern. I''ve got a special project I''ve been discussing with our resident Architects" Joffrey said as he nodded at one of the Majors from the surviving Wooden-Irons before continuing "that will make use of a portion of it. Even so, we have so much of it that the firewall is looking like a real possibility" he said.


    The assembled officers muttered in consideration before Major Hu spoke up. "Is that wise, General? We may have a lot of it now, but after a year of siege¡­" he trailed off awkwardly.


    "A valid concern, the short answer is that we will worry about it when the time comes. The longer answer is that we need some kind of break to keep the waves of undead from swarming us. A break in which we can burn our own dead, take a few breaths, bring more projectiles from the warehouses to bear and more importantly force them to once again run through our bows and artillery so we can pepper them before they get into melee range again. We need a way to cut off the wight''s rear every now and then so they can''t reinforce the assault immediately¡­ that way our our men can take a breather and not get killed out of sheer exhaustion" he said.


    "Hence the firewalls" said one of the Garrison''s Majors.


    "Indeed. Now, the Dragon Choirs from the Architect''s Long Strike units will help with that, but their ammunition is hard to make, we don''t have a whole lot of it and most importantly of all their reload rate is horrible. The firewalls will make a good complement" Joffrey said as he got up and walked to the huge map that adorned the entire east wing of the room.


    "We''ll need deep ditches here, here and here" he said as he marked the approaches to the Dawn Fort from the East. "A dozen smaller ones before the Iron Cemetery will help too" Sabu commented thoughtfully as he pointed and Joffrey drew a few more lines. "Especially given the fact that after the siege starts we won''t be able to make more outside of the walls" he added.


    "Good point, the only one we will be able to refill, maybe, will be the Iron Cemetery itself. The iron spikes will be almost useless, but the ditch itself is huge. I reckon that a climbing hazard which is on fire will make the Demon commander''s life just a little more difficult. Not-life, I mean¡­ how do you even say that? Unlife??" Joffrey commented, extracting a few smiles or amused grunts from his audience.


    The planning session went on for half an hour before Joffrey dismissed them, but curiously enough not a single one of the officers left.


    "I thought we''d gotten through all the questions? What is it?" he asked, confused.


    The men were still seated, but their expressions were solemn and their backs ramrod straight.


    One of them, Major Hu, had walked to the window and was looking at something outside.


    Joffrey was going to ask what the matter was before Shah suddenly spoke up.


    "The Dawn Fort cannot Stand without its commander" he intoned.


    Joffrey raised an eyebrow as he spoke, "It damn well can, Fei-Pi may have fallen in battle but that doesn''t mean we''ll just roll over the--"


    "Night has claimed our Commander¡­ but Dawn rises again, to lead us against the darkness" Shah intoned again.


    Joffrey was completely bewildered as he regarded the men, shaking his head in confusion before Hu nodded to himself and opened the heavy curtains.


    Joffrey could see light slowly enveloping the room as the sun rose from the east.


    What the hells is--


    "Dawn is upon us, but we cannot Stand without our commander. Suns of the Dawn Fort" Shah asked solemnly, using the old forms. "Who shall lead us?" he asked.


    A heartbeat later, Major Sabu spoke. "Joffrey, the Silver Lion shall lead us" he said.


    Suddenly, Joffrey understood.


    They can''t¡ª


    "If any find him unworthy, if any knows of another strong enough to take this burden, speak now" Shah intoned.


    "Stop this idiocy right fucking now!" Joffrey shouted as he walked towards the table''s head.


    There was silence as no one else spoke, and Joffrey could feel the burden of crushing responsibility enveloping like a mantle.


    It was stupid, irrational even, he understood that. He was already in command of the Dawn Fort and he was probably the highest ranking surviving officer within the Dawn Legion. To make it official would change nothing.


    But he was still afraid, the faces of his dead friends kept flashing right in front of him, brothers and legionaries left on the pale sands of the Beyond. Past them Joffrey could see the dead faces of Sandor and Jon, of Nakaro and Ned, of all the people he had failed before.


    Please don''t stand, Joffrey wanted to say, to scream. But wasn''t that what he''d been trying to get them to do this whole time? To stand against the darkness as one, to Stand Together?


    The burden of hypocrisy weighted against the urge to scream, to run away.


    He took a deep breath¡­


    Then slowly let it out as he collapsed on his chair, holding his forehead with his left hand.


    "Then, in the name of the Silver Lion, Stand" Shah finished.


    All the officers, the whole two dozen of them stood up as one, their chairs pushed back as they stood there, backs straight and eyes unwavering.


    The deed was done.


    "Rise, Dawn Commander Joffrey" Shah said.


    ¡­ An unshakable pillar, a beacon to his men¡­ Whispered Jin inside his head.


    His men needed him. He was not going to let them down.


    Dawn Commander Joffrey stood up as the morning light finally reached him.


    -.PD.-


    "But if we place two smaller bags right below the tip instead of one to the side, the bolt should have a much, much better range" Joffrey commented as he drew on the parchment. The three Twosuns that presided over what was left of the Wooden-Irons inside the Dawn Fort hummed as they stared at it before one of them grabbed the parchment and drew a few modifications on it, which prompted the other two into outraged counterpoints and general hair pulling. Soon the sketch was filled with annotations as the Majors communicated with each other in the arcane tongue of the Architects. Joffrey didn''t have the heart to tell them he''d already done the calculations himself¡­ he preferred to watch them argue and snipe at each other as they evaluated the design.


    Their mannerisms were remarkably similar to Xon-Mi''s, and every time he saw them like that he''d felt a bittersweet tang in his chest.


    The Beyond and the undead have taken so many friends¡­


    The bolt, designed to be fired by a heavy ballista had already been named by the artificers working in the Bastion''s siege works. They''d named it the bumblebee, to Joffrey''s amusement.


    "And the charges for the mangonels?" He suddenly asked them.


    "Almost done sir, though their efficiency will remain unproven until they are actually used in battle" said one of them.


    Joffrey nodded distractedly as he thought about the unusual countermeasures he and the Architects had devised. Some would have called him insane for using a mangonel in such an absurd role, but after what everyone in the ''Lion''s Army'' and the Combined Legions had seen¡­


    They were going to need quite a bit of that creative thinking.


    He shook his head again. The mangonel charges, both of them, are almost done, no use in worrying about them¡­ he thought as he looked back at the corrected sketch of his newer creation.


    Bumblebee indeed, he thought with a snort as he closed his eye, trying to chase that elusive state of consciousness Archmaster Benedict, the smith, had found so easy to achieve.


    When he opened his eye he quickly started to add a few finishing touches, mainly to ensure the fuse would not light up the sacks of heavy oil when the bolt was shot. It had to be in midflight for the weapon to be truly effective. He was somewhat proud to note that his handwriting was legible despite it being written with his left hand.


    He handed back the sketch and the Architects grunted in acceptance as they saluted, eager to test the latest version.


    "What next , Loh?" he asked as they made their way through the buy workshop, trying to avoid frenzied artificers and hurried apprentices as they worked on a multitude of projectiles, weapons and spare parts.


    "¡­Nothing actually, nothing which requires attention before midday at least" said his aide, vaguely surprised as he looked at his notes.


    "¡­Really?" he asked.


    "It does appear so, sir" he said.


    Joffrey almost couldn''t believe it, but he had ''free'' time.


    And there was one thing I''ve been putting off for a while, he thought as he left the big workshop, the Bastion''s black stone somewhat glossy below the morning sun.


    -.PD.-


    The small, black rock had almost certainly been an obelisk in the deep past, but after the ravages of time not much more than an angled stump remained. The rock stood at the center of a very small park, not much bigger than his old room at the Red Keep. It was flanked by small trees and bushes, giving the place a calm atmosphere.


    The small gusts of wind had been steadily getting stronger throughout the last week, and Joffrey was sure the enemy was not far. The attack would be coming any day now, a swift, brutal strike to see if they folded under the brutal shock and thus saved the Walkers a lengthy siege. They didn''t seem to require many supplies, but every corpse spent guarding the Dawn Fort was a corpse that wasn''t butchering people throughout the rest of the world.


    He approached the jagged stone and kneeled, hanging Jhos'' silver medallion alongside the dozens of others that blanketed the black rock. High Moon Vhenzi, commanding officer of the Jade Scribe''s Northern Hemisphere had been killed alongside the majority of the Legion''s Jade Scribes at the ''Fall'', when the combined Legions perished under the might of the Demons. He had been Jhos'' nominal superior, and the man he was supposed to give the medallion to.


    Barely a few full Moons remained under his command, and they had refused to accept the medallion. Instead, they had directed him here.


    It was a memorial of sorts, perhaps an acknowledgment of expectations fulfilled, or a symbol of duties remembered¡­ Joffrey did not truly know, and hadn''t asked. He knew it was important for him to do this, and that was all there''d been to it.


    "You did well Jhos¡­ you did well¡­" he whispered.


    He regarded the slightly swaying medallions for a while, feeling the peace of the small garden.


    He felt the tension and the questions slowly erode as the small trees and bushes swayed with the wind, questions about cycles and lions fading from his mind as his muscles relaxed.


    He smiled sadly as he sat down and closed his eyes. It had been a while since he''d last meditated.


    -.PD.-


    The sun had hidden to the west some hours ago, and the usual bustle that had characterized the Dawn Fort for the past month was muted, almost tranquil.


    Joffrey had retired to his room, but he''d been unable to sleep for more than an hour now. He''d lighted up a couple of oil lanterns and tried to read a bit of Fol-Fing, despite knowing the book by hard by now¡­


    It hadn''t helped. After that he''d donned his customary heavy boots and walked in a circle around his room for twenty minutes as something inside his mind refused to be let go.


    He didn''t quite know why, but he''d found himself standing in front of the big mirror that adorned his room. It was big and enameled in gold, and besides the superior, almost Myrish quality of its glass it would have not been out of place in Westeros.


    Oh Sansa, if you could see me now¡­ Joffrey mused as he gazed at the person in the mirror. Whatever illusions of beauty the redhead had seen in him were long gone.


    His left ear was missing a part of its rear, bitten off by a flying wight. His right ear was missing its top half after an arrow from a fiery zealot had grazed him, many years ago. His right eye was gone of course, claimed by the icy blade of a White Walker. He lifted his shirt as his eye kept going down, gazing at the angry scar in the middle of his belly. To its right was a section of burnt skin, courtesy of the powerful blow the White Walker had delivered on him. Both of them were surrounded by scabs and scars, a legacy of wounds from a thousand swords, claws, sabers and arrows. He lifted his right stump, gazing at the gnarled ending, eye unfocused.


    If I stay here¡­


    If I stay here¡­ I''ll die.


    I''ll die and I''ll never wake up again¡­ he thought as he tilted his arm, studying the contours of the stump.


    It was obvious really, Joffrey knew of only one thing powerful enough to rank in the same tier as the Purple.


    The White Walkers. Beings capable of bringing back the very dead as their perpetual slaves.


    If he was killed here, he would be Returned¡­ but not to his old room in the Red Keep. He would be reanimated as a wight. How could he be reborn in the purple if his very soul was trapped by the eldritch beings, bent to their will. His individuality gone, his memories gone, the very essence that made him himself all replaced by the undying hunger of flesh and eternal hatred of the living.


    He could still run though, there was still time. It would be so easy, to load a couple of horses with supplies and ride through the West Gate just like High Command had done. He would have to sneak through the Red Marshes and beyond so that the roaming bands of wights wouldn''t kill him, but sooner or later he would reach the coast. There he could steal a small boat and row until his arms gave out. He didn''t know just how great the range of the monsters was, but it couldn''t be that big. A swift stab to the neck and he''d be safe again, free to rest, free to seek the ever elusive answers¡­


    He closed his eye.


    All he had to do was betray his men. Just like the others had done. To break all bonds of fellowship, to betray his brothers, to leave every man for himself¡­


    To die like a scared rat.


    He could imagine their faces, the despair as the news settled. The anguish and the all-consuming panic that turned men into animals slamming against the Dawn Fort like a thick miasma. He could see the grand army poised to destroy them sail by unopposed, hitting Yi-Ti and the world like a sledgehammer before they could even begin to prepare an adequate defense.


    The choice threatened to break him, and he could feel his whole body shivering.


    Last chance.


    They wouldn''t even remember that betrayal, and the rest of the world would be reset thanks to the Purple. All would be washed away, all would be as it was. He didn''t need to die here.


    ¡­


    ¡­..


    It was easy to be ''brave'' when he knew he would always come back. For years, decades now he''d been telling himself that he''d changed, that he''d transcended that shell of a child, that he''d left behind the monster he''d been. He had spent years trying to justify to himself just exactly why he was a different man.


    If he turned back now, wouldn''t that mean it had all been for nought? Wouldn''t it mean it had all been one big excuse, merely a varnish, a coat of paint he''d used to dress up the fact that the purple made him effectively immortal? That when the stakes were real¡­ he was revealed as nothing more than a fake?


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    Wouldn''t it mean he had not really changed at all?


    Wouldn''t it mean that he was not the master of his fate?


    ¡­


    ¡­¡­


    ¡­¡­¡­.


    The shivering stopped.


    I am going to die here.


    The thought hit him like a warm breeze, a deep feeling of wellbeing as if he''d just woken up from a long afternoon below the shade of a heart tree.


    He found he was not afraid of it. To be lost forever in the darkness, to never experience again.


    Because he''d die as himself. Not as a scared rat, not as the spoiled prince, but as him.


    Joff.


    Joffrey.


    Just¡­ Joffrey.


    The serenity that enveloped him for a few seconds after that realization was too strong to put into words¡­ it was like a mix of memories. Ned''s encouraging smile, a gust of chilly wind at the top of the world, a splash as a ship trundled through another wave, the sound of dice rolling inside a cup, a vast field of stars, the warm laughter of a friend.


    Joffrey took a deep breath as the feeling purged him, as a deep weight he''d carried for so long was slowly lifted.


    He opened his pale green eye and saw himself in the mirror.


    Joffrey was smiling.


    He lost himself looking at his own eye, loosing himself in the pale green serenity that enveloped him like a comforting blanket.


    bbbbboooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU bellowed a deep horn in the distance.


    -----


    -----


    Its time, he thought to himself as the man in the mirror gazed back, serene.


    bbbbbooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU bellowed the great horns of Dawn, a low pitched thrum which seemed to reverberate through the stones themselves.


    "Commander!" said Loh as he opened the door and entered quickly. He snapped a perfect salute before giving him the news.


    "Scouts report a great horde of wights to the North East, moving fast towards us¡­ they''ve spotted Demons amongst them" he announced.


    The masters of their fate¡­


    "¡­ they''re here sir" he added as Joffrey kept silently staring at the mirror.


    The ones who stand in vigil¡­


    "Bring my armor" he commanded.


    Joffrey kept staring at the mirror as two soldiers carried a big chest to his side before opening it up. One of the soldiers grabbed something before he bent down and strapped a black, steel grieve below his left knee as the other one did the same to his right leg.


    "Sometimes¡­ sometimes men have to become something greater than themselves¡­ whispered Jin inside his head as Joffrey lifted his arms and Loh fitted him with a gambeson piece, followed by a coat of mail.


    "A beacon of light and hope¡­" whispered Jin as the soldiers fitted plates of black armor to his thighs.


    ''bbbbboooooouuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'' thrummed the horns of Dawn, signaling the arrival of the Enemy.


    The man in the mirror lifted his stump to the side as Loh strapped a long mace to it, strapping and securing leather to flesh and removing the covers off the flanges.


    "¡­An unshakable pillar¡­" Jin whispered as one of the soldiers fitted a gauntlet to his left hand and then a vambrace, a black piece of polished steel with a slight reddish tint that covered his fore arm. The man in the mirror lifted both arms to the sides as Loh and the soldier placed a breastplate over his chest, closing the back end and securing it in place. The black breastplate slowly acquired a stronger reddish tint the farther up it went until it reached the neckline in a splendor of dark red. On its center, the breastplate depicted an angled, distorted Fortress eerily reminiscent of a face. The huge Fortress''s gatehouse was open as if it were screaming, and the towers which flanked it seemed slanted, with lines of enameled ruby cascading downwards.


    It was crying, shedding furious tears of burning fire.


    "¡­that father to his men¡­" Whispered Jin as the two soldiers wordlessly secured black, steel braces to his arms, followed by two big pauldrons, one for each shoulder. Both pauldrons depicted the Dawn Fort in miniature, one slanted downwards as if saddened while the other seemed straighter, perhaps reminiscing of happier times, content.


    ''bbbbboooouuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'' bellowed the horns of Dawn.


    The two soldiers moved to the sides as Loh stepped behind Joffrey, placing a grey eye patch where his right eye used to be, covering his empty eye socket. He tied the knot at the back of his head tightly as a soldier secured an obsidian dagger to his left, level with his hip.


    "Sometimes¡­ men have to become something greater than themselves¡­ something... grander" Whispered Jin, his voice almost lost in the silence as Loh pivoted to his right, buckling a heavy saber to his hip as the two soldiers once again emerged from behind, carrying a crimson red cloak. They secured it to his pauldrons before letting it hang down, where it fluttered slightly as a gust of bone chilling wind gently shuffled it about. It hanged to his thighs, leaving his legs free to move.


    bbbbboooouuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU thrummed the Dawn Fort as the soldiers stepped back and stayed there, still as statues.


    Loh stepped to his side, his back straight. His expression was serious, solemn as if made of chiseled marble. In his hands he had a red helmet whose back and sides slanted downwards in a stepped pattern. The helmet had two golden horns vaguely shorter than his forearm which jutted up, holding a blood red metal circle in between.


    Joffrey tilted his head down, letting Loh secure the helmet. His aide secured the straps firmly before stepping back to Joffrey''s flank, leaving the room eerily quiet.


    Joffrey took in a deep, slow lungful of air before letting it all out, slowly tilting his head back up to gaze at the man in the mirror.


    The sun seemed to shine from above the man''s head, illuminating the top of the armor with the light of dawn. The light it brought was wrong though, not the color of a natural morning. It was dark red, the color of spilt blood, blood shed during dawn. The shuffling cloak behind the man made the dawn seem alive, shifting at the edges of the armor with each gust of wind¡­ It gave the Fortress on the breastplate an eerie effect. The windowed towers that flanked the gatehouse, the eyes, seemed to move slightly with each flutter of the cloak as if it too gazed back.


    "¡­Through Dusk and Dawn¡­" suddenly promised the man in the mirror.


    "¡­Through Light and Dark¡­" promised Dawn Commander Joffrey.


    ''BBBBBOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'' answered the Dawn Fort, its deep pitch reverberating through the stones.


    -.PD.-


    The wind blew strongly as Joffrey strode through the walkways of the Outer Wall. In lockstep behind him walked Greatbeam Valyon and Sunbeam Loh, followed by a dozen heavily armored Shock Irons. Their heavy battleaxes and Dai-Katanas glinted below the moonlight as they passed scores of rushing men carrying stones, ballista bolts and buckets of oil.


    All around him Joffrey saw soldiers stopping for a second or two and saluting, gazing at him in awe as he made his way to the gatehouse''s top. He knew he didn''t deserve such admiration, but when he''d donned the Armor of Dawn he''d made a choice¡­ he was now their beacon, their hope. And he would not let them down.


    So he nodded back after each salute, "Dawn Commander" said a Sunbeam preparing a trebuchet''s crew. "Commander!" snapped a wide eyed Oneray which couldn''t be older than fourteen years old as he carried a bundle of arrows to the forward positions along the thick wall. "Silver Lion" murmured a Ranger in deep respect as he slowly walked behind a unit of mixed heavy infantry right at the edge.


    Joffrey nodded back curtly after each salute. All along the Fort''s Outer Wall he could see torches and blazing piles of kindling, illuminating the huge structure like a beacon in the night.


    He ascended three flights of stairs before reaching the most elevated portion of the fortification right behind the East Gatehouse, where a veritable redoubt had been built vaguely atop it. It was the Commander''s Stand, a raised, fortified keep right behind and above the East Gatehouse which gave him a clear view of the entire Eastern side of the Fort as well as a command center to keep himself informed of whatever happened around the huge fortress. One of its two main areas, the War Room, served the latter function, a great hall full of shouting and shuffling that made up the command center for the coming battle. Around the center, arrayed in concentric circles were soldiers and Bronze Scribes behind tables receiving reports from various units. The veritable flood of messengers was quickly sorted by Sunbeams at the entrance, directing them to the relevant tables were they left their reports and took offered water canteens, waiting to receive back orders.


    "DAWN COMMANDER!!!" Bellowed one of the Sunbeams as Joffrey strode through the room''s open doors and the soldiers stopped what they were doing to salute.


    "At ease" Joffrey commanded immediately with a clear voice as he stood at the center of the room, left hand behind his back and his mace leaning over his saber''s pommel.


    "Gatehouse Garrison" he called out as he turned.


    "Gatehouse manned and secured, commander!" said one of the soldiers at the tables.


    "Wall Sections!" Joffrey called out the big table that was arranged as one big circle around the room, divided into segments of four.


    "North East, secured and reinforced!" called out one of the Bronze Scribes.


    "South East, secured and reinforced!" said a Captain with a bandaged arm.


    "South West, secured!" called the scribe next to him.


    "North West, un--" started the Bronze Scribe but quickly stopped when a runner emerged from the doors and almost crashed against the table, quickly handing a slip of paper.


    "North West, secured!" called the Bronze Scribe.


    Joffrey nodded curtly as he turned to the other side, "Reserve?" he called out.


    "Colonel Sabu reports the Inner East Gatehouse is secured and his troops are ready to sally out at a moment''s notice sir!" called out a wounded Ranger.


    "Good" said Joffrey as he turned towards the corner where a few cushions had been arrayed, "Arcanum?" he asked the stern Quarter Moon that sat there with his eyes closed and his back as straight as steel. "All three Constellations are ready and the ritual is stable, Commander" he said with ironclad certainty, never opening his eyes nor moving anything beyond his mouth.


    "Excellent" Joffrey said before he finally turned to the last table, this one manned by a Scout. "Force estimate?" he asked quickly.


    "Captain Zo-Hui estimates at least twenty five thousand wights moving in formation and around two dozen Demons, Commander" the Scout delivered the apocalyptic numbers with aplomb.


    Joffrey''s eye hardened.


    "I''ll take those odds" he said as he strode towards the reinforced double doors that crowned a wide if brief set of stairs. The Threerays keeping guard there opened the doors and Joffrey was hit by a blast of chilly wind as he walked out.


    The Observation tower was the Stand''s highest point, a crenelated bastion where the Commander could view the entire Eastern side of the Plains of Dawn. The fortified position was surrounded by ballista and mangonel crews, as well as groups of soldiers manning great horns and huge flags which Joffrey could use to direct the flow of battle.


    He took the final set of steps before he arrived at the top of the little fort-within-a-fort. Joffrey could see the great Plains of Dawn stretching from North to South before crashing into the Mountains of the Morn very clearly despite the night. The retreating Scouts had lit some of the many oil holes the work crews had dug and filled, illuminating the plains as far as the vast tree line a few kilometers from the Dawn Fort itself. From there to the Gatehouse there was no cover except for the occasional ditch filled with oil, and Joffrey could see the soldiers manning the wall to his sides as they hurriedly moved supplies and projectiles about... or they readied katanas, sabers and axes in preparation for the coming melee.


    He could hear a steady rumbling coming from the North East, an earth pounding shuffling that slowly increased in volume.


    "A probe or a swarm, sir?" Loh asked as the pounding kept rising and his Shock Irons spread themselves around the Observation tower.


    ----


    ----


    "Swarm. They''ll hit us hard, to see if we break at the first battle¡­" Joffrey mused as the wind picked up speed, his crimson red cloak fluttering wildly as he raised his far eye with his mace hand and looked through it.


    He saw a single White Walker emerge from the tree line, clad in indistinct blue armor and wielding a great hammer with a big grey rock atop it. The monster seemed to be staring straight at Joffrey as the rest of his companions emerged from behind.


    He saw dozens of White Walkers emerging from the tree line, each quite separate from the other as they leisurely marched into view, almost in mechanical lockstep, their movements calm and precise, synchronized with each other.


    The Demons gave no speeches nor rallying cries. They just stood still as a grey tide emerged from behind them.


    They stood still as shoals of undead emerged from behind them, like the sea during a tempestuous storm. The wights screamed harrowing screeches as they ran like demented, tormented souls as they kept emerging from the forest like ants, filling the entire horizon with grey as they spread all over the plains, not stopping for a moment.


    The fires illuminated them clearly, and Joffrey could see Shrikes and Legionnaires, Horse Chiefs and Cultists all united in death with the same goal, to spread their misery far and wide, to bring the world down in ice and death.


    Their combined shrieking was a sound come from the hells itself, filling the entire plain and beyond¡­ It too, was a promise. They shambled at a dead run, wielding weapons of all kinds or none at all, their jaws hanging wide open as if already tasting the flesh of those to be consumed as a terrible sandstorm picked up behind them, a whirlwind of jagged grey sand that suddenly seemed to rush directly at the Dawn Fort, its own sibilant whistling adding its tune to the melody of the damned.


    His pale green eye slowly scanned the great mob from end to end as the all-consuming curtain of grey sand bared upon them all like living Leviathans, the skies themselves turning grey as the multitude of banners behind him fluttered wildly, the Starwatching Silver Lion the tallest of them all.


    The sandstorm crashed abruptly as if against an invisible curtain, still quite a distance away from the wall itself, spilling to the sides and continuing around the Dawn Fort in a perfect circle as the wights themselves kept charging without the shrouding embrace of the sandstorm.


    Joffrey lowered the far eye.


    "Burn them" he said, still gazing at the grey tide of undead.


    "Aye Commander!" Loh snapped by his side as he turned back to the soldiers by the great horns, "FORWARD BATTERYYYYYYYY! LOOOOOOOOSE!" he bellowed as he signaled with his arm.


    The horns of dawn thundered, cutting off the shrieking of the undead as the stones themselves trembled.


    "Trebuchets! Make ready!!!" shouted a Half Sun in the bastion to Joffrey''s far right.


    "Ignite!" bellowed Sunbeams as soldiers jutted torches into the great stones which rested in the slings, wrapped in soaked rags.


    All along the Outer Wall bursts of orange fire screamed to life as soldiers stepped back and officers shouted almost as one. "CLEAR!!!" shouted a Threeray as he quickly inspected the piece and the soldiers stood back.


    "LOOOOOOOSE!!!!!" roared a Sunbeam as he slashed his saber down, the soldier next to him grunting in effort as he lifted a great hammer and slammed it against a thick metallic lever. Ropes spun too fast for eyes to see as counterweights swung down with deceptive force, the inertia strong enough to make the wind whistle as long wooden arms were raised to the sky all over the wall.


    Dozens, hundreds of flaming projectiles flew in a long arc over the Plains of Dawn, they seemed almost sluggish as they completed their arcs before gaining speed and slamming downwards into the grey sea. Clumps of wights screamed as they were tossed to the sides in flames, many stones rebounding on the ground and searing great paths of fire as they purged through the ranks of the undead.


    The grey tide seemed barely diminished, still rushing with wild abandon as soldiers grunted in pained effort, still undeterred even as the trebuchets along the wall loosed as fast as they could, the initial volley morphing into a constant rain of fire as stone after stone crashed against the Legion of the Night.


    Joffrey grasped one of the black crenellations as he kept watch over the swarm, his eye unflinching despite the frequent flashes as fireballs kept crashing against the undead left and right. He tilted his head slightly towards Loh, still looking at the burning plains. "Let''s see if they like the Bumblebees" he commented.


    "HEAVY BALLISTA! LOOSE!" thundered Loh, soon followed by the thrumming horns of Dawn.


    Soldiers along the Outer Wall scrambled as long bolts with twin hanging pouches were slammed into heavy ballista pieces all along the wall and the bastions that jutted out of it every thirty meters.


    "CLEAR!" thundered the crew leaders as soldiers and sometimes even boys lit small lengths of fuse and stepped back.


    "PURGE THEM!!!" thundered one of them as he slashed down with his katana and the ballista loosed with a strangled sight. All along the battlefield hundreds of sizzling projectiles flew over the wight''s heads. Some of them tumbled down almost immediately after clearing the wall, but many others flew straight as the fuses lit up their charges and viscous, heavy burning oil rained from above, disintegrating the projectiles in midair before raining down like a hail of burning snow.


    Clusters of wights burned under the red rain while many others tried to avoid the sudden pools of fire and the tumbling balls of flame, clumping and bumping against each other and slowing down their progress. Even so they charged on, some of the luckier ones almost reaching the Iron Cemetery.


    "Rear Battery, loose" Joffrey commanded, his voice cold.


    "REAR BATTERYYYYY!!!" bellowed Loh, signaling the horn crews with his hand.


    "SHOW ''EM THE LION HAS CLAWS!!!" snarled a Sunbeam atop the Inner Wall as orange glows emerged all over it and soldiers slammed hammers against levers.


    "LOOOOOOOSE!!!!!" the roar echoed throughout the Dawn Fort.


    Scores of flaming projectiles erupted from the Inner Wall, sailing over the heads of the defenders before crashing into the wights. Joffrey could feel the intense heat as dozens of flaming stones passed above him, smashing into corpses like the fists of gods, tossing them aside like broken toys.


    Even so, the tide seemed unrelenting. More and more wights emerged from the tree line as gaps in the grey sea closed again and the clusters of fire were extinguished by the sheer pressure of bodies piling over it, even if it burned many to ashes.


    "Commander, the mangonels-!" started Loh.


    "Not yet" Joffrey said, studying the sky. The clouds, the smoke and the monstrous, whirling sandstorm beyond it had blanketed the horizon almost completely.


    "Start peppering them" Joffrey commanded as he kept looking at the sky with a frown.


    "ARCHERS!" shouted Loh. The horns thundered as Greatbeam Valyon walked to the edge of the Stand and bellowed down at the archers stationed on the wall section nearest to them, giving the orders personally.


    "BY VOLLEYS! SEND THEM BACK TO THE ABYSS!!!" he bellowed.


    Bows resounded by the thousands as arrows leapt throughout the Outer Wall like eager hounds, many of them on fire, whistling throughout the air before slamming into wights like a gale of razors. Hundreds of wights collapsed as arrows took out skulls and chests, many of them standing back up again despite the furious pounding, crawling with their arms if necessary.


    The wights finally reached the Iron Cemetery and leapt, trying to jump over the huge, staked ditch. Hundreds fell down and impaled themselves on the iron stakes as thousands more grappled with the mud and climbed up like spiders, first up the ditch and then the great black walls.


    "RED SECTION, STAND BACK! ORANGE SECTION, LOOSE!" Bellowed a Sunbeam as archers stepped back, others immediately taking their place and loosing flaming arrows down the wall.


    Wights were returned to eternal rest by the hundreds. They got their skulls smashed as they neared the top, pushed back to the ditch by half pikes or had their chests burst open like grapefruits under the heavy hammering of battleaxes, Dai-Katanas, one handed maces and sabers at the hands of the infantry stationed atop the wall. But for every one that fell, two more reached the crenellations, and soon the whole Eastern side of the Outer Wall was under assault as wights kept climbing by the hundreds.


    Joffrey''s frown deepened as he strained to listen beyond the roar of battle, beyond the snarls of trebuchets and ballistas, beyond the screams of dying men.


    He whipped back suddenly, hollering at the soldiers by the Horns. "LOAD MANGONELS WITH SKY BURNERS!" he bellowed powerfully, the soldiers rushing as flags where quickly raised and the Horns thrummed.


    He turned back as thousands of figures emerged from the sandstorm, their silhouettes lit by the moon above and the fierce fires below as they flew high over the air. Their great wings flapped wildly as they approached the Dawn Fort at great speed, each flying wight haphazardly carrying another undead with their feet, blue eyes crazed and mouths agape.


    Joffrey stared at them as the dark cloud quickly cleared the distance to the Dawn Fort, their great leathery flapping slowly drowning all other sound as the overwhelming buzz resounded all throughout the Dawn Fort.


    Joffrey didn''t look back as his roar cut through the great buzz as clear as lighting, his voice almost as powerful as the Horns behind him as they followed his command.


    "MANGONEEEEELS! SET THE SKIES ABLAZE!!!" he roared.


    Hundreds, thousands of the heavy catapults loosed almost at the same time, the trajectory of the barrels barely discernable by the wild sparkling of their fuses as they arched over the battlefield right as the flying wights neared the Outer Wall.


    Scores of explosions thundered over the battlefield every second as the barrels burst in midair, the great concussive force of the firepowder charges making wights tumble in midair and lose control, falling down from the skies and smashing themselves against the hard ground or the crenellations. The incendiary charges lit the skies red as the fire made the wights shriek and jerk away, losing their grip on most of their passengers even if some of them managed to break away whole.


    Hundreds of wights still rained throughout Outer Wall, shrieking as they crashed against stone or men, never stopping their fumbling arms or their deadly mouths.


    The mangonel crews that surrounded the Observation tower loosed desperately as more and more of the flying undead came crashing down, loaders grunting in effort as they loaded charge after charge and Onerays pulled cranks and levers franticly.


    One of the crew members stumbled back in horror as a flying wights crashed right next to his mangonel, shrieking as it tried to bite the man''s leg and the barrel''s fuse kept sparkling wildly, already loaded atop the piece. The two other soldiers manning the piece, neither old enough to have a beard, stumbled clumsily as they tried to get their weapons out before a snarl startled them.


    A red and black figure leapt from above, his heavy boots landing on a crouch right atop the wight''s back as the thing shrieked and its broken wings tumbled wildly. He shoved his saber''s side against the thing''s back, holding it still while he shoved his mace hand brutally against the wight''s spine, twisting brutally before standing back up.


    "KEEP LAUNCHING!" bellowed the Dawn Commander as he slammed his mace hand against the mangonel''s release lever, the piece letting out a strangled, minute screech as its arm moved up and the heavy catapult released a sparkling barrel. It travelled a short distance before exploding right beside a cluster of flying wights, forcing some of them to tumble down to their doom while others barely reached the Outer Wall.


    "Eyes on the horizon! Use your spotter as close in defense; you don''t need him for aiming right now!" he shouted at them, shaking his boot as the wight on the floor tried to grab it with a torn, broken hand.


    The crew stared at Joffrey in mild shock, still as they gazed at their commander and the undead struggling to grasp his boot.


    "Fire''s down on the left flank, loose ten charges that way" he said as he pointed with his saber, shaking his boot in annoyance as the thing barely managed to grasp it, trying to pull itself with it as its mouth hanged open, "Before turning¡ªGodsdamnit!" he huffed as he stared down and stomped the wight''s skull with his other boot, again and again as the thing finally broke and the corpse stayed still. "Before turning back to your assigned area, four Sky Burners for each Fire Hail" he said as he looked back to them.


    ¡­


    "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!?" he snarled, startling the crew into action as they started to turn the artillery piece around.


    Joffrey turned around and strode to the edge of the observation tower. He could still see hordes of undead pouring out of the forest even though the casualties amongst the wights were already enormous.


    They really want us out of the way¡­ Joffrey thought before a Flying wight with a broken wing landed right on the crenellation next to him, its hands struggling to find a better grip as its legs hanged down.


    Joffrey smashed his saber against the thing''s skull before turning back and quick walking towards the Horns of Dawn, the wight''s screech cut short as it fell. Even atop the Observation tower battle had been joined as mangled wights managed to reach the Fort''s command center. The Fort''s fires and the frequent flashes of light above illuminated the same picture all over the Outer Wall as legionnaires fought in a furious melee that was very slowly pushing them back.


    "LIGHT UP THE FIRST FIREWALL!" he roared at the soldier leaning against the great horns, over the sound of the explosions above.


    "CHOU! SIGNAL THE TREBUCHETS TO LIGHT--" he repeated as he grabbed the man''s shoulder and turned him around. Blood seeped from his mouth as the body tumbled to the side, a short sword rammed up his throat as the small wight he''d been pinning with his weight jumped at Joffrey.


    The undead rammed its other short sword against his chest, the black plate stopping the blade on its tracks as Joffrey dropped his saber and grabbed the Shryke wight by the neck, pummeling its head with his mace, snarling as he hammered the thing''s skull again and again.


    He tossed the broken thing sideways before taking a lungful of air and placing his mouth over the fixed horn''s blowhole.


    ''Bbbbouuuuuuu¡­¡­. BbbboooouuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'' thrummed the tower itself as Joffrey blew. He turned back to look at the sky as four flaming projectiles leapt ahead of the rest, two of them managing to crash against a ditch nearby the Iron Cemetery.


    The entire ditch burst into a flaming conflagration almost instantly, mobs of wights burned down in seconds even as the ones behind them stopped, shrieking and snarling as the ones behind them shoved forwards all the same, feeding the fire with their bodies.


    It seemed that had been too much, even for the Demons of the Night. The wights behind the firewall suddenly turned around and fled back to the forest, the Walkers that had been surveying the battlefield turning as one and walking towards the tree line, their steps synchronized.


    The one that wielded the mace stayed there for a half second longer before turning too as the sandstorm that raged around the Dawn Fort slowly dissipated.


    The wights that had been past the firewall kept attacking, but without the great press of bodies behind them they were quickly decimated by the Fort''s artillery.


    Something moved in the corner of his vision and Joffrey turned quickly, only to find the remains of the wight he''d pummeled trying to crawl its way to the crenellations.


    "And where do you think you''re going..?" Joffrey asked the wight as he grabbed him by the back of the neck. He walked back to his position as the men started on a ragged cheer, weapons raised defiantly to the air as a bloodied Sunbeam Loh greeted him with a relieved half smile.


    "Lost sight of you for a moment sir" Loh commented as he assumed his position to Joffrey''s left again and Greatbeam Valyon emerged from the double doors with two dozen more Shock Irons as reinforcements.


    "Had to take care of a few things" Joffrey muttered distractedly as he watched over the rapidly clearing Plains of Dawn and the broken thing he held in his hand twitched desperately.


    Suddenly, he raised the wight over the battlements, the fires all over illuminating its twitching figure as Joffrey roared.


    "They can be defeated!!!" he bellowed as the soldiers on the battlements turned to look at him.


    "THEY! CAN! BE! KILLED!!!" He roared as he tossed the wight down. It gave a desperate shriek as it plummeted down from the Commander''s Stand before slamming against the hard black stone below, at the same time as the men roared back.


    "Secure all munitions and ready for a standing watch" Joffrey commanded before turning back and going down the short set of stairs from the raised platform to the Observation Tower proper. "Just missed it, Greatbeam" he called out to Valyon as the Shock Irons spread out and made sure the downed wights stayed down.


    "Sorry sir" he said belatedly as he walked with Joffrey, both of them descending again down a set of stairs, through the double doors back into the War Room.


    "Don''t worry about it. Start giving the men some food, if nothing happens for the rest of the night I''ll want the rotations we discussed ticking over by morning" he commanded as he reached the middle of the great room.


    "Wall Sections! Report!" he bellowed over the controlled chaos of messengers, soldiers and walking wounded.


    -.PD.-


    ------


    AN: Part 2 should be coming soon, decided to split it so we dont end up with a mega chapter like "Red, Black and Purple" (In hindsight, 3 separate chapters named "Red", "Black" and "Purple" would have fitted perfectly


    )

 Chapter 26: The Siege, (2).

    Chapter 26: The Siege, part 2."Estimates?" Joffrey asked as he took another set of stairs. He''d been in the Bastion District when the horns had thrummed, and he''d merely needed to take three flights of stairs up the great keep before his vision became unobstructed by the walls and towers.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


    ----


    ----


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


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


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


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


    "Commander" he said, giving him his helmet.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Shit.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    THHTSUUU-THHTSUU-THHTSUUU-THSTSUU-TSUUU-TSUU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU¡ª


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    DIE! DIE! DIE!


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


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


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


    DIEEEEEEE!!!!!


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Unless, that is¡­


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


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


    Sabu regarded him with a sad smile as he spoke.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Sabu again, sir?" He asked tentatively.


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


    No.


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


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


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


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


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


    "Loh¡­" he said dangerously.


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    And then he had stormed off.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''bbbbboooooouuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'' thrummed the Dawn Fort.


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


    ''booooooooooooooouuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'' thrummed the Dawn Fort again.


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Strawberries on a white saltrine¡­


    A tattered blueish falcon¡­


    A merman over green¡­


    Houses Turnberry, Manderly and Frey serve the White Walkers.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


    The Siege had started months ago.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    The Inner Wall had been overrun a month ago¡­


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "CLEAR!" he shouted as he stepped back.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Joooffrey¡­" he rattled.


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


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


    He''s saying goodbye.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Stop it.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "¡­Why?" he asked him.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''RRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAR''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    The masters of their fate¡­


    "And they shall not!" Joffrey said as he suddenly turned back, his crimson red cloak fluttering wildly under the gusts of chilly wind and snow. "The men of the Dawn Legion shall Stand Together one more time!!!" he said, the tears on his eye still sliding down his scarred face, the anguish and the doubts evaporating as he pivoted towards Valyon. S?a??h the N?velF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


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


    To Attack.


    "Greatbeam Valyon!" he said.


    "Sir!" he snapped.


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


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


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


    If we can take out their commander¡­ perhaps¡­


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


    "Bring me my banner" he said.


    -.PD.-


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


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


    In a way, he already had.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    It was Dawn.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ----


    ----


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    And then, they clashed.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Is that¡­ Is that weirwood?!


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Loh¡­


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ----


    ----


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    No. I''ll die standing.


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


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


    He stood there, swaying as he noticed something strange¡­


    The battlefield was quiet.


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


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


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


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


    ¡­


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


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


    He blinked slowly as he gazed at the white sky.


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


    He blinked again as a realization hit him.


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


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


    He was dying as Joff. As Joffrey.


    Just Joffrey.


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


    And Purple.


    -.PD.-

 Ark 3: Questions. Interlude: A Bored Hound.

    Let''s get this rolling again, shall we?-.PD.-


    Ark 3: Questions.


    Interlude: A Bored Hound.


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


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


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


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


    And you will, too, it seemed to add. s?a??h th? N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


    "Y¨©g¨¨ m¨§ih¨£o¡­ de y¨©ti¨¡n q¨´ s¨«¡­" He mumbled incoherently, blinking heavily with a slight smile. Clegane doubted he even knew where he was.


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


    AN: Something to whet the appetite.

 Chapter 27: Warmth.

    Listened to this on Autoloop as I wrote -.PD.-


    Chapter 27: Warmth.


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


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


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


    He had chosen to stand together. To die together.


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


    Almost over now¡­


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


    The Purple¡­ it''s mending itself.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Joffrey.


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


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


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


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


    Of course he''s here too.


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


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


    -.PD.-


    "A TIME OF RENEWAL!!!"


    "¡­ who stand in vigil¡­"


    "There''s too many of them!"


    "We got to breakthrough! Sunbeam-"


    "A TIME OF DESTRUCTION!!!"


    "¡­masters of their fate¡­"


    "He loved his Siwine, that he did¡­"


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


    "A the TIME watchers OF stars REBIRTH!!!"


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


    And yet, here he was. Wherever here was¡­


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    The Long Night.


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Only a dream¡­


    Only a memory¡­


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


    The one''s that stand in vigil¡­


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


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


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


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


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


    Alone.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


    One thing had let to another¡­


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Was there something..?" asked Joffrey. S?a?ch* Th? ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Did I?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "What?!" Myrcella exclaimed.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    What she said shocked Joffrey to his core.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    And then what..?


    Death, Ice, Despair.


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


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


    Great! He grumbled.


    -.PD.-


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


    Hope you enjoyed it, and remember to comment!

 Chapter 28: Sister.

    Chapter 28: Sister.The feast was in full swing, squadrons of maids and servants carried trays full of ale mugs and all manner of roasted beasts, plying Robert and everyone else in the Stark''s hall with a never ending supply of merriment.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Breath, she mouthed to him.


    Breath? I''m breathing¡ª


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    She called me brother¡­ she called me brother¡­


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


    It''s been a long time¡­


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Chrrrriiick, went the whetstone.


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


    "¡­what?" he asked, confused.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Indeed we do," relished the damned squid.


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


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


    -----


    -----


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "And he probably told Father," finished Myrcella.


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


    Wow¡­ that is bad. Very bad.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Joffrey could empathize with that¡­


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Sunbeam Jonki!!! Get the men in order, prepare for a counter charge!" he snarled at the man next to him. The Sunbeam regarded him with dead eyes, blood slowly oozing from his body as he leaned on a crenellation. S~?a??h the N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    And then she screamed at the Red Cloaks.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Arbor Gold had never tasted so fucking good.


    -.PD.-


    ---------


    -----


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


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


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

 Art Omake: Breathe.

    This slight depiction of Myrcella trying to calm down Joffrey as he had his flashback while in the archery yard from the CH link belowBaurus ..SB CFCH_28a - Chapter 28: Sister.


    "¡ªit''s okay, it''s okay, breath brother, breathe deeply, it''s okay, it''s okay," repeated Myrcella as she hugged him as tight as she could. Joffrey distantly realized he was hyperventilating, his breathing louder than a bull''s as he swayed, staring fixedly at the archery target like a madman. It looked like a hedgehog, filled with arrows, most of them surrounding the circle''s center or a bit up, roughly where the head should be in a person. S?a??h th? N?v?lFir?(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 29: Stars.

    -.PD.-Chapter 29: Stars.


    Spoiler: Nightmare-Flashback.


    The soldiers shoved their shoulders against the iron reinforced oaken doors. They stayed there, bracing against the gate before the impact of the battering ram sent them careening backwards. They quickly rushed back again to the gate and braced all their weight against it once more.


    "Half pikes to the front! Half pikes to the front damn you!!!" shouted the Sunbeam, signaling at the makeshift barricade a few meters behind the door with a katana.


    "uuuuuuuuUUUUUUUZZZZAAAAAA!!!" roared the Horse Chiefs as the heavy ram crashed against the gates, splintering. Joffrey''s heart was beating wildly as a Garrison Oneray next to him hyperventilated, breathing in every half second and almost fainting.


    "Steady! Steady men!!! Ready a volley!!!" shouted the Sunbeam as the Garrison Irons and the Scouts of the 16th Patrol readied half pikes and bows all along the barricade inside the small keep. Joffrey was shaking as he readied his bow, aiming at the door as it trembled with another harrowing roar of bloodlust from the other side, his heart beating loudly like some sort of gong.


    "Ne ostavlyay nikogo v zhivykh!!!" roared a voice brutally from the other side, shortly followed by another warcry.


    "uuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!" roared the Horse Chiefs, the door buckling as the wood whined in agony. The Oneray next to Joffrey stumbled back as he couldn''t hold it any longer.


    "We have to surrender, there''s just too many of them!" he screamed wildly as he stumbled back, his terrified eyes stuck on the gates. "Please we have--" his shrill scream was cut off abruptly as the Sunbeam''s katana emerged from his throat.


    "This is the enemy! Show no hesitation! Show no mercy, for you shall receive none!" he roared as he extracted the bloody katana from the gurgling corpse and the gate whined again with another crash, the tip of the capped ram peeking from the middle of the shattering gate, its bronze head in the shape of a snarling Dune Horse.


    "uuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" roared the Horsechiefs.


    A pale Tworay besides Joffrey grunted as he crouched a bit, puking his meal into the floor as Joffrey breathed heavily, the tip of the arrow shaking uncontrollably. "CLEAR THE GATE!" roared the Sunbeam, the soldiers that were bracing behind it running back to the barricade.


    "UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!" roared the Horsechiefs as the gate almost exploded outwards, everything slowing down as one of the doors collapsed, its hinges completely broken. The light coming from beyond the door was almost blinding, but Joffrey could see the Horsechief raiders storming through it, their indistinct forms coalescing from the light as they charged forward, axes high as they roared with all their might, advancing almost glacially through the small gap between the gate and the barricade. Joffrey could see their frenzied eyes, he could see the blood on their keenly sharpened axes, he could see their patiently braided beards adorned with semi-precious stones.


    Joffrey could feel the air slowly entering the Sunbeam''s lungs as his chest expanded, his mouth opening slowly, so slowly¡­. "¡­llllllllllllllloooooooooooooose!!!" he roared, his voice never really stopping as the command seemed to stretch to infinity, peppered with endless dull slaps and the wild whistling of loosed arrows that seemed to multiply every half second until the sound saturated Joffrey''s hearing.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    For a little while, at least.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "¡­what?" Joffrey asked dumbly.


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


    "You wouldn''t," Joffrey stated.


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


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


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


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


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


    -.PD.-


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    It seems they had experience begging with nobles.


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


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


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


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


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


    "I didn''t take you for the charitable type, nephew," he said.


    "I wouldn''t wish starvation on my worst enemy," he said. Not mortal enemies at least, he amended inside his head. "Much less children," he added in disgust, memories once again hounding him.


    "Well, that should keep them fed for a while at least," Tyrion added awkwardly, frowning as if trying to puzzle out a mystery.


    "Too little," Joffrey grumbled as they let a hay filled wagon cross the street. They were on the River Rue, the road parallel to the city wall and the Blackwater Rush. He sighed, deep in thought as he effortlessly guiding his horse with his knees and he gazed at the pouch in his hand.


    "Oh?" asked Tyrion, deceptively attentive despite his lax features, his tone quiet in spite of the hollering fishwives and the hammering of petty wood workers.


    "One silver stag amounts to 28 half groats, or 56 copper penny''s. At three penny''s for a loaf of bread that''s barely 18 days of painful survival¡­ with change left over for an apple I suppose," he said.


    "Those are flea bottom prices?" asked Tyrion.


    Joffrey nodded as he turned to look at the battlements of the nearby wall.


    "You''ve been wandering through the city¡­" Tyrion deduced.


    "A little," Joffrey said dismissively. "Do you know how much Robert is planning on spending in the Tourney of the Hand?"-he said as he suddenly looked at Tyron, not waiting for him to answer- "40,000 golden dragons. That''s about"- he stopped for a moment as he looked up-"Eight million and 400,000 silver stags!" he ranted.


    Tyrion tried to reason with him, "Nephew, flea bottom is dangerous, especially for a nobles-" but Joffrey kept going.


    "You could feed a hearty meal to those kids back there for the rest of their lives and you''d hardly make a dent on that! And that''s just for the winner of the joust!" he said, getting progressively angrier as he ranted.


    "''Joff'', I understand, calm down," Tyrion stressed as he looked around.


    But he doubted Joffrey even heard it, he was staring fixedly ahead as the words poured out of him as if from nowhere, "Don''t tell me to calm down uncle! You can''t understand how precious life is if you haven''t seen it frozen and perverted with your own eyes! Each a small flame barely clinging to the face of the earth while we spend our days scheming-" he suddenly snatched a small arm to his left, yanking it harshly and placing his dagger in the child''s throat.


    It was one of the older street urchins they had met a moment before, perhaps only a year younger than Joffrey, holding a dull iron knife with one hand while the other held Joffrey''s pouch of golden dragons, still tied to his belt. Joffrey stared at the urchin''s eyes unflinchingly as he took half a second to decide whether to slit his throat or not.


    Not a threat, he decided in that crystal clear moment of hyper reality as he saw the knife fall from the urchin''s hand and something wet spread throughout his pants. "I''m sorry! I''m sorry m''lord! Please!! Please don''t!!!" he pleaded, a single drop of blood sliding down his neck.


    Joffrey breathed deeply, slowly sheathing the dagger as the kid blabbered. He took the pouch of golden dragons from his unresisting hands before he spoke. "This will get you killed out there¡­ here," he said, handing him instead the pouch with the remaining silver stags. "Share this with the others," he said as he kept staring at his eyes. Even though the there was no dagger at his throat anymore, the kid nodded very slightly, again and again. "I p-p-promise m''lord," he said as he titled his head down, incapable of withstanding Joffrey''s eyes, scared almost out of his wits.


    "Good, now go," Joffrey told him as he released his arm, watching as the kid scrambled towards one of the alleyways. He turned his gaze back to the pouch filled with golden dragons, his lips curling.


    Tyrion didn''t say anything, watching Joffrey attentively. "And you feel there''s not much you can do about it¡­" he said after a long while.


    "Yes¡­ all this would get them is a shallow trench¡­ if they even bothered to bury the body," Joffrey said, hefting the pouch filled with golden dragons.


    Tyrion kept his council to himself as their horses made their way through the Street of Silk, exotic whores from Essos and the Summer Islands leaning suggestively on the second story windows of the brothels. The longer they went though, the more plain looking the whores looked. Soon they were at the ends of the street, surrounded by plain looking buildings frequented by simple craftsmen or artisans.


    "I managed to find a nice looking one away from the bustle of the main street," Tyrion said with a half-smile, trying to lift the mood as they navigated through two small alleyways before ending up in front of a surprisingly respectable looking three story brothel tucked out of sight, its entrance guarded by two unexpectedly well armed and armored footmen well beyond the means of a typical smallfolk brothel.


    "I would have brought you to Chataya''s but¡­ well, imagine stumbling with King Robert in the middle of the action¡­" he said with a small chuckle, failing to elicit even a smile from Joffrey.


    "Let''s just get this over with, ''Tommen''," Joffrey said curtly as he slipped down from his horse with one smooth move and handed it to one of the stable boys.


    "Not all of us can flow like water up and down a horse as they please Joff!" called out Tyrion as the stableboy left a small step to his side and he hurried after Joffrey. He managed to catch up to him just as he entered the brothel with a no nonsense look, the footmen saying nothing as they passed under the sign depicting a moon-and-swan.


    A lovely looking Lyseni woman received them, older than the rest of the prostitutes Joffrey could glimpse past the lobby. She handled herself with regal grace and supreme confidence, two characteristics that along with her age marked her as the matron of the establishment.


    "Saelys, always a pleasure," said Tyrion as he kissed her hand. "Ser Tommen" she replied with a knowing smile. "And this must be your brother Joff?" she asked, stressing the name.


    "My lady," Joffrey bowed respectfully as he kissed her hand.


    "Quite the chivalrous knight you have brought here Ser Tommen" Saelys said as they walked to one of the more private rooms, where the only other company were a plate of olives and a bottle of Arbor Red, and the only other exit was a wooden door to the other side, "We''ll see what to do about that," she said with a small smile as she closed the door.


    "You honor me Ser"- she said as she turned back to them -"but I am no lady, merely a helpful¡­ mother , to my little roses."


    Tyrion served two cups of wine from the bottle as Joffrey shuffled his shoulders ankwardly.


    "My apologies then, Mother Saelys, but I am no knight either," Joffrey replied curtly but politely.


    "Humble too," she said with another small smile as Tyrion walked back from the table with two cups.


    "Take it, it will help," said the imp in a low tone as he passed him the cup. Joffrey snorted as he eyed it, the Arbor Red still swirling from Tyrion''s precise pouring.


    This didn''t end well last time, he thought with a snort.


    He shrugged before he downed the cup in one gulp as if he were arriving from a long scouting run throughout the Grey Wastes. At least it''s not Dornish Red, he consoled himself.


    "Should I bring them for you to explore, Ser Tommen?" Saelys asked, but Tyrion demurred.


    "I''m sure you will surprise me like last time," he said with a smirk.


    "Perhaps I will," she said as she tilted her head, clearly enjoying the exchange. "And for you young lord? Do you fancy the exotic, the unknown? Or perhaps something closer to home?" she asked as she turned to Joffrey.


    "I''ll refer to my brother''s expertise on this," Joffrey said, a drab grey filter seemingly coloring everything he looked. He should have been as anxious and excited as the last time he tried this, but he simply couldn''t bring himself to care.


    "And I will refer to your expertise, Mother Saelys," Tyrion said, confident.


    "Very well then," she said as she walked closer to Joffrey, her eyes uncannily focused on Joffrey.


    He instinctively stood a bit straighter, almost at attention as Saelys walked around him twice with small, measured steps. She stopped again in front of him, feeling her cold minty breath in his face. She regarded him for a quiet moment, her long eyelashes barely blinking as he looked intently at his face.


    "Why did you went through it? Glory? Honor?" she suddenly asked him.


    "What?" Joffrey blurted.


    "Gold?" she asked.


    "No!" he blurted again.


    "Do you wish it had all ended there?" she asked, her minty breath almost freezing his cheeks.


    Joffrey shook his head as he took a step back, before visibly regaining control of himself. "Are we done here?" he asked tersely, a step away from bolting from this circus.


    "I believe we are," said Saelys as she walked back, towards the door. "Please wait here for a moment, the footmen will escort you to your rooms," she said as she left the small lobby, closing the door gracefully.


    Joffrey was still confused as Tyrion stared at the door longingly.


    "What the hells was that supposed to be?! And what''s the matter with you?" he asked Tyrion.


    His uncle shook his head as he turned back to him, "It''s always breathtaking to see her work her magic¡­ no other word for it. If she were but willing¡­" He said distantly, a strange longing in his voice Joffrey thought he''d never heard before. "Anyway," he said as he took Joffrey''s empty cup and poured both of them more Arbor Red, "If you''re nervous just remember we men were made for this," he said with a gentle smile, trying to extract some sort of coherent emotion out of Joffrey.


    "I''m not nervous," he said as he collapsed in one of the padded chairs.


    "I believe you¡­" said Tyrion with a frown, on the verge of saying something more before there was a knock on the other door. He waddled towards it and opened it to find a man in smartly polished half plate with a neutral expression, "Ser Tommen? Your room is ready," he said with a polite bow.


    "Well then¡­" Tyrion said as he turned back and stared at Joffrey, worried. "Just relax, try to enjoy yourself¡­ try to¡­ get it out of your system," he said earnestly, looking at his eyes.


    He gave him a halfhearted smile, moved by his concern. "I''ll try, though remember I said one hour, no more," Joffrey told him.


    Tyrion nodded, "I''ll see you back here then, though don''t worry about me if you want to spend a bit more time up there¡­" he said before walking out.


    Joffrey quietly snorted as he absentmindedly ate one of the olives in the silver bowl. He spent what felt like an eternity there, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute as the olives were quietly devoured almost with mechanical repetition, their flavor empty.


    The knock on the door almost made him take out his sword, so startled he was. He opened it slowly, revealing another man in the same polished half plate, smaller but with the same patient expression. "Master Joff? Your room is prepared and ready," he said with a small, polite bow.


    "Lead the way good ser," Joffrey said as he stood up with the face of a man serenely walking towards his execution. He followed the footman up the stairs to the third floor, the hallways eerily quiet, adorned with warm-colored banners which depicted no heraldry.


    The footman suddenly stopped next to a door in the third floor, turning smartly back to Joffrey before talking. "If there is anything you need you can ring the small bell by the bed," he said with another polite bow.


    This place runs a tight ship, thought Joffrey as he nodded back, the measured strides of the footman fading away.


    He regarded the door knob for a second before squaring his shoulders. He opened the door to find a room wrapped in delicate shade, illuminated by gentle burning candles and half drawn curtains. The sparsely if tastefully decorated room had a tranquil atmosphere, the rugs and blanket covered sofas giving it a sense of safety, almost as if it were a nest of some sort.


    A shifting of shadows to his left almost made him take out his arming sword. Instead of an ethereal enemy though, he found a girl, perhaps half a dozen years older than Maergery Tyrell, carefully lighting a small candle by the large bed. Her hair was a long and lustrous brown, of a color with her eyes. She looked up from the now burning candle, her dark brown, almond shaped eyes surrounded by long eyelashes.


    "My Lady," muttered Joffrey with a bow fit for a king. She smiled wistfully as she left the one of the candles beside the bed, straightening up her understated black dress as she walked towards him.


    "Master Joff," she greeted him with a small curtsy, her sedately paced steps carrying her close to him. Joffrey felt as still as a statue as the girl, no, the woman, gently took his sword from his belt, leaving it beside the door before her delicate fingers started to untie his cloak.


    "Mother Saelys forgot to mention your name," Joffrey said awkwardly, his back ramrod straight as strange butterflies seemed to war inside his belly.


    "It''s Nalia, Master Joff," she said, her voice quiet but very clear inside the small room.


    "A pleasure to meet you," Joffrey said stiffly as his cloak fell to the ground.


    Nalia''s fingers then started on his doublet, silently working one button at a time, slowly.


    Joffrey felt a torrent of mixed, confused emotions that intensified the lower her hands went, a mixture of pleasure and fear and dread that turned into a sudden vision. The body of a red headed whore pinned to a great bed in the royal apartments, the multiple crossbow bolts spread around her naked body almost artistically, her mouth open in a dead, silent scream-


    He suddenly noticed he was grasping her hands, squeezing tightly and stopping them from going any further. "I''m sorry," he muttered in shame as he instantly released her quickly whitening hands, as if he''d been burned.


    Instead of stumbling back in fear though, Nalia grabbed his hands gently. "It''s okay," she told him, just holding them as she looked him in the eyes.


    Joffrey swallowed, completely lost in a sea of old wounds and fears, of shame and duty. "Would you like to sit?" she asked him. Joffrey nodded quickly, almost in relief, letting her warm hand guide him to a small table next to a small window. They both sat in the comfortably padded wooden chairs, placed a bit closer than the usual dinner arrangement.


    Joffrey let her hands go as he took a sip from the already served sweetwine, the bronze cup almost a relief in his hand. "You must come from far away," said Nalia as she took the other cup.


    "What makes you say so?" Joffrey asked, glad for the conversation.


    "Your eyes, they look weathered, knowing," she said, taking a sip of sweetwine.


    "¡­Well, I''ve travelled quite a bit¡­ visited far off places¡­" Joffrey said awkwardly, unsure about what to say in this bizarre situation. He felt he should be disrobing and engaging in passionate kissing atop the big bed, though the fact that he was not filled him with a strange relief.


    If Nalia doubted his words, she didn''t show it. Instead she seemed curious, tilting her head slightly as she leaned forward. "Tell me about them," she said earnestly.


    "Tell you about them¡­? I mean¡ªI don''t know¡ªI wouldn''t know where to start," he said lamely, confused at the turn of events¡­ This was not how he imagined this visit. Nalia didn''t seem bothered at all, her smile merely teasing instead of mocking or impatient.


    "You know the boasting is true when they don''t immediately launch themselves into wild tales of themselves¡­" she muttered almost to herself, managing to tease a small smile out of Joffrey.


    "I''m not boasting," he protested, taking another sip from the cup.


    "I know," she confirmed, "That''s why I really want to hear it," she said as she blinked teasingly at him with her long eyelashes. "Start with a wondrous sight, fastest way to swoon a maiden''s heart," she said in amusement, relishing the irony.


    Joffrey snorted, leaning back on the chair and smiling despite himself. "A wondrous sight to swoon a maiden''s heart¡­" he wondered out loud, suddenly feeling the weight of his long life. For once, the weight was almost confortable, like the centered pressure of a well-worn backpack.


    "The Port of Ibben," he suddenly said out loud.


    "Cold northern shores instead of the long fields of the Reach? Not very conductive to a maiden''s tale," said Nalia with an impish smile.


    "You could say that," Joffrey agreed, his eyes vaguely clouded. "But there was a beauty there far deeper than one could find in the Reach, a solitude that forced one to seek within, not unlike a mountain or the unbroken sea¡­" he said.


    Joffrey''s eyes were lost in recollection as he leaned his head on the wall to his right. "The Ibbenese have a profound sense of art actually, something many would find unthinkable. Their hairy physique and their coarse demeanor makes them out to be brutish men, good for back breaking work but utterly unimaginative¡­" he almost whispered. "But if one cares to look deeper¡­" he continued teasingly, looking back at Nalia.


    She looked thoroughly intrigued, her brown eyes now attentively locked with his.


    "Their sense of aesthetics is profoundly different from our own. There are precious few types of tinctures in Ibb, which makes painting expensive. Whalebone carving is often seen, but bone used for carvings or small statues is bone that could have gone to useful implements, so unless it''s done commercially the common man only indulges occasionally in that art," he said.


    "What then?" asked Nalia.


    "Movement," answered Joffrey, relishing the teasing. He didn''t even notice the absence of the weary mantle that usually cloaked him.


    "Movement..?" asked Nalia, confused.


    "Movement," repeated Joffrey, "The Ibbenese have for centuries plied the waters of the Shivering Sea and reaped a plentiful bounty of whale oil from it, almost more than they can sell really¡­ Their cities are festooned with oil lamps, hanging securely from every nook and cranny, each house a proud owner of at least one of the hardy tools, each placed slightly different than the other, the product of each owner''s own individuality," he said, dredging sights from long ago, the haze of memory slowly lifting as he envisioned them in his mind''s eye.


    The only noise inside the room was Joffrey''s relaxed breathing, "And when the sun hid and the long dark afternoon of Ibb beckoned¡­ the lamps were lit," Joffrey said with a smile. "Hundreds of little specks of light, swaying with each gust of cold northern wind, each with a mind of its own, every street draped in moving light, every afternoon a spectacle of moving twilight," he said, his voice steadily warmer.


    "That''s¡­ that''s beautiful," said Nalia, enraptured by the tale.


    "It was, and every night changed, every gust of wind not quite the same as the one before, each lamp swaying differently than the last, even if only minutely¡­" said Joffrey, his lips slowly lifting into a fond smile as the haze of memories revealed the grandest sight of all.


    "And the greatest¡­ greatest of them all was the Lampway," he whispered, looking at her brown eyes, the vision now clear, "A wide and great cobbled street winding its way up the hill from the city docks all the way to the ancient, ruined hall of the God-King. The shops and houses on its sides are filled with small household oil lamps that dazzle the eye, their gentle lights but pinpricks beneath the grand lanterns of the state; tall things made of wrought iron and carved bone that do not move even under the most thunderous of storms, each one placed by a member of the ruling Shadow Council¡­"


    There was silence for a timeless moment, accompanied by the gentle sizzling of candles. Nalia broke it by placing her hand over Joffrey''s, "A wondrous sight indeed¡­ you are either a man straight from said maiden''s tale or the greatest lying poet I have ever seen," she said with small chuckle.


    Joffrey chuckled with her, "Hey, the life of a lying poet doesn''t sound so bad," he said with a bittersweet smile.


    "Have you seen many sights like that?" Nalia asked him.


    Joffrey''s smile banished as he looked down, "Yes¡­ both great and terrible, with cruelty and madness to spare¡­ too many to tell," he said as he shook his head, the dark pit suddenly settling back, its weight all the more bitter after its brief absence.


    "I''ve got time," she said, holding both his hands, "Sleeping on a bed is not the only way to sooth a man''s mind, you know?" she said with a self-depreciating smile. "Sometimes just talking can make a difference," she said, reading him as if he were a book.


    "I¡­ I can''t," Joffrey said, confused and feeling rather helpless.


    "How about you start with another wondrous sight?" she suggested, her thumbs slowly massaging Joffrey''s hands and making him feel more at ease.


    "Another wondrous sight¡­" he whispered, deep in thought and perhaps in hope.


    -.PD.-


    It was night by the time they arrived at the Red Keep, an all too smug looking Tyrion riding silently besides Joffrey. Tyrion opened his mouth but Joffrey interrupted him before he could get a single sound out. "Don''t!" he said.


    Tyrion just chuckled as he shook his head. "Besides, we just talked¡­" Joffrey added.


    "I see¡­ and I assume you have no plans of going there again now that the promised hour has been spent..? Eh nephew?" Tyrion said with a glib smirk.


    "Perhaps, uncle¡­ perhaps I will," he said wistfully.


    -.PD.-


    Tommen laughed out loud as he tried to pummel Bran to the ground with a stick, trying to get his revenge after his undignified defeat against the Stark boy in Winterfell. Alas, it was clear Bran had the superior training¡­


    "Ouch!" he squealed when Bran landed a blow on his shoulder, making him drop the stick. Bran did a little victory dance as Tommen chuckled unwillingly. The pain was, strangely enough, very different from the one he felt when Joffrey kicked his shin or slapped the top of his head when he wanted to shut him up. It was a happy sort of pain, carefree and rapidly diminishing into the back of his mind as he picked the stick again from the ground, the red bricks of the secondary training yard the same as the rest of the Red Keep''s.


    "Come on Tommen!" Bran shouted as he swung his stick from side to side, no doubt thinking about his future prospects as a Knight. It was the fourth time they sparred since they''ve arrived from Winterfell, and Tommen was relishing every second of having a real brother¡­ He only wished it had always been so.


    "I''ll get you this time! My uncle is the best swordsman in Westeros!" he proclaimed as he charged him, Bran parrying two of his blows before smacking him in the head, making him fall on his bum. He shook his head, looking up at the slightly worried face of Bran as he looked at something. Suddenly a hand pulled him up, and he was momentarily paralyzed with fear when he realized the man holding him was Joffrey. He sported a worried, slightly amused demeanor that hid his infinite cruelty perfectly, going even as to shake the dust from him.


    "You okay Tommen? Any ringing bells?" he japed as he steadied his vaguely petrified form.


    "¡­Y-yes, I-I''m fine," he said.


    Joffrey looked at him strangely for a moment before he took a step back, looking a bit¡­ sad? He twitched his fingers nervously as he spoke, "¡­Good, be careful with that¡­" he said, trailing off as he looked at something at his back. Tommen turned, only to find his brother''s attack dog with a neutral expression, holding a pair of tourney swords.


    "You like to train here as well? So the Queen can''t find you?" Bran asked, somehow forgetting all the stern warnings he''d given him about his big brother.


    Joffrey chuckled as he nodded, "Indeed little Bran, it seems we were not alone in that thought," he said as he looked back at Tommen. "I''m not sure Lord Stark would appreciate your unsupervised training however¡­" he said.


    Oh no, blackmail? We should have run the moment I saw him, thought Tommen, dreading what was to come as Bran''s face turned wary.


    Joffrey snorted, "Don''t worry, I won''t tell on you¡­" he said before swiftly crushing his budding hope. "We''ll supervise you just fine, right Sandor?" he said, looking back at the Hound.


    "Fine, but if they poke each other''s eyes out it''ll be my hide the Queen will leave hanging ''down the gatehouse¡­" the Hound grumbled, leaving the tourney swords on the ground.


    "Don''t be so pessimistic, it''ll be fine!" Joffrey said, grabbing the fallen stick. He looked at Tommen for a second before reaching some sort of decision. He walked right behind him and not bolting like a crazed rabbit was all Tommen could do as Joffrey adjusted his grip and stance, carrying him through the motions.


    "Try anticipating his moves, like this," he demonstrated, guiding his hand, "Do not commit before he moves completely though, or you''ll fall for the faint¡­ come on Bran!" he said.


    Bran obliged, having the time of his life as he tried to smack Tommen again. This time though, Joffrey guided his steadily unfreezing body, ceding ground and parrying blows slowly. Tommen was surprised to realize he was actually learning something. He didn''t know his brother knew how to handle a sword¡­


    The Hound started barking tips at Bran too, and before he knew it they were both sweaty and tired, drinking water like madmen from the waterskins the Hound gave them. Joffrey looked vaguely satisfied as he looked at them, before he seemed to remember something that made his lips curl into the sad, troubled expression he had often been wearing ever since his freak accident months ago.


    The Hound grabbed Joffrey by the shoulder and shook him, startling him. "No, no. I was just thinking¡­" said his brother, looking towards the north before he walked back to Tommen. "Keep practicing," he said as he crouched and stared at his eyes.


    "¡­I-I will," he said, shaken.


    "Good," said Joffrey as he stood up.


    The sense of urgency behind his voice haunted him that night.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey carefully tilted the piece of wood backed canvas, letting the sun illuminate it completely. The soldier stood with two weapons, or perhaps a shield, warding against some invisible threat.


    He sighed as he left in the floor, the soft ground of the Godswood barely scratching the sketch. It lay next to another painting, that of a tree in shades of grey and green surrounded by four dots.


    Joffrey had not yet drawn the hammer like implement, but he doubted his idle sketching would bring him any closer to a true understanding of the strange runes. Those three runes were the only ones he''d managed to reconstruct from the ruins beneath Bonetown, likely carved in a time far before the age of man, back when the Dry Deep had been one great sea¡­


    They taunted him, hiding some sort of incomplete message behind a code he did not understand. His research had gotten nowhere at all, not aided at all by the fact the runes were most likely connected with Yi-Tish culture, given their location. The Red Keep''s library and even the Citadel were poor in Eastern lore, and his monomaniacal sketching was the last thing he''d been reduced to while trying to find a connection, any connection at all between the symbols, or between them and the history of the east.


    A gentle rustling of leaves made him stare to his right, immediately spotting Lady as she approached him, curious.


    That means¡­


    He quickly craned his neck from side to side, catching a glimpse of Sansa''s red hair as she quickly walked away from the clearing, startled.


    It seems no unexpected insights will be coming from Sansa in this life, Joffrey mused, the sad prospect tempered by his desire to keep her away from the madness inducing hole he kept on digging for himself. The weight was his to bear¡­


    Better this way, better for her¡­ he thought as Lady ran away after her, looking down at the sketches and feeling as if he were missing something fundamental.


    Alas, no brilliant insights graced his mind as he again turned to sketching, trying to find patterns in the symbols once again.


    -.PD.-


    The prince tossed the dice in the bowl, watching them tumble for a second before the lay still, showing a four and a three to the audience of red cloaks around him.


    Moans and victory cries soon sounded out as copper coins changed hands and the prince sheepishly handed the bowl with a few copper pennys.


    "Sorry, must have been the horse," he said with an apologetic look, the bowl being snatched by another red cloak as the game went on.


    Orland didn''t exactly know how him and his small gang of soldiers had ended up gambling over dice games and drinking stale ale with the prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and the prospect of finding out grew dimmer by the day. One night they''ve been laughing and cursing, the fickle luck of the dice adding a pinch of unpredictably after a long, grueling watch, when a man in obviously noble quality light leathers had entered the tower. His eyes had looked a bit sunken beneath the cloak and cowl he wore, and he''d walked towards their table like a moth following fire, almost without looking. He doubted the prince himself had known what he was doing, but he''d just sat there with a happy, bittersweet smile as he watched them play.


    Now, the intrusion of an armed stranger into one of the Red Keep''s towers would have been cause for alarm had Barret not vouched for him, claiming he was one of Lord Tyrion''s retainers. As it was, they''ve decided to indulge the quirky stranger in their games, some of the men''s eyes alight with the prospect of fleecing a noble unfamiliar with the games of chance.


    They had, to a point, though Orland suspected the prince had been spoiling his throws¡­ his hands handled to the dice with too much experience, too much casual skill to justify his continued losses. He won quite a few later, in any case, laughing and jesting with the men like he were one of them, clearly relishing every moment of it.


    It was only later they found out the truth, almost two weeks (and many late nights in the tower) after they''ve met the stranger. Heward had entered the games with the will of a man half starved, finally able to walk downstairs from the barracks after one of the King''s horses had left him seeing stars and barely conscious. He''d been so happy to be able to do something beyond staring at the ceiling as he recuperated, the old dumb redcloak had only realized the identity of the prince midway through the match.


    He still remembered the dread¡­ in hindsight it had been quite hilarious, though how they could''ve been so blind he didn''t know.


    Heward had been watching the cloaked man for a while in confusion, the bowl motionless in his hands. Suddenly his face had turned pale, swiftly standing up before kneeling.


    "M-m-my prince!" he strangled, the bowl flying out of his hands and the dice clattering to Orland''s feet.


    There had been silence for a second before the small space inside the tower had exploded in laughter, Barret the loudest of them all as he grabbed his belly in mirth, "The prince?! I think that horse may have turned something loose in there Heward!" he''d roared. Heward had always been a bit slow, but that¡­ that had been something else!


    Everyone had been laughing, except for him and the prince. "¡­ It''s true," he''d said with the voice of a man conceding defeat. The chuckling had died as Heward stayed on his knees, the prince''s eyes somehow sad at the turn of events. The final nail on the coffin though, had been Barret, the burly redcloak looking confused as he spoke. "But you''re Lord Tyrion''s gua--" he stumbled mid-sentence, and Orland could almost hear the click inside his head.


    They had all kneeled then almost at the same time, swift "m''prince''s" being muttered almost at unison by half a dozen suddenly dried throats, throwing panicked looks to each other as everyone thought the same thing.


    We were fleecing the King''s son?!


    That had shaken the prince from his melancholy though, growing angry as he stood up and bodily lifted Orland back to his feet. "That''s quite enough, Orland!" he''d shouted, "Barret, Heward, Edmund, all of you too, get up," he commanded, exasperated.


    The rest of the red cloaks stood up uncertainly as the prince looked down at the bowl and back at the red cloaks. "Argh, just sit down," he commanded as he shook his head, following his own order as he sat on the same stool he''d been on but a moment before.


    The red cloaks threw each other uncertain looks as they sat, and Joffrey gazed at Orland with purpose in his eyes, having apparently reached a decision regarding their punishment for the unacceptable behavior they''ve been giving their own prince.


    "What''s on the dice?" he''d asked.


    Orland had looked down to his feet, then back up. "Snake eyes," he''d said dumbly.


    "Lucky bastard," he''d said as he tossed Heward a bag of copper coins. Heward had been so shocked the bag had bounced clean off his head, landing on the ground¡­ he hadn''t even attempted to grab it.


    The silence continued for a second before Joffrey had leaned close to Orland. "¡­ How many times did that horse hit him?" he''d whispered in his ear, loud enough for everyone else to hear. It was probably intended as a harmless jape to lower the tension, but after days and days of everyone repeating the same joke after they passed by Heward''s bed it had become somewhat of saying between the red cloaks of the north eastern tower. If someone botched a dice throw, then the looser always said something like "Too many horse kicks," or if you forgot to clean your breastplate it was "must have been the horse."


    To hear the prince of the Seven Kingdoms say it though, that had been too much for his self control. His laughter seemed to be just what the prince needed, quickly picking up both the bowl and the dice and passing them across.


    Things had kind of¡­ carried on from there. The prince insisted they just called him Joffrey, and would not stand anyone to kneel. He had more success with the latter rather than the former... In time, they had all carried on almost as usual.


    The prince was a curious man, almost enigmatic, very far away from what he''d imagined him to be according to the stories of Mad Raegar or King Robert, or even the rumors he''d heard as he worked here. He possessed some eternal melancholy that often left him thoughtful at the most unexpected of moments, as if great revelations were warring inside his mind. He''d often ask the men about their families, their lives and what they thought about the most strange of matters. He seemed to relish the simple conversation but they had a tendency to leave him stone faced and serious¡­ most of the time anyway.


    "Hey Orland, I''ve been thinking¡­ what is that piece of wood doing hanging from your neck?" the prince suddenly asked him as Barret placed his bets.


    "It''s a good luck charm m''prince," he said, grabbing the small piece of slightly burnt wood and turning it in his hand.


    "Call me Joffrey," said the prince reflexively before tilting his head, "A good luck charm? I must confess I''ve never seen one like it¡­ its usually bone or some other mineral with cultural significance, hm¡­ though the Dothraki would beg to differ¡­" he mused, the talk of foreign cultures and unexpected insights was by now expected from the young prince, though Orland supposed it was just standard for a man of royal blood.


    "My father got it in the Sack, m''prince," Orland told him as he took of the pendant and offered it towards him. The prince seemed touched by the gesture of confidence, though he tried his best to hide it as he received he piece of wood as if it were a crown.


    "The Sack huh?" he mused as he turned it over, gaze lost as he examined the chipped, worn piece of blackened wood.


    "They say a whole block burnt down to cinders right in the middle of the Hook, the flames were so tall you could see them from the harbor¡­" Orland said, reciting the tale from memory as he leaned back on his chair.


    "That''s bullshit Orland!" called out Galt. The bearded red cloak was in a corner of the tower, polishing his plate and looking vaguely scandalized. "They would have to have been taller than the city walls for that!" he called out.


    "Ma'' papa was no liar, wasn''t capable of it¡­ except for when he went out wenching," admitted Orland as he scratched his chin, "Mama always knew though, he''d be rocking a mighty bruise all week, and he never had it when he told the tale," he said, the flawless logic enough to make Gart snort in disbelief as he turned back to polish his plate.


    "Shit!" muttered Barret in disgust as he passed the bowl, the prince absentmindedly receiving back some of his coppers.


    "So¡­ how''s this all got to do with a lucky charm?" the prince asked with a raised eyebrow.


    "Ah, well, you see the whole block burned down in less than an hour¡­ all except for one little house smack in the middle of it, barely singed after the fiery inferno had reduced everything around it to ash," Orland said with an ominous tone.


    "The owner must have been quite lucky indeed," the prince murmured, still looking at the charm.


    "Well, the house, not the owner. Poor fool got an axe in the head for making a fuss. He didn''t like the sight of over two score soldiers chipping his house for lucky charms," Orland said with a chuckle.


    "Oh¡­" the prince muttered, frowning as he gave the piece of wood another long look. "Did your father ever tell you anything else about the Sack?" he asked after a moment.


    Orland nodded as he received the bowl, grabbing the dice inside, "Only when he was drunk as a sailor. Sometimes he''d laugh about it, a dozen different tales splurging like water from a packed well¡­ other times he''d be all quiet, muttering about fire and the stench of the folks who had shat their breeches. Wasn''t pretty," said Orland as he shook his head. "There are still some parts of the city where Lannister men have to watch their backs," he said as he tossed the dice. "Bloody business that was, and people here have long memories when it suits them¡­" he said before looking back to Barret with a pleased smile.


    Barret handed the coin as he grumbled, the prince nodding silently. "This city¡­ the countryside¡­ everyone, they''ve all been through quite a lot, haven''t they?" he asked almost to himself.


    "Such is life, ain''t nothing one can do about it," said Orland, repeating the wisdom of his late father as he passed the bowl to the prince.


    "Can we?" muttered the prince as he ignored the bowl, his gaze fixed as he slowly tilted the charm, his thumb slowly rubbing a bit of the blackened charcoal.


    -.PD.-


    "What do you think if, for whatever reason, Stannis was made King of the Seven Kingdoms?" his strange nephew asked him one day.


    "¡­ is that a trick question?" asked Tyrion, buying time.


    "No. Do you think his reign would be peaceful? Would the people thrive? Would he handle the other lords?" Joffrey insisted.


    They were nonchalantly playing the most intense game of Cyvasse Tyrion had ever experienced, not that Joffrey seemed to notice, his distracted hand moving the pieces as if with a mind of its own.


    "Well¡­" Tyrion said, "He would be a strong King, the lords would respect that, he has a strong sense of justice¡­" he mused out loud.


    "Indeed?" Joffrey murmured, sounding hopeful for some reason.


    "Too strong perhaps¡­ he maimed the man that relieved his supplies at the siege of Storm''s End, even though he knighted him not a moment later," he added, using the time bought to desperately try and think a way out for his surrounded elephant.


    Joffrey scratched his right arm as he leaned back on his chair, the cool afternoon breeze gently swaying the small study''s curtains. "That doesn''t sound so bad¡­ considering¡­" he interrupted himself.


    "Considering..?" Tyrion asked, the strange conversation drawing him out of the game.


    "Nothing. You said he''d be respected by the lords right?" his nephew asked.


    Tyrion stayed quiet for a moment as Joffrey fidgeted with a discarded knight. "¡­Probably, he is a veteran commander and the man who broke the Iron Fleet, though he''s too hard headed to be King. Stannis is like iron, they often say. No bending, too inflexible¡­ the intrigues would be too much for him I think¡­" Tyrion mused before snorting. "I''ve talked to him, and he barely stands the petty intrigues of the Narrow Sea houses, never mind the whole Seven Kingdoms. I reckon he''d have no patience for it¡­" he said as he finally found a way for his elephant to escape.


    Joffrey looked slightly frantic as he leaned forward, "But with a good advisor aware of the various plots, he would do pretty well right?" he asked as if he were trying to convince himself.


    "Sure, sure, especially after a peaceful succession," Tyrion placated him, "I think it would be a reign no worse than Robert''s at least¡­ why the sudden interest in Stannis though? You barely spoke with one another before he returned to Dragonstone," he asked him, curious.


    "I just¡­ I''ve been trying to get to know my Baratheon uncles a bit better¡­" he said, moving a siege tower and almost blocking Tyrion''s escaping elephant.


    "That''s why you''ve been talking so much with Renly these past few days?" he asked him.


    "Yeah¡­" Joffrey said as he sagged back on his chair, clearly not happy with whatever he''d found. "A reign no worse than Robert''s¡­ We need a better reign, a far, far better one¡­ and even then¡­" Joffrey muttered as he stared out the window.


    "You''ll do okay Joffrey, don''t worry about it," it sounded like an empty platitude, but Tyrion was surprised to find out he meant it. His nephew had come a long, strange way since the bizarre incident that had almost killed him.


    That had clearly been the wrong thing to say though. Joffrey suddenly stood up, mumbling halfhearted apologies as he walked out of the room¡­ For the thirtieth time that month, Tyrion asked himself what the hells was going on inside his nephew''s head.


    -.PD-.


    "And to think your uncle had to force you to come at first¡­" Nalia teased him yet again as Joffrey snorted, serving himself another mug of cider and quietly relishing the close contact. They were both seating in a stately cushioned sofa, Nalia''s head leaning on his shoulder. The room inside the Swan-and-Moon had become almost a second home at this point after weeks'' worth of visits, and Joffrey couldn''t help but feel as some sort of wild cat that had been steadily tamed with the passage of time. The distance at which he let Nalia seat from himself had been steadily eroding over the months, and he seemed powerless to stop it¡­ to his distress and guilty excitement.


    He twitched his head suddenly, his eyes alert. "Did you hear that?" he asked her.


    Nalia looked confused as she looked around, before settling back on Joffrey shoulder. "¡­Are you sure the visions are¡­ gone?" she asked him. S?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Haven''t had one in a while¡­" Joffrey said as he tried to relax, cursing his mind for playing its games.


    "But you still dream about it," she said, a statement rather than a question.


    "Every night¡­" whispered Joffrey, shuffling a tiny bit closer to her warmth, her understated gown doing little to muffle it.


    "Tell me another dream then, one of the beautiful ones¡­" she asked him.


    "Hmm, let''s see¡­" Joffrey mused out loud. He had opened up with Nalia like never before in his lives, telling her tales improbable and fantastic¡­ and also terrifying. She thought both his nightmares and his actual past lives were one and the same, a torrent of visions and omens that felt as real to Joffrey as life itself. He hadn''t tried correcting her, though for all intents and purposes the difference was small indeed.


    So he told her of the time he visited Oldtown with his friends, his Broken Knights. How the streets twisted and turned under the commands of architects far more ancient than those of King''s Landing, and how the city lit up under the fiery gaze of the Hightower at night¡­ and the times he''d lived with his friends.


    "They were giving Jon all sorts of leery winks, they were even fondling his wolf for Seven''s sake, of course he was as red as a cherry!" Joffrey laughed out loud.


    "And did they finally manage to tame the other wolf?" Nalia asked him.


    "Of course they did! Took a little prodding on both my and Tyrion''s part, but we managed it," Joffrey ended triumphantly.


    "And did they tame the lion too?" she asked teasingly.


    A bit of the levity left Joffrey''s voice as he grimaced, "No, there was no need for that," he told her.


    "They must have tried though, nobody would let such a good catch slip away like that¡­" whispered Nalia as she gently kissing his neck.


    "There was no time for that¡­" Joffrey said, leaning away from her.


    "I think there was¡­" she said, following his movement and kissing her way up his neck.


    Joffrey flushed as his heart beat wildly, his hands stopping her as he turned away. "She was not the one," he said, the excuse ringing dull to his ears.


    "Joffrey¡­ what ''one''? You told me you have barely looked at your betrothed these past few months, and you''re hardly the type to emulate chivalric tales anyway¡­" her calm words cut through him like a scythe, something old turning within his belly.


    Her hands cupped his face as she gently tilted it, her chocolate brown eyes finding his again. "I think the real reason you didn''t go with those pirate ladies is the same one that makes you run away every time I kiss you¡­"


    "Let it go Nalia," Joffrey whispered, unable to break her gaze.


    "What are you scared of Joffrey? What is it that so terrifies you?" she delved deeply, her eyes entrancing.


    "I¡­" Joffrey whispered, his voice dry, "There''s something¡­ broken within me, Nalia¡­ Something wrong¡­ deep inside me," he said the last few words with a knowing, bitter smile. "Something I don''t think a thousand lifetimes will be able to fix," he said, his voice almost breaking as he grabbed her face with his own hands, "I can''t control it, I''d hurt you¡­ and I''d enjoy it¡­" he whispered fiercely in despair, willing her to understand.


    "You''re not that man any more, Joff," she said as she placed her forehead against his, "I understand little of what happened to you, but I know this much¡­ you have to let that shadow go," she said, her mouth but a hair''s breath away from his.


    "You don''t know¡­" whispered Joffrey before she closed the distance and kissed him.


    It was both long and short, the swirl of tingles in his belly running up and down his chest and everywhere else as he relished the taste of olives and sweetwine, Nalia''s blissful acceptance a nectar finer than he''d ever tasted.


    She smiled after she broke the kiss, caressing his blonde hair with one hand. "This is the Joffrey Iknow, gentle and caring," she said simply.


    Joffrey didn''t know what happened. One moment he was staring at her in mild incomprehension, the next he was kissing her almost desperately as they whirled towards the big bed, pieces of clothing flying away wildly as an almost weightless sensation took over Joffrey, fears and worries washing away under the relentless, burning kisses of Nalia.


    -.PD.-


    -----


    -----


    He awoke slowly, the lazy sunlight of the late afternoon sun washing over the black silk sheets. Nalia lay asleep beside him but an inch away, her smooth face half covered by her brown hair.


    Joffrey spent a while just watching her, his eyes tracing her curves absentmindedly, feeling strangely lightheaded. He was possessed by a strange clarity as he quietly got out of the bed and clothed himself in his light leathers. He kissed her gently in the forehead before walking outside the room, his legs almost with a mind of its own as he walked out of the building altogether, the guards outside giving him a tiny nod.


    He walked through the slowly dimming streets of King''s Landing, his absentminded strides carrying him through the Muddy Way, the various vendors and merchants gradually stowing their carts and wagons, tired but satisfied after a productive day. He spotted throngs of children dashing past him, chasing a dog with wild abandon.


    He saw a dozen maids past a private manse''s gates, stretching wide a heavy blanket and shaking it before folding it in a quick choreographed sequence, the oldest of them staring at the steadily overcast skies before leading them all inside. He saw a couple of beggars making their way back to Flea Bottom, their faces gaunt and malnourished.


    He walked past seamstresses and cobblers, the latter''s callused hands full with the weight of cheap ale mugs as they followed the former''s heavy bossoms in longing. More than a few of them sported angry little pinpricks in their hands, evidence of one fondling too many. He saw a little boy younger than Rickon Stark still over the cobblestones, unmoving.


    The red cloaks at the Red Keep''s gate bowed respectfully as he walked past them.


    "Best you turned in early m''prince, the Seven are brewing a mighty summer storm me''thinks," said Orland, the small looking red cloak giving him a small smile.


    "Seems so, Orland, seems so¡­" Joffrey said as he looked at him for a moment. The redcloak''s plate was smoothly polished except for the small part next to the lower left strap, where a string of sticks had been drawn with white chalk. He was still wearing that ridiculous piece of burned wood, tied around his neck with a small string.


    "Something the matter m''prince?" he suddenly asked him.


    Joffrey shook his head with a small smile as he walked past him, making his way to Maegor''s Holdfast. The wind was heavy with the scent of a storm as he stopped beside a small pillar, looking at the small courtyard where Tommen and Bran took turns moving around with a shield, their feet struggling to follow the rhythm of the rather amusing jig Sandor was humming. The footwork exercise soon got the better of Tommen though, causing him to stumble and crash against Bran, leaving them both tangled up in the ground. He kept walking, Clegane''s barking fading with the twists and turns of the hallways.


    He walked up a flight of stairs before lingering a moment over a window, the sight of a harried Ned Stark hounded by both his daughters as they all walked to the Tower of the Hand making him smile. He was already walking away when Myrcella bumped into him, her face quickly lightening up as she looked up to him.


    "Hey Joffrey!" she greeted him before thrusting a small flower into his hands.


    "Is this for me?" Joffrey asked her, amused as he looked at the pale and wide, almost dark green petals surrounding the yellow pollen.


    Her eyes lit up as she smiled, "Yes! You''re always going to the Godswood in the morning, so I figured I''d take a flower from there and leave it in your room, it could help you sleep too!" she said happily.


    "Thank you, Myrcella," Joffrey said seriously as he kneeled a bit, "For everything," he added as he gazed at her fondly. "It also plays well with your eyes," she said cheekily as she snatched the flower from his hands and placed it over his ear before dashing away.


    Joffrey protested at her fleeing back but she was already gone, leaving him there in the hallway as he scratched his ear.


    He decided to leave the flower there as he kept going up Maegor''s Holdfast, finally reaching the wooden stars that carried him to one of the holdfast''s towers. His small bundle of rags and books was still there, next to his painting of King''s Landing. The city was now depicted under great wide strokes, a collage made up of different shades of white only an Ibbenese or a Northman would really understand.


    Joffrey leaned over one of the crenellations, looking at the city as the sun almost disappeared under the horizon. The clouds above King''s Landing looked dark and heavy, the breeze atop the tower vaguely warm and oddly still.


    Below, carts and wagons were already clearing the streets. The people looked smaller from atop the tower, their tiny forms seeking shelter in the multitude of white and brown buildings. Some of the houses and taverns had light shining within, hearth fires drawing in both family and clientele as bards, storytellers and charlatans took up the space closest to it, some sort of ancient instinct making the listeners come close to the tales and the fire.


    It was raining now, the distant crackling of thunder rumbling in the distance, almost a faint whisper. Joffrey closed his eyes as he let his head tilt up, the rain washing his face of sweat and salt. The stars were like tiny pinpricks in the great dark mantle of clouds, their light occasionally peering through the gaps in the dark grey sea.


    He looked south, as if trying to peer beyond the horizon to see the sands of Dorne, the dark green forests of the Stormlands. He wondered how many little hamlets were now battening down wooden windows and heavy doors in the Reach, how many more across the Narrow Sea to the east, sea captains and hardy sailors franticly securing rope and sail.


    The rain was constant, almost heavy atop his shoulders as the thunder crackled close, the flash big enough to light the city for a moment. He wasn''t bothered by it though, his mind deep in abstract thought as he remembered how the Vale of Arryn looked from atop the Mountains of the Moon, great bowls of grey and green etched on the surface of the land as if by great spoons of stone, each bowl a riot of understated colors that nonetheless always seemed to share the same palette as the other.


    Joffrey breathed in deeply as another thunder snaked through the sky almost atop the city itself, the wind still warm as it flew in from Blackwater Bay. He took the small flower over his ear, looking at its drenched, slightly bent form. Even as he looked the heavy rain took one of the green petals with it, leaving it broken. Joffrey twirled with it absentmindedly as the thunders roared and a great gust of wind took another petal, his heart beating heavily.


    He wondered if Tommen and Myrcella were already in their rooms, or if they had scuttled towards Mother''s bed like they had done when they were little. The great thunders continued unabated, their great roars mixed with the crashing of the waves as the sea responded in kind, almost to the tune of his heart as he grunted in discomfort, his gaze turning to his painting of King''s Landing. The water was rubbing it down, dissolving the tinctures and leaving great splotches in the canvas, splotches of white in between the city.


    He closed his eyes tightly, his hands almost clammy as he held on to the crenellation, his head hanging low as the pain in his chest reached unbearable proportions and he breathed deeply, each time slower than the last.


    He thought of the lush fields of the Riverlands, the quiet dignity of Oldtown, the skittering deers of the Stormlands.


    He thought of Jon in the far north, of Eddard''s face as he was hounded by Sansa and Arya, of Sandor and his half scowl and Mother and her schemes.


    King''s Landing was completely silent, drowned under the relentless rain and the great thunders as his forehead came to rest on the stone crenellation, his hands locked into tight fists.


    The pain in his chest was almost unbearable, his hands trembling as he thought of ice and copper.


    Copper, he thought, his fists gently uncurling.


    He arrived at a conclusion as he lifted his head back towards the city, an enormous thunder almost leaving him deaf as the pain in his chest exploded and he dared say it aloud.


    "I''ll have to be King," he said, the words lost in the wind as the thunder somehow, impossibly, kept on going right behind him with the fury of a thousand lesser storms.


    He turned in a second, one hand grabbing his chest in pain as his ears ringed. Right in the center of the tower was the Silver Lion, its roar the greatest thunder of them all. It stopped as Joffrey stumbled back only to bump against the crenellations again, the warhorse sized beast gazing at him with pale green eyes as its blonde mane shuffled with the wind.


    Joffrey stood there, limp, almost paralyzed, only his tight grip on the crenellation stopping him from falling to his death. "H-h-how?" he asked dumbly. The Silver Lion sat on its haunches, tilting its head sideways almost quizzically as it stared back at him.


    The rain kept dousing them as they both stared at each other, its constant noise the only indication that time itself had not been frozen. Joffrey managed to regain his feet, awkwardly shuffling closer and waiting for the lion to do anything. The great beast just stared at him though, its oddly familiar eyes boring into his own. The rain was back to normal now, the thunders still rolling inland up the Kingsroad, the winds dying down.


    Soon he was standing right in front of it, his hand rising to touch the lion''s head. Joffrey somehow knew the Silver Lion would not hurt him, strange familiarity guiding his hand as he scratched its blonde mane¡­ it was almost as if he''d known it his whole life.


    The lion practically collapsed on its side, purring as Joffrey scratched the side of its head like one would a cat. "You like that, huh?" Joffrey mused out loud, knowing it did. The shock was quickly wearing out, almost implausibly fast, he knew the Silver Lion as much as he knew himself.


    The rain started to peter out, the droplets gradually becoming scarce as he sat next to the lion, a deep tiredness taking ahold of him as he lay with his back propped up by its belly, the lion''s head curling to his side as he kept scratching it absentmindedly.


    "It''s on us¡­ it''s on us to do it right¡­" Joffrey muttered as a deep lethargy claimed him, his eyes growing heavy until the only thing he could see was the partially clouded sky. His mind grew hazy as the Silver Lion''s eyes drooped as well, the beast''s uncanny pale green eyes looking at the stars above, same as Joffrey but a moment before. Shah''s words reached him in that moment, like a needle of clarity as he gazed back at the starry vault.


    "Starwatcher¡­" he named his strange companion, the corner of his mouth turning up as the lion growled slightly.


    "Stars then," he relented with a half-smile, though his thoughts were jumbled and soon he didn''t have the strength to speak, he could only gaze at the stars as his eyes slowly drooped.


    His dreams were confusing, jumbled. Archmaester Vaellyn''s words resounded through the dreamscape, his calm hands drawing orbits below the Citadel Vaults, the Hightower''s light a beacon in the dark, the grey horizon of the Beyond and its cloudless nights an overwhelming expanse.


    Stars, the thought hit him as he woke up slowly, the night sky still overhead as he tilted his head to the right. He saw the lines, the obvious lines between the stars to the north, his eyes drawing not a warrior or a soldier but a Knight. The Knight, shield and sword held hand in hand. He turned his head slowly as he found The Broom, very similar to a common mace if one saw it upside down, the bundle of stars named by the smallfolk of time immemorial, named after an eternal implement of the common household¡­ It was still quite a distance from a very specific tree, christened by the First Men and still named thus even after the attempts of countless Andal astronomers to rename it.


    Joffrey''s eyes traced the imaginary lines between the stars, the name emerging into his consciousness with the smell of Oldtown chalk and the rustling of ancient books. The Weirwood.


    They''re not runes¡­


    They''re constellations, he thought in shock, unable to blink as the lines were almost seared into his eyes.


    Constellations that would only make sense to a modern Westerosi, who knew its twists and origins, its mesh of cultures, the product of Andal and First Men stargazing since time immemorial mixed into a syncretic pantheon of celestial bodies thanks to our unique history¡­


    The answers had been staring at him all this time, shining from above.


    -.PD.-


    --------


    -----


    AN: This chapter was a pain to get out, rewrote whole parts of it because there was too much tell and not enough show... finally decided on pure show for a lot of parts and especially the climax. I hope Joffrey''s struggle with himself as well as the resolution shined through without spelling it out... definitively one of the most difficult chapters!


    Remember to Comment!

 Art Omake: Purple Samsara.

    Well i did it. I create a account here in Space Battles forums just for reply to this thread. Let me introduce myself. My name is Victoro and i bumped into this fic because of Tv tropes (don''t ask) and got hooked by that powerful deeply scarred Joffrey from the first chapter. The canon Joffrey was already one of my favorite characters and Mr. Baurus turned him into something really remarkable indeed. I''ve been finding myself thinking a lot about this little fiction of yours. And even to the point that i found myself sketching a drawing of your main character. I named it "Samsara" after the theological terminology of a soul''s journey in the infinity of the existence. A concept shared for some religions.Spoiler: My fanart


    Curiously this is the first time i have uploaded a fanfiction fanart that is not from a work of mine. Well there was some i did for "Release That Witch" , a "Greyjoy Alla Breve" realistic chinese novel. But i was unable to send it for it''s chinese author since i not know how to at the time. Originally i was thinking of a short graphic novel out of the end of the first chapter were Joffrey dies in Ned''s arms. But in the end i go with a simple drawing of the various Joffreys that arise in his endles torment. Look at the Maester Joffrey! Hoho S?a?ch* Th? N0v?lFire(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Seriously this fic got me in the nerve. im elated with its content. Congratulations to Mr. Baurus and a really hope that your muse bring us more chapters of this impressive work!

 Chapter 30: Constellations.

    AN: As it has become depressingly regular, I was not too sure about this chapter before deciding to, again, get it done with. Also, my attempts at writing shorter updates failed miserably and water is wet, more news at eleven.The track I posted is a bit different from the usual, but its what I listened to again and again as I wrote parts of this chapter, so I guess it should fit.


    ...........


    .....


    Chapter 30: Constellations.


    Breathe.


    Joffrey inhaled deeply, concentrating solely in the air slowly filling his lungs. The peace of the Red Keep''s Godswood was undisturbed as he let the air out, the outside world shrinking to nothing as he let his senses feel everything and nothing at once. Pain and pleasure, cold and heat alternating with each hammering of his beating heart as time slowly ceased to have meaning.


    His breathing was steady, calm. His eyes closed, with only a twitch of a smile as the strange pain in his chest bloomed and then quickly quieted.


    Joffrey''s eyes opened slowly, his smile widening under the Godswood as he lifted his left hand and felt Star''s fur, the Silver Lion purring as it sat by his side, content yet vigilant.


    The Godswood was deserted at this hour of the morning, the sun barely starting to peek over the horizon. It had taken days of almost continuous meditation, chasing after the elusive sensation he''d felt under the storm that had crashed against King''s Landing weeks ago, but his effort had paid off. His search had taken him deep within, to a place neither mental nor physical, a bizarre frontier between the here and the not here. It was there that Joffrey had come to understand the sensation he felt every time he saw the Silver Lion¡­ and used it as one might a rope, following it deeper within. Though he had not yet reached the place it came from, already Joffrey had to take several minutes to come back to reality, his consciousness slowly returning to lucidity as a lazy bubble climbing out of the depths of a still pond.


    He leaned back from his rigid posture, letting the oak have his weight as he absentmindedly scratched Star''s neck, quickly entangling the wild tufts of fur that made his black mane. The big lion was content to lie in the grass beside him, their wills strangely entwined.


    He was quickly becoming exhausted though, so he let Stars go, his presence at his side slowly dissipating until he was alone again in the clearing.


    Almost four minutes¡­ and no fainting too¡­ he thought with a satisfied smile. He was improving.


    He stood up and walked back to the Red Keep itself, ignoring the strange looks the Stark guardsmen gave him. They seemed wary, tense¡­ same as the Stormlanders that Renly kept close whenever he was in the Red Keep.


    Though he had seen no overt signs of escalating tensions, the mood around the Red Keep had again been getting steadily more foreboding with the passing weeks. Joffrey didn''t know what was the cause behind it, but it was probably nothing good. Had Ned Stark found indisputable evidence of his bastardry? Was there something going on somewhere else in the realm that he was not privy to? Bran was safe and sound here in the Red Keep, and Tyrion too. There was no sign of raids in the Riverlands, and Stannis was keeping quiet back in Dragonstone.


    So what was going on?


    Joffrey shook his head in frustration¡­ it was only now that the monumental task he had set upon himself was starting weight him down, and he wasn''t even King yet!


    So many players, so many variables¡­


    He shook his head again as he walked, the prospect of another visit to Nalia''s cheering him up. At least there was one person in King''s Landing that understood him.


    -.PD.-


    The midday visit was, like always, a balm to Joffrey''s soul. Nalia''s gentle ministrations and curious questions centering his mind in the present in a way no manner of meditation could compete.


    "I just don''t know if it''s too late to stop the coming war," Joffrey said as he put on his doublet.


    "Maybe, maybe not. You never know until you try, Joff," said Nalia, her delicate fingers buttoning his shirt. They were in their usual room, a calm oasis safe from the steadily rising tensions that were flooding King''s Landing.


    "Perhaps¡­" Joffrey said with a small smile, her optimism cheering him up. "But I feel my many month''s long introspection may have left me disadvantaged¡­" he said.


    "That''s never stopped you before¡­ have thought about what you''ll do?" Nalia asked him as she tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind Joffrey''s ear.


    "A bit¡­ I''ve been thinking about sending a raven for Archmaester Ryam at the Citadel. I''ve got a few ideas I want to run through--" he suddenly stopped as he tilted his head sideways, his whole body tensing.


    "Joffrey?" asked Nalia, her smooth hand cupping his cheek, "Remember to breathe," she said with a vaguely reproachful look.


    Joffrey shook his head slightly, his fond smile returning. "Sorry¡­ it''s been hard to¡­ relax my reflexes, I suppose¡­" he said as he grabbed his arming sword and strapped it to his side.


    "Good luck kiss before I go?" he asked her with a raised eyebrow.


    Nalia shook her head fondly before kissing him, her tongue teasing him slightly before she stepped back, "The rest is for tomorrow," she told him with a cheeky smile.


    Joffrey chuckled as he walked towards the door, only to stop abruptly and tense once more.


    "Joffrey? Again?" asked Nalia.


    A twinge of nervousness in her voice.


    Joffrey stood still for ten seconds, silent. Suddenly, he grabbed the nearby chair and slammed it against the door, making it impossible to be opened from the outside.


    "Joffrey?! What-" Nalia asked but Joffrey was already dashing past her, running like a madman towards the wooden wall only to jump at the last second, both feet angled towards it.


    The fake wall collapsed as he smashed into it, extracting a strangled yelp from the other side. Joffrey stood up like lightning, his hand jutting in amongst the dust and the smashed planks and swiftly extracting a thin, coughing man from under the planks.


    "Fucking spies! How long have you been listen--" Joffrey stopped suddenly, his brows furrowing as he stepped back, still grabbing the thin, black haired man in simple but fine noble clothing by the neck.


    "¡­Littlefinger..?" Joffrey asked, absolutely confused.


    The man kept coughing as Joffrey held him, struggling for air as Joffrey stopped squeezing.


    "Pr-¡­Prince Joffrey," he wheezed, his voice dry.


    Joffrey was shaking his head slowly, not quite understanding the situation. "Baelish¡­ how long...?" he asked, blinking slowly.


    "My Prince"- he started with a tentatively gentle smile -"let us discuss this calmly li--" his retort died under Joffrey''s relentless, steel like grip, his body feeling strange as he kept squeezing the Master of Coin''s throat.


    "How. Long," he repeated his voice oddly neutral.


    "Mhok¡­..mhooaah¡­. months¡­" croaked Littlefinger.


    Nalia''s voice became a drone in the background as Joffrey walked, dragging Baelish to the room''s balcony. The man''s eyes widened as he registered what Joffrey intended to do. He fumbled for the dagger at his waist before Joffrey slapped it aside carelessly, tumbling down to the street below.


    "What were you planning?" he asked calmly as he shattered the wooden rail with a kick before holding Baelish in midair, one hand at this throat and the other on holding his fine doublet. Baelish''s legs swung wildly as he struggled for air, his panicked eyes looking down to the streets and back to Joffrey every second.


    He coughed, red faced before Joffrey let him take a gulp of air and his feet managed to find a slight purchase against the edge of the balcony. "I was only tasked with keeping watch over your health my Princ- NO PLEASE NO!" Joffrey interrupted his excuses as he let go of his throat, the hand grabbing the Master of Coin''s doublet the only thing stopping him from falling backwards to his death.


    "What were you planning, last chance," Joffrey said truthfully, the gaping pit inside his belly growing wider and wider.


    "Ahh! Ah! A change of heir! A change of heir!!!" Petyr confessed as he gripped Joffrey''s hand with both of his own, holding on for dear life as the people below shouted.


    Joffrey shook his head again, nonplussed, "Robert would never believe your word you stupid fuck," he spat.


    "He believed Lord Renly and Ned Stark!" he blabbered as he kept staring down, hyperventilating as a small breeze shuffled his hair, "I brought them here and- please my Prince, I can help you fix this-"


    "AND WHAT?!" Joffrey roared, extending his arm and almost letting go of him.


    "They saw! The crown prince is mad! Filled with visions of despair like King Aerys come again!" Baelish screamed, the abrupt circumstances making him blurt out the standard response he''d no doubt been seeding around the Red Keep.


    Joffrey could somehow hear the rush of blood inside his head, slowly drowning out everything else as he struggled to understand. "But Mother would never allow this¡­ She''d kill Robert before¡­ Oh¡­" he suddenly realized.


    "That''s exactly what you wanted, isn''t it? Fucking Petyr Baelish¡­ always, somehow, seeding chaos wherever you go¡­ why did you¡­ why did you have to ruin this¡­ I¡­ I needed this¡­ I¡­" Joffrey slowly stopped speaking as everything turned red, the rush of blood drowning Baelish''s scream as he shoved him, sending him flying through the air towards the ground.


    He turned around like a White Walker, the sound of pounding fists on the room''s door also growing inconsequential as he stared at a petrified Nalia, standing next to the bed. "¡­You knew?" he asked her, his voice hollow.


    "Joffrey please! I had to! He said I''d-" her wailing also became indistinct as Joffrey walked towards her, a hollow, pleasurable smirk emerging from his lips as he drew his arming sword.


    Nalia''s previous ministrations where nothing compared to the joy she was about to bring him now.


    Her eyes widened as she stumbled backwards, hitting the wall and opening her mouth to scream though Joffrey could hear no sound as he slashed at her leg, then at her arm, and at her beautiful chest, again and again, her hot blood feeling like a balm over his body as he hacked her apart¡­ but he was going to leave her face for the last. His greatest work, his masterpiece.


    When the door broke down and two of the local armsmen stumbled through with swords drawn, the bloodied form of Joffrey turned towards them, a savage smile on his lips as he charged with a wild screech.


    -.PD.-


    The rest of the day was a blur to Joffrey. It was only next morning that he regained enough lucidity to really comprehend what was going on. He jumped out of the small hummock he''d been sleeping on, rushing out the door and up a set of small stairs only to almost fall down the side of a small trade cog.


    "I trust the accommodations were good enough?" grunted a man behind him.


    Joffrey whipped around only to find a small, unassuming man with a small purple beard, a sardonic smile at his lips. "Paid enough gold for that," he grunted again as he shook his head in mild disbelief.


    "Wha-" started Joffrey but the man held up his hand.


    "Don''t worry, we chucked the clothes to the sea. I don''t know who you murdered, though it must have been a fat bastard¡­ and I''m not asking. That is unless, you want my payment back?" he asked nonchalantly. Joffrey didn''t need to guess what would happen if he said yes, sailors were not the subtle kind¡­ and the two burly mercenaries at the man''s back would be quick to reassure him if he tried to disabuse that notion.


    "Keep it," Joffrey grunted as he turned back, leaning heavily on the wooden rail.


    Gods¡­ Nalia¡­ what have I done..? Said a distant voice inside his head. He rubbed his face compulsively, trying to rub off her blood. He looked at his reflection through a nearby water bucket, and though his face seemed clean he couldn''t stop rubbing it, trying to shake off her remains.


    "Gods¡­ no¡­" he whispered as he fell on his bum, the cog coursing through another wave as the sailors secured sails and swept the deck, not any one of them giving him more than a quick look.


    I hurt her¡­ I tortured her¡­ I enjoyed it¡­ the thoughts spiraled inside is head, threatening to make him loose his mind.


    He remembered savaging Nalia with his arming sword, and later when he butchered the armsmen that came to stop him, as well as vague impressions of him walking through King''s Landing¡­ but there was a part of it where his memory went black, where he couldn''t remember even a hazy impression, only blackness¡­ the moment right before he started on her face.


    The hollow pit in his stomach deepened as he contemplated what manner of horror he must have inflicted upon her for even his mind to block it¡­


    Why does everything I touch turn to ash? Why am I this way?


    The sea had no answers and neither did the crew¡­ Joffrey thought nobody ever would.


    -.PD.-


    It was only when the ship arrived to Tyrosh that Joffrey came to the realization that he''d left his home to die again.


    He''d stood there in the Tyroshi pier, the harbor of the great fortress city constantly moving in a frenzy of trade and commerce as he dumbly stared at the side of a dock warehouse.


    "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!" He screamed as he punched the wooden wall. The pain barely phased him even though he''d almost punched clean through the wall, blood running down his fist.


    He leaned on it as his legs gave out, slowly sliding to the floor as a nearby beggar shuffled away and the man behind the fruit stand gave him the evil eye.


    Does this change anything? He asked himself, the question heavy with too many feelings flashing like lightning through his gut. He closed his eyes as he tilted his head up, the noon sun flooding his sight through his eyelids. Was what he''d felt at the top of the Red Keep that night just a mirage? A lie?


    His mind felt strangely still as he pondered that question before he lowered his head and opened his eyes, blinking away the splotches of color flooding his vision.


    "No," he said, savoring the simple word. He may have been cursed by the Gods themselves, he may be nothing more than a vicious animal beneath a thin veneer, but he''d long since accepted he was the master of his own fate. He''d made his choice at King''s Landing, he was going to honor it. He could be a horrible person, a sadist at heart no better than Maegor the Cruel¡­ but that didn''t cancel the fact that only he had a realistic chance to stop what was to come, to give the Seven Kingdoms and maybe even mankind a fighting chance against the abyss¡­


    It was probably impossible to salvage much of anything at this point in time though, after Baelish''s scheming and the prince himself disappearing for weeks¡­ either he was already branded as an insane illegitimate bastard or Cercei had gotten to Robert first. Either way the Seven Kingdoms had started their descent into madness, and there was nothing much he could do about it after all that had happened¡­ too much damage had been done to his reputation to do anything about it. The Walkers were going to slaughter his friends and family again, if they didn''t do it themselves first.


    If you don''t kill them first, whispered a hateful, treacherous voice inside his head.


    The certainty of that thought hit him like a runaway carriage, yet he steeled himself against the blow, a snarl escaping his mouth as he closed his bloodied fist. Their sacrifice was already a fact, no matter if he died right now or twenty years hence¡­


    He''d have to make the most of it, finally get to the bottom of his wild chase.


    He stood up in one swift movement, eyeing the trio of thugs looking at him greedily not half a dozen meters away. He didn''t have anything but the clothes at his back, and not even a dirk to defend himself.


    Joffrey cracked his neck twice, taking a deep breath as he walked right towards them. He was going to have answers, and Gods and Walkers were not enough to stop him.


    -.PD.-


    Ax Island was the eastern most of the Basilisk Isles, a foreboding thumb of rock jutting from the ocean like an enraged Leviathan. The island was absolutely covered in green, and even though its jungle was said to pale in comparison to the green hell that was Inner Sothoryos, Joffrey thought it was a wonder anyone even lived here at all.


    A rasping cough echoed from behind him, the black stone all around him muffling the sound and almost turning it into a whisper.


    He turned back to the sight of a bloodied corsair in black leathers, slowly crawling away from him with his arms, his legs barely more than a dead weight for all the help they were giving him. S?a??h the N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Well, a wonder that anyone used to live here anyway, he thought as he walked to the man, stomping a boot against his back and placing his boarding cutlass just over where the heart should be.


    "P-please! I-I can give you gold! Women! I can aaaaghhh," Joffrey interrupted the headache inducing stream of bastard valyrian and pidgin ghiscary with a quick stab, blood pooling around the corsair''s chest as his arms gave out and he hugged the cold, dark stone.


    Joffrey shook his head as he wiped the blood off the cutlass with the man''s body. For all the bravado and arrogance the motley crew of corsairs had displayed, Joffrey had found their skill profoundly lacking.


    Serves the idiots right for attacking a simple explorer¡­ Joffrey thought with a snort, striding towards the last set of stairs and through a ruined, threadbare cloth door.


    Joffrey estimated that the corsairs had been squatting in the fort for less than three months, given the supplies and haphazard repairs all around the area. He doubted a full year of rebuilding would have made a difference though, for the fort of the much dreaded Xandarro Xhore was falling to pieces.


    He raised an eyebrow as he kneeled, vaguely offended as he felt the black stone with his hand. It was obvious to anyone with even a passing knowledge of construction that Xandarro Xhore had been no architect. The black stones the man had looted from ancient ruins around the island were solid enough, eerily similar to the ones found in Old Town or the Five Forts¡­ but the arrangement and the mortar the Qartheen pirate of ages past had settled on made very little sense indeed.


    He took a deep breath of fresh sea air as he stood up, smoothing his ragged leather armor as he scanned the horizon for signs of any other pirate, corsair or even the occasional foolhardy trader. He swore he could almost see the tantalizing shore of Sothoryos to the south, the deadly continent where none save the Brindled Men could hope to settle and live.


    With the horizon clear of any ships Joffrey was content to turn back to what he''d been doing before the damned corsairs had interrupted him...


    He was hopeful, after all, Xandarro had to have looted the black stone from somewhere on the island¡­


    -.PD.-


    The rainstorm sounded strangely muffled under the massive canopy of leaves and branches, the torrent of water pouring from above reduced to only a few natural causeways by the leaves and dark brown branches. They were spread out in such a pattern that the water was naturally directed towards the tree''s trunk like a Braavosi conductor might lead an orchestra, each branch and leave carefully positioned to make use of slopes and gravity to ensure its water supply. The competition was cutthroat though, with rival trees placing their leaves atop the others and carefully growing bone white spikes of wood that drilled into enemy trunks when the trees where close enough.


    Joffrey was startled out of his reverie by the feather light touch on his arm, and not screaming was all he could do as he gazed at the beautiful yellow and green butterfly lazily flapping its wings, its tiny legs finding purchase over his light leathers. Joffrey staid still over the black stone he''d been sitting on, the frustration after not finding a single carving dissolved to nothing as he stared at the butterfly in dread, not daring to move an inch.


    The butterfly stretched its wings a few times before deciding that Joffrey had been a good enough support pillar and that he didn''t deserve to die, flying away with barely a sound. Joffrey collapsed on the ground with a heavy sigh, compulsively scratching his arm in relief.


    He stood back up, giving one last look at the useless would-have-been obelisk before strapping a length of rope to it. He walked for a bit, making sure the rope was tense as he reached a small clearing. The thick, green canopy of Ax Island stopped as if it had slammed against an invisible wall, no trees growing close to the carriage sized hole at the middle of the clearing.


    Joffrey strapped the rope to his waist before making sure his sealskin bag was tightly tied to his back, taking one long look down the dark hole before standing with his back towards it, letting the rest of the rope fall.


    "Why, oh why couldn''t they have left the freaking clues in the Summer Islands," he grumbled as he jumped down.


    His gloves ran hot as the rope slipped through them, his body tumbling through the twilight darkness of the huge cave, the paltry light coming from above barely enough to see his hands. Inside the cave he could hear great echoes of fury, roars of slamming waves against rock and stone as he kept going down deeper into the abyss.


    He engaged the iron break on the rope, stopping his descent and leaving his hands free to take the small torch tied to his belt. He carefully put it under his left hand before jamming the rings he wore on both thumb and index finger, the sudden sparks from the flint and steel dazing him for a second before the torch was lit.


    He let the torch fall, following its uncomfortably long decent into darkness until it hit the ground with a dull thud, the rope just barely reaching its side.


    Good, I''ll be damned if I had to get even more rope¡­ he thought as he let go of the iron break. As it was he''d nearly stripped the small corsair sloop of all its rigging. Perhaps the corsairs had not been as useless as he''d thought...


    He finally reached the ground with only a few meters of rope to spare, the sound of the waves inside the huge cave almost deafening. He walked a bit to his right and saw the furious waves crashing against the hard, oily black stone, the torch now in his hand aiding little to his task as he gazed at the veritable lake inside the cave, jagged cliffs of black stone flanking its sides.


    "Must be connected to the sea¡­ an underwater tunnel maybe¡­" Joffrey mused to himself as he gazed at the black waves. He turned back towards the edges of the cave, looking for any signs of runes or pictograms, squinting and staring closely to every single patch of rock inside the cave.


    He scratched his small, scraggily beard before nodding, a crazy smirk adorning his features as he carefully climbed down the steep black cliffs, towards the inner lake itself. He spent a while going in a circle around it, checking every single side of the cliffs. He almost missed the small opening just above the sea-level, a triangular tunnel boring into the rock.


    Joffrey''s heart beat wildly as he reached the tunnel, the light from his torch illuminating the carvings at the sides. The murals were the same as in Bonetown, a man standing up in defiance or despair or something, then it showed the figure being torn apart by a mob of other men and then scattering all over the tunnel. There the pattern ended, only for it to repeat a few steps later.


    Joffrey kneeled besides one of the black seals that were spaced every dozen meters, grabbing the man shaped handle and pulling it pack with all his strength. For a moment he thought it wouldn''t budge, but suddenly there was a dry click and it gave way. He kept pulling it, whistling slowly as a triangular prism of purple-black stone emerged from the wall.


    "Obsidian¡­" he whispered, running a hand through its scarred and pitted surface. The blocks were thus that any sort of weapon could be fashioned from them, from arrow tips to even longswords, if someone had been foolish enough to try it.


    A gift from the past¡­ and this time not looted by traitors to mankind¡­


    He left the shard there, continuing through the tunnel as his heart beat soared and his mouth suddenly felt dry. A section of the tunnel was angled downwards, strangely bent, and Joffrey cursed out loud as he saw water. It seemed something had given out above the tunnel, though its construction had been so sturdy that it hadn''t cracked open. Instead it was bent, and water flooded the section completely.


    Joffrey stared at it for a few seconds before taking off his leather armor, leaving only his small clothes and his sealskin bag on his person.


    "Let''s go for a swim then," he whispered before he dived.


    The water was freezing, leeching the warmth out of his body as he pumped his arms and his legs, pushing himself ever forwards¡­ and ever downwards. The light from the torch quickly turned into a distant memory as the passage turned darker and darker, Joffrey''s hands growing dimmer until he could not even see them.


    It felt like decades before he touched the ground, his hands feeling the rising slope that would take him back towards precious air¡­ but his lungs were already burning.


    He swam with all his strength, his hands still feeling the corridor''s floor as it kept angling upwards, the burning pain spreading around his chest like wildfire, his mouth begging to be opened for just. A. Tiny. Second.


    The corridor''s upward slope became the only constant in Joffrey''s life as he kept swinging his legs and everything turned dark, his own body invisible to his eyes as his strokes grew lazy and the corridor seemed to stretch to infinity, an infinity as deep as the Purple filled with unending fractals and shadows andpain¡ª


    Joffrey took a harrowing breath as his head broke the waterline, immediately expelling it and gulping for air again, wild coughs spraying water all around him as he splashed wildly, his hands frenzied and not really sure about what to do.


    He breathed again and again as his hands found something solid and maybe drier, desperate strength pulling him out of the water and collapsing on the ground belly up.


    A screaming, bloated Joffrey stared back at him. His hands clawed at his throat in despair, eyes almost squished under the pressure of the Strangler. From its sides tendrils of fractals and strange silhouettes flowed like water atop the trees just above the cavern, snaking through the chamber towards the center, where Joffrey knew his message awaited.


    He rolled with a huff and a strain of effort, standing up in a bit of a daze as he got back his bearings. He was already going through the motions of taking his oil lamp from his sealskin bag when he realized he could already see.


    He dropped the bag in stupefied amazement as he gazed at the final scene of his wedding illuminated by wild streaks of bright green moss and frail looking yellow mushrooms, hanging from crooks and crannies all over the chamber.


    He stumbled to one of the flat topped mushrooms and the pale, beautiful yellow light emerging from its underside, his hand almost touching it.


    He stood there for a moment, mesmerized before he shook his head and lowered his arm. It was probably poisonous, like everything else in this godsforsaken island.


    "Alright, what have you got for me," he said out loud as he strode decisively towards the center of the chamber, kneeling over the small circle filled with half dead scribbles and constellations. It seemed to be of the same design as that of Bonetown, though time and erosion had wiped away different parts, leaving Joffrey with new insights.


    He hand traced the shape of a small building with seven sides, complete with tiny doors and windows if one stretched the imagination a bit and ignored the scars of time.


    A Sept, thought Joffrey. The Sept. it was strange though, the Sept was surrounded by four extra dots¡­


    He kept staring at the carvings, finding the remnants of what he now knew should be the Heart Tree and the Broom, exactly where they should be if they were whole, followed by other shapes.


    A man with a hammer held high, a long and slim tower, a robed figure with a skull in its hands¡­


    Joffrey went to his bag and brought it back, taking a cloak from it and wrapping it around his shivering body. He sat again just besides the carvings, thinking hard as he took out the oil lantern and lit it, the small warmth helping him fight the cold as he shook off the last of the water. He took out a strip of beef jerky, munching it for a good long while before drowning it back with a long gulp of his wineskin, the looted Ghiscary swill purging his throat rawer than the Strangler.


    He took in a deep breath as he laid back, tired. "A lunch fit for a King," he declared to no one in particular.


    So¡­ Bran the Builder, The Watchtower and The Stranger..? He thought, images of stars and constellations cartwheeling through his mind. Those were the ones he had been able to identify immediately, though there were a few more he could likely salvage by comparing them with the other incomplete ones from Bonetown. That was a sight he was never going to forget.


    It was strange though, some, but not all, of the constellations had one, two or as much as ten dots around them, while in other parts one or two dots stood alone, as if standing in for a constellation. They must add some extra meaning to each specific instance of the constellation, because he''d seen two Septs, one with four dots and one with three.


    He gazed at the center again, his eyes lowering towards the inscription and filling in the letters he still remembered from Bonetown.


    "V¡­R¡­Y¡­NE¡­" He spelled out loud, filling the missing letters with what he remembered. "EVERY..?" he sampled the word in his mouth, frowning. "EVERYONE..?" he asked himself. "EVERYONE B¡­ H¡­ PR..P¡­L¡­ PURPLE?" he said out loud, sounding out the words. He kept going on through the small sentence again and again, trying to decipher some kind of meaning between what he saw, what he remembered and pure conjecture.


    EVERYONE B- something H-something PURPLE something something TO something RIGHT?


    By the Gods, I''m so close¡­


    He could feel it in his bones, he was close, so tantalizingly close¡­


    He turned back to the constellations, memorizing every single detail. He was going to need more to decipher this, but the question was¡­ where?


    Joffrey absentmindedly ate another piece of jerky, tapping the black stone with his fingers.


    He took another drink from the Ghiscary swill, emptying the wineskin as he looked back to the constellations.


    There''s one other place I know of that boasts an ominous oily black stone construction¡­


    It was talked about in hushed, dreaded whispers in the pirate havens of the Basilisk Isles, in restrained greed and resignation in New Ghis¡­


    It was madness to even contemplate it... but then again, Joffrey was bemused and somewhat saddened when he realized he''d done worse.


    He eyed the murals one more time as he nodded to himself, the last seconds of his first life staring down upon him.


    "South," he said out loud, "I need to go south," he repeated, his eyes distant as he imagined the dread jungles of Inner Sothoryios, the distant shadow of the Ruined City of Yeen.


    -.PD.-


    The chair sized, long legged bird had multicolored feathers, a riot of color meant both to daze predators and attract mates. The feathers swayed almost with a mind of their own as the bird took one carefully measured step under the thick jungle, head tilted just so it could hear the tiny worms scuttling under the earth. The dark green canopy left the jungle in perpetual twilight, the light barely reaching the ground as if even the sun were scared to tread upon the ancient lands. The bird stood still, straining to hear the sounds of the jungle and its riot of life¡­ but this far into Sothoryos the jungle was oddly quiet, the gentle, careful steps of the rainbow colored bird almost unbearably loud.


    It took another step, right besides a clump of hardy looking bushes that had somehow been able to grow despite the paltry light that reached them. All around the bird numerous, numberless thin and thick tree trunks stretched towards the air in a maddened arms race for sunlight, while parasitic growth roots spread from treetop to treetop, strangling the very same trees that gave them life or sapping their strength with blood red roots. The ground was full of leaves and roots and moss, a veritable bed of nature that hid the very ground from sight.


    Suddenly the bird struck, darting its long, needle like beak right through the leaves and even the mossy dirt, lightning like speed extracting a thumb sized squirming worm. The bird slurped it almost immediately, taking a second to luxuriate in the sweet basking of victory before deciding to fly away.


    That extra second cost it its life as the bushes behind it suddenly darted forward, what had seemed like just another mound of dirt opening itself to reveal a double row of razor sharp teeth that closed with a cataclysmic crash, the strength of the thing''s jaws strong enough to cut the bird in half and sent part of it tumbling away with a squirt of bright red blood. The apparent mobile mound of dirt and bushes revealed itself as something more as it swallowed its meal and considered whether to dart forward in search of the other half. The crocodile like beast was the size of a long table, with thick green scales, brown snout and a long, spiked tail. It opened its huge nostrils as its beady reptile eyes scanned the ground, taking a long smell for even a hint of another being close by.


    Content with its safety, the big, lumbering beast stomped its way towards the other half of the bird, the bushes that grew from its back swaying to and fro.


    As it devoured the other half, the tree to its side slowly opened two eyes, just a few meters above the beast. The pale green irises seemed to inspect the beast for a dozen seconds before a whole part of the tree collapsed with barely a sound. The man sized lump of dried bark and fresh leaves landed atop the beast with a fearsome roar, the steel tipped spear piercing right through its neck scales before the beast rolled aside with a wild screech.


    The man sized lump of dirt, sap, bark and leaves landed on the cushioned ground, rolling before seamlessly standing back up, shedding leaves and pieces of wood everywhere.


    The beast barely had time to shake the spear off before the man rushed towards it. It opened its huge maw and closed it faster than a free falling iron portcullis, but the man was already spinning to its left, jamming his serpentine like dagger in the same place where he''d stabbed the spear.


    The beast screeched in agony, thrashing from side to side until it shuddered once more and staid still.


    "¡­ There''s always a bigger fish. Well, lizard-thing-monster anyway," Joffrey sentenced as he kneeled down and flipped the beast with a grunt of strength, lean, powerful muscles bulging under the strain as he left the beast upside down.


    "Hey! I know! Let''s place the clues in the middle of the green hell known as Sothoryos! I''m sure the bastard will just love that!" Joffrey said out loud, slamming his dagger into the beast''s belly and opening it up from head to tail.


    "Excellent idea my friend! Let''s place it so fucking deep inside he won''t be able to see the sky sometimes!" he said as he started harvesting the body, cutting thick slabs of compact looking meat and leaving it on a bowl made of leaves to his side. His own skin looked like cured leather, tanned and pockmarked with scars and the odd missing bit of flesh.


    "Yes! Yes! Maybe he''ll spend so much time there he''ll go crazy and start talking to himself!" he grumbled as he moved to the beast''s head and started chipping away at its skull, expert strokes quickly opening the top and revealing its brain in plain sight.


    "Ah, monster lizard brain, been a while since I''ve had this delicacy," he said to himself with not even a hint of irony. "How it can taste so good and not go bad in weeks I''ll never know¡­" he said as he scooped it up and placed it in a wad of leaves he promptly turned into a ball.


    He stood up and gazed at his half hours'' worth of harvesting with a pleased nod, placing the meat inside his green leather backpack and grabbing his spear before scrambling off. This deep into Sothoryos half an hour was as much as he dared to stay beside a fresh carcass¡­ There was always a bigger fish.


    He hiked through the thick jungle, occasionally having to slash at the undergrowth with his saber and thanking all Andals for the gift of steel every time he did. Steel tools and maesterly lore had been the two things that had enabled him to survive almost one and a half (or was it two?) years in the hell hole known as Sothoryos. He thought the trip to Yeen by river boat would have lasted all of one or two months, but the entire Zamoyos river basin was a man eating death trap, as he''d personally found out. As it was he''d barely made it out of his skiff alive when the Brindled Men ambushed him twenty kilometers upriver from Zamettar¡­ He couldn''t complain though, the slightly gentler Brindled Men, those who lived closer to the coast and knew a scattering of the common trade tongues had warned him not to venture upriver like the semi-regular private expeditions from New Ghis. Even though one in five of those survived, the lust for the plentiful riches that lay upstream was enough for men to chance even those odds. Gems, gold, ivory, mahogany, tough exotic leathers, rare herbs and strange semi-precious stones. All enough to see every Ghiscary river galleys merrily sailing upriver slaughtered to a man by the Brindled Men who, Joffrey thought, must make somewhat of a decent living with the supplies those ships so obligingly brought to them every once in a while.


    Still, by keeping himself well out of sight of the river he''d scarcely seen one of the massively muscled, big boned brutes past Zamettar. Instead, he got to meet every other happy denizen that made its living on the continent.


    He was never going to look at a beetle the same way again.


    Loosing sight of the river meant loosing the only obvious landmark to someone who did not outright live here though, and that had meant he''d gotten lost no fewer than seven times. Seven times he''d gotten completely, absolutely, hopelessly lost inside the green hell. One of those times he''d been unable to see the sky for three days. If he''d suddenly found himself in Gogossos, even though the damned ruin was in an island, he wouldn''t have been surprised. As it was though, each time he''d managed to find his way again, and a week ago he''d finally sighted the river again.


    It was noon by the time he made it to his base camp, starting a fire with the wood he''d collected last night and leaving some of the meat atop the small boulders he used to cook them. He collapsed with a sigh against a thick, fallen brown trunk conveniently located next to the camp fire, letting his back rest there as he looked down.


    He was close, some mornings when he climbed atop the trees he could see the black domes of Yeen near the horizon in between the sea of green, a black beacon guiding him in. By now he shouldn''t be more than half a week away at the most, assuming his regular marching speed. He was excited, relishing the payoff after months upon months of trekking up and down the thick jungles and fighting off everything from man eating worms to nightmarish monsters that looked like someone had slapped together a Shryke and a horse sized chicken.


    His camp was now atop a small hill with a direct view of the Zamoyos, its lazy, murky waters undulating like a serpent across the landscape. Joffrey could just about see some sort of black building from here, right where the first big tributary of the Zamoyos river basin joined the main stream, a big black thing that could be a dome, an obelisk or something else.


    He stayed there for a while, the sound of sizzling meat not enough to distract him from a very insistent feeling.


    It was only when the fallen tree trunk was moving that Joffrey remembered there had been no such thing this morning. He tried to leap away but the thing was too fast, its huge, wood-like serpentine body wrapping around him impossibly fast.


    His mind screamed as the brown colored snake squeezed, its ambush perfect. He managed to get an arm out before the snake locked him into position, the thing''s impossible strength trying to crunch him into so much pulp. Joffrey screamed in pain, one flailing hand grabbing the dagger from the floor and stabbing the snake quickly. It wouldn''t let him go however, the pain only making it madder as it turned its head towards him, blood red eyes and crazed tongue doing nothing to distract Joffrey from the real danger: the two dagger long fangs dripping with venom.


    No! Not now! Joffrey thought as he jammed the dagger against the snake''s body desperately, only for the Oak-like snake to slam its fangs against his shoulder.


    "AAAAAAaaaaaaahhhh¡­" he screamed, feeling the sludgy, slow moving venom as it entered his bloodstream.


    "No! NO!" Joffrey screamed as both prey and predator rolled on the ground, the snake''s death grip unrelenting as it kept its fangs on the back of Joffrey''s shoulder, pumping more and more venom into his body. He looked down the hill towards the river, the black beacon with his answers taunting him.


    "NO!" he screamed as he pierced the snake''s gums with his dagger, separating first one fang from the snake''s mouth and then the other. They were still jammed tight against his shoulder but at least they were no longer pumping any more venom into him. The snake reared back its head, spilling blood everywhere as it screeched and tightened the death grip on his body, making him drop the dagger.


    Joffrey could hear the sound of bones crunching as the birch like scales of the snake kept tightening around him, stealing his life but half a week''s walk from his answers. He kept screaming as he searched deep within himself, the pain granting him an unusual clarity of mind, a deep thrumming that went beyond his breaking ribs, a roar that quickly drowned all other sound as a silver lion the size of a small horse slammed into the snake''s head, pinning it to the ground with its great weight and savaging it with its teeth and claws. The pressure around Joffrey soon dropped, though the occasional spasm still sent him reeling in pain before he could disentangle himself from the snake.


    Stars shoved the flaccid snake head with one of his paws, making sure it was dead before turning towards Joffrey and lowering his head. Joffrey grabbed Star''s mane tightly, letting the big lion drag him away from the still spamming corpse of the snake.


    "Tha¡­ that''s it¡­ good boy Stars¡­ good boy¡­" he mumbled as he dropped to his knees, one hand fumbling about for his backpack while the other crossed his chest and tried to dislodge the fangs from the back of his neck.


    Joffrey bit off a silent scream, tears falling down his face as he rocked back and forth, his arm in agony¡­ It appeared to be broken¡­ and he didn''t have the strength to pull the fangs out.


    He stayed there, rocking back and forth as he rode out the pain, his other hand finding the set of boiled cloth bandages he kept in his backpack.


    "Stars"- he said as he looked up at the Silver Lion''s pale green eyes -"you''re going to have to pull them out¡­" he whispered as he grabbed a small piece of discarded wood as well as a wineskin besides him.


    Stars purred slowly as he stared right into his eyes. Joffrey nodded as he took a dozen breaths in two seconds, curling into a ball and biting down hard on the piece of wood.


    Do it, Joffrey thought.


    He felt Stars carefully positioning his muzzle over where the first fang lay, biting down gently for a second before his shoulder exploded in a storm of pain.


    Joffrey screamed silently, huffing and mumbling in agony as he rocked back and forth like a madman, Stars keening in sympathy.


    Don''t stop, finish it! Joffrey thought in between the pain. He felt Stars quickly biting down on the second fang, and suddenly he was on his side, blooding running down his chest and pooling in the ground around him.


    Joffrey shook his head slowly as he tried to sit up, stiffening under the returning pain as he tried to find Stars, though he was nowhere to be found.


    Must have passed out for a minute or so, he thought in a daze, blood freely flowing down his shoulder and his chest.


    He grabbed the wineskin like a drunkard, never more grateful for the cheap Ghiscary strongwine he''d looted from a beached crate, biting off the lid and taking a long gulp before spilling the rest on his shoulder.


    He grunted as he rocked back and forth again in pain, taking another big gulp before tossing the empty wineskin away and grabbing a patch of boiled cloth, gingerly tying it around his whole shoulder.


    He laid back on the ground as he took a moment to rest and think, closing his eyes as he remembered the work of Archmaester Volgin. He''d written the most complete compendium to date about the dangers and benefits of all manner of venoms and poisons to be found in Sothoryos.


    "Think Joffrey¡­ think¡­ Volgin¡­ Volgin¡­" he whispered to himself like his life depended on it.


    ¡­Fuck! It''s been too long¡­ Have to do it the hard way¡­ He thought in despair as he remembered barely two dozen of the venoms and poisons instead of the 120 or so he had memorized.


    He opened his eyes slowly, the burning pain in his shoulder slowly spreading around his body. He stood up, stumbling a bit before he got his legs under control and walked to the campfire. Joffrey ignored the half burnt meat as he took one of the raw chunks he''d left beside the campfire, taking it back to the still twitching corpse of the snake. Even in its death throe and covered in blood, the damnable snake still seemed like a fallen tree or an upturned root to him¡­ Truly, everything in Sothoryos was capable of hiding in plain sight.


    He grabbed the fallen dagger from the ground and promptly rammed it where the snake''s fangs used to be, extracting it covered in gore and yellow, viscous liquid. He careful extended his broken arm forward, dabbing a bit of the venom on his unbroken skin.


    He watched it slide down his arm and into the ground, the venom inactive against his skin.


    Fuck¡­ as I suspected¡­ he thought as he placed the chunk of raw meat in the ground and did the same, placing some of the venom atop it. He cursed as he saw it fizzle gently, slowly, very slowly dissolving the meat into mush.


    ... probably an auxiliary digestive aid¡­ leaving the skin unbroken so as to maximize its work time¡­ He hypothesized as he counted the seconds it took for the venom to dissolve a chunk of meat the size of his nail, trying not to cringe as the pain inside his shoulder flared, the pain slowly spreading inside his body. It worked very slowly, but it didn''t seem to be stopping.


    Though the haphazard experiment would have been enough to expel him from the Citadel were he a real maester, Joffrey couldn''t deny his eyes.


    Prognosis¡­ death, probably due to systemic shock in 12 hours¡­ he thought as he gazed at the slowly sizzling drops, closing his eyes as he remembered his years in the Citadel.


    No¡­ from 12 to 36 hours after injection, depending on the patient''s constitution and the size of the dose... no more than 48 hours due to probable acute heart failure.


    Joffrey stood up, putting the essential back inside his backpack as he thought feverishly. Trying for a bloodletting without assistance was too risky, too big of a chance to bleed out on the spot¡­ No, his fate was sealed this time.


    ¡­ I have less than 48, probably 36 hours at the most before I''m turned into a bloody mulch from the inside out or my heart gives out¡­ whichever comes first¡­


    The pain kept creeping throughout his body, his face twitching in pain as he grabbed the spear from the ground, using it as a makeshift walking stick. He would have placed his arm in a cast, but he didn''t have enough time, and he needed the mobility.


    He was going to have to run if he had any hope of making it to Yeen.


    Joffrey took a deep breath as the pain slowly intensified, taking off at a fast jog through the sparser edges of the Jungle, aiming at the black hills beside the Zamoyos.


    -.PD.-


    He jogged all day, through lianas and red colored trees, through cobwebs the size of inns and recklessly speeding through animal trails where he fervently hoped not to find any fellow travelers. By nightfall he''d reached the Zamoyos, and used it as a guide when the sunlight no longer shined over dark Yeen.


    By the early morning the exhaustion was creeping in at an accelerated rate, and Joffrey found himself staring at the black domes in the distance in longing and disquiet. He rested for a while atop a big rock besides the river, catching his breath as the pain in his shoulder (and by now his whole body) kept getting worse and worse.


    He watched the water carefully, ready to jump at the merest sign of piranhas.


    There doesn''t seem to be any, at least at this time of the day, he thought as he quickly washed his face, taking a dozen quick sips to refresh his parched throat. If he didn''t die from the venom then he was sure to die from the bad water¡­ not that he cared at this point.


    Right, time to get moving, he thought, adjusting his backpack as he slid from the rock. The pain hit him like a runaway carriage in that moment, streams of burning lava spreading through his whole body at the sudden movement. Joffrey bit his hand, rocking back and forth as he rode out the shock.


    He opened his backpack quickly, taking out a messily crafted wineskin the size of his hand, taking a long look at it before another blast of pain hit him, feeling something slow and sludgy swirling where his shoulder muscles should be. He took a short sip, the milky, water diluted sap sliding down his throat like a light wine. He had made the small wineskin himself from the leather of a particularly vicious Shortsnout, and used it to store the most potent painkiller known to the Brindled Men of the coast.


    Red Bloom extract¡­ I hope I don''t regret this¡­


    The pain slowly ebbed back down to reasonable levels, and unlike the milk of the poppy it didn''t sap any of his energy. Its side effects were of a more¡­ mental nature.


    He tilted his head as far to the back as it could go, straining to see his back shoulder. What little he could see was¡­ purple and swollen.


    Don''t think about it, just move, he said to himself as he leapt back to the riverside, running as fast as he could while still being able to dodge boulders and trees, the wild, chaotic jumble of bright greens and slender shapes crowned by the black dome in the distance, guiding him in.


    -.PD.-


    By the early afternoon, Joffrey''s vigorous sprint had deteriorated to a fast walk, the living torture running through his veins leaving him incapable of any other thought.


    He bit off a scream as he leaned on a burly gaboon, its great roots almost tripping him up as he breathed heavily. He looked down at his left arm, its slightly bloated shape sending shivers down Joffrey''s spine as he tried to prod it with his index finger. His finger sunk unnaturally three or four times deeper than it should, the skin around it undulating slightly as if with internal waves.


    Joffrey screamed as he collapsed on the ground, the agony wiping any other thought as he convulsed besides the tree, his legs shaking and kicking up dirt wildly with no plan nor forethought. When the agony passed, Joffrey was breathing shallowly, not daring to move a muscle as he stayed there on the ground, looking up at the leafy battlements of the great gaboon tree, a black bird of prey calmly watching him from a tree branch.


    Joffrey realized the thing was waiting for him to die.


    His hand move slowly, almost against his will towards his dagger. The serpentine edge almost glinted as Joffrey put it against his neck, the point piercing lightly into his skin and dropping just a sliver of blood.


    ¡­No¡­ he thought as he let the dagger fall. Instead, he grabbed the small wineskin, biting off the cover and greedily downing all that remained, the disturbingly tasteless liquid almost eager to slip down his throat.


    The pain ebbed down to the point where Joffrey could stand again, leaning heavily on his spear. He limped as fast as he could, guided only by his directional instinct as the sun slowly hid to the east and the few sounds of the jungle seemed to fade with it.


    He stumbled to a halt when he saw a White Walker staring at him right in front, its icy blue eyes boring into his own, long white blade almost with a light of its own.


    It''s just the Red Bloom¡­ It''s just the Red Bloom¡­ he kept repeating to himself as he seemed to drown inside the blue eyes of the Walker, the wights of Captain Shah and Captain Sabu standing at attention five meters behind it.


    Joffrey limped with his spear right towards the otherworldly being, not stopping until his nose almost touched White Walkers''s.


    He stared at the thing''s eyes, its shriveled eyelids, its bone white skin.


    "I stopped being afraid of you a long time ago," he whispered, tilting his head slightly as he stared at it.


    He walked around it, its deep blue eyes following him with unerring precision.


    He gazed at the wights of Shah and Sabu, still in their scout armors, their decrepit flesh and hollowed out eyes a monument to Joffrey''s sins.


    "STILL WE STAND!" Joffrey shouted, slamming his fist against his chest, the pain distant.


    The wights didn''t move, but he could feel their acceptance as he kept walking, the otherworldly weight of Yeen pulling him like a magnet, his direction inerrant even as people shouted his name in the distance, the pleading voice of Nalia just at the edge of his hearing.


    The pain kept getting stronger and stronger as the afternoon sun slowly settled, the moon unnaturally bright as his hands felt light and his spine twisted upon itself, each step unleashing ethereal spikes of pain that seemed to spread everywhere around his upper chest.


    As if by magic, suddenly the trees and bushes and undergrowth were no more. From one step to the next, the jungle seemed to end. Instead, Joffrey found himself walking over dark stones, its construction perfectly level with the floor, a great walkway untouched by nature as it stretched forwards as if carved with a great ruler.


    The great black road ran perfectly straight until it arrived to a small city of sorts, a land of domed black basilicas and triangular tunnels, all of it crowned by the great dome at the middle of it all.


    Joffrey bit his lip, drawing blood as he limped towards it, each step towards the city an almost eternal agony, as if he were burning alive from the inside. He tried to call Stars, but he was so tired, so exhausted he couldn''t bring himself to do it. He kept walking until he suddenly tripped, gravity bringing him crashing down on the floor.


    "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHhhhhhh!!!!!" he screamed with all his strength, taking a breath before he screamed once more, his hands fumbling for the wineskin. He squeezed it as hard as he could, but no drop of the precious extract would come from it.


    He failed to contain another scream, almost blacking out under the agony as his whole body throbbed against the black stone.


    He was crying as he grabbed the tip of his spear, not caring for the cuts in his hand as he jammed it against the wineskin, ripping it open and licking its interior desperately, the dry leather wounding his tongue.


    He screamed again as he extended an arm forward, trying to crawl towards the black citadel, barely moving at all as he fought for air.


    "Pleaaase¡­ pleaaaaaase¡­" he begged as he stared at the black dome, hypnotized, his body unmoving. He stared at it for a moment, or a year, the black dome tantalizing, unmoving.


    Something shifted to his right, and Joffrey slowly tilted his head to look at it, blinking through tear filled eyes.


    Spoiler: Music


    It was a Brindled Men, its huge arms and shoulders framed by the dark jungle behind him. Its thick skin was patterned in the brown and white of his kind, but the dark red lines painted along its sloped forehead spoke of something more, something important.


    The Brindled Men crouched very slowly, almost reverently, taking care to never touch the black road. It left an orange lotus on the ground, its cup like leaves almost brushing the side of the black highway¡­ and then, without a word, it vanished back into the jungle.


    Joffrey stared at the orange lotus dumbly, blinking slowly. He used his elbows to drag himself towards it, taking care to rest after each push, his quiet sobs the only sound in the entire vale. Each movement was pure torture, and it was through sheer power of will that he summoned the strength to crawl the measly six or so meters towards it.


    When he finally reached it, he discovered that the tall, cup like flower was filled to the brim with Red Bloom extract, undiluted by water, enough to kill a horse. He lowered his mouth so very carefully, lapping up the white fluid as fast as he could, even taking chunks of the flower when nothing remained, eating it whole.


    He flipped on his back as he finished it, staring at a completely clear sky for the first time in a long while. The stars seemed to shine brightly, The Stranger holding one skull in hand while the other pointed towards Yeen, the message clear.


    I shall not be allowed beyond until I have answers¡­ he thought, his body feather light as he picked himself up, the pain a distant memory as he opened his backpack and he took out a torch, lighting it with a flick of his rings.


    He walked towards the Dark Citadel with only the moonlight and his torch, his path certain, his purpose clear. He absentmindedly saluted the redcloaks standing guard at the city entrance, their katanas glinting in the moonlight. Inside he made his way past servants and armsmen as they carried out their silent duties, walking in and out of the domed buildings and the triangular tunnels that opened up every block. He nodded at the Hound standing guard by his frozen room, the cold chilling him to the bone as he walked past it. He almost stayed there when he heard the soothing hum of his Mother, the gentle melody entrancing him for a moment before he kept walking.


    The city had a strangely familiar layout, a spiraling form which made the traveler drift towards the middle¡­


    But the Purple had never emerged from the center, it had always started its torment through Joffrey''s throat.


    He let his legs guide him, feeling the natural essence of the city beyond the buildings and the streets, following the abstract puzzle so very similar to his soul. He took a turn at one of the triangular tunnels, following its straight path, looking at his sides and the figures swarming and consuming the lone man as they always had, only to start again and again and again.


    Joffrey wiped the thing messing with his vision, only to realize it was blood. He looked at the red smeared sleeve, confused as he felt not tears but blood flowing from his eyes. He blinked, dazed as he coughed, spraying blood all over the wall, the figures consuming it alongside the lone man.


    He kept blinking slowly, the hallway growing longer after each blink, the cry of a woman in pain making him turn back. Nalia lay in the floor, rocking as she cried, both her hands covering her face. Her body was a bloody mess of gore and despair, his handiwork evident as one might identify a sculptor by the roundness of a chipped form or a painter by the weight behind each stroke.


    Joffrey kneeled in front of her as she kept crying, breathing slowly as he gently grabbed her hands.


    "¡­No, don''t look," she told him, begged him.


    "¡­ I have to," Joffrey told her, begged her.


    She lowered her hands slowly, her bloodied hair parting under Joffrey''s gentle caress as he gazed at her face.


    He stared at it, still as a statue even as his throat trembled, the whisper of his silent sobs echoing through the corridor, tears of blood freely flowing down his cheeks. He gently cupped Nalia''s head against his chest, hugging her as he rocked her slightly.


    "Never again¡­ never again¡­ my curse is mine to carry¡­ my path alone," he promised her, promised himself. He stayed with her for a little while, gently smoothing her hair with his hand.


    He kept walking, each step propelling him faster and faster until the tunnel dissolved entirely, a vast field of stars replacing it as Joffrey floated amongst the constellations, the guests at his wedding sneering at him behind cups of wine and plates of silver. He looked down at the millions of stars below him and the constellations in between, The Longship fiercely sailing against autumn storms and the flotsam of broken constellations, ravaged by time. Even as he looked the remains reconstructed themselves, piecing themselves together in a whirlwind of grey sand and dark water, emerging as definitive shapes with a will of their own.


    He kept looking as a wise Greenseer judged him from beyond, withholding his judgment. He gazed at the rowdy Bannermen, swords and axes raised high as their many banners swirled with the wind. He contemplated the sly smile of the Hunter, bow in hand even as the other hid a dagger behind his back. He saw a great crown in the style of the Andals gleaming in the dark, seven points for seven virtues for seven aspects.


    His vision grew progressively dimmer as he looked even further down, the specters of Andal script forming as if from shadows, cryptic beyond measure, a riddle from the past that was somehow the key to unlocking The Message.


    EVERYONE BUT THE PURPLE PRINCE STEPS TO THE RIGHT, it read. He knew it was somehow the key to unlocking what the constellations were trying to tell him, but what did it mean exactly? A warning? Instructions?


    Joffrey blinked slowly as he felt more and more blood running down his mouth, his ears, his nose. He felt very tired as he fell back, the void somehow cushioning his landing as the vast field of stars slowly turned Purple, the pain returning like an old friend.


    -.PD.-


    ............................


    .................


    AN: Stay tuned for more Westeros next chapter. Thanks for reading and, as always, remember to comment!


    Don''t worry about not getting the inscription, its a bit pretty obfuscated. Paranoid message senders be paranoid.

 Chapter 31: Petals.

    Update ahoy! It''s been a long wait but I should be picking up the pace by December.-.PD.-


    Chapter 31: Petals.


    Maybe it was a system of coordinates after all¡­ I''ll have to try Archmaester Golgin''s theorems for that though¡­ It''ll take a while to compute a list of possible results assuming Citadel-standard geometry¡­


    ¡­would the creators of the Purple use standard geometry though? The question floated through his mind''s eye, memories of the many other, sometimes nonsensical variations of shapes, forms and planes he''d occasionally come across in the east.


    His estimation about the colossal task ahead of him had only grown after months of intense studying, bolted up inside his room or the Red Keep''s library. After all the time he''d spent looking for answers¡­ after he''d actually found them he''d found himself unwilling to let go, his sheer stubbornness driving him day after day to concoct a bewildering array of theories and interpretations, not letting go of the problem as a hound would not let a scent go cold. Here, he thought his many lives were more of a hindrance than a help, as the sheer amount of possibilities he''d come up with, and the needed work to disprove them, had been an incredibly heavy time sink. From complex mathematical theories to in depth studies of ancient lore and legends, there was a lot of ground to cover.


    Time had passed faster than he''d cared to admit, his effective immortality making it a bit hard to adequately judge the amount of time devoted to a single pursuit. He''d still kept an eye on things, making sure Bran didn''t fall was practically routine by now, and keeping an ear open on the whereabouts of several of the Red Keep''s denizens was a skill he was slowly developing. Tensions between the Stark''s and the Lannisters seemed controlled, and Robert was in good health¡­ there were many more months to come before he reached the point everything started going to hell, and by then he''d had hopefully broken the damned riddle and be in an informed position to somehow keep the bloody kingdoms from going down the gutter.


    He was still deeply immersed in thought when the door to his room was opened, Joffrey not even consciously noticing the way his right hand found his sword''s pommel in an instant.


    "Oh¡­ Prince Joffrey! You are awake already?" asked the servant as several of his peers seemed to flood the room.


    "Yes Darrik, my I ask what is the meaning of this?" he asked him, annoyed. He liked to rise early, just before sunrise, the quick meditation session all the more calming in the silence just before dawn. They left him well rested for the day to come, the nightmares relegated to the fringes of his mind.


    "Queen Cercei calls for your presence in the throne room, my Prince," said Darrik, slightly nervous as the servants readied some gaudy, fine clothes with far too many colors for Joffrey''s taste.


    "The throne room? At this hour?" Joffrey asked, confused as he absentmindedly waved away two approaching, jittery servants with a gold and black princely coat.


    It was then he noticed the tolling bells of King''s Landing, slowly rising in intensity as more and more septs added to the distant cacophony.


    No¡­ it''s too soon¡­ his mind echoed a painfully familiar thought.


    He walked out of his room to find the Sandor and a wary, shuffling squad of red cloaks outside his room.


    "He''s dead isn''t he?" He asked the Hound.


    "¡­Yes," he answered uncomfortably. They''d hardly talked this time around, and as the guards escorted him to the Throne Room he could feel his heart beat hasten, in sync with the tolling bells ringing in the distance.


    Fuck¡­ Shit¡­ Cunt!


    "How..?" he heard himself ask.


    "I heard his heart gave out," said the Hound before his face softened a tiny bit, "I''m sorry," he added awkwardly before returning to his stern and foreboding visage. The visage he wore with strangers and those he considered not worth his time¡­ which, in Joffrey''s favor meant almost everyone. The sudden and painful reminder of his eternal loneliness was quickly swept aside by his growing panic and planning.


    I need more fucking time, I''m not ready yet¡­ he cursed again and again as they quick walked past scrambling servants and other squads of red cloaks taking positions for the coming bloodbath.


    Before he could think his way out of this one however, the doors to the throne room were opened. He eyed the Iron Throne almost in dread, its looming form getting steadily bigger the closer he walked towards it, the red cloaks inexorably carrying him forwards as if towards an inevitable destiny. Robert''s hunting tapestries hanged from the ceiling like drying clothes, intermittently stopping the budding sunlight coming from the west. The red cloaks were arrayed in front of the throne, and behind them the seven knights of the Kingsguard handled the close in protection of Queen Cercei, her vicious, triumphant grin barely restrained by her fake grief. She''d already won, and she knew it.


    He swore he could hear half remembered voices coming from the corners of the room as he kept walking towards the throne, the red cloaks dispersing behind him, only the Hound by his side.


    Prince Joffrey? If you are going to kill me, just do it.


    Oh no Stark, not this time¡­


    He walked past the line of assembling red cloaks, his eyes lost in memory.


    Bring me my crossbow! I command it!


    The knights of the Kingsguard stood aside as he passed them by, Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Barristan Selmy barely nodding, their eyes nervous and their grips light as they took in the oppressive atmosphere inside the great hall. He stopped as he reached the last steps, the morning sun just barely starting to illuminate the hunk of twisted metal at its zenith.


    Ser Illyn! rip out his tongue!


    Joffrey took in a deep breath as he stared at it, mingled feelings of guilt and dread mixing with a heavy tingling in his gut, half-forgotten plans and musings swirling inside his head as he kept staring at it.


    I think the spike suits him, don''t you think? No, stare at him Sansa! Stare at him! I command it!


    His mother was telling him something in fake sadness, her triumphant eyes betraying her apparent grief, something about Robert''s heart finally giving out after a ''hard night of work''. Her words soon seemed to lose meaning though, her droning becoming indistinct with the tolling bells of King''s Landing, the great bells of Baelor''s Sept sounding like a great, slow gong that reverberated to his bones.


    He gazed at the throne as his mother whispered sweet nothings, his gaze far away as he remembered the screams of dying men and the despair of a dying world.


    Slowly though, the panicky jumble of suppositions, guilt and doubt crystalized into something. He didn''t know what exactly, but it was something solid, real. He closed his eyes, feeling the sensation as if it were a strong, coarse wine.


    He took one more deep breath, wondering if it would find him worthy.


    He sat carefully, his eyes opening to find the world the same as before, and yet subtly changed at the same time. The sun was now shining throughout the hall, banishing the darkness enshrouded in the dead hours before dawn.


    He grunted slightly, lifting his hand and looking at the bleeding cut right on his palm.


    So, I''m not worthy, he thought, thinking about all the monsters that had sat upon this hunk of rusted metal, himself greatest amongst them all.


    He curled his fingers, fisting his hand tightly as more blood flowed from it, splattering on the floor.


    I''ll take it as a complement then, he thought with a small smile.


    "Joffrey! You''ve cut yourself!" Cercei stopped her prattling as she started to call for the Grandmaester.


    "I''m fine, Mother. We have more pressing concerns at hand," he said as the doors opened again, this time letting in Lord Eddard Stark and a heavy complement of his house guard.


    "All hail His Grace, Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," proclaimed the Royal Crier, his voice carrying all over the hall as Lord Stark took each stride with care, dozens of goldcloaks spilling to his sides and taking position under the baleful hunting tapestries Robert had used to replace the old dragon skulls. Commander Janos Slynt stood behind his goldcloaks, safely away from any wild blades in the melee to come, his murdering sycophant whose name Joffrey couldn''t remember standing behind him with a nervous tick and hands on both sword and iron maul.


    Joffrey shook his head as Slynt sent a few nervous looks to his mother and to Baelish, the unspoken communication plain for all to see.


    How the hells didn''t you notice, Ned? He thought as the tension ratcheted up linearly with the amount of armed men in the throne room.


    Ned Stark''s approach seemed glacially slow, even though this time around Jaime had not disabled his knee. His ice blue eyes seemed hardened to what was to come, harder than what he could remember¡­ it seemed King Robert''s sudden death had broken all sense of plausibility, even for Ned''s dull and misaligned grasp of intrigue. It was one thing for his supposed father to die in a hunting accident¡­ another altogether for him to suddenly croak in the middle of the night just in time for a Lannister backed fait accompli. There were a lot of poisons that could imitate a heart attack, Joffrey knew that from both study and personal experience.


    Ned stood there defiantly, glaring at Cercei in restrained anger, one hand on his sword''s pommel. Littlefinger came to a stop a half step behind him, calm and composed with the ever present helpful smile that had fooled so many people into thinking him harmless.


    As Cercei opened her mouth, Joffrey decided to take the initiative, projecting his voice to carry throughout the throne room.


    "Lord Stark, you have come to us in the most terrible of times. My father lies dead and the stability of the Realm is at risk, threatening to throw the whole of Westeros into a war it can ill afford," he said, his mother leaning on his shoulder and whispering something about letting her take care of this. He waved her away with a bleeding hand, shocking her into silence as he kept talking.


    "Lord Stark, you served my father well and faithfully as Hand of the King. I would ask you to continue that task, for Winter is Coming. The strongest winter in generations if the Maesters are correct¡­ Please Lord Stark, take your rightful place by my side and let us lead the Seven Kingdoms into an era of peace and plenty," he almost begged him, his impassionate plea resonating throughout the hall as memories of war, hunger and cold flashed too fast for his mind''s eye to process.


    "What my son means to say is-" Cercei started in a hurry only for her to be swiftly cut down by Joffrey.


    "Silence!" he roared, staring straight into her eyes and shocking her once more into silence.


    The long silence seemed to stretch over the hall as Ned Stark mulled over the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, surrounded by guards and men at arms and all the panoply of war.


    Come on Ned, shake off that godsdamned honor. Robert is fucking dead, who cares if I''m not his son?!


    Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North looked up to him, his face set in surety and resolution. "Preventing a war is what I''m trying to accomplish here¡­ I''m sorry Joffrey, but you have no claim on the Iron Throne. Stannis of House Baratheon is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms," he proclaimed grimly.


    Joffrey sat there, anger and rage coursing through his veins as his distractedness pushed the Seven Kingdoms into all-out war yet again.


    Cercei quickly jumped in as visions of wights and walkers roaming through an already devastated Westeros swirled through Joffrey''s mind like some horrible venom. "Your own words betray you Lord Stark, Ser Barristan, arrest this traito-"


    "I SAID SILENCE!" Joffrey roared as he grabbed her by the back of her neck, squeezing until a small ''eep'' of pain emerged from her lips which quickly caused his hand to retreat back as if it had been burned.


    What is another woman for me to torment? Nalia, Sansa, that nameless wench I filled with bolts¡­ why not my own mother? The thought came unbidden as he tried to keep a lid on the endless well of despair that seemed to torment him unrelenting. He thought he had left it all behind, but much like Westeros it seemed to stick to him like viscous, black oil.


    His voice almost broke as he called out once more for reason and peace.


    "Ser Barristan! Hold where you are!" he called out the aged knight before he could take another step towards Ned. "Lord Stark is clearly distressed and confused by the death of the King, he shall return to his home to grieve in peace!" he shouted.


    Ned looked at him strangely, pity, duty and adrenaline filling his voice as he called out. "Commander! Escort the Prince and the queen to their chambers and keep them under guard, no blood need be spilled today!"


    "Men of the Watch!" shouted Slynt, the gold cloak''s spears coming down and aimed towards the Kingsguard and red cloaks around the throne.


    "NED! YOU ARE SORROUNDED! FOR THE LOVE OF YOUR FAMILY DON''T DO THIS!" Joffrey roared.


    Ned shook his head in confusion, turning back to look at Slynt, but it was already too late. "Now!" shouted Commander Slynt, the gold cloaks swiftly aiming their spears straight at the backs and sides of Ned''s men, ripping through light leathers and chainmail and filling the hall with the scent of blood and gore.


    Despite all his failings as a courtier, Ned Stark''s reflexes were still good, and it showed. With no milk of the poppy or pain from previous injuries to slow him down, he was already turning and taking out his sword as Baelish fumbled with his dagger, trying for a haphazard hold at Eddard''s neck.


    "I told you when you oughff-" Littlefinger''s vain taunt was cut as Ned shoved an elbow to his diaphragm, followed by a panic fuelled fist that left the Master of Coin on the floor, dazed as he tried to crawl away.


    Joffrey barely had time to stand up before Ned threw himself in desperation towards the doors and trying to escape the hopeless ambush, batting aside a spear and cutting the offending gold cloak''s throat before two spears caught him from behind, brutally puncturing through the gambeson and emerging back out through his chest.


    Joffrey sprinted down the steps, the Hound finishing off a Stark man before cursing and following him toward Ned''s prone form. Joffrey casually evaded the last stragglers until he reached Ned, though it was hopeless.


    Eddard Stark''s face was locked in surprised horror, his back a bloody mess of ripped flesh and torn lungs. Joffrey stood there in mild shock, Ned''s face being replaced by a dozen different iterations of pain, horror, surprise, anger and more. The collage of Ned''s various post mortem expressions almost overwhelmed Joffrey before one of the gold cloaks by the side smirked like a stupid dog.


    "We got the traitor clean through the lungs you'' grace," he proclaimed. The sudden silence as the last Stark man gurgled his last breath gave it an otherworldly air.


    Joffrey''s hands were shaking as he slowly, very slowly turned to face the gold cloak.


    "You sure did you IMBECILE!" Joffrey roared as he slammed his fist through the man''s nose, tinges of red coloring his vision as he sat atop the now prone gold cloak''s chest, his fists working like pistons as he let go of all the anger and despair at once, screaming as the man''s helmet blew away and his face was reduced to a red mush.


    It was his breathing that brought him back. After decades of using it as a concentration aid, he had developed some sort of intrinsic understanding of the flow of air in and out of his body. When he realized he was breathing hard and did not know why, he came back to his sense.


    The gold cloak''s face was covered in blood, but his chest still seemed to be moving¡­ haltingly at least.


    Joffrey shook his head as he stood up, gazing at his blood filled fists.


    "Something wrong indeed, Ned¡­ Indeed¡­" he whispered as he gazed at the body of his slain mentor.


    To think he could have ever redeemed himself now seemed foolish in hindsight. He was who he was.


    Joffrey, the Monster and the Silver Lion. He''d come to think of them as two struggling identities, but the truth was that they were one and the same.


    There was nothing to redeem¡­ To try to escape from himself was as futile as trying to escape the Purple. He gently uncurled his bloodied fists, the stares of everyone in the throne room burning into his back.


    No¡­ the time for introspection is over, he thought as he took a deep breath.


    I am who I am¡­ and by the Gods as my witness, I will drag this continent towards survival.


    The time for self-doubt was over. It was now time to rule.


    "Clean this mess," he commanded as he waved his arm at the dead, startling everyone in the room and extracting a panicked whimper from the other gold cloak that had stabbed Ned. "Give Lord Stark''s body to the silent sisters and prepare a ship for White Harbor, with Ice and the rest of his possessions," he commanded as he walked towards the Iron Throne, his little scene still holding most of the room in suspense¡­ except for the Hound of course, he could feel him walking in lockstep behind him, keeping his thoughts to himself.


    He stopped, turning around to stare at the guards for a second, "NOW!" he roared, startling them into action.


    "And would somebody please get that gold cloak to the Maesters!?" he shouted as he walked towards the small council room, his mind now fully devoted to the monumental task he had set upon himself.


    -.PD.-


    To Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.


    It is with great sadness that I convey to you the news of the last few days here in King''s Landing. My father, King Robert Baratheon, is dead, having died in his sleep due to a strained heart. Your Lord Father, Eddard, was ensnared in a web of intrigued and convinced to plot against me by traitors within the Capital. I regret to inform you that he was slain as he carried out what he believed to be his duties¡ª


    Joffrey snarled as he grabbed the parchment and balled it up, tossing it back and grabbing another one, his quill almost breaking as he slammed it into the blotter, splattering ink everywhere and sending said blotter tumbling down the table.


    "Godsdamnit!" Joffrey snarled as he tossed his quill aside, "It''s useless!"


    "That quill looked perfectly useful to me," said Tyrion as he walked into the room, the quip doing nothing to hide the strained, nervous smile on the imp''s face. "¡­ You called for me, your grace?" he asked, no doubt already aware of the events of the bloody morning.


    "I did Tyrion, thank you for coming," he said absentmindedly as he lifted his face to see the assembled councilors seated around the table, plus Tyrion as he was relegated to the farthest chair from him. No doubt he was confused and perhaps even scared as to why he had called him with such urgency, especially given the fact scant hours ago the throne room had been turned into a butcher''s shop.


    Cercei, Varys, Littlefinger, Pycell and Janos Slynt filled the other seats.


    Fuck me¡­ its like the small council from the seven hells¡­ except Ser Barristan I suppose--


    Joffrey''s eyebrows creased.


    "¡­ what is Commander Slynt doing here? And where the hell is Ser Barristan?" he asked.


    His mother seemed to have recuperated from his abrupt behavior, though she was still looking warily at him as she leaned slightly towards him. "Ser Barristan is old and weak sweetie, I think its high time for your uncle Jaime to take his rightful place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, don''t you think?" she said.


    Joffrey stared at her for a second before turning back to one of the two armored white statues at his back. "Ser¡­" he trailed off as he stared at the rotund, beady eyed figure of Ser Boros Blunt.


    "Gods preserve me¡­" he muttered as he turned back to the table, placing a palm over his face.


    After a few seconds like that, Joffrey turned to his other side. "Ser¡­ Preston! Good! Go fetch Ser Barristan," he commanded.


    "Aye, your grace" said Ser Preston Greenfield as he quickly walked out of the room.


    I had forgotten what it felt like to have seven unthinking stooges at my beck and call, he thought uncharitably. Best make use of them anyway¡­


    He turned back to his mother and spoke very slowly as he stared at her eyes, "It''s ''Your Grace'' or ''Joffrey'' for whenever we are not in private. Don''t infantilize your King or else none will follow him," he told her harshly. "And do not countermand me again in public," he warned her, feeling something vaguely bile like inside his mouth. One part of him wanted to send her straight to Casterly Rock and out of his hair, while another part wanted nothing more than to cuddle in closely and take refuge under her protective embrace.


    He resolutely ignored the part of him that wanted to make her suffer.


    She nodded halfheartedly as her confusion returned yet again and he turned to the other problem in the room. "Now, Commander Slynt, the door awaits," he said with a wave of his hand.


    "Y-Your grace! I-" Slynt started but was quickly interrupted by Littlefinger. "Your grace," he said, completely in control of his smooth voice and his irritable little helpful smile. One would be forgiven for thinking he''d been a hair''s breath away from being disemboweled by Lord Stark a few hours ago, so nonchalant was his composure. "We of the small council think that due to the loyal services given, risking life and limb for his rightful King, Commander Slynt should be made Master of Laws. Who else better to protect the realm''s laws than the man that has kept watch over Westeros'' most populous city for more than a decade?" he finished with a flourish, all the while using that dastardly helpful, suggestive tone.


    Joffrey stared at Baelish, stone faced as he pondered what to do with his erstwhile Master of Coin. Was he already colluding with the crown''s enemies? Or did he just do that when he thought the tables had turned sufficiently against his side of the moment. He had to admit the littlefucker had a good command of rhetoric, and was intelligent enough to only use it when it would serve him best, otherwise returning to the helpful fa?ade of the relatively unimportant Master of Coin.


    There was one big flaw to Littlefinger''s style of intrigue though: it all fell apart once one got into his game¡­ though in his favor, that usually only happened when the bastard was ready to move anyway. The fa?ade of the unthreatening bureaucrat was all the more grating now that Joffrey knew, from countless personal experiences, that the man was a damned snake and pathologically incapable of ceasing his plotting.


    He briefly thought about commanding Sandor to take the bastard''s head, hell, he could do it himself right now with his arming sword. Two steps atop the table and a Windy Gondola, the bastard wouldn''t even have time to stand up before he bled to death.


    Something about his bloodthirsty plans must have showed on his face because Baelish was getting steadily paler, his helpful expression becoming slightly strained to the keen eye.


    No, not now. I have to know exactly what the bastard has been planning all these years.


    "Hm. What were we talking about?" he asked little Petyr.


    "¡­ Commander Slynt''s ascension to the small council-"


    "Right!" Joffrey nodded as he turned towards the man in gold tinted chainmail and half plate. "Denied, get out of my sight," he told him. "Now, Pycell-"


    Slynt spluttered, looking between his King and his master like a whipped cur as Baelish stood up to defend him, "Your grace, Commander-"


    "Ser Boros, if Commander Slynt does not leave the small council chambers within ten seconds, you are to cut off his hand," he said without looking back, shuffling bits of parchment around.


    Ser Boros grunted almost in pleasure as he took a step towards the Commander, starting to draw his sword. Slynt shuffled back in panic, his chair falling back as he scrambled towards the doors, almost crashing against Ser Barristan as he came in.


    Ser Barristan seemed bewildered as Slynt practically scurried by his side, the two Kingsguards by the chamber''s entrance closing the doors again.


    "Your grace, I thought the Queen did not want me to attend this meeting?" asked Ser Barristan, looking at Cercei with a carefully neutral expression. No doubt he already vaguely suspected the idiotic power play his mother had planned and carried through without fail every single life Joffrey had spent inside the Red Keep¡­ Fortunately, he had sent uncle Jaime to supervise the Stark children and make sure nobody else did anything stupid, so his ''fathuncle'' would not get in his way regarding this. Besides, he needed a firm hand to guard the Starks¡­ They had nabbed both Arya and Sansa, a blessing and a curse in the form of hostages but also targets for the Young Wolf to aim for¡­ But Bran Stark had been slain by an idiotic gold cloak when the kid managed to outrun the red cloaks that stormed the tower of the hand, thanks to the chaos and the slaughter caused by three enraged Direwolves, which had also ended up slain. By either inherent talent or sheer bad luck, he had managed to surprise and wound one of two patrolling gold cloaks near the Outer Yard. He''d stumbled upon them with his small arming sword, stabbing one in the back as the other one panicked¡­


    Fate does love its japes¡­ I saved Bran from being a cripple but I couldn''t stop ''my'' own soldiers from killing him¡­ Will the Red Wolf come calling..? Joffrey asked himself, his eyes glazing over in reverie.


    "¡­ Your grace?" asked Ser Barristan.


    "Right, sorry. Ignore my mother''s orders, I have need of your council," he said as he waved him over. "Just one more thing before we get started¡­" he said as he kept looking through the mound of parchment, and then feeling his pockets with his hands.


    "Aha! Here it is!" he said as he tossed the metallic trinket towards Tyrion, the Hand of the King''s badge of office skidding to a halt just in front of the stunned imp. "I, King Joffrey of House Baratheon bla bla bla, do hereby name you Hand of the King. I''m sorry Tyrion, it''s a rather thankless job but I need you," he said apologetically. Joffrey tried not to laugh at the fish face his mother had been reduced to, the silent ''O'' being replicated by Littlefinger, but not Varys, to his credit. Not much could phase the eunuch''s terrifyingly neutral dice face it seemed.


    Joffrey nodded, content that nobody challenged him this time. It seemed his earlier actions had cowed the small council into momentary retreat. Alas, he knew it would not last for long¡­


    "Now, Grandmaester Pycell¡­" Joffrey said as he turned to the old man, struggling to contain the urge to facepalm again.


    "Y-yes, your grace?" asked the stooped Grandmaester as he lifted his eyes to look at him, his doddering speech oddly clashing with the way his eyes considered Joffrey carefully.


    ¡­ strange.


    "¡­ I want you to draft a letter to Lord Robb Stark, informing him of King Robert''s untimely death and that of his brother and father, the latter of which was caught in a web of lies and machinations by Lord Renly which unfortunately forced him to act against the Crown," he said, painfully aware of just how ridiculous it all sounded. The Young Wolf was going to march no matter what he said¡­ even if he offered all the surviving Stark children to him it would only be viewed as a trap¡­ perhaps¡­ perhaps if he offered one it would seem more genuine.


    "Add in an offer to release Arya Stark in exchange for his oath of fealty, to be carried out in a suitably neutral location in the Riverlands, coordinate with the Hand on this matter as to where would be best. Make it clear I would also be open to discussing these terms" he said, thinking hard. He needed Robb to at least pay token respect to the Crown, and to not declare for either Renly, Stannis or an independent North. If he could manage to relegate the northmen into at least a Dorne-like shimmering resentment, he would count it a victory. As long as the North was not depleted of manpower the Walkers would have a much longer and harder time establishing a beach head past the Wall¡­ and after the invasion¡­ there would be no time for recriminations, the northerners would in all likelihood welcome any and all assistance against the apocalypse. Hopefully the carrot in the form of Arya and the stick in the form of the unfortunate Sansa would be enough to stay Robb''s revenge trip, though he was not hopeful.


    Sansa¡­ at least she''ll be safe and comfortable in the Maidenvault until things get more stable¡­


    His whole train of thought derailed as he thought about Sansa.


    Am I still supposed to marry her..?


    Over my dead body, he sentenced swiftly, quickly shaking his head and turning towards his uncle.


    "Tyrion, thoughts?" he asked him.


    Tyrion still seemed ensorcelled by his badge of office, only stopping his gawking when Joffrey spoke to him.


    "Joffrey¡­ why?" he asked in complete confusion.


    "What do you mean?" he asked back, confused himself.


    "I d- You¡­" Tyrion seemed to be at a loss for words¡­ a very serious sign coming from the imp.


    Belatedly, Joffrey realized he had barely spoken to his uncle this life, having spent most of his time cooped up in his room. "Ah¡­ Well, I trust you Tyrion, and you''ve got a very keen mind which I very much have a need for right now¡­" he said, vaguely awkwardly.


    Tyrion nodded, still somewhat bewildered as he thought about the task at hand. "I¡­ very well your grace¡­ may I suggest the Isle of Faces? The thought of breaking parlay there would be unthinkable to the northeners¡­ though I think it will do little good in the end," he said as he shook his head. "The North loved Ned Stark, they will not let this pass lightly¡­ and Robb Stark loved his brother too¡­" he said.


    "Probably¡­ well, at least my lord grandfather will buy us time, perhaps if we time the letter after the northern host has been bloodied a bit the terms might stick¡­" Joffrey mused out loud.


    "¡­ Lord Tywin, your grace?" asked Ser Barristan, who had been quiet until now.


    "Yes, we should send a raven to the Golden Tooth instructing him to secure the Twins, if we can keep Robb bottled north of the Twins and cut off from the rest of the Riverlands, then after the northern lords have a chance to cool off their heels¡­ and avoid any linking up with riverlander lords¡­ perhaps¡­" Joffrey trailed off.


    "¡­ but your grace, Lord Tywin is in Casterly Rock¡­ there''s not enough time for him to assemble a host big enough to seize half the Riverlands before a northern army comes down from the neck.." Ser Barristan said carefully. He seemed to seize up his King, thinking of a way to say what he thought without coming off as insulting, "Assembling a host takes time your grace, levies have to muster, equipment must be requisitioned, and logistics have to be ironed out," he lectured him carefully, no doubt already dreading the prospect of trying to ride herd on an eager, totally green boy king.


    Joffrey sat stone still, still looking at Ser Barristan even as his eyes glazed over and his fists curled slightly in foreboding. "Of course¡­ There was no skirmishing in the Riverlands this time¡­ the Westerlands have not yet mobilized¡­" he muttered in incipient shock.


    "I can assure you your grace that the Riverlands are as peaceful as they were when you and your late father last visited them," finally spoke Varys with a small bow of his head.


    "The Red Wolf will descend through the Kingsroad like a ballista bolt, straight for King''s Landing and bolstered on his way by the undiminished Riverlander Houses¡­" Joffrey whispered as visions of the burning capital assaulted him, followed by the sight of a vengeful Tywin finally striking east from the Golden Tooth and razing the Riverlands to the ground in retaliation, the countless dead pilling up as farmsteads burned and Stannis, Renly, the Reach, and the Ironborn entered the fray.


    "No," he said suddenly as he gazed at Pycell, "Call the banners, the Lords of the Crownlands and their levies are to meet with their King with all due haste at Brindlewood," he said.


    There was a second of absolute silence before several people spoke up at once.


    "Y-your grace, we should first consult with Lord Tywin before-" said Pycell.


    "Joffrey, Robb Stark will see this as a provo-"


    "AT THE HEAD OF A HOST?! ABSOLUTELY NOT-" screeched Cercei.


    "Your Grace, there is still a small chance for peace within the realm, if we march now-" reasoned Ser Barristan.


    "SILENCE!" bellowed Joffrey, his voice cutting through the prattle like valyrian steel. Baelish and Varys, the only two not to speak looked on with intense interest. The possible machinations being built behind those devious minds threatened to make Joffrey ill¡­ but there was no choice, he had to end the war of the five kings before it got into full swing, there was no time for cunning plans on his part.


    He eyed his councilors one by one, making sure they understood one thing. "The last ruler of these kingdoms took a somewhat lax approach to actually ruling them, and that may have left all of you with strange notions about what it means to give your council," he said slowly. "You are my loyal councilors" he lied, "not my regents. Act like it."


    Baelish''s frown deepened as Varys conceded him a slightly raised eyebrow¡­ he was going to have to deal with them in some manner¡­ but not now¡­ there was no one he trusted enough to oversee the end of hostilities in the Riverlands before they even began¡­ he''d deal with them when he came back.


    As for the rest, he would have to wait and see¡­


    "Grandmaester Pycell, I will need you to write me drafts for the following destinations, I''ll tell you the details after this meeting: Casterly Rock, the Citadel, Winterfell, Storm''s End--"


    -.PD.-


    The small carriage looked mournful, the Stark greys in seeming harmony with the cloudy skies of King''s Landing. The Red Keep''s portcullis was opened, and now the small carriage trundled forwards, its honor guard of red cloaks making sure it reached the harbor safely.


    It was then that Sansa started crying, the solemn, brave front she had put on for the occasion disintegrating under the grief and the loss. Arya was latched to her hand like a limpet, crying too as the girls held each other tightly. Ser Arys Oakheart stood behind the girls, stone faced in his armor made of finely enameled white scales¡­ according to Ser Arys, Arya had insisted on seeing the return of her brother and father, and after hearing her, Sansa had insisted on her seeing it too.


    Joffrey almost regretted letting them see the departing carriage, the bodies of Eddard and Bran Stark were leaving the south to never return again¡­ or would they?


    Not if I have anything to say about that¡­ he thought, his eyes unconsciously finding Sansa''s. She looked broken, the paint and powder barely doing anything to hide her deep exhaustion, likely due to several days'' worth of poor sleep. She had been despondent at the news of her father''s death¡­ all of her emotions for that particular day had apparently been spent on her breakdown earlier when she saw her brother sprawled in the courtyard with a spear in his belly, and... Lady had been hacked apart so completely the little, yellow eyed direwolf had barely looked recognizable.


    He realized she was staring at him, her vaguely terrified red eyes boring into his. She seemed to be muttering under her breath, her hands twirling nervously as if trying to convince herself of something. S?a??h th? ??v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    It wasn''t my fault, he wanted to tell her. Instead, he turned back towards Maegor''s Holdfast. He had work to do, or else soon a lot of little girls like Sansa would find themselves in the same situation.


    -.PD.-


    He was busy writing letters like a madman inside Robert''s former solar. It had not been as deserted as he had thought, it appeared his supposed father had actually used it from time to time as a hiding den where he could drink in peace without any Lannisters bugging him, when his mood was so poor he couldn''t even drink with the usual bootlickers and courtiers which seemed to follow his merry feasting whenever they had the chance.


    He was busy leveraging the huge population of the city to move along the logistics necessary for the coming forced march into the Riverlands. Here, his training as a Bronze Scribe had served tremendously, as well as his experience managing the ''Lion''s Army'' and the Dawn Fort. Arrows had to be fletched, armor had to be bought, and food stores had to be made available and a hundred other things too. He had a brief window of time where food from the Reach was still making its way to the city, so the Crownlander houses which would later have to supply the city still had enough food output to maintain the steadily forming host at Brindlewood¡­ a good thing too, as his plans required the Riverlords to be amenable and not wary at the sight of a ravaging army living off their lands. He had other plans for the food situation in general, plans he would have to leverage later¡­ suffice it to say, he knew quite a bit about Essosi trade routes¡­


    A sudden knock disturbed his work, and he glared at the door. "Yes?" he asked.


    "Pardon your grace, Lady Sansa insists on seeing you," came the vaguely apologetic voice of Ser Barristan.


    "¡­ send her in," he called out, puzzled. He haden''t locked Arya and Sansa per se, though they were guarded at all times and forbidden from leaving the Red Keep¡­ what was this all about?


    Sansa strode into the cellar stiffly, each motion under iron control as if her steps had been choreographed. Joffrey was completely nonplussed as he eyed the revealing dress she had put on, a dark red, silver lined gown which despite sporting a revealing bodice still seemed too big for her.


    Joffrey sat there, mildly stunned as the still red eyed girl curtsied perfectly. The excessive makeup managed to hide her slightly swollen cheeks in a way, and her hair was somewhat messily braided in the southron style, Ser Barristan looking at her warily from behind.


    Joffrey recovered his voice as he sat straighter, "Lady Sansa¡­" he said, still confused, waving Ser Barristan away. The Lord Commander made to protest, but Joffrey silenced him with a look, making the old knight grimace as he left the cellar and closed the door.


    Sansa opened her mouth, but no sound came from it. She tried once more before settling on a halfhearted smile, avoiding his eyes as she walked around the big oaken table.


    "Lady Sansa, to what do I owe¡­" he trailed off as she kept walking and came to a stop right beside him, her mouth trying to speak but barely making a sound at all, her eyes excessively avoiding his own, even to the point of staring at the wall behind him. She gave up and instead went for another smile, though Joffrey thought it was the saddest, most terrified smile he''d ever seen.


    He didn''t have time to do anything as she quickly, jerkily brought her hands up and undid the clasps on her shoulders. Her bodice opened up like a petals from a flower, revealing her pale body only covered by the most outrageous of smallclothes, something belonging only to dirty maiden''s tales as even whores would shy away from using it.


    Joffrey bolted upright, his chair falling behind him as he stumbled back. "By the Old Gods and the fucking New! Sansa-! What the hells are you doing?!" he spluttered as a whirlwind of confusing sensations flooded his body.


    Her face was almost stone like in its stillness, her dry voice barely audible as she swallowed. "D¡­ Don''t you like it..? Y-¡­.your grace..?" she managed, moving a bit sideways in a sad, awkward reconstruction of feminine seduction as the gown slipped from her back, showing off her unblemished back.


    Joffrey was paralyzed in shock, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of feelings inside him when he felt desire creeping up his spine like a warm serpent. Desire for the devastated barely fifteen year old little girl in front of him.


    Nausea overwhelmed all other emotion as Joffrey supported himself with his desk, covering his mouth with the other.


    "Wh¡­ what¡­ what did I do wrong? Please¡­" Sansa whispered as she tried to undo the small buckle by her waist.


    "STOP!" Joffrey managed to bellow as he regained control of himself, leaning towards Sansa and back again for a second as his hands grasped air before finally deciding to stride forward decisively, grabbing the hanging ''petals'' and covering her up almost brutally.


    Her composure at last collapsed completely, rivers of tears running down her cheeks as her legs seemed to lose all strength, "Pl- please! I can do better! Ple..a.se..!!!" she wailed, her speech growing incoherent as the sobs took her by storm. Joffrey swallowed something bitter as he basically supported her towards the two chairs in front of the table, sitting her in one as he sat next to her, swiftly grabbing a silver pitcher and serving her a cup of watered wine.


    "Here, drink this," he told her, his voice sounding a bit raw to his ears too. Sansa''s head had turned down, shying away from him as she kept crying. He managed to make her take a sip, which quickly turned into a gulp as she drank the whole cup.


    Joffrey''s hand hovered in indecisive agony above Sansa''s now covered back before settling on an awkward patting, the very need to comfort her opposed to everything he now stood for.


    They stayed there for what seemed like eternity to Joffrey, Sansa''s sobs growing weaker with time, aided by the occasional sips of watered wine. "Sansa¡­ what were you thinking..?" he finally asked her.


    His voice seemed enough to almost set her off again, the sheer fear and anguish clear in her voice as she dared to look at his chin. "I¡­ I can please you¡­ Joffrey"- she said his name as if it were something strange, foreign- "I can learn¡­ Arya could help me prepare your- bedroom¡­" she managed to say.


    Joffrey stared at her as he shook his head slowly, "Sansa¡­ Sansa look at me"- he said as he gently grabbed her chin forcing her skittish eyes to meet his -"Are you afraid I''ll¡­ that I''ll kill you and Arya if you don''t please me?" he asked her in vague shock.


    Sansa seemed paralyzed by his stare as she spoke "You¡­ you killed Father because he was a threat¡­ Bran too¡­ and L-Lady and Nymeria and Septa Mordane¡­ I¡­ understand traitors can''t be allowed to live-! But I can-!" she was starting to sob again as Joffrey spoke over her.


    "Gods¡­ Sansa, I''m not going to kill you nor Arya! Why would I-?! Listen¡­" he calmed himself, taking a deep breath. "Your Father''s death was due to intrigues beyond my control, and Bran''s was an accident by an idiotic overzealous fool... I¡­ Gods¡­" he trailed off as he leaned back in exhaustion¡­


    I wonder how many sleepless and lonely tormented nights¡­ how many distorted facts must have taken for her to reach such a harebrained plan¡­


    He arrived to the belated conclusion that no one had actually told the girls anything about what had really happened beyond the rumors they would have heard from the servants¡­


    An irrational urge to pummel the Purple to death assaulted him as he gazed again at the thoroughly broken face of Sansa, still looking at him in confusion.


    This life has already gone to shit¡­


    He shook off the thought as he stood up slowly, "Sansa, listen to me carefully," he said as he helped her up. "Nobody is going to kill you nor Arya. I''m going to ride to the Riverlands soon and make sure nobody does something stupid, okay? You''ll be safe and sound here in the Maidenvault whatever happens to me or anyone else¡­" he told her, letting a small sigh of relief as he saw her nod very slowly.


    "¡­ You''re going to kill him¡­ Robb," she said slowly.


    Joffrey said nothing, Sansa''s gaze returning to her lap as she blinked out her tears, a kind of hollow strength filling her as her face hardened. "He''ll come for you," she whispered suddenly, a fierce, gleeful certainty invading her voice as her gaze turned distant, tired beyond measure.


    Joffrey walked her towards the door, slowly. He tried to find the words to sooth her but failed miserably at it. What was there left to say? He watched her go mutely into the steady grip of waiting Ser Arys, back towards the lonely Maidenvaults.


    "Tell Grandmaester Pycell to give her a bit of nightshade, milk of the poppy if that doesn''t work¡­" he told Ser Barristan, his voice heavy.


    -.PD.-


    "Can''t say I''m surprised¡­" Joffrey said as he strode towards his horse, Tyrion''s waddling gait barely keeping up.


    "At least it''s a clear answer¡­" Tyrion said.


    "Can''t get more clear than calling your banners to Moat Cailin," Joffrey grumbled as looked back to the three score red cloaks around the Red Keep''s courtyard. "Mount up!" he called out, before turning to his horse and making sure his spear was secured tightly to the saddle.


    "Are you sure you know how to¡­" Tyrion trailed off as he looked at Joffrey''s plate armor, eight point war hammer, and arming sword. He blinked as he reformulated the question, "Are you sure you know what you''re doing?" he asked.


    "Not really, no," said Joffrey as he mounted up, the Red Keep''s portcullis already opening up. "Any word on Tywin?" he asked him.


    "None yet¡­ I wouldn''t put my hopes on the Westerlands for now. He''s usually careful, he''ll want to verify with his spies first before mobilizing, and when he does¡­" he trailed off.


    "Robb Stark could already be within a half a week''s marching from the Golden Tooth with more than twenty thousand men¡­" Joffrey muttered.


    "Indeed¡­ are you sure you don''t want to take the gold cloaks? I think you''ll need them¡­" said Tyrion, squinting against the early morning sun as Joffrey settled on his horse, cracking his neck and feeling the weight of his red and gold breastplate. Joffrey felt strange in it, as if he were playing at war, the intricately detailed golden lions too glaring for his taste¡­ alas, the armor had been a nameday gift from Lord Rolland Crakehall, made specifically to meet the ''requirements'' Joffrey himself had listed a bit more than a year ago, or alternatively a million lifetimes ago depending on who was counting. Still, despite the frills and the gold, the armor was well made and fitted his size just right. Lord Crakehall may have had to pander to the whims of an idiotic 15 year old boy green in war, but he''d apparently made sure his gift actually protected his future King, instead of just being a pricey court dress.


    "You''ll need them more than me, and they''ll probably not be enough anyway. Make sure to strengthen their numbers and prepare for an assault. I doubt Stannis will patiently wait for me to come back south," he told the imp. "And uncle¡­ about our little problem¡­" he trailed off.


    "You''ll have your full report, don''t worry. It may take time though¡­ I''ve been able to leaf through some of his books when he''s not looking and his records seem to follow a very peculiar logic," said Tyrion in a vaguely hushed tone.


    "Good, the littlefucker is hiding something, I know it¡­" said Joffrey.


    There''s no way a shifty bastard like him didn''t steal as much as he could from the treasury¡­ especially regarding the absurdly huge amount of debt the Crown had accrued. Hopefully by the time he came back Tyrion would have a proper accounting of their real finances¡­ because there was no way in hell he was actually indebted by six million golden dragons¡­ There was no way in hell Robert had spent that much money in whores and tourneys¡­


    Right?


    He shook his head. "And his influence is too damned widespread. I''ll see if I can get a decent replacement for Slynt from a loyal crownlander who proves himself in the battles to come¡­" he said grimly.


    Tyrion nodded, thoughtful as he gazed back at the red cloaks and back to Joffrey, "Good luck, Nephew¡­" he told him.


    "Someday, Uncle" he jested as spurred his horse. "Let''s go!" he bellowed back, the red cloaks following him along with Sandor and three of his Kingsguard. "Someday¡­" he whispered as the horses trundled down Aegon''s High Hill.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 32: The Songs and the Slaughter.

    Surprise chapter time!Well actually its just the other half of the original chapter 31, but still. Enjoy!


    -.PD.-


    Chapter 32: The Songs and the Slaughter.


    Brindlewood was a veritable sea of tents and pavilions, banners from dozens of different crownlander houses adorning the training rings and makeshift stables that surrounded the small core of wooden houses. Joffrey rode with Sandor, Ser Barristan, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn at his back, the two worst fighters in his Kingsguard balancing out the Hound and Ser Barristan. He''d been reluctant to leave Tyrion completely defenseless against the machinations of every other courtier in King''s Landing, so he''d left him the most capable ones except, Ser Barristan excepted of course.


    He rode past the bowing guards, through the absolute mess of an encampment dodging stray dogs and hangover soldiers. He quickly made sense of the labyrinth, angling his horse towards the biggest pavilion, from which countless Baratheon stags and Lannister lions seemed to leer at him, hanging atop poles. It seemed a feast was in progress¡­ to his honor no doubt. He could hear the roaring laughter and the buzz of conversation as he dismounted swiftly, striding towards the pavilion as a couple of knights at the entrance barred the way. "Halt! Who¡­" trailed off one of them as he took in Joffrey''s fine armor and the three white cloaks at his back.


    "Make way for the King you cunt," said Sandor as he walked forward and almost tossed the startled knight aside.


    The corner of Joffrey''s mouth twisted up as he looked wryly at his sworn shield. He said nothing as he pushed the flap aside and entered the tent, Sandor, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn with him as Ser Barristan kept watch outside. Inside, the great pavilion that had been erected in his ''honor'' boasted great wooden tables and swarms of serving wenches, catering to the rowdy gaggle of knights and lords with ale and hearty meats freshly hunted from the nearby forest.


    Joffrey walked towards the center of the tent, dodging drunk knights and wenches suspiciously devoid of trays and drinks but with ample bosoms instead. "Good afternoon my lords, I trust the merriment has been worthwhile?" he called out, his voice clear.


    The noise died down very quickly, heads turning in his direction as looked at the assembled crownland lords and knights, slowly turning around and gazing at the scene around him.


    "Your grace!" called someone behind him, and Joffrey turned to the sight of Lord Darlan of House Buckwell. Not everyone in the tent was armored, but Lord Darlan sported a smartly polished half plate, the twin stag antlers of his house emblazoned over his chest. The man was a semi regular constant about four months after starting each life, his quest for a fine suit of armor to gift to his son sometimes carrying him to some of Robert''s feasts.


    "Lord Buckwell, it''s good to have you here," Joffrey told him as more and more knights and lords took a knee as they realized the brat before them was their king.


    "Rise, we''ve got work to do my lords," Joffrey called out.


    "King Joffrey, please accept my condolences, your father was a great man, an inspiration to us all," said a man in a fine purple doublet with a silk voice as he stood up. Joffrey nodded as he waited for the man to continue, exanimating the three black lances laced over the purple. "We were prepared for your arrival, a feast is already being prepared in your honor for tomorrow, to share all the plentiful bounty of the Crownlands, followed by our oaths of fealty of course," he said with a magnanimous, helpful nod.


    To Joffrey, it looked as if the feast had started without him, not that he cared. He didn''t like the little ''helpful'' way everything had been ordered for him. Who did they think he was? A child?


    ¡­ probably, answered an uncomfortable voice inside his head. Who was this lord again? Lances over a field of black¡­


    "Don''t worry about that, Lord Gaunt. It won''t be necessary," Joffrey told him, taking care to note who was in armor, who seemed too drunk, and who was still armed with something bigger than a dagger.


    "The oaths?! But, your grace-!" started Lord Gaunt only to be interrupted by a wave of Joffrey''s hands.


    "You misunderstand me my lord, there will be no feast. We''ll need those supplies once we''re past Harrenhall. I''ll take your oaths of fealty now," he said as he pierced him with his eyes.


    He seemed vaguely nonplussed as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, Joffrey still staring at him until he finally kneeled. "Hail, King Joffrey. I''m yours to command," he said stiffly. The other knights and lords followed soon after with varying degrees of excitement or surprise, though eventually all kneeled.


    "Rise, lords of the Crown. You all have an hour to sober up before we meet again here, we''ll need to march fast," he said as he turned back and walked out of the tent. "Ser Boros, get me a map of the Riverlands," he commanded, leaving the stunned lords behind.


    -.PD.-


    The banners of the crownlands (or at least, those who had joined Joffrey in time) marched north at a snails pace. About eight thousand men had answered his call, way below the theoretical maximum of fifteen thousand that the mainland lords of the crownlands could call upon without straining the harvest too much. It was a pitiful force compared to the enormous armies fielded during the War of the Five Kings, but Joffrey honestly preferred it that way. He feared any larger force would actually move slower than a snail, and that was a cost he was not prepared to accept. As it was, his ordering and ongoing restructuring of the gaggle of quartermasters every single lord and knight seemed to field was a colossal time sink that was already earning him the ire of his ''leal vassals'' and a permanently throbbing headache. The mere act of organizing their horrendous, hodgepodge logistic systems into something vaguely approaching ''acceptable'' had unleashed irritated muttering from absolutely everyone, earning him the dubious nickname of ''The Baggage King''.


    And they hadn''t even reached Harrenhall¡­


    At least the pace had picked up slightly once news of Robb had reached the host. The Lord of Winterfell had already crossed Moat Cailin, marching south hard with upwards of fifteen thousand angry northmen at his back¡­


    He was riding in the van along with Lord Darlan Buckwell and Lord Renfred Rykker, two nobles which had managed to gain his attention. Lord Darlan was a veteran of the Trident and a simple sort of man who disdaining courtiers and spent most of his free time sparring or hunting when he was not ruling the Antlers. The short but stocky Lord Darlan fought hard for the dragons but still answered his call¡­ of course, the fact that his lands bordered the Riverlands may have played a part in his willingness to serve him, both to be informed and forewarned in case of defeat and to reap the lands of their vanquished foes if victorious. Simple, but not stupid.


    Compared to Lord Darlan, Lord Renfred Rykker was a study in contrast. A young, excitable boy barely past his nineteenth name day with the frame of a bull and a voice to match, the young crownlander had a Seven given knack for organization. His late father, also named Renfred, had died in a hunting accident shortly before he called them to levy. Joffrey had basically kidnapped him into serving as his overall quartermaster, a task most would have found insulting and demeaning for a Lord¡­ a task Renfred had embraced wholeheartedly. The brutish looking lord''s sheer joy at the royal attention would have left Joffrey wary for plots if not for the fact that it seemed so genuine. Lord Rykker almost preened with the responsibility he had been entrusted, and had dedicated himself completely towards the task, something that Joffrey (and his throbbing forehead) couldn''t thank enough.


    He was shaken from his reverie by Sandor''s gruff warning. "Rider from the front," he said, signaling at a man in boiled leather riding a small horse as fast as he could, straight towards Joffrey as he dodged the columns of marching peasant levies and men at arms.


    "Ya''grace!" he bellowed once he got there, reining in his horse brutally as he bowed his head. Joffrey winced at the poor handling of the animal as he nodded at the rider.


    "What news from Ser Ethon?" he asked.


    "We''ve spotted an armed host ya''grace, some two thousand, maybe four thousand strong camping smack in teh'' middle of the Kingsroad a few hours away from ''ere," said the man.


    "Northmen?" asked Lord Rykker, suddenly wary.


    "Impossible, they''re still too far out," said Lord Buckwell.


    "Spot any banners, soldier?" Joffrey asked him.


    The man nodded quickly, "Aye ya''grace, a red salmon over white and a plowman over brown, there were a few others too," he said.


    "Houses Darry and¡­" Joffrey trailed off.


    "Mooton, your grace," supplied Ser Barristan, who had been riding at his back.


    "As well as ''a few more''," ended Joffrey.


    By the gods what I would give for a Patrol or two of true Scouts, he thought sourly.


    "Tell Ser Ethon to keep an eye on them and report all movements," he ordered the scout.


    The rider bowed awkwardly over his horse before he rode back, kicking up dirt as Joffrey turned to Lord Buckwell. "Ready the men for battle, I''ll take a hundred horse and ride on, see what''s this all about," he told him.


    "Surely it won''t come to that, your grace?" asked Lord Rykker.


    "For all our sakes, I hope not," Joffrey said with a small sight, already kicking his horse into a trot.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey was the first to spot the parley flag flying over the heads of a dozen riders, standing tall over four other house banners. Behind them stood or milled about a small army of men and horse, evidenced by the small tents and the ramshackle tourney grounds. It seemed some Riverlords were holding an impromptu tourney¡­ complete with their smallfolk levies.


    Joffrey sighed as he and his most ''important'' lords rode towards the parley party, Ser Barristan himself carrying their own parley flag. All around it flew the banners of Houses Buckwell, Gaunt, Hayford, Rosby, Rykker, Stokeworth, Edgerton and Langward, their lords or representing knights carrying them with varying degrees of enthusiasm. S?a?ch* Th? N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "I don''t like the looks of this," muttered Lord Rykker.


    "Calm your tits Rykker, stay behind me and you''ll be safe and sound!" boasted Lord Geyn Edgerton, his thick beard not doing enough to hide the disdainful smile he regaled his target with. Lord Rykker clamped his mouth shut, letting the insult pass unopposed as Joffrey grimaced. Getting involved there would only worsen Lord Rykker''s reputation for meekness. The man was surprisingly gentle despite being built like an ox and with having a voice to match.


    They made their way through the fields of the Riverlands, Harrenhall already visible in the horizon. The riverlanders had positioned their ''tourney'' well, with one side anchored on a batch of rolling hills to the east and the shores of the God''s Eye to the west.


    Joffrey and his lords finally stopped a few meters in front of the parley party, and he had already recognized Lord Raymun Darry, his expression giving away nothing. To his left was an old, red haired man in plate with a tabard of green and brown maple leaves; the sigil of House Blanetree, his face neutral even as his eyes betrayed an unnervingly cold hatred directed straight at him. To Lord Darry''s other side stood a youth of seventeen or so namedays, gazing back defiantly at Joffrey as if he were a moment away from striking him, the red salmon of House Mooton sewn over the banner he held with excessive pride, straight as steel. It seemed more bravado than real anger though, at least compared to the hole boring stare of Lord Blanetree. The group was completed by the constantly shifting man in Roote livery, the two headed horse of Lord Harroway''s Town seemingly in flight given the man''s constant shuffling. The gaggle of knights behind them all bore one of the four house''s liveries.


    "My Lords," said Joffrey with a nod.


    "Your Gr-" started Lord Roote but was quickly silenced by a look from Lord Darry.


    "Prince Joffrey," Darry answered for the little group. The crownlanders bristled at the disrespect, their horses shuffling nervously as hands went to pommels. "That is the King you are speaking to, you know better than this Lord Raymun!" Ser Barristan said with a grim scowl, duty and oaths compelling him to defend Joffrey''s honor.


    "Ser Barristan," said Lord Darry with a nod which seemed to mix both revulsion and grudging respect, "The only King I know of is King Robert, first of his name," he said, an almost sarcastic twinge deeply hidden within the tone of his voice.


    It makes sense really, House Darry lost a lot defending the Targeryens during the Rebellion, Joffrey mused as he let the scene play out.


    "And I''m not seeing him here," he finished.


    Before Ser Barristan could say another word Lord Edgerton guffawed loudly, looking at the Riverlanders as if they were imbeciles, "I know Riverlords are a bit slow, what with all the plowing"- he said the last word staring directly at Darry with a savage smile-"You all seem to gladly receive every twenty years, but even you, Raymun, must know that when a King dies, the Prince is made the new King?" he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows.


    "Say another word my lord and blood shall be spilled!" suddenly spewed the youth in Mooton livery, his hand grasping the pommel of a longsword that seemed too long by half.


    Lord Edgerton seemed decidedly unimpressed, his eyebrows somehow lifting themselves up even higher, "Oh! The get of cowardly old William speaks! I thought you''d be cowering under his bed right now, father and son both!" he laughed.


    The boy gave a scream of incoherent rage as he tried to draw his longsword, the two knights in Mooton livery at his back grabbing him before he could spur his horse forward. Joffrey blinked, startled at the boy''s willingness to break parley even as his hand swiftly dropped to the mace strapped to his belt and the Hound''s steed took a single step forward. Even Lord Edgerton looking somewhat surprised, though the Riverlords seemed more exasperated than anything, Lord Raymun fixing the boy with stare that promised retribution. Joffrey gave a stare of his own to Lord Edgerton, warning him to keep quiet.


    "Forgive Master Willard, my Prince, he has been drinking rather heavily," Said Lord Darry, silencing the next outraged outburst with another look.


    Joffrey waved the apology away with a negligent twist of his hand, looking at Lord Darry with an impatient scowl. They were wasting precious time here. "Lord Raymund, it seems the news have somehow not yet reached you, but my father King Robert is dead. I''ll be accepting your oaths of fealty now in the name of your houses," he said simply.


    None of the lords (or young Willard) looked particularly surprised, Lord Darry nodding along as if Joffrey had told him it was about to rain. "I''m afraid I can''t swear my fealty to you, my prince, without receiving confirmation by raven that King Robert is indeed, dead. Signed by the small council and the Hand of course," he said.


    Ser Barristan bristled, and it was clear this time the implied slight had been personal, "You would doubt the honor of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?" he asked lightly, suddenly still.


    Lord Darry''s face disfigured itself for a microsecond as he whipped back to Ser Barristan, "Don''t speak to me of honor, traitor!" he bit off, swiftly reasserting control as he turned back to Joffrey. "Pardon, my Prince, it''s been a long day¡­ especially considering you are bringing an army through my lands. We are carrying out important work out here, and I''m afraid I can''t just stop it without a direct command from King Robert or Lord Hoster," he told Joffrey.


    Joffrey leaned back on his saddle, pondering who had come up with this little trick, and why. He didn''t remember much of Edmure, but this had all the signs of Old Hoster''s work, from what he had heard about the man at least. If he could be delayed here one way or the other for a few days the Tully''s could perhaps marshal their strength at the Ruby Ford if they were moving already, bottling him south until Robb Stark reinforced them¡­ and then it''d be over.


    He examined the group slowly, an unnatural silence falling down the wheat fields only punctuated by the gentle lapping of the God''s Eye to the west as Joffrey kept staring at them. Lord Roote seemed ready to bolt, while Lord Blanetree had kept staring at him throughout the whole exchange.


    "Did Old Hoster promise you back the lands he took from you after the Rebellion for this little stunt?" he suddenly probed.


    Complete surprise was evident as Lord Darry almost reared back in shock, giving way to an awkward silence as he mulled something inside his mouth. "Wh- again, Prince Joffrey, if you want to-"


    "By the Seven, let''s stop this farce before we sully our honor any longer!" Lord Blanetree finally spat, combing one hand through his grey tipped red hair in exasperation. "Tell me boy, is it true you chopped off Ned Stark''s head yourself? Or did you order your dog to do it?!" he snarled at Joffrey and Sandor.


    And so the masquerade comes tumbling down¡­ not that they expected much from it, he thought as Lord Raymun let out a resigned sigh.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, the words sounding dirty and gravelly as they left his mouth "Lord Stark was caught in a web of-"


    "Yes, caught and slain by evil Renly''s web of deception, along with his ten year old son," he sneered. He seemed to scan Joffrey from head to toes before spitting to the ground. "Lannister rot to the core, I''m not surprised. That fine armor won''t make you a warrior, child," he said, turning his horse around, "I''ll look for you in the battlefield," he promised before spurring his mount onwards, his knights trailing behind him.


    Joffrey swallowed the anger as his hands curled, frustration and rage fighting for control over his body.


    "House Mooton shall fight to the last man!" called out Master Willard as he followed Blanetree back to their camp, trying to hide his shaking hands.


    Joffrey stood on his stirrups for a few seconds, gazing at the camp and the banners beyond before sitting back down. "We outnumber you more than three to one, Lord Raymun, don''t make me spill the blood of innocents for your ambitions," Joffrey pleaded with him.


    The mask seemed to fall completely as Lord Darry looked at Joffrey as if he were nothing but dirt beneath his feet, much like he did when he thought no one was looking at him when the King''s party crossed Castle Darry on their way back from Winterfell. It was an old hate, different from Lord Blanetree''s but all the more potent for it. "The Old Trout didn''t promise me anything, it would take more than a few crownlander traitors for him to give my family back what is rightfully theirs," he sneered, "Heh, I could be facing the Legions of the Seven Hells and the old greedy bastard wouldn''t do it," he said as he turned his horse around. "Innocent blood¡­" he mused as he shook his head in disgust, "Innocent blood shall be avenged alright, that which was spilled by the old lion and his pet stag," he spat before turning to Lord Roote. "Let''s go Lester," he said.


    Roote seemed ready to shit himself as he looked from Joffrey to Raymun and back again. "Lord Roote!" repeated Darry. That was enough to shake the lord as he bowed to Joffrey, deeper than he ought to a ''prince'', before spurring his horse back to their camp along with Darry.


    Joffrey sighed as he watched them go, before turning his own horse around. "So be it," he said to himself as the crownlanders started to argue amongst themselves again.


    -.PD.-


    The afternoon sun was already starting to hide to the west when Joffrey held his war council.


    "Lord Roote seemed ready to change sides right then and there. If we take a few days I can arrange for few discrete men to give him an offer he can''t refuse!" said Lord Gaunt, almost shoving Ser Lyle out of the way with his pudgy belly as he leaned on the map, a big mug of ale in his hand.


    "We should strike tomorrow, at dawn! Any more time and they''ll dig themselves deeper!" responded the knight as he refused to be tossed aside.


    "Oh, indeed?! Straight from one of the wealthiest houses in the Crownlands, the one who came with a whopping fifteen knights and five hundred peasants! Those will be my men that will do the dying, not yours!" bellowed Lord Edgerton.


    "Please my lord''s, let''s keep this civil," said Ser Barristan, trying to keep the peace. Joffrey grimaced as he shook his head, trying to think above the constant shouting between the crownlanders. It didn''t help that Lord Edgerton was right, House Stokeworth''s levies had been pitiful for one of the wealthiest houses of the Crownlands. Before this life, it had taken the prospect of Lady Tanda Stokeworth herself trapped in the Red Keep beneath a vengeful Stannis for her to authorize a contingent of men at arms to reinforce the city. The dribs and drabs she''d sent him this time were barely short of treason, and their only saving grace was their commander, Ser Lyle of Old Bridge.


    "We could attempt to flank them, the God''s Eye is impossible but we can sneak a few knights past the hills on our right flank without them noticing," said Lord Buckwell.


    "Not enough to make a difference on their own," said one of the Rosby knights. Lord Gyles had been too sick to come himself, or so the man had said.


    They all seemed to be more or less ignoring him, and who could blame them? To them he was a green boy in fine armor playing at being King.


    "We could just march through, force them to attack first," mused Lord Rykker with his grave voice.


    "And you will march at the van? There won''t be much baggage there I can tell you that!" Japed Lord Edgerton.


    "Silence!" suddenly bellowed Joffrey, angry at them, at himself, at the damned purple.


    "We''ll attack tonight," he said as he stood up from his chair and re arranged the wooden pieces on the map.


    Ser Barristan grimaced, lowering his voice as he spoke, "Your Grace, the darkness will make horse handling difficult, it would probably be better if-"


    "We won''t be needing the horses for this," he interrupted as he completed his re arrangement. "If we let Robb stark link up with the whole of the Riverlands before Lord Tywin can get here then all will be lost. This ends tonight," He sentenced, his voice oddly grave as his eyes glazed over deep in thought. "Ser Lyle, you''ll command the left flank with your Stokeworth''s, the Langward''s and half the Gaunt''s, your task will be to-"


    Lord Gaunt looked apoplectic, his big belly straining his fine robes as he shouted over Joffrey. "My men under some nameless landed knight with less than five hundred foot?! I won''t-"


    "Lord Gaunt, I will listen to your objections later," Joffrey reprimanded him with a stern look before returning to the map, "As I said, Ser Lyle-"


    "I''m not some dog you can silence with a word and a stern look, boy." Shouted Lord Gaunt, planting his mug of ale on the map and splashing beer over Joffrey''s hands. "I won''t have my men-" Gaunt started before Joffrey''s hand moved like lightning, throwing a dagger at the mug. The strength behind the blow wrenched it from Lord Gaunt''s grip and sent it tumbling to the floor.


    "I said, I will listen to your objections later," Joffrey said, this time devoting his full attention to the man.


    Gaunt stared back defiantly, not saying anything. A minute passed, two, three before Lord Gaunt looked down. "Very well," he bit out.


    Joffrey kept staring at him.


    "Very well, Your Grace," he managed, red faced.


    "Good, Ser Lyle, your task will be to hold our left flank at first, but soon after battle is joined you are to retreat backwards slightly. Lord Buckwell, you''ll command the right flank with your men, the Rykker''s and Lord Gaunt''s remaining half. Your task will be to push hard, buckling their line as Ser Lyle gives ground, thereby trapping the entire host against the God''s Eye," he said, showing the basic maneuver with the pieces before looking up at Lord Buckwell.


    "Aye, Your Grace¡­ It will be difficult to coordinate in the dark though¡­" he said dubiously.


    "¡­it''s a simple pivot, I''m sure the men will be able to handle it," Joffrey told him before turning to Geyn. "Lord Edgerton, you''ll command the reserve with all of our horse, use it run down any stragglers. I''ll take the center with my red cloaks and your foot, as well as the Rosby''s. We''ll split the remaining minor Houses evenly between the three forces" he said, the Rosby knight nodding slowly as Lord Edgerton scratched his beard thoughtfully, unsure if he should feel insulted or honored.


    "Does anyone have anything else to add?" asked Joffrey, straining not to slow his gaze too much at Gaunt''s face.


    There was silence before Joffrey nodded again.


    "Very well, ready the men, we march in half an hour," he sentenced.


    -.PD.-


    "Our men will be tired, while the Riverlanders will be fresh," Ser Barristan tried once more as they walked past the lines of crudely armed peasants, the moon rising over the horizon.


    "Yes, but their men will be rousing themselves when we reach them, they won''t have time to mount up or armor a great many men," replied Joffrey.


    "I understand, Your Grace, but the dark will cause us more wounded than if-"


    "Ser Barristan," said Joffrey as he halted his horse and looked at him. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, really, I do. I''m honored to have such sage advice as yours by my side when riding for war, but you must understand that the decision, once taken, lies with me¡­ and with me alone¡­" he said the last with a faraway look.


    Ser Barristan nodded respectfully, carefully hiding a grimace, "Indeed it does, Your Grace. I only ask of you to be careful," he told him.


    "¡­ Your Grace?" he asked.


    Joffrey was staring at the horizon, hands shaking slightly as he blinked, "I''m sorry Ser Barristan, what were you saying?" he asked the old knight.


    "¡­ It''s okay to be afraid, everyone is, especially in their first battle," he said instead.


    Joffrey looked at him with a sad smile, "If only it were fear Ser Barristan, if only¡­" he muttered as he spurred his horse onwards.


    -.PD.-


    The crash of armies was as sudden as it was brutal. Cries from scouts and guards giving way to the sound of hastily clad armor giving way to the screams of dying men and the screeching of steel on steel. They slaughtered a dozen surprised work crews before crashing into the camp proper, it appeared Lord Darry had been betting on receiving an early morning strike, given the state of the quarter dug ditches and piles of sharpened stakes laying in mounds, still to be deployed. Resistance immediately stiffened as they cleared the outer camp, terrified peasants and grim faced men at arms assembling where they could in a jumbled mess of swords, banners, pikes and axes. They had a bit of time to assemble thanks to the words of their scouts, but they were still unprepared when Joffrey was upon them.


    Joffrey was at the back of the center, surveying the maneuver. He almost panicked when Ser Lyle seemed to stall too much in the left flank, but he managed to give way eventually, later than Joffrey would have hoped for and giving the Riverlords precious time to organize themselves, but manage he did. Lord Buckwell folded his flank magnificently, his right flank batting the enemy left flank back towards its center and enveloping against the God''s Eye, whose generally gentle waves sounded thunderous in the middle of the night.


    Disaster struck when a panicked, bloodied runner managed to find him, if only by accident. "Lord Edgerton! Lord Edgerton!!! The right flank is shattering and Lord Buckwell is nowhere to be found! We need the reserves," he screamed.


    By the old gods how lost can one get with a little darkness?! This is the godsdamned center! He thought, the confusion quickly giving way to panic as he grabbed the man. "The reserve is that way!" he roared, shoving the man towards Lord Rykker''s horse.


    "Kingsguard! Sandor! Let''s go!" he shouted at them, running to the right flank. They''d left their horses when they fought at the camp.


    He arrived at the left flank to a sea of blood, frenzied knights and men at arms from different houses trying to break the encirclement by all means possible. Men in the livery of the Antlers lay sprawled on the ground, along with a few Gaunt''s. It seemed the Riverlords were throwing everything they had to break free, he could already imagine their right flank disintegrating as they shoved everything they could through here in a mad bid to escape.


    These bastards have cost me enough, he thought as he hefted his arming sword aloft.


    "DIE!!!" he roared as he charged them, mace held low as he relieved a thousand battles inside his head.


    I didn''t want to return to this place, whispered a tiny voice inside him as he let go and devoted himself completely to the skirmish at hand, as he had done so countless times before.


    A terrified peasant screamed as he tried to skewer him with a spear which Joffrey batted aside with his mace, his sword severing the man''s arm and the mace caving his head in a second. Next came a man at arms with Darry''s plowman sewn across his tabard, a tabard that was soon coated in blood as Joffrey parried the slow thrust of his longsword, his mace breaking the man''s neck and the follow up slash slitting his exposed throat. He twisted, slipping between four peasants armed with scythe''s and short swords. Their cloth armor seemed like paper to Joffrey, his arming sword cutting down two of them before they could react, his mace breaking the third''s hand. The man bellowed in pain before bringing his scythe down slowly, so slowly. Joffey parried it with his sword as he twisted, his mace coming down on the man''s head like a whipped rope, caving it in a shower blood.


    He twisted yet again, mace angled for a blow that never came. The fourth peasant had thrown his spear on the ground and was kneeling. Joffrey took two steps, mace held high as he tried to make sense of the sound coming from the man''s mouth.


    "Plh-pleaase m''lord! Plhease don''t kil--!!!" he cried in anguish, his plea cut short as Joffrey planted his mace right between the man''s eyes, a shower of blood coating his back as he turned and went deeper into the battle. He realized he''d lost Sandor and his Kingsguard, but he couldn''t be bothered to find them, so he made his way through the battlefield alone. He was going to try and find Lord Darry, see if he could make him pay for this mess. For this farce¡­


    A knight charged him with a two handed hammer, slightly faster than the rest. Joffrey twisted to the side, letting the hammer pass but a hair''s breath away from his nose, the steel spike digging itself on the ground. He delivered a flurry of quick blows on the man''s arm with his own one handed hammer, denting the plate and spilling blood. The knight raised a hand, managing to grab Joffrey''s before the next blow came, but the King snarled as he gave a step forward, lifting the man''s arm high and shoving his arming sword through his armpit. He twisted brutally before taking it out, the knight falling like a length of oak before Joffrey was engaging the three knights behind their late comrade, who seemed vaguely cowering with their shields held up, trembling hands holding unsteady swords and maces. He was absolutely surrounded by men, and he didn''t recognize any crownlander banners or livery.


    He battered at the three knights and their shield wall before a smallfolk spearman managed to pierce his leg with an adrenaline fuelled, highly pitched yell, jumping from his right. Joffrey barely felt the blood flowing down his sheen as he cut the spear with a grunt, his mace coming up in a brutal backswing and shattering the little boy''s jaw from below. He barely had time to gurgle before Joffrey finished him with a stab to the heart. The way he constantly turned his head, keeping sight of his blind spots, was the only reason he saw the blow to his back coming. He dropped to the ground, extending a leg backwards and tripping another smallfolk, robbing him of his equilibrium. The water drop was perfect as he stood pack up, elbowing the stumbling man''s nose before turning again and planting his sword on his heart. A small circle seemed to be clearing around him as some men moved away even as other jumped at him. He had to leave his sword in the gaping man''s chest as he stepped back, parrying a man at arm''s thrust with his hammer even as he twisted again and dodged a spear. He grabbed the man''s spear before pulling him closer, using him as a shield just in time for the man at arm''s spiked one handed hammer to burst his head like a watermelon. Joffrey shoved the body aside as he disarmed the man at arms, breaking his fingers before pounding his forehead with one of the mace''s flanges.


    Even then two lightly armored men with the look of levied hunters attacked him, one of them tearing his grip from his hammer with a woodsman''s axe. He let the hammer go as he''d done in countless skirmishes against wights, surprising the man by taking a step forward instead and delivering his armored fist to his mouth. He pummeled him twice more, quickly, intent on breaking his skull when he heard a scream from his side, "Brother!!!" screamed the second hunter as Joffrey let the first woodsman go, dodging the axe that would have cleaved his shoulder. He disarmed the second woodsman, coiling his arms around the haft and slamming the butt of the axe on the man''s belly. He followed up with a blow to the man''s neck with the haft, leaving him spluttering and breathless, both hands holding his throat as Joffrey pivoted and slammed the axe against his skull. He whipped back to the first woodsman, who was still looking confused, dazed as Joffrey grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shattered his face with the force of his gauntleted fist again and again. The man fell back like a sack of potatoes, Joffrey taking the unusual reprieve to quickly stride two steps back and grab his fallen sword and mace. By now the circle around him was meters wide, with only him and the three knight''s he had spotted before inside it.


    He turned to the trio of knights, their feet shuffling back and forth as they took refuge in each other''s shields, their eyes wide in fear, holding their swords as if they were crossbows, the sound of battle strangely soft. "COME ON!!!" Joffrey roared as smashed his mace against the top edge of the center shield, using his mace as a hook as he brought it back down, shield and all. In less than a second, the knight''s field of view was replaced from his shield to the rapidly approaching tip of Joffrey''s arming sword, and then to blackness. The knight to Joffrey''s right, the one in Blanetree livery, was the first to react, bringing down his sword on Joffrey''s arm and intent on severing it. Joffrey instead let his arming sword go, rotating full circle and letting his other arm extend right at the end of it, his mace striking the man''s helmet so hard it got stuck there, beyond his grip as the knight fell backwards, convulsing. The third knight gave a harrowing, adrenaline filled scream as he slashed with his sword, nicking a tiny bit of Joffrey''s cheek as the King leaned away precisely, bending the other way as he avoided the backswing. He ducked the horizontal slash as he grabbed a spear from the ground, sweeping the knight''s feet and forcing the man to the ground. He twirled the spear two times quickly, to get a better feel for it as the knight desperately reached for his sword, a lifetime away. He gave up as he instead grabbed his shield, Joffrey completing the third twirl with an unconscious nod. "You''ll do," he muttered as he grasped the spear tightly with both hands and raised it high over the knight''s throat.


    "Please! Wait! Ransom!" the panicked knight shouted as he managed to cover his face with the shield just in time to receive Joffrey''s spear thrust. The shield splintered and buckled as Joffrey snarled, raising the spear and bringing it down again, this time piercing the shield as the panicked screaming from below turned to gurgling. Joffrey roared as he redoubled the effort behind the thrust, practically shoving his body weight against it, driving it a couple of inches deeper.


    The knight''s hands flopped to his sides, unmoving as blood spilled like the Trident from beneath the splintered shield. Joffrey stepped back, letting the spear stand there like some sort of bannerless pole, spitting before he ripped a piece of cloth from the dead knight, tying up his own leg wound with a grunt.


    He realized the din of battle had turned almost completely quiet, and he raised his eyes to the sight of dozens of wide eyed smallfolk levies and men at arms, his mere gaze enough for them to stumble back in near panic. He was unarmed and seemingly surrounded by enemies, but they didn''t seem to quite understand that fact for some strange reason. Joffrey was honestly befuddled as he turned around, gazing at all the terrified men that surrounded him.


    What a farce, this is all a farce¡­


    He placed a foot over the dead knight''s chest before pulling the spear out with a grunt, blood flying up in an arc. He grimaced as a bit fell on his shoulder, then shrugged when he realized he was soaked in blood anyway, even the hair beneath his helmet felt damnably sticky. He let out a long sigh, it wouldn''t be the first time he''d have to clean that much blood of his armor.


    He turned his gaze back to the men surrounding him, still seemingly petrified. He realized the full moon gave a lot more illumination than he''d anticipated, the glowing orb in the sky and the reflected light that struck the God''s Eye enough to let him see a goodly portion of the battlefield.


    More than half the battlefield was standing still, men, knights and lords from both sides looking at him as if he were some kind of White Walker. The thought threatened to send Joffrey into an incoherent, black rage.


    "IS THIS NOT WHAT YOU WANTED?!" he suddenly roared, pacing around like a caged bull, twirling the spear again and again to keep his hands from killing again. "ALL THE GLORY OF WAR?! THE SONGS AND THE SLAUGTHER?!" he bellowed, his spectators scrambling out of the way if he got too close to the edge of the ever expanding circle. "THE RED BLOOD AND THE BROKEN DREAMS!" he screamed, his voice hitching. He blinked away the tears as he kept turning around the circle, "DARRY! DARRY!!! LORD DARRY!!!" he roared, still twirling the spear.


    After a few moments of deafening silence, one end of the circle parted to make way for an ashen faced Lord Raymun Darry, a crude bandage over his head as he walked up to a respectful distance, followed by a small gaggle of knights and other familiar faces. Joffrey could see Master Willard amongst them, but Lord''s Blanetree and Roote were nowhere to be seen.


    He looked pale as he signaled the rest to stop. He continued alone, only followed by a very similar if much younger version of himself. The youth looked haggard and ready to piss himself, while Lord Darry looked crestfallen as he handed his shield to his son. He kneeled in front of Joffrey, bowing his head and laying his sword sideways as he called out. "King Joffrey, please accept-" he trailed off as Joffrey laughed, and laughed, and laughed.


    Lord Darry''s expression turned steadily more horrified as Joffrey''s laughter acquired a slightly maniacal glint. When he finally stopped, Lord Darry was surprised to find tear trails slowly making their way down Joffrey''s bloodied cheek. "You think you can just bend the knee and call it a day? YOU THINK YOU CAN MAKE THIS ALL DISSAPEAR WITH THE FLICK OF A WRIST AND A SWORD IN THE GROUND?!" he roared, the spear trembling in his hands. "No. Pick up that sword Lord Darry. Die as you lived," he spat.


    Lord Darry took a deep breath as he stood up, swallowing something sour as he turned to his son, "Lyman, take care of the family, tell Minisa--"


    "What are you doing?" Joffrey interrupted him.


    "¡­ can''t a man give a few last words for his son to carry?" Lord Darry asked, his tone vaguely pleading.


    "¡­Who told you your son was making it out of this field alive?" he asked in turn.


    Lord Darry looked like a stunned ox, almost swaying as he blinked again and again. "Wh- What?" he muttered as Lyman''s grip on his father''s shield tightened, the Darry Plowman painted atop its surface shaking like a leave in the wind.


    "Your Grace!" suddenly said a voice behind him, "House Darry--" Ser Barristan Selmy fell quiet as Joffrey turned and stared at him, the blood still dripping down his breastplate, his legs, everywhere. Sandor and the other Kingsguard''s were standing with him, just entering the circle with Lord Edgerton. By this point all the enemy knights and levies around them had laid down their weapons, and were transfixed by the scene playing out in the middle of the circle.


    Lord Raymun Darry looked as if he was going to vomit, looking at Ser Barristan and the other lords and back to Joffrey again and again. "Please, Your Grace, he''s just a boy-"


    "A boy?!" cut Joffrey. "Oh, I''m sorry, my mistake then!" he said as he turned back and walked away. He grabbed one of the smallfolk he''d slain. "A boy! You know who else was a boy?! HIM!" he bellowed as he tossed him the dead body of the little spearman that had managed to wound him. He couldn''t have been older than fourteen namedays, his face locked in a rictus of agony, his gangly limbs hanging awkwardly as Lord Darry skittered back.


    "Back there are two woodsmen I slew, brothers! And before him lays an old man, a father! Husbands! Uncles! Men!" he snarled as he walked back and forth again, just barely restraining the black urge.


    "But they''re just smallfolk, right? Stable hands and farmers and crofters, they don''t have names, they''re not like Lyman," he sneered as he gazed at the quivering youth. "Lyman Darry is a real person, with a Future and a House and a Castle!" he said, punctuating each word with his spear''s butt.


    "You should have thought about them before you did this my lord. Every son to war a little Lyman, every grieving widow a Minisa," he said as he walked right to his face, splattering blood over his face. "The sigil of your vaunted House is the plowman Raymun, and yet you don''t know. You don''t know the universal truth that those who live below your castle live and breathe," he said as he tilted his face, staring deep into his eyes.


    "You reap what you sow," he whispered, the words somehow echoing along the shores of the God''s Eye. Lord Darry''s chin trembled as Joffrey walked back. "Now let''s get this over with!" he bellowed, slowly twirling the spear in circles and closing his eyes, the constant movement soothing his frayed nerves.


    Lord Darry was breathing heavily as he turned to his son. "I''ll distract him, you wait for the moment and pounce for the kill," he said as he grabbed his helmet from his son''s unresisting hands and put it on. Young Lyman looked ready to faint as he breathed deeply. "LYMAN!" bellowed Lord Darry.


    "Yes Father," he said, startled, still somehow unable to stop looking at Joffrey.


    "Lyman, look at me," said Raymun as he grabbed he''s son''s head with both hands. "Look at me. Remember the yard below Plowman''s Keep, remember the yard?" he asked him as he shook him gently.


    "I- I- Yes Father, I remember," he said, looking back at him.


    "Good, just like we practiced in the yard, remember your footwork, and remember to keep your guard low," he said, willing him to remember, his grip on Lyman''s head tight.


    "Y-yes Father," he nodded again.


    "Remember¡­ remember¡­" Lord Darry trailed off, looking at the ground for a second or two before returning his gaze to his son. "When we get back you could see that Lolliston girl, show her the great hall," he said, his voice growing hollow as he hugged him.


    "Wha-?! But- Father, I thought you disapproved?!" said Lyman, completely nonplussed by the sudden turn.


    "Don''t worry about it son, don''t worry about it. Let''s go home," he said, quickly turning so Lyman couldn''t see the tears crawling out of his eyes. He coughed as he readied sword and shield, facing Joffrey. "Let''s get this over with," he snarled as Lyman readied his own bastard sword more confidently than before, standing at his side with eyes only for Joffrey.


    Joffrey was looking at the horizon, breathing heavily. "Let''s," he said as he turned towards father and son, walking towards them. Lord Darry roared as he advanced, his feet moving quickly but carefully, feinting to the right before trying to bash Joffrey with his shield. Joffrey grunted as he rolled to the side, coming up with a riposte that made Raymun stumble back. Master Lyman quickly positioned himself at Joffrey''s back, trying to keep up with Joffrey constant whirling and feinting. Lord Darry went for a thrust that was quickly parried by Joffrey, who followed with a quick stab that Raymun barely dodged, grazing his helmet. Joffrey ducked as Lyman struck from behind, shoving his spear''s butt past the bastard sword''s guard and slamming it into Lyman''s stomach. He was breathless as he stumbled back, Joffrey following up with a quick cut to the man''s left hand that left him open for a-


    "Lyman!" bellowed Lord Darry, shoving Joffrey away with his shield. Joffrey came up in a water recovery, slashing at Raymun''s leg and making him stumble back. The old lord shook his head as he tried to regain his footing, grimacing in pain.


    "Father-!" said Lyman as he stepped towards Joffrey''s side.


    "Wait for the kill son! Wait for the kill!!!" he bellowed, quickly looking at his son''s bleeding hand wound before clamping his eyes back to Joffrey. He swayed lightly as he feinted left, then right, his sword periodically drifting in circles.


    "Come on!" he shouted at Joffrey.


    Joffrey gazed at him for a second longer before dashing straight at him like a bolt from a crossbow, spear light in his hands. Lord Darry swept low with his sword, only barely missing Joffrey''s feet as the King jumped with a shout of strained effort, falling to the ground with a roll and avoiding Darry''s follow up shield bash, leaving the back of his leg exposed. He stabbed at the man''s thigh between the plates with an angry roar, tearing flesh away as he placed his foot over the man''s hip and sent him tumbling back, extracting his bloodied spear with a snarl.


    Lord Darry bounced on the ground, biting out a bellow of pain, desperately trying to scrabble backwards and failing to stand up due to his leg wound. Joffrey twirled the spear for the finishing blow before Master Lyman crashed into him with a roar. "Father!!!" he shouted as they both tumbled to the ground, Joffrey losing the grip on his spear as he rolled back up, much quicker than Lyman.


    Joffrey breathed heavily as he gazed at the young lordling, a hand wiping away blood from his busted lower lip. He looked at Lord Darry in vague regret for a second before unsheathing his dagger and holding it close to his chest, the other hand held low and flat.


    "Father! He''s disarmed! We can win this!" shouted Master Lyman as he eyed the spear on the ground and the dagger in Joffrey''s hand.


    "Lyman don''t!" bellowed his Father, but Lyman was already thrusting. Joffrey bent as he stepped to the side, the bastard sword screech against the edge of his breastplate as he let the Darry scion carry himself closer to him. His eyes barely had time to widen in surprise before Joffrey slammed the dagger through his eye socket.


    "NOOOOO!!!!" wailed Lord Darry as Joffrey wrenched the dagger and extracted it quickly and cleanly, Lyman Darry collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.


    "No¡­. no¡­." whispered Lord Darry as he tried to stand up, only to fall back to the ground.


    Joffrey grabbed the spear and walked towards him, though Raymun made no effort to defend himself. "Just do it," he whispered, his voice devoid of any emotion as he kept staring at the body of his son, blood pooling around him.


    Joffrey hesitated for half a second before driving the spear through his throat. He stayed there, looking at the swiftly closing eyes of the late Lord Darry as the blood kept flowing, as the muscles in his body relaxed.


    "Ser Ba¡­ Sandor," Joffrey called out, still looking at the corpse.


    The moonlight seemed to give the scene a surreal property, as if the lords, soldiers and levies watching were made of pale stone instead of flesh. "Yes, Your Grace?" said Sandor, the first time he called him that. For some reason it hurt worse than a million battle wounds.


    "Pass me a handkerchief, would you?" he asked softly.


    The Hound looked unusually subdued as he took a white linen handkerchief from his person, probably looted from a lord or knight. "Here," he said.


    "Thank you," said Joffrey, wiping the grime, blood and tears from his face. He took a deep breath before asking, "Lord Blanetree?"


    "Lord Rykker caved his skull in with an axe, he won''t be troubling you any longer," he said.


    "¡­ Good, Roote?" he asked.


    "Surrendered once it was clear this was no skirmish," the Hound said with a disdainful snort.


    "¡­ but it was," Joffrey said, vaguely confused.


    "Was?" Sandor asked.


    "A skirmish, I mean," Joffrey said with a distracted shrug, looking at the ground for his mace and sword.


    Sandor said nothing as he looked at the broken bodies and the shuffling soldiers, the spell starting to be broken as the looting started.


    "Anyway, Blanetree. Hm. That leaves¡­" he trailed off, looking to the small gaggle of grim faced knights.


    "I-I''m not afraid to d-die," said Master Willard Mooton as he stepped forward, unsheathing a trembling, two handed greatsword.


    Joffrey looked at the heavens as he took another big breath, "Oh for the love of the Old¡­" he trailed off as he grabbed his forehead.


    "Just bend the knee Mooton. The Darry''s already paid for this whole insanity," he said with a sigh.


    "I-I said I-I''m not afraid-" he trailed off as Joffrey stalked towards him like a banshee, the spear suddenly in his right hand. The men behind him scrambled as Joffrey reversed the spear and struck, Willard''s late parry not doing much as the butt hit him in the belly and then in the chin. He stumbled back as Joffrey spun, delivering a heavy strike at his hands with the butt and making Willard drop his sword. He followed up with a thrust to the knee that left him on the ground, the spear tip almost touching his neck.


    "YIELD!!!" roared Joffrey.


    "I yield! I yield!" screamed Willard.


    Joffrey kept breathing heavily as he withdrew the spear, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted at Willard, "What the fuck is wrong with this continent!?" he bellowed at no one in particular. "ALL WE HAD TO DO, WAS FOLLOW! THE DAMNED! ROAD!" he screamed, punctuating every word with a slash his hand, aimed north.


    He shook his head before dropping the spear, "I don''t know why I bother," he muttered as he walked to the enemy camp. "I''m going to sleep, I''ll take the oaths tomorrow¡­ today, whatever," he said as he gazed at the full moon.


    "Oh, one other thing!" He said as he stopped and gazed back to the mob of men starting to loot or to properly surrender. "Anyone so much as gives me a lick of trouble, you''ll wish you were Lord fucking Darry!" he spat, feeling spent.


    "Lord Edgerton, please take care of this mess," he said as he passed beside him, the belated knights of the Kingsguard hurrying behind him.


    "I will, Your Grace," said Lord Geyn Edgerton, for once without even a breath of boast or jape.


    -.PD.-


    ----------


    ----


    AN: The crownlands are surprisingly devoid of... well, everything. Houses, named characters, even geography. Most of the spotlight is taken by the Narrow Sea lords which does not exactly do me much good. I hope the few words dedicated to them managed to at least breathe a glimmer of life into them, they''re practically all OCs as it is.

 Art Omake: Purple Petals.

    Whoa. We are full of South Americans here. By the way i''m braZilian.It''s always good to return to this thread and find New chapters of this masterpiece!


    By the way i come drop some fanart tribute as usual. don''t mind me.


    Spoiler: Purple Petals S?a?ch* Th? N?velF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    This one is made after the chapter "Petals" scene where Joffrey tries to console that Sansa Stark out of her misery. I really love Purple!Joffrey interactions with the Starks. It''s a shame that since last loops they got so few show time together.


    And i hold a special appreciation when it is Joffrey/Sansa interactions, since the way his thoughts of her shifted along the loops shows not only his Character development as his (oblivious for him apparently) ability to manifest empathy along with his acumen when he discover that there was a clever girl beneath the scatterbrain lady. Serious, i love their dialogues and Joffrey seems always to discover something new in every time they speak to each other. Like in the Mountain conquest arch or the funny interaction before the duels back at winterfell.


    I hope sometime in the future we see more Stark/Joffrey shenanigans (Like he kiking the Red Wolf Ass, refunsing to kill the starks, taking the black in front of both dumbstruck armies of witnesses lol ).


    Thank You again Mr. Baurus. You never tire of surprising me with this story. (That scene from the last chapter with the last stand of the Lord and his son against Purple!Joff was just bitttersweet)

 Chapter 33: As Sharp and Long.

    Chapter 33: As Sharp and Long.Joffrey''s back was as straight as a plank, his breathing even. The soft pillow''s of Castle Darry had proven too much for him, and he''d ended up in an extended meditation session. Minisa Darry had been despondent when Joffrey showed up with upwards of seven thousand men beneath her front gate, the news travelling faster than horse as always. Joffrey had barely manage to promise the lives of those within before she surrendered the castle¡­ he was almost certain the Silent Sisters would have a new acolyte soon.


    He dispelled the worries and the nightmares as he kept sinking within his consciousness, the sea of meanings growing indistinct as the blessed peace flooded throughout him, carrying him deep within. He felt like a stone sinking throughout the depths of the summer sea, sinking, sinking, sinking¡­


    Again he felt the tiny brush of what felt like the bone tablet, familiar, so far away in the Red Keep yet so close all the same, almost as if he could touch it. His awareness slowly concentrated on a single point as he traced the feeling deep within, following the feelings of familiar mystery and knowledge, sea salt and storms, coarse lines over white smoothness. He followed its pull, the same way he''d done with Stars, using the sensation as a rope to guide himself. He examined the thing with something far more complete than mere eyesight, than sound, than touch. It was everything the tablet was, almost a concept, its very being anchored or connected by strange twisting lines around it. Joffrey followed the connections as they got more complex, twists turning into fractals, shadows acquiring weight and lines becoming tethers as Joffrey stared up and up and up until he realized he was staring at his very soul in all its terrifying complexity, held up by a never ending cathedral of terrible Purple pillars that extended to infinity-


    He gave a strangled scream as he opened his eyes, breathing like a madman as he stood up from the ground and fell, curling upon himself as he closed his arms around his chest. He bit his hand as he blinked rapidly, rocking back and forth and drawing blood from his palm, the blessed pain anchoring him back to reality. Anchoring back to what he thought was reality.


    ¡­Even though the pain felt less real than the pillars.


    "Your Grace?! Joffrey?!" shouted blessed Sandor as he shook him.


    Joffrey looked at him like a drowning sailor eyes a bit of flotsam, practically strangling him as he leapt at him with shaky hands.


    Sandor Clegane. The Hound. He felt real.


    He hugged him tightly, feeling the cold of his breastplate and the slight breath of ale, the awkward patting and the dubious voice.


    "It''s only nightmares¡­ Joffrey. It''s only nightmares," he said awkwardly.


    For a second Joffrey thought he was back in the Red Keep, so great was his disorientation. What was real? What was not? The slowly returning guilt over the killing of Lord Darry and his son was almost a balm to his being, the familiar, weary weight of his hopeless task and the tiredness of his body taking his mind away from the existential dread.


    "I''m okay Sandor, I''m okay. I think¡­. I think I''m okay," he muttered as he let him go.


    The Hound stood back with a hesitant step, Ser Barristan pointedly looking out of the room at his side.


    "Thank you Sandor, thank you, thank you," he said as he took a deep breath, shaking his head every two seconds.


    Does not even meditation give me peace anymore? He thought in mounting despair. He shook his head one last time, concentrating on the here and now. "Sandor¡­ tell the men we move out today, they''ve rested enough," he told him.


    The Hound nodded as he stepped back, the look of respect he''d strove so hard to get in so many past lives devoid of the laugh lines of friendship. He found out he much preferred the latter as he looked away, sitting in the floor again. He barely slept in beds anymore, his body almost finding the hard ground more comfortable than the distressingly sinking beds of Westeros. Certainly preferable than the claustrophobic shifting sand that passed for a mattress in Castle Darry.


    He shook his head once more. There was work to do.


    -.PD.-


    The tale of what happened in the ''Battle of the Bloody Fields'' spread far and wide, as those things tend to do. Joffrey had been a bit surprised by the name, though in hindsight Westerosi had an almost natural knack for naming things like that in a manner that was both highly creative and highly predictable at the same time. More surprised had been Lord Edgerton congratulating on winning such a battle so decisively.


    "¡­ why is everyone calling this a battle?" he''d asked him in an admittedly confrontational manner. Lord Geyn had just looked confused as Joffrey waved it off, disappointed at himself for unloading on the man. Besides the fact that their little scuffle by the God''s Eye barely counted as a skirmish, battles were supposed to have¡­ more¡­ meaning¡­ something. He felt calling it anything else but a farce was a disservice to everyone that died there¡­ alas, his outburst had only served to gain him more strange looks from the knights and lords of his retinue.


    His handling of the strange manner of martial politics involving war in Westeros had been decidedly lukewarm however. His decision to grant Castle Darry to one of Lord Buckwell''s sons had been well received, and more than just in his opinion. The doughty lord of the Antlers had succumbed to his wounds the day after the ''battle'', much to Joffrey''s mounting frustration with the world in general. His decision to send Lord Gaunt to secure the loyalty of the nearby holdfasts and houses of the Ruby Ford had proven less successful. Lord Gaunt had been on the edge of rage as he rode off with a snarl, the fact that his men were the most intact within the force and his personality the best suited to the task apparently lost on the man. All he had cared of was the ''dishonor'' of abandoning his liege lord in the middle of a campaign, to round up a few no name riverlanders. His lords and knights looked at him with respect now, sometimes even fear, but even so it seemed his ''hard'' ways had been a strain for many to bear. From the organizing of the baggage train to his policy on raiding to placing the most competent in charge instead of those with more prestige or men, it seemed his way of doing warfare was trampling egos and prides like an elephant amok. The fear and respect had silenced many, but drove others to speak in private, merely managing their disrespect in private instead of doing it openly like before. Even his decision to completely encircle and annihilate the riverlander force in the ''battle'' had caused some controversy, with many believing some smaller houses would have just been content to bleeding Joffrey''s army a bit before yielding with honor and swearing their oaths on their own terms.


    Joffrey couldn''t really give a damn. If they''d thought he was going to leave an operational force at his back, free to raid his logistics or his rear out of some misplaced sense of chivalry then the lords still had a lot to learn.


    He looked to his left at the meandering waters of the Green Fork, leaves and twigs floating down along with the occasional river trout, jumping from the depths and disappearing in an instant.


    I''d like to take a river boat through these waters someday¡­ with only the sun and the gentle swaying to worry about¡­ he mused distantly as his horse cantered along the kingsroad, practically at the head of his army. The constant rumble of their march quickly awoke him from the reverie though.


    "So, what''s with the death wish?" he suddenly asked the rather weary looking youth in Mooton livery, riding his own horse at his side.


    He seemed startled as he looked back, "Ah, Your Grace¡­ Its¡­ I was only carrying out my duty," he said, uncomfortable with the subject.


    Master Willard Mooton had bent the knee and swore loyalty to the crown in the name of House Mooton, but they hadn''t spoken much since then beyond an accounting of his surviving forces and the sending of a rider to fetch reinforcements to Maidenpool. Joffrey was curious to learn more about him, finding him vaguely intriguing. He''d joined him shortly after the army had gotten on the way, very wary at what his new King wanted from him.


    "That was more than loyalty. No one expects a noble to charge to his death when there is the chance of an honorable surrender," Joffrey mused out loud. After so many years of travel and meeting so many people, he knew when there was something else to dig within the young heir.


    "It was the only choice for me, Your Grace. I had to," he said with a strange kind of brittle intensity.


    Joffrey leaned back on his saddle, "It''s okay to be afraid Willard, anyone who-"


    "I WAS NOT AFRAID!" he suddenly exploded, his whole body tensing.


    Joffrey said nothing as he kept riding, gazing at the river again. A line of great poplar trees lined the edge of this part of the Green Fork, serving as a natural wall and drainage system that kept the river''s flow stable, the compact earth and the small, weedy flowers evidence enough of careful tending by patient hands.


    "I almost shat myself during my first battle," Joffrey said suddenly, his eyes distant. He could feel the incredulity in Willard''s stare, the disbelief shining from him like some sort of fiery orb.


    "It feels like a lifetime ago¡­ multiple lifetimes ago," he laughed at his own pun, looking at a slight bend in the river, the small cul-de-sac filled with errant lily pads that had lost their way. "I ran away, couldn''t stand the steady pounding of foot and bows¡­ it was dark, nighttime," he continued, the lilies transforming into small row boats and burning galleys, each lily holding grim faced men from Dragonstone.


    "Yes¡­ I remember being shocked at how dark everything was. Looking from torch to torch as if trying to absorb their light for my own use," he said with a small chuckle. "I really did know nothing back then... So of course I was almost constantly blinded when I looked down the walls¡­ I thought my heart was going to explode by the way it was beating¡­ I had somehow constructed this image inside my mind of a dreaded warrior¡­ the dread King Joffrey¡­ with his named sword and his fine armor¡­ a legend in the making¡­" he trailed off, his gaze going up slowly as if following an invisible projectile hurling itself towards the sky. "The arrows fell so quickly¡­ they were like rain¡­" he almost whispered.


    They rode in silence for a while, until Joffrey turned his gaze to the entranced Master Willard. "The dread King Joffrey¡­" he repeated again with a self-depreciating smile. "What are the men calling me now?" he asked him.


    Willard shifted uneasily over his saddle, looking at a random pebble on the road before looking back to Joffrey''s chin, "The Bloody Lion, Your Grace," he said at last.


    Joffrey smiled lightly, looking back towards the road, "I would have loved that name back then¡­ ''The Bloody Lion''¡­ so evocative¡­ like something out of the Dance of Dragons, a maesterly historical work¡­ perhaps an old King of the Rock¡­" he mused before breathing heavily. "If only he''d known¡­ if only I''d known¡­" Joffrey trailed off once again, looking down at his chest. "Later, the fear of battle¡­ it used to make me feel alive..." he whispered, so low Willard had to lean, his attention supreme. "It used to be something visceral, terrifying while strangely invigorating¡­ but now every time I feel it less and less¡­" he suddenly turned to Willard, holding his eyes with his gaze, "Fear does more than keep you alive¡­ it grounds you. It¡­ it''s¡­" Joffrey tried to find the words, not really looking at Willard, but beyond.


    "It''s a mirror¡­ A reminder. A partner¡­ without it¡­ without it¡­ you lose one of the anchors," he finally managed, frustrated at the very imperfect analogy.


    "One of the anchors?" asked Willard, still as a statue as their horses kept moving.


    "One of the anchors that tethers you," said Joffrey, suddenly slamming his fist against his breastplate and startling Willard. "Here. Now," he said as he pounded the breastplate over his chest with each word. "You don''t want to lose that anchor Willard¡­ there''s so few of them¡­ so few of them left¡­" he trailed off.


    They continued in silence for what seemed like an hour, a flock of river warblers flying overhead, chirping occasionally as they landed on the other side of the Green Fork.


    Suddenly, Willard spoke. "My Lord Father¡­ he¡­ he''s not the bravest of lords¡­" he trailed off as he shook his head, turning to look at Joffrey once more, decisive. "No. He''s a coward. He''s the laughing stock of Maidenpool''s vassals. He wouldn''t come out of the walls even if bandits were terrorizing a village half a day''s ride away..." he trailed off, ashamed.


    "Is that why you use a two-hander instead of a shield?" said Joffrey, "To show them all you''re not afraid? That you''re not like him?" he asked him.


    Willard took his time, examining his hand. "I grew up surrounded by the laughter. The japes," he said the word like a curse.


    "And yet you still fear," Joffrey stated.


    "¡­Yes¡­" said Willard.


    "That''s good, Willard. It means your life is very precious to you. Some would say the only way to be brave is to be afraid¡­ paradoxical, I know," he said with a small smile. "You refused to yield even after you saw me best knights and lords many times your better in war¡­ I''d say you grew past the shadow of your father a long time ago," he said simply.


    Master Willard said nothing as the horses kept cantering along the road, the lilies flowing downstream.


    -.PD.- S?a??h th? N0v?lFire(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The great oaken snake crushed him within its grip, his bones tearing apart as a liquid agony coursed through his veins, the screams of dying men all-encompassing like a discordant, maddened tune Joffrey couldn''t stop listening to. The screams and the singing of steel on steel had him its grip as Joffrey rolled from under the blanket inside his tent, grabbing Sandor by the neck as his other hand held an obsidian dagger at the ready.


    The screeching steel and the panicked screams did not stop as he woke up.


    "Raiders! Get behind me!" The Hound bellowed as he turned back towards the tent flap with longsword, Joffrey returning the obsidian dagger to his ankle sheath and putt on his boots. In twenty seconds he was sporting his sword and hammer, though he didn''t have time to wear anything heavier than a gambeson.


    They both left the tent to the sight of Ser Barristan slashing at a horse''s legs, brutally unseating the rider and delivering a swift finishing blow. "Tully''s, Your Grace!" he shouted.


    Hoster? Edmure? How?


    "Follow me! Let''s rally at the command tent!" Joffrey bellowed as he made his way throughout the chaos, shouting and roaring at everyone he could see, trying to make them follow him.


    Soon he had a sizeable following, though there seemed to be more panicked trampling than fighting, a few enemy horsemen throwing torches at supply tents and makeshift stables before riding out as fast as they could in between the confusion.


    "Spread out! Spread out!!! Don''t let them burn the tents!" Joffrey roared, waving his sword and shoving bleary eyed levies and men at arms.


    As soon as it started, it was suddenly over, the horsemen melting into the night as they left their fires to burn. Joffrey organized a bucket chain using the Green Fork as a source of water, all the while trying to get the men in order to receive a possible, second attack. Ser Barristan proved his worth in gold there, rallying the men and forming them up quickly beneath the raging fires.


    "Where the hells were our scouts?!" Joffrey bellowed as he spotted a dazed looking, lightly armored Rosby man.


    "Th-They came outta nowhere my liege! The Blackfish'' himself cut down Ser Ethon with single stroke!" he shouted back, looking lost.


    "What''s your name?!" Joffrey asked him.


    The man swallowed before quickly answering, "Tiler, my liege," he said.


    "Find the rest of your riders, and take anyone else you need! You''re in command until the morning, don''t let them get the jump on us again!" he said as he clapped his shoulder hard.


    He looked panicked for a second before Joffrey''s steel gaze grounded him, "Aye ser!" he said as he ran back, shouting at a few of nearby men who were already atop their horses.


    Joffrey kept organizing the damage control efforts, and soon the sun was rising over the east as he met with his ragged looking vassals by the command tent. "How did this happen?" he asked, his voice hollow.


    Lord Edgerton looked outraged, "The Blackfish''s men must have slain our scouts over the course of the night¡­ We know for a certainty he personally led a fierce skirmish against Ser Ethon''s group though¡­ he struck us soon after, before word from the survivors could properly reach us.


    Joffrey breathed heavily as he looked at Lord Rykker, "Renfred, our supply''s?" he asked him.


    The burly lord of the Dun Fort looked furious for once, muttering under his breath before looking at him, "Not as bad as we first though. They went for the bigger tents first, the ones that held the least¡­" he said as he nodded at Joffrey, "that idea of yours may have saved more than we can count, though we''ll have to resort to foraging again. Casualties were light, but Lord Roote¡­ he died when his burning tent collapsed over him," he said grimly.


    Does not bode well for future Riverland vassals¡­


    "Lord Roote was a former Tully vassal, could it have been deliberate?" asked Ser Lyle.


    "Not likely, not with tonight''s visibility," Joffrey countered.


    "So, what do we do now?" asked Lord Gaunt, fixing one of his beady eyes upon Joffrey.


    "What do you mean, my lord? We continue the same as before, and try to catch the Blackfish before he does any more damage," said Joffrey.


    "I don''t think that''s wise. We should retreat back to the Ruby Ford, hold feasts and small tourney''s, entice the riverlander houses with promises of seats and gold," said Lord Gaunt.


    "And leave the northern Riverlands to Robb Stark without a fight? No, that''s exactly what the Blackfish wants," Joffrey dismissed him.


    "Of course, Your Grace," said Gaunt with a small bow, the sarcasm self-evident.


    "Of course, Lord Gaunt." Joffrey bit back, his patience running thin. "The Tully''s and thus many of their vassals are tied to Robb Stark by blood. A waiting game will only benefit them¡­ besides after that damned trap at Wayfarer''s Rest¡­" he trailed off, the lords looking nervous as they contemplated that little setback. The Vance''s and the Tully''s had laid some sort of ambush at Wayfarer''s Rest. They hadn''t even contested the passes out of the Golden Tooth, and thus Tywin had been overconfident¡­


    Great surprise there¡­ he thought sardonically as he scratched his head.


    The Westerlander''s had been bloodied though, and bloodied further when Tywin insisted on taking Wayfarer''s Rest by storm to soothe his accursed pride. They were currently stuck outside Riverrun, trying to take the castle and fighting off raiders out of Pinkmaiden. Twyin had been wounded at Wayfarer''s Rest, and the more cautious Kevan was making careful, painfully slow progress securing the three gates of Riverrun before marching to reinforce Joffrey¡­ the awe shattering power of the Westerlands didn''t seem that impressive when given the same time to prepare as the riverlords. They knew the country side well, and had taken measures to prepare their keeps and holdfasts for extended sieges and powerful sally''s¡­ and unlike the southern riverlands, they''d had time to prepare.


    The fucking Mountain that Rides of all people had broken through with almost a thousand riders, supposedly with orders to reinforce him though the beast last been seen west of Raventree Hall of all places, razing everything he found to the ground and slaying anyone in his way, including Lord Jonos Bracken and Lord Tytos Blackwood, their generation''s feud laid to rest with the cold embrace of death.


    If he retreated back south, he''d be able to link up with the Lannister host, likely giving him numerical superiority against Robb Stark and the northern riverland houses he''d be sure to take¡­ on the other hand, they''d be stuck in a bloody war of attrition over the narrow fords of the trident as the riverlands burned all around them, giving time for Renly or Stannis to strike¡­


    The situation was unpalatable, and Joffrey''s gut was loath to cede the initiative¡­ it was almost anathema.


    "We''ll deal with Robb first before turning south. With the northmen defeated the riverlords will have no choice but to bend the knee," he said.


    "We barely have over ten thousand men, assuming the Roote men don''t decide to go home with their tails tucked in!" shouted Lord Gaunt, "And you mean to take on twenty thousand northmen?!" he exclaimed.


    "They''re led by a green boy-" started Ser Lyle only to be interrupted by Gaunt.


    "And we''re not?! One lucky battle and a few skirmishes does not a ''Bloody Lion'' make! If we keep marching north-!"


    Joffrey''s hand moved almost of his own accord, smashing Lord Gaun''t left hand with his hammer. Bloodied fingers flew around the table as Lord Gaunt fell to the floor, screaming. Pandemonium erupted around the table as everyone stood up, their shouting indistinct to Joffrey''s ears as he stood up slowly, aiming the hammer like a crossbow towards Lord Gaunt. "You will obey, or the next time I''ll take out your other hand," he told the seditious lord, his voice oddly still. Gaunt stared back at him in raw fear, clutching his bleeding hand.


    He sat back down as Gaunt left the tent, and Ser Lyle swallowed before speaking, "Your Grace¡­ perhaps you should speak to the Roote men? They-"


    "No," Joffrey said, dropping his head and holding it tight with his hands, "They''ll do their fucking job, the one they just swore to do, and that is the end of that," he spat out.


    "Now, we march. And if anyone sees the Blackfish again, let me know," he ordered them.


    -.PD.-


    They kept marching north, the northern Riverland houses like the Keath''s and the Terrick''s staying well away from his riders. There were unconfirmed sightings of the Blackfish travelling between the various keeps that bordered the Mountains of the Moon, his attempts at forming a bigger host apparently falling on deaf ears. It seemed that with the Crownland''s host so close by, those houses had decided to forget there was a civil war in all but name going on near their lands. Joffrey, for once, was glad for his absurd reputation. The tale of the Bloody Lion and the Bloody Fields had spread far and wide, and the more reclusive riverlanders seemed wary to see for themselves if the rumors were true. One thing was certain though¡­ the northmen were close. Very close.


    Joffrey dispersed his thoughts, sinking once again deeper and deeper within himself, using the pull of the tablet as the beacon to guide his awareness, being very careful never to look ''up''. The essence of the tablet beckoned, and Joffrey was mesmerized as he examined not the¡­ ''soul'' of the tablet itself, but the twisting contours at its edges, the parts that somehow anchored the tablet to the much greater whole¡­ to him. The turning and twisting lines were like runes more ancient than man or beast. Familiar to him. Very much so.


    He wondered about that as he stretched his consciousness towards the essence of the tablet itself, its smell and its shape and its texture flooding him as if he could almost touch it-


    "Your Grace," said the old, steely voice of Ser Barristan. His voice felt like battle worn steel expertly maintained, glossy and trusty but chipped as well. It lifted him up like a bladder full of air lost in the seas, carrying him upwards until he opened his eyes. He let his body relax from the Half Lotus form Half Moon Jhos had been so fond of, his hands returning to his thighs.


    Ser Barristan gazed at him with the look of a man resigned to an incomprehensible enigma. "Riders in the horizon Your Grace, half a day away," he said.


    "The Blackfish?" asked Joffrey.


    "No, they look like heavy horse¡­ and they carry the Stark Banner," he answered.


    "No parley flag?" he asked without hope.


    "None, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan.


    "Very well then, get the preparations in order," Joffrey said with a nod as he unfolded his legs, standing up in one smooth move. "Let''s finish this," he said.


    -.PD.-


    The might of the Northern cavalry was a sight to behold. The Barrowknights of the North, along with a smattering of Manderly knights and Flint riders were trundling down the Kingsroad like a runaway freight cart, their multitude of banners held high and proud. They were almost charging already, intent on shattering to pieces the formation of Langward and Stokeworth infantry in front of them.


    Joffrey smiled coldly, turning back to look at more than half of his cavalry hiding in the trees with him, archers to their left. They were hiding in a particularly thick forest of sentinel pines that crawled up lazily towards the Mountains of the Moon, the Green Fork in front of them. Perpendicular to them was the Kingsroad, where most of the northern cavalry were charging a ''surprised'' formation of Joffrey''s foot.


    Joffrey''s plan to wipe out a substantial portion of the roaming northern cavalry had been baited liberally. A bit less than two thousand crownlanders from ''his'' fictitious van hastily fanning out and bracing against each other. Once they were pinned down with his men, Joffrey would charge them as the archers hidden to his left opened up¡­ by nightfall, the majority of the northern cavalry here should be dead.


    Ser Barristan though didn''t share his ''optimism''. "Your Grace," he said from his side. The Hound looked at them with the gaze of a man which has seen the same discussion again and again.


    "We''ve been through this Ser Barristan, even heavy cavalry won''t charge against braced pikemen, and if they do they''ll get turned into mincemeat," he told his kingsguard with a sigh.


    Ser Barristan looked as if he''d wish he had more hair¡­ to pull out, slowly and painfully. "Your Grace, please¡­ let us charge now, avoid the loss of our infantry. They''re going to melt!" he said the last in steadily mounting despair.


    "They won''t," Joffrey sentenced swiftly. "They''re heavily armored and soon to wield pikes, it will be brutal, I''ll grant you that¡­ but the northern cavalry will be wiped out by tonight," he told him, swiftly returning his eyes to the battlefield.


    A horn sounded from within the northern cavalry, followed by three or four more differently pitched ones, their sound eerie as their mounts sped up immensely, quickly eating the distance to the crownlanders.


    A horn sounded from within the infantry this time, the troops kneeling and grabbing the pikes that had been on the ground, bracing themselves. It was double layered instead of the triple one used by the Dawn Fort''s Iron Guard regiments, and considerably slower as well, the pikes rising up almost drunkenly and not at all synchronized.


    A pike wall is a pike wall, Joffrey told himself as the northern cavalry didn''t stop, apparently content to charge to their deaths.


    They''re going to bloody kill themselves¡­ all to fucking bounce against a pike wall?!


    The northern cavalry roared as they lowered their lances, banners from half a dozen northern houses fluttering wildly above them as Joffrey''s pikes swayed lightly, as if the enemy roar had unleashed a small gust of wind upon them.


    "WINTERFELL!!! FOR THE NOOOORTH!!!" they bellowed with all their might as the distance was reduced to meters, the pikes swaying wildly as the whole formation seemed to stumble back for a few seconds right before the northern cavalry slammed into them with the fury of a storm. Blood and helmets flew all over the small battlefield as men and horses screamed and died in an earth shattering crash, some knights even flying over the air without their mounts before crashing back down to the ground in bloody heaps. Even as the first line of knights skewered themselves on the pikemen, the second charged through, and the third, and the fourth. Lances pierced plate and flesh, Joffrey''s foot stumbling back like a panicked mob even as the congestion in front of them slowed the charge of the remaining northmen.


    "What are they doing?!" Joffrey whispered.


    Instead of bracing themselves again and relaying on the pikemen behind them to kill the vulnerable horses right in front of them, Joffrey''s men disintegrated as the now barely trotting knights drew longswords and axes, reaping a bloody harvest as the surviving front and second line of pikemen turned back and tried to escape, the bulk of their companions making such a task impossible and leaving their backs bared to the thirsty northern axes and longswords.


    Quickly, the rows of men at the back started to flee, dropping their weapons and running for the forest or the road, their blood leeching into the Green Fork and turning it red.


    "KNIGHTS!" Joffrey roared at his back as he hefted an unwieldy knightly lance aloft, "WITH ME! ARCHERS, LOOSE!" he bellowed before charging out of the forest.


    The crownlanders and riverlanders of his host quickly followed him, forming up at his sides as their own horns thundered. Joffrey angled the lance awkwardly as he rode, not having a clue about what he was doing, his other hand holding his shield tight.


    Should have paid attention to all those tourneys instead of watching the blood, he thought in mild distress as he shifted the unfamiliar weight of the spear. Fortunately he had no problems controlling his horse, absentmindedly driving it with his legs alone, though he noted the other knights used their shield hand to keep a stern hold on their reins.


    The northern cavalry was already retreating back since before Joffrey charged, content with the bloody toll they had extracted from the shattered pikemen before speeding back north.


    How could they have reacted so fast?!


    "LORD EDGERTON!" he roared over the din of the horse, standing tall over the stirrups as the lord to his right flank looked at him. He slashed with his lance to a point vaguely in front of the retreating northern cavalry, and quickly the right flank of his charging cavalry line peeled off for an intercept, Joffrey''s archers managing to lame a few horses before the northeners fled out of range.


    Lord Edgerton''s flank managed to catch some of the northern knights, delaying them enough for the rest of Joffrey cavalry to catch up from behind and slaughter them even as most of their compatriots fled his failed ambush.


    Joffrey roared as his lance bounced off a breastplate, the force of the blow painfully wrenching it from his grasp. Ser Barristan outperformed his liege shamefully, skewering a knight right through the visor with his own lance.


    What kind of Westerosi King doesn''t know how to charge properly?! He thought to himself furiously as he took his trusty hammer and got to work on the northmen. While the charge itself had been pathetically executed, Joffrey''s horse handling skills suffered no such fate. He''d spent many nights during their march north training and bonding with the stallion as he''d done with his own mounts over the pale sands of the Grey Wastes, trying to install an almost instinctive understanding with the black horse¡­ and Moonlight had responded admirably.


    He blocked an axe with his shield, Moonlight swiftly cantering sideways to close the distance as Joffrey attacked at the same time, reaching the back of the knight and making him fall down his horse. Joffrey looked behind him for a second before twisting his knees slightly, Moonlight turning swiftly and enabling him to parry another knight''s longsword long enough for Sandor to slam his own mace on the man''s neck. "Damn you Joffrey! Stay behind me!" he bellowed as he slammed down another knight that got too close.


    Joffrey was about to respond when he caught sight of light cavalry in Tully and Stark colors entering the woods he''d just left.


    "The fucking Blackfish is butchering our archers!" bellowed a nearby lord he couldn''t see, and Joffrey''s knuckles whitened under the strain.


    The cursed asshole knew our whole plan¡­ he thought in shock, the lack of competent scouts once again biting him in the ass.


    "Ser Barristan! Finish these northmen!" he bellowed over the battlefield, his voice cutting through the song of steel on steel. "Sandor! Redcloaks! With me!" he shouted as he spurred his horse back towards the forest.


    He cursed the Blackfish yet again as a couple of bloodied archers left the woods, two Tully horsemen appearing from behind them like specters, cutting them down. Joffrey snarled as he rode past them, decapitating one with his arming sword as he left his shield to tumble in the ground.


    Sandor, a few redcloaks and some knights followed quickly behind him, and Joffrey was soon amongst the light cavalry who were busy butchering his men. He caved one''s skull in even as he ripped another one with his sword, Moonlight whirling in circles and in between the enemy horsemen as Joffrey slaughtered them through their light armor. The quickly began to disperse though, riding much faster than he could catch them.


    Joffrey snarled again as he saw a figure in a black cloak slash at a fleeing archer with his sword before speeding away, gesticulating at other riders nearby.


    No, you Tully son of a whore, this ends today, he thought as he sheathed both hammer and sword, Moonlight reached one of his archers quickly.


    "You! Bow and arrow, now!" he snarled at the archer, the man almost falling to the ground as Moonlight slammed to a stop right beside him. The man barely had time to react before Joffrey wrenched the quiver from his side and strapped it to his belt.


    "Y-Your Grace?" he asked dubiously as he handed his bow, Joffrey saying nothing as Moonlight leapt over a fallen log and sped after the Blackfish. He could hear Sandor''s enraged bellowing and the pounding hoofs of his escort behind him, but he was not going to let the Blackfish just get away with this.


    He deftly maneuvered Moonlight over fallen trees and small streams, the Blackfish gesturing at the three riders close to him and back to Joffrey. They took their bows and fumbled with their arrows as they kept riding as hard as they could back north, dodging branches and rocks.


    One.


    Two.


    Three.


    By the time they were nocking, he slammed an arrow into one of the rider''s back. He fell to the ground in a splatter of blood, Joffrey''s hand automatically grabbing the next arrow as he felt the unfamiliar bow in his hands, aiming for the other two. Their shot''s went wildly off target, the rocking of their horses throwing their arrows pitifully off their mark.


    Unaccustomed to horseback archery you bloody pests? Joffrey thought in triumph as he let loose another arrow, his accuracy improving as he nailed an arrow to a horse''s neck, bringing it down brutally and leaving its rider a broken heap below it. Joffrey was riding side to side now, the Blackfish and his surviving man only a dozen meters to his right.


    The third rider tried to close in, unsheathing a sword that fell off his hand as he stared at the arrow planted on his chest. The Blackfish was weaving back and forth desperately now, trying to throw off Joffrey''s aim even as he lost precious speed. His next arrow was caught by a pine, and the one after that grazed the Blackfish, tearing a bit of cloth from his black cloak as Joffrey closed the distance, lowering his head and avoiding a branch that almost tossed him off Moonlight.


    Joffrey stilled his breath as he nocked another arrow, taking five seconds more to aim his next shot carefully, feeling the swaying of Moonlight as the Blackfish started another wild turn, leaning to his right¡­


    Thung.


    The sound almost startled Joffrey, the arrow leaping from his bow like an eager hound. He immediately knew it was going to hit.


    The Blackfish was in the middle of another swerve in his mad dash north when the arrow caught him in the neck, making him fall off his horse in a tangle of blood and broken limbs.


    Joffrey reared his horse in with a savage smile, the sound of his own men steadily growing closer as he eyed the Blackfish, belly down on the ground as his blood pooled around fallen green and orange leaves.


    He wasn''t one to gloat, but he felt the occasion merited an exception, "Well, if it isn''t the black trout himself¡­ you''ve been giving me-" a white whirl interrupted him, tearing into Moonlight and savaging the horse''s throat as Joffrey fell back with an alarmed cry, protecting the bow as he tumbled down the ground.


    He stood up in a swift water recovery, already nocking an arrow with his intact bow as the white wolf finished tearing fallen Moonlight''s throat, raising its bloodied snout and red eyes.


    "¡­Ghost?" Joffrey said, dumbfounded.


    The direwolf leapt at Joffrey with a snarl, but even as his wits shut down, Joffrey''s reaction was automatic. He loosed his nocked arrow straight at Ghosts opened maw, already stepping to the side soon as the arrow had cleared the bow. Ghost landed right were Joffrey had been standing but half a second ago, the direwolf barely had time to register the arrow sticking from his snout before Joffrey completed the maneuver, slamming his dagger through the side of Ghost''s neck and tearing up in a shower of blood, following instincts sharpened by the deadly claws of Sothory Raptors.


    Ghost made a keening, gurgling sound before collapsing on the ground, still as a stone.


    Joffrey stayed there, breathing heavily as he watched the dead direwolf, his mind a confused whirlwind as he turned back to the Blackfish. He approached the black hooded man slowly, shaking dagger at the ready as he barely managed to hear a slow rattling, barely a wisp in the wind. His shaking hand grabbed the man''s shoulder, slowly, very slowly turning him around.


    Jon Snow didn''t seem to know what was going on around him, his panicked eyes swiveling randomly as blood poured down his throat, each breath a gurgling struggle as he kept shaking, the arrow in his neck almost completely covered in blood.


    "Jon¡­" whispered Joffrey as he kneeled beside him, the dagger falling from his hand. Jon didn''t seem to hear him though, his breath hitching suddenly as if he''d just choked on something. His eyes stopped moving as they widened, blood suddenly pouring out of his mouth as the shaking stopped.


    He stayed there on his knees, staring at Jon for a while before Sandor found him, his insistent shaking the only thing to startle Joffrey from his trance.


    "Let''s get back to camp," said Joffrey, oddly still.


    -.PD.-


    The final tally was brutal. The northern lords had lost more knights than him by a considerable margin, and their cavalry had been substantially weakened¡­ at the cost of over half the pikemen, a third of the archers and a few crownlander knights.


    A few noble idiots had proclaimed that a good enough trade before Joffrey had slammed them to the ground, an inch away from ending their pathetic, worthless lives. Between Ser Barristan and Sandor though, they''d managed to contain his fury.


    The Blackfish¡­ and Jon Snow too, had lead their scouts superbly, giving Robb enough information to turn Joffrey''s trap on its self¡­ of course, if the useless cowards in the infantry had stood their ground as pikemen were supposed to do against cavalry, things would have turned differently¡­ He''d almost killed Lord Langward for that¡­


    That outburst had been¡­ impulsive. He was not feeling like himself lately. Or was he?


    Whatever the case, desperate measures had been necessary, and Joffrey''s army had prepared a final gambit that would either win them the war or see them all dead, much to his many lord''s apprehension. Robb Stark was out for blood, tired of skirmishes and ambushes, marching with his whole strength straight at Joffrey.


    He''d gladly meet him on the battlefield, though on his own terms. It was time to end this one way or the other.


    -.PD.-


    The Red Wolf¡­ mused Joffrey as he stared at the assembling northern host¡­ no, army. He could estimate about fifteen thousand men in total¡­ and further reinforcements from the North were sure to come.


    Most of Joffrey''s foot had taken refuge in a small valley in the outskirts of the Mountains of the Moon, creating a narrow front so Robb could not bear his numerical superiority against him. Robb could of course leave him trapped here, but this was not the Red Wolf, or at least not yet. He was still an unproven, arguably green boy playing at war. If he left a force at his back, one he outnumbered around two to one or more besides¡­ things could get complicated with his vassals.


    At least I can count on vassal clusterfucks to strike both sides¡­ kind of like a natural disaster, he laughed at the joke, trying to lift his mind from the morass of darkness and failing. After all the Stark''s that had died by his hand, he was doubtful Robb would have left him here even if he had a hundred thousand crownlanders.


    The men at arms around him all looked at him strangely, though Joffrey didn''t care. He was busy contemplating whether or not he had it in him to slay Robb Stark.


    Gods¡­ I hope he yields¡­ he thought, clenching his hands as he walked in front of the line of shields and spears, behind the line of stakes, stiffening the infantry with his very presence after last time''s debacle. He thought about giving a speech to rally the morale of the men, something sorely needed as the banners outside the valley''s opening seemed to multiply by the second, but he found he didn''t have it within him. The words that propelled his legionnaires until their end seemed dry, wrong. It would be an insult to use them here¡­ for all that the siege of the Dawn Fort had been a much, much more desperate situation, Joffrey had fallen fighting, dying for what he believed in. With a purpose¡­ all he could muster now was a black weariness and an iron will to keep going forward.


    Tallharts, Manderlys, Forresters, Cerwyns, Karstarks¡­ the banners went on and on.


    No parley flags were offered as the Stark archers marched forward, readying their bows.


    By the Old Gods I hope you get the timing right, Renfred¡­


    "Archers! Send the curs back North!" he shouted as he turned back towards the line, "Infantry! Raise those shields high and ready the pikes! They''ll be charging soon!" he called out, getting behind the first line of spearmen, clapping shoulders and mainly looking unafraid.


    I wonder what I''ll feel when I face Robb¡­ regret? Satisfaction? Pleasure?? He asked himself as the arrows rained down, one or two bouncing off his breastplate as he thought.


    He remembered the long afternoon''s he''d spent fighting him in Winterfell''s training yard, Jon Snow looking on with interest for reasons entirely different from Sansa, who combed her hair as she watched from the upper walkway. He remembered Robb''s smile as the boy complemented him about his ability with a spear, the way his eyes lit up when he''d asked Jon to join in too¡­ Robb certainly hadn''t expected that.


    "Joffrey," muttered the Hound in his ear. He brought his attention back to the battlefield, it seemed Robb had had enough of the ineffectual missile duel. A rough estimate of bodies told Joffrey he''d won a minor victory there, superior crownlander plate giving his men an edge against the relatively lighter armored forces that composed the majority of the Northern foot.


    Of course, the armored infantry that came next put paid to the myth that the north couldn''t field heavy infantry. The ranks of Winterfell, Tallhart and Cerwyn men, amongst others, marched directly down the gradual slope of the valley, their ranks concentrating as the spaces got tighter and tighter, crownlander arrows doing little to slow them down.


    His three Kingsguards stood in a triangle around him, with the Hound at his side, all breathing heavily as the pounding footsteps of the northern heavy infantry kept getting louder and louder.


    No heavy cavalry charge¡­ thought Joffrey. Robb had avoided the rookie mistake of sending his cavalry down a narrow valley possibly filled with traps and against braced spearmen with nowhere to run. Not exactly ''Young Wolf'' worthy yet, though he was sure the Stark Lord would attempt something unconventional soon.


    The northern heavy infantry crashed against his lines like a hurricane against a palisade wall. Many of them fell to the ditches and the stakes, but most managed to reach the line in somewhat ragged order, heavy battleaxes and warhammers unleashing a whirlwind of steel against his own spears and the heavy infantry standing behind them.


    Joffrey was in the middle of it from the start, not so much as encouraging his men but unleashing a bloody harvest on the dozens upon dozens of northmen that seemed drawn to him like moths to the fire. Their hateful rage gave them power, but made them easy marks for Joffrey, who maintained himself calm and methodical, striking only when he saw an opening, conserving his strength as long as he could even as the heavily armored men fell to his precise blows, one after the other.


    The battle raged for a good long while, neither side moving much as the valley was just too tight for any sort of complex maneuver beyond ''push forward''. What Joffrey had not been expecting though, were the ballista bolts raining on him and his men.


    "What?! How?!" Joffrey shouted as they fell, piercing two and even three men at times. He could see a battery of ballista at the valley''s entrance, lighter pieces that must have been looted from Greywater Watch or the Twins if the Frey''s had already joined the north... They were inaccurate as hells, especially given that the crews, at least to Joffrey''s opinion, barely seemed to know what they were doing¡­ but if they kept it up for the length of the battle then things could turn bad.


    Fortunately, Joffrey had a strategy of his own. He grinned darkly as he heard the steadily louder rumble that echoed inside the valley. It seemed Rykker had exercised some initiative and sped up his part of the plan, thankfully.


    Dozens of heavy oaken logs thundered down the tight slopes at the valley''s edges, slopes that had been too steep to climb without specialist equipment¡­ or without careful planning and preparation. The logs rolled down incredibly fast, gaining and gaining speed with no sign of stopping¡­ until they struck the flanks of Robb''s infantry. As tightly packed as they were, some of the logs legitimately bounced, rising a few meters over the air to fall back again and crush untouched formations. More and more logs kept appearing from the ledges which had seemed secure to the northmen at first sight, being well beyond arrow range. The logs crashed and thundered, disorganizing even more men than those who died, and thus giving Joffrey his chance.


    "Ser Lyle! Now!!!" he roared back. Almost as one fresh troops surged from between his lines, relieving the exhausted spearmen and heavy infantry and tearing into the dazed and disorganized northmen. Reinforcements from their rear were slow to arrive due to the logs, and Joffrey could see northerners franticly trying to clear the way as their brethren were slaughtered.


    Joffrey could see the starting smidgens of panic within the eyes of the northmen as he cut them down, jumping past logs with his Kingsguard, Sandor and two dozen red cloaks, their flanks filled with crownlander veterans making good use of the shock and momentum. It was still not enough for a rout¡­ no, Lord Edgerton would make sure of that. Him along with most of Joffrey''s heavy cavalry and some infantry should be about to strike within the next five minutes.


    Joffrey continued fighting, pushing back against the northmen until they could advance no more, the press of bodies too great. Slowly, they started to push him and his men back¡­ and back, and back, and back¡­ Several hours of battle had passed and the men''s morale started to plummet as the northern host kept advancing and replacing its casualties, bringing up fresh men from behind, the ballistas still raining death from above.


    Joffey was drinking greedily from a waterskin at the back of the frontline, getting ready to resist another push when a ragged, almost dead runner caught him.


    "M''liege," he said in between gasps, two arrows sticking from his padded armor. "Lord Edgerton can''t break through¡­ the Blackfish and his men saw them coming and bought the northern cavalry enough time to reposition¡­ He says he won''t be able to smash into their rear any time soon m''liege," he rasped, swaying. His lack of competent scouts had bit him again, this time fatally.


    Joffrey steadied the man as his heart beat soared, cold sweat slipping down his neck. "Go¡­ go tell him to use his foot as a distraction, he has to break through right now!" Joffrey said almost desperately.


    The man looked ready to faint as he shook his head, "His foot is gone m''liege¡­ Lord Gaunt tucked tail and ran with all his men, along with the Langwards," he said before falling down to the cold, hard ground.


    Joffrey stood there, stunned as Ser Barristan kneeled and checked for a pulse on them man. He shook his head in denial, in rage as all the thing''s he''d done for this life turned to nothing. He hadn''t played the damned, hellish game correctly, thus his vassals were abandoning in his hour of greatest need.


    The cries of battle turned increasingly frantic, even panicked, as the news spread, likely through other messengers and word of mouth. Joffrey could see from here how his left flank started to erode, the Roote men routing completely and running towards the goat paths at the far end of the valley as his mistakes built on each other. The other riverland houses he''d managed to win over were starting to fracture as well.


    All seemed lost.


    All the suffering¡­ all the death¡­ for nothing.


    Again.


    The thought threatened to break him as he bit his fist, staring at the ground like a madman.


    No.


    I refuse.


    "MEN! WITH ME! WITH YOUR KING!" he roared suddenly, startling those around him.


    "King Joffrey, we can get our horses in the rear and track the back path''s to-" starter Ser Barristan only for Joffrey to cut him off.


    "NO! Ser Boros! Get me that banner! The one Rykker''s men put together, go! GO!" he shouted at the Kingsguard. He dashed off as Joffrey turned, his left flank almost completely gone as he saw a Rosby banner fall. He manhandled the men around him, surprised to almost crash with Master Willard and some Mooton knights. He looked at him for a second before the man shook his head, "I''m going with you, Your Grace," he said, brooking no other option as he hefted his two hander.


    Joffrey stared at him for a moment longer before nodding decisively and turning around to his red cloaks, veterans of the Bloody Fields and a dozen other skirmishes beyond. "I''M GOING OUT TO SKIN A WOLF! WHO''S WITH ME?!" he roared.


    The men roared back as the rotund figure of Ser Boros returned with a big banner painted pure red. No sigils, no animals, only red.


    Red Blood for the Bloody Lion.


    "Stay behind me and keep following me!" he said to Ser Boros, the banner fluttering wildly with the wind.


    I''m going to cut my way to the Red Wolf in a sea of blood if I have to.


    "WITH ME!!!" he roared as he charged the past his disintegrating lines through to the northmen. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Joffrey rent aside shields with his hammer, cutting wildly with his arming sword, splattering blood all around him as he dodged and weaved as he could, turning just so his breastplate could contain those blows he could not dodge. His reckless slaughter seemed to embolden his companions as they roared their defiance, pushing through and beyond the first lines of northmen.


    "STAAAARK! STAAAAAAAAAAARK!!!" bellowed Joffrey, pummeling down a man at arms that tried to get in his way. A big man in Umber livery tried to cleave him in half with a two handed axe, only for Joffrey to duck at the last moment and smash his hammer against the back of the man''s leg. He roared in pain as he fell on one knee, Joffrey raising his arming sword at the same time.


    Joffrey screamed as he cleaved the Smalljon''s neck, the usually festive smile he reserved for drinking with friends and family replaced by agony as blood erupted from the huge wound.


    He kept moving, his own men falling as they were attacked from all sides. "STAAAAARK!!!" screamed Joffrey as the Greatjon barreled towards him like a runaway freight cart, only for him to be pummeled aside by Sandor, his longsword managing to lick the Lord of Last Hearth''s arm. "Keep going!" shouted the Hound with a snarl, parrying a great swipe from the Greatjon''s axe.


    "STAAARK! WHERE ARE YOU?! YOUR FATHER PLEADED LIKE A PIG BEFORE I CUT HIM DOWN!" Joffrey bellowed as two men at arms attacked him as one. He managed to parry them both with sword and hammer, twisting to the side and hammering the man''s head before engaging the other one. At the same time, a fierce looking woman in Mormont livery jumped from his right with a one handed hammer and a shield. Ser Boros parried two blows with the banner turned spear before the woman bashed him brutally in the head with her shield, making him stumble back before she planted her hammer on the kingsguard''s visor, extracting it in a shower of blood.


    Joffrey finished the second man at arms quickly, turning to the sight of the enraged Mormont woman trying to split his skull in two. He dodged at the last second, but not enough. The hammer slammed into his right shoulder pauldron, the flange biting into his flesh as it ruptured a small part of the plate.


    The Mormont''s grin was feral as she extracted it, Joffrey bellowing in pain as he responded with a hammer strike of his own that was parried by her shield. He only just managed to stop her hammer this time, his arming sword screeching as she closed in and pummeled his face with her shield. "You don''t look Bloody to me," she whispered almost to herself as she kicked Joffrey''s leg, the King too dazed to stop the blow as he fell to the ground.


    He could see Ser Barristan engaging a broad shouldered, bearded man in Karstark livery, the Kingsguard was a white whirlwind as he parried and counterattacked, two other Kartark''s very similar to the broad shouldered man attacking him from either side. Ser Barristan pivoted as he deftly avoided one strike and absorbed the other with his plate, his longsword coming up exactly where the Karstark man overextended himself, the longsword chopping his arm off almost completely as Ser Barristan moved.


    All of that happened in a second, and Joffrey was already rolling, narrowly avoiding the Mormont''s hammer. He stood up as an arrow bounced on his back, grimacing as he managed to lick her arm with his own hammer. The woman responding brutally with heavy strike on his thigh, the plate only partially stopping the blow.


    Joffrey bellowed a might roar, dropping his sword and grabbing the rim of her shield, shoving it aside with all his strength and startling the Mormont woman before she could get her hammer up. He slammed his hammer on her visor, same as she did with Blount.


    "STAAAAAAARK! LITTLE BRAN WAS BRAVER THAN THIS! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU COWARD?!" Joffrey''s roar cut through the battlefield as he extracted his hammer in a rain of blood and gore, the Mormont woman collapsing. The northmen were not exactly stopping their assault but rather giving Joffrey''s group in general and Joffrey in particular a bit of space as he struck all around him like a crazed animal. Willard Mooton appeared by his side for a few moments, intercepting a northern axe and disemboweling the man with his two hander.


    By the God''s I''ll knight him after this, he thought as he slayed a man in Cerwyn livery, nodding at Willard. A King can do that, I can do that, he thought as he kept slaughtering people, his blood mingling with theirs.


    Suddenly Willard straightened himself, looking over the battle, "Your Grace! I think I see Lord Sta-" he was interrupted by an arrow slamming into his eye socket. He fell back, sprawling on the ground, the Mooton Salmon sewed over his breastplate turning red.


    Another arrow flew, planting itself in the gap between Joffrey''s pauldron and his chest plate, making him stumble half a step back before turning to the offending archer with a snarl. Theon Greyjoy stood a few meters to his side, he was already nocking another arrow with his trademark smirk, his smile growing as if to congratulate himself on his accuracy over a Mooton boy and Joffrey himself.


    Joffrey stalked towards him as he ducked and grabbed his arming sword back, Theon taking his time to aim the next shot right at the other gap between pauldron and chestplate, trying to angle his shot in between the wild swirl of the melee. Joffrey followed his gaze and his bow, time crawling almost to standstill as old instincts reacted and he raised his arming sword sideways. Theon loosed, his tight smirk evaporating as his arrow bounced off Joffrey''s sword with a high whined ping smoother than a bell. He was dropping his bow and taking out a one handed axe when Joffrey was upon him.


    "Fancy yourself an Ironborn Theon?!" Joffrey snarled as he parried aside the axe with his hammer, his arming sword slamming through the man''s neck all the way through the other side.


    "THEOOON!" Bellowed someone in horror.


    Joffrey saw Robb Stark pushing aside soldiers and bannermen like a madman, his eyes lit with a crazed anger as he locked eyes with him. "BARATHEON!!!" he snarled, batting aside Ser Meryn Trant''s sword and splitting the kingsguard''s face with a two hander, his rage too great for any other taunt than a gut deep snarl as he leapt over the falling body of the white cloak and charged Joffrey.


    Half formed pleas for him to yield or go back home died as Joffrey charged as well, flicking his hammer constantly as he held his sword low.


    He felt nothing as he tried to kill Robb Stark.


    The Lord of Winterfell was decked out in full northern plate, his outfit eerily similar to that of the Red Wolf, his rage fuelled strength propelling the Valyrian sheen of Ice as if it were a living gale. Joffrey stepped to his left, the blade whistling fast, faster than a greatsword had any right to be. Joffrey stared into the eyes of the man that had been his nightmare for many lives, many, many years ago.


    "And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours," the words came unbidden from Joffrey''s mouth, his arm flexed back, his hammer parrying a blow that would have split his shoulder blades. He used the opportunity to close in with his arming sword, brutally slashing at Robb''s elbow and making him grimace in pain.


    Red Wolf you may be, but this Lion was soaked in blood too, long, long ago¡­


    Robb stumbled back, managing a decent defensive move with his greatsword as Joffrey probed again with his hammer, crossing it sideways and warding Joffrey off with a preemptive slash. Joffrey angled the plate to stop the blow and leave Robb completely open for a swift kill, but gasped in surprised agony as the Valyrian Steel bit past the plate, gashing a moderate slash that nonetheless quickly turned red. He stumbled back with an arm over it as Robb quickly followed with a powerful, strong but predictable long swipe. Joffrey kept stumbling back as he raised his battered arming sword in an automatic parry with the flat side of the blade. He realized his mistake too late as the valyrian steel cut his arming sword in half, the razor sharp edge slashing his cheek and jaw in a shower of blood.


    "Ah differhent cohlor¡­" Joffrey mumbled, coughing blood as he shook his head clear again. Robb was eyeing him warily, cautiously, the rage burning cold as he feinted again and again, angling his greatsword and abusing his reach advantage in the prelude to the next clash. Joffrey dropped the now useless arming sword, covering his jaw with his now free hand and trying to stop the bleeding.


    He''s waiting for some- his thoughts broke off as an animal snarl thundered right besides him. He screamed as Grey Wind tore his ear off, the bulk of the direwolf slamming him to the ground. He managed to ward him off with one hand, only for the savage beast to tear into his fingers and bite past the mail, tearing off a couple of them. He screamed in pain as he tried to stab the wolf with his hammer, but the Grey beast retreated backwards like a sinewy snake before he could do it.


    Joffrey stood back up, dazed as he stumbled back and forth, almost closing his eyes as his heart hammered away wildly. The northmen were giving them a lot of space now, waiting for their lord to claim his prize. He swore he could see ash falling down around the Red Wolf''s grey armor as the young lord regaled him with a triumphant snarl, looking at Joffrey as if he were the scum of the earth, Ice held straight up almost as if in ceremony.


    "Kill him," Lord Stark commanded his brother.


    Grey Wind leapt with a bloodthirsty snarl against swaying Joffrey, straight at his throat.


    Joffrey twisted aside, his heart hammering like a gong, the scent of salt and storms and death and will overwhelming him as an earth shattering roar thundered behind him, Stars leaping from where Joffrey been standing just a second ago and crashing against Grey Wind in midair. They mauled each other in an unparalleled burst of savage, animal bloodlust, the two beasts crashing to the ground in a frenzy of claws and fur and teeth and blood. Joffrey could feel the ghostly pain deep within him as Grey Wolf bit into Stars, as if he were being stabbed in the heart. Everyone surrounding them took a step back in surprised awe, foe and friend stumbling back as Stars used his superior weight to pin Grey Wind to the ground, Robb frozen like a statue as the Silver Lion tore into his direwolve''s throat, his silvery fur bathing in the blood of the agonizing Grey Wind.


    The Bloody Lion reared his head over his fallen foe, roaring to the skies in a strange, keening sort of triumph, saddened but content. He prowled back to him, grinding his head against Joffrey''s armor as he keened deeply, the outlet of Joffrey''s pain and grief. He kneeled beside Stars, rubbing the side of his head as he hugged the big lion''s head tightly, staining his fur with his own blood.


    He spat blood before turning back to the still petrified Robb, the northmen behind him shuffling back in shock as Joffrey strode forwards, spilling blood everywhere and twisting his hammer from side to side.


    "As long and sharp my lord¡­ longer than yours," He enunciated clearly despite the blood in his mouth. It was not a taunt, but a statement of some sort of fact that Joffrey seemed deeply saddened about. Robb slashed with Ice and a strangled roar, Joffrey ducking low before leaning sideways as he avoided the back blow, and then he was past Robb''s guard, jamming an obsidian dagger below his jaw, shoving it up all the way to the hilt.


    Robb seemed to look at him in confusion and fear for a second, before his eyes closed and he fell back with the dagger still planted under his jaw, Stars roaring behind him once more, almost deafening him as the surviving redcloaks around him and the surprisingly close by crownlanders took up the cry.


    They roared with all their might as Ser Barristan and Sandor reached him, both bloodied but alive, giving Stars a wide berth as Joffrey stared at the northern forces that had but seconds ago stood still waiting for their lord to kill the clearly finished blood soaked King. Blood still spilled down his jaw as his gaze bore into them, his face locked in deep fury. The sterner knights and lords didn''t even have a chance to recover from the shock before their men started to run, in two and threes all around them, unleashing a chain reaction until the entire northern host was routing, lords searching for their sons or for horses, shouting for yield or ransom even as others charged to their deaths.


    Soon he could see the northern cavalry melting away from the battlefield, leaving unprotected most of their foot to die beneath Lord Edgerton''s late and somewhat ragged charge¡­ the enemy cavalry only contesting charges against a curiously well-organized foot formation retreating in good order since the moment Robb Stark had died, whose most prominent banner consisted of the Flayed Man.


    Joffrey looked at the body of the Red Wolf as the blood pooled around it, the surprise and the fear still etched over his faced like a freshly carved sculpture. It wasn''t the Red Wolf, not really.


    It was just a scared boy.


    "We won, Sandor," he said as he turned, his voice hollow as he collapsed on the ground.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey opened his eyes slowly, strange sights and banners and knives flashing at the periphery of his vision. His jaw ached horribly, a constant throbbing that kept pounding him with each heartbeat, each thump reviving the cold embrace of Ice. He closed his eyes.


    ¡­


    He opened them again to find several maesters working on him, their sharp needles threading his flesh, the pain shunting him back into blessed sleep as Ser Barristan''s steely voice argued with someone.


    ¡­


    The third time he opened them, it was to the sight of Sandor. He tried to speak, but it hurt so much he stayed quiet, blinking slowly. One blink took too long, and Sandor was replaced by Ser Barristan, standing by his side in some kind of big tent.


    "Brr¡­ er¡­" he mumbled.


    "Your Grace?!" said Ser Barristan as he turned, "You must keep your strength, your wounds¡­" he trailed off, no doubt wondering if he was going to have a third King die under his watch.


    "¡­Whe¡­re¡­" he mumbled.


    "Not too far from the battlefield, the northmen have been routed completely, and Roose Bolton came to us under parley flag. He has sworn allegiance to the Iron Throne along with a dozen other Houses," said Selmy.


    Joffrey chuckled a bit, or at least tried to, blood sputtering out of his mouth as he thought about the machinations of Roose Bolton. It had all played into his hands all too well. The North must be ruled by a northener, and Lord Roose''s men had barely been bloodied¡­ He held all the cards to lose the war but win the game.


    "Thell¡­ the new¡­ Lohrd Pa¡­ Paramount ¡­ to go north¡­ half his men¡­ secure it¡­ leave half¡­" he muttered, fading in and out of consciousness. "Your Grace?" Ser Barristan held his shoulder as Joffrey coughed more blood, "Tell the ¡­ bastard¡­ well¡­ played¡­" he muttered as he fell asleep again.


    -.PD.-


    He managed to order his lords south again, those that still lived anyway, learning dribs and drabs of information as he faded in and out of consciousness, the wagon carrying him often making his wounds bleed. It seemed the now twice Late Lord Walder, or rather his son, had done the Frey special again. The dogged Blackfish had been rallying the survivors from the battle that hadn''t joined up with Lord Bolton, along with those of his raiders that survived the clash with Lord Edgerton''s cavalry¡­ but that hadn''t lasted long.


    Ser Stevron Frey had read his sire''s letter stiffly, Old Walder''s gleeful tone translating very badly, almost uncannily to the lips of his son. The letter placed a special emphasis on how the Blackfish''s face transfigured from relief to horror as the three thousand odd ''reinforcing'' Frey host slaughtered them to the last man. They had joined up with Joffrey''s army a week later, and Ser Stevron''s host had brought much needed supplies and men¡­ perhaps too many men¡­ Too many men to deny the old bastard''s dream. Another well played move by another newly minted Lord Paramount, though at least the Frey bastards would not have the satisfaction of sacking Riverrun, Ser Kevan had finally managed to take the castle and the Riverlands were now truly shattered. Every day knights and lords came to his host to swear fealty, or raven''s carrying the news from Ser Kevan to the same effect. The Frey''s wouldn''t even have to commit any greed fuelled executions, as the Blackfish''s string of good luck had ended with a Frey crossbow bolt to the eye, Old Hoster had died during the siege of Riverrun, Ser Edmure during the defense, and Catelyn Stark, who had been accompanying Robb''s host, was coincidentally ''missing''. Joffrey had the dark suspicion that Lord Bolton had buried her in a nameless mire somewhere along the Neck¡­


    There was nothing he could really do at this point, events had spiraled out of control. Even if the overall outcome favored him (by a broad definition of favor), he couldn''t summon up a shred of emotion. He felt lifeless, like a husk, a dark pit inside his stomach that seemed to leech his very being. It was even comforting, in a way.


    His head wound hurt a lot, not yet reaching the maddening highs of agony he''d experienced during his long lives, but still causing him constant suffering, like black tendrils spreading around his head. His cheek, his ear, even the side of his neck felt swollen, pounding. He couldn''t even eat due to the pain that got worse every day.


    His head wound had infected.


    The fever got worse the farther they descended back down the kingsroad, the nausea making sure he could barely drink water, the involuntary shivering unleashing streaks of black pain that seemed to envelop his ear canals right through his brain.


    When they reached the Ruby Ford Joffrey could barely resist the pain of the road, each little bump of the mediocre carriage an agony. They had reached Castle Darry when Lord Rykker came to his tent.


    "What¡­ news¡­" Joffrey managed, his head hazy with pain and milk of the poppy.


    "News from King''s Landing, Your Grace¡­" said Renfred, shuffling.


    Joffrey stared at him impotently, the throbbing inside his skull growing stronger, "Renfred¡­" he pleaded.


    "It''s¡­ Lord Tyrion¡­ He''s dead," he said.


    No¡­


    "¡­ What..? Stannis..?" Joffrey mumbled, each throb inside his head shooting streaks of black pain across his neck and the gums of his teeth.


    "No, Your Grace, they found him dead in his chambers. A quiet, peaceful death by all accounts. The Queen has named Lord Petyr Baelish as the new Hand of the King in the meantime," he said, uncomfortable.


    Joffrey''s muscle seized up, "No¡­ NO!!!" he screamed, an infinite rage blossoming inside him. He felt so cold, so bloody cold. "I''LL FEED HIM TO STARS MYSELF! I''LL¡­ I''ll¡­" the throbbing was no more, the pain constant as he started to shiver again, shadows streaking around the periphery of the room as the rage evaporated like morning dew, leaving him exhausted.


    "Tell¡­ Tell Sandor¡­" he trailed off, the pain overwhelming as he closed his eyes with a sigh.


    -.PD.-


    "¡­Your Grace?" asked Ser Barristan.


    Joffrey was in the horrible, sinking bed again, the late lord Darry having his last laugh. He was staring at a fixed point in the wall, shivering like fish out of water, muttering to himself in sheer, genuine terror when the kingsguard entered the room.


    "s-s¡ªs---Ser--- Barristnan," he managed, speaking even through the horrible pain.


    "Your Grace, what''s the matter?!" he asked, looking around warily as he moved beside his king.


    Joffrey shivered wildly, at the verge of tears and pale as a ghost. "D-D-Don''t¡­ let her¡­ turn around¡­" he managed between shivers.


    "Turn? Let who, Your Grace?" asked the knight, replacing the wet towel over his liege''s forehead.


    "¡­S¡­San¡­ Sansa¡­" said Joffrey, still staring at the wall, "Her¡­ her face¡­" he said before giving a strangled scream and closing his eyes, shoving his head aside and opening his wounds.


    "Maester Hyllim! Maester Hyllim!" shouted the Kingsguard at his back.


    "Get! Where''s¡­" Joffrey struggled against Ser Barristan''s strong arms, shouting and ripping apart the stitches in his mouth, "Get-! Where''s Xon-Mi?! Ser Barristan!!! Tell him! Tell him to fire everything!!! Oh! Oh Gods!!! I can''t stop them!!!" Joffrey screamed.


    A blonde haired maester entered the room, rushing as fast as his robes permitted as Joffrey kept screaming, "Tell¡­ Tell Sandor to gather the men! Yham came from the Summer Islands, we can hide there! Get a spell from the Jade Scribes to hide us! Surely they can''t cross the oceans, oh god, oh gods please don''t, they can''t right?! Tell Jon to run south!!!" he screamed hysterically as Ser Barristan struggled, the Maester quickly uncorking a glass vial and diluting its milky white content on a wine cup.


    "We can lose them in Sothoryos! The Brindled Men won''t allow Baelish''s machinations! Yes! YES!! Please Ser Barristan!" Joffrey spluttered blood everywhere, Maester Hyllim losing a hold of the wine cup as he tried to shove it into Joffrey''s mouth, spilling it to the ground.


    "He''s going to kill himself at this rate! Move damn you!!!" Ser Barristan bellowed at the Maester, the man rushing back to the table and grabbing the glass vial as the Hound entered the room swiftly and helped Ser Barristan, both holding Joffrey down as he thrashed.


    "Sandor! Thank you, thank you, please, please go cross the Purple and fetch me Tyrion, we can lose them in Sothoryos! We can lose them there right?! No¡­ NO BEHIND YOU! WATCH THE FANGS! WATCH THE SNAKE!" he bellowed, the maester pouring undiluted milk of the poppy down Joffrey''s throat even as he spluttered over his bloodied shirt, "OH GODS THEY TURNED IT INTO A WIGHT! OH GODS, WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT?!" he screamed, tears of despair rolling down his cheeks as he kept shaking.


    Joffrey stopped shaking gradually, his crazed eyes drooping slightly as the terror started to give way to emptiness. "Why does this happen?" he suddenly asked Sandor, the sheer anguish in his voice enough to shake even him. "Did the Purple create me? Can it kill me?" he slurred, blinking heavily. "Sandor¡­. Sandor please¡­ tell the Purple¡­ please¡­" he mumbled, his eyes closing into a sea of white, the pain fading away as sounds distorted into a timeless existence, white numbness giving way to Purple fractals.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 34: Shadows and Contours.

    -.PD.-Chapter 34: Shadows and Contours.


    The man in understated finery walked past the throngs of fine whores and silk merchants, dodging the night''s more rowdier inhabitants as he turned down an alleyway and knocked on a sidedoor to a sturdy, stone walled warehouse.


    The three knocks, followed by two more were promptly answered by a fat, rough faced man with a short club, who opened the door slightly, squinted at the robed man and promptly let him in.


    Inside, Wyll of Old Bridge, one of the four Keeper of the Keys of the Red Keep, sighed at the loaded crossbow pointed at his face.


    "By the Seven, get that thing out of my face!" he said without patience at the impromptu crossbowman.


    The crossbowman looked unconvinced, still glaring at Wyll as the other two men inside the room shook their heads and kept at their dice game over an upturned crate.


    "How do you know he didn''t follow you?!" asked the crossbowman as the fat man with the club looked at the heavens with a sigh, closing the door.


    "I walked through half the fucking city, that''s why I bloody know! Now get that thing of my face!" he said with a snarl as he pushed the crossbow down.


    "Walked right through Fishmonger''s Square too," said the fat man with a smirk, sniffing at the fine robes. "Didn''t think you highborn types cared so much."


    Wyll let out a scowl as he sat on one of the crates. He was barely a step above this riff raff in the hierarchy of King''s Landing as far the nobility was concerned, his position as Keeper of the Keys be damned. It would be of no use to remind them of that though, "Oh, we care enough when the times are rough," he said with another scowl.


    The crossbowman went back to his seat in front of the door, shaking his head. "It''s the fucking Shadow, he''d follow you through the Seven Hells and you wouldn''t even notice him," he said with dead certainty as the fat man barred the door.


    "Well, if he followed you here then he''d have to literally turn into shadow, because the men on the roof saw nothing," said a thin man with a grey goatee, his arming sword and padded shirt not doing much to hide the lack of bulk or muscle. He came in from another door, locking it gently before turning to the Keeper of Keys.


    "Wyll," he said, his voice neutral.


    "Jonth," said Wyll before raising his eyebrows, "Why the armor..? And since when do you post sharpshooters on the roof?" he asked him.


    "Since Golt''s got burnt to the ground," Jonth responded with a scowl, walking towards Wyll and leaning on a crate besides him.


    "Don''t tell me you''ve bought into this ''Shadow'' nonsense," scoffed Wyll.


    "Well, you did walk through ''half the fucking city'' to make sure he was not following you," said Jonth with a shrug.


    "That''s because Lord Baelish is getting paranoid¡­" whispered Wyll, leaning closer, "He says to keep up the good work and that he''ll sort everything out, including a bonus for the stoutness of his subordinates."


    Jonth smiled for the first time since entering the room, "The men will be happy to hear that," he whispered back, "The warehouse won''t fill up for another month though, he''s got another special delivery in mind?" he asked the Keeper of Keys.


    "Yes, simple gold job, the Iron Bank again," said Wyll as he passed him a handful of letters, the Seal of the Master of Coin glowing under the torchlight.


    "I love those," said Jonth as he tucked the letters to the satchel he carried on his belt. "Walk in, hand a letter, receive more gold than I''ll ever spend in my entire life¡­" he said wistfully.


    "Don''t even think about filching," warned Wyll.


    "Steal from Lord Baelish? Are you insane?" scowled Jonth as he stood back up. "You should go," he said as he nodded towards the fat man by the door. He unbarred the door as Wyll scratched his head.


    "You sure you can deliver without Golt?" asked the Keeper of Keys, dubious.


    "The man and the building may have burnt to ash, but we still have the ships, shouldn''t take anything more than a headache trying to sort out the lost records," he answered as he beckoned at the door with an open hand.


    "Alright alright, I''ll go," said Wyll as he shook his head. "Say hello to the Shadow for me if you see him," he told the crossbowman with a smirk. The incensed man didn''t have time to respond before the fat guard closed the door and barred it quickly.


    Jonth gazed at the letters in his pouch for a few minutes as one of the men on the table growled in defeat and the other laughed out loud, grabbing the fistful of coppers on the crate. "I hope you enjoyed that Alren, we''ll have to work tomorrow," said Jonth as he turned back towards the other door, stopping when he saw a black robed figure just past the door''s frame, the long and thin Braavosi dagger in his hand dripping blood.


    "I wouldn''t be so sure about that¡­" said the figure as Jonth drew his arming sword with a yelp, the two gamblers shouting as they stumbled up.


    "It''s the fucking Shadow!" screamed the crossbowman as he aimed his weapon towards him, the crossbow shaking like a leaf in his hands even as the fat guard took a guarding position beside Jonth.


    "Tha¡­ That''s Wyll''s blood?" asked Jonth, trying to regain control of his suddenly speeding heart, thinking of a way to get out of here.


    "No, he''s been useful so far. I''m sure he''ll lead me to some other fine catch soon¡­ fucking Baelish, worse than a squirrel¡­" he said with a sardonic laugh, leisurely walking towards them, "You should hire better spotters," he said.


    "You followed him," Jonth said as he took a couple of steps back, one hand on his arming sword and the other on his bodyguard''s shoulder, trying to buy time.


    "I did lose him at Fishmonger''s Square¡­" said the black hooded man, "Though I knew he''d end up here eventually. It''s always whores and silk with the Littlefucker, don''t you agree?" he asked, a storm of restrained fury hidden beneath the steel edge of his voice. He was now only a few steps in front of them.


    "KILL HIM!" shouted Jonth.


    One second, the man was still walking, the next he had one of the gamblers by the neck, the poor bastard still struggling as a crossbow bolt materialized right over his heart. He let the man fall before the other gambler attacked him with the chair he''d been sitting on a moment before, only for the robed man to twist out of the way, his hand and the long stiletto flashing under the torchlight. The second gambler took a couple of steps more, swaying a bit before using his chair as an impromptu pillar to rest upon, blinking for a second or two before Jonth realized the pool of blood forming below the man. He collapsed suddenly, the sound startling him.


    "¡­pathetic," said the Shadow.


    "Lerris, go!" Jonth shouted as he retreated back, his bodyguard launching himself at the man with a roar, swinging his club sideways. The Shadow somehow avoided the blow, nicking the fat guard''s hand and making him drop the club. He wasn''t prepared for the crazed bulrush that followed though, Lerris letting out a roar as he slammed the figure against the wall and pinned him with his superior bulk. The Shadow tried to stab him on the side of the neck, but Lerris caught the stiletto just in time, the needle thin steel driving right through his hand and almost up to his neck. He didn''t mind the blood nor the pain as he started hammering the Shadow''s ribs with his other hand, each blow extracting a pained ''Ughf'' from the pest that had been dismantling the many¡­ ventures of Lord Baelish.


    Jonth''s own breathing and the winching sound of the panicked, reloading crossbowman seemed to drown the room as the Shadow caught Lerris'' fist after the third blow. Instead of pitting his strength against it though, he coiled his arm around Lerris'' own, moving it a bit to the right and then immediately up.


    Lerris screamed in pain, a scream that redoubled in intensity as the Shadow raised the man''s arm even higher, sickening pops resounding throughout the room before the stiletto was extracted from Lerris'' other hand and driven sideways into his ear. The big man gave a step backwards before falling on the ground with a dull thud, the stiletto still driven through his head.


    "NOW!" shouted Jonth.


    The crossbow squealed, and the Shadow inched his head left minutely, the bolt grazing his cheek and tearing apart the black handkerchief that his most of his face.


    "¡­ you shouldn''t have done that," he said as he stalked towards them with a resigned expression.


    The crossbowman screamed in fear as he dropped the crossbow and dashed to the door, trying to lift the bar before a throwing dagger slammed into his shoulder.


    "Fuck, need to keep training that," said the Shadow as he took another dagger from his belt and slammed it into the man''s kidney, ripping up before taking it out, the crossbowman letting out a scream of agony before collapsing to the ground.


    Jonth was in the corner of the warehouse by now, trembling sword held high as his eyes scanned the room wildly, his padded shirt soaked in sweat.


    The Shadow took off his hood, not paying even a smidgen of attention to the blood running down his face from the gash on his cheek as he scratched his blond hair. He cleaned the stiletto with the crossbowman''s corpse before turning towards Jonth, his pale green eyes boring into his soul.


    "I think we should have a talk, don''t you?" he asked.


    Jonth dropped his sword.


    -.PD.-


    The waves crashing against Aegon''s high hill seemed to erupt upward, spraying themselves on the jagged rocks of the steep cliff. The seagulls screeched gently above the waves, flying in circles and extracting their bounty from the seas that often ended up splayed on the rocks.


    Joffrey was leaning on one of the Red Keep''s balconies, watching one of the short lived rainbows that was birthed to life by the crashing waves. He kept watching as it faded away as if it had never existed, only the sea remaining below as eternal as it had been before, the seconds long life span of the rainbow but a blip compared to its own. Joffrey took a deep breath of the salty, fresh air, a slight smile peeking through his lips as his eyes turned distant.


    The smile disappeared as he let his head fall slightly, his eyes closing as he thought.


    Where had it all gone wrong? He supposed everything could be traced to the neglect he''d shown to the realm''s dangers the first few months of his past life. His attempts at damage control had hurt as much as they had helped though¡­ he''d been thinking about his mistakes, about what could have gone right and what could have gone worse. He supposed treating his vassals as Legion officers had been one of his first missteps. Westeros did not have the degree of centralization the Five Forts had enjoyed, no complex bureaucracy to keep the wheels turning without relying on nobles or strongmen. He could not punish or sack his vassals as one did to a seditious or incompetent officer in the Beyond¡­ nor could he push his men to the same heights as legionaries. Everything, from the spirit of the fighting corps to the physical resilience of the soldiers to the training they had was fundamentally different. His debacle with the pikemen had been one of many such incidents. Sure, a veteran Iron Guard''s company could slaughter even a heavy cavalry charge with their pikes, but westerosi small folk were a whole different kettle of fish. When knights charged, you either ran or you died. Only an allied countercharge by your own knights could save the infantry barring extraordinary circumstances. That was a law of perception in Westeros, and as Joffrey had found out many lifetimes ago, perception made reality¡­ He''d have to learn how to handle his vassals and his men to as efficiently as he could if he had any chance of surviving the Long Night.


    ¡­ and find a way to train competent scouts, he thought with a sigh. Maybe he could manage that in a relatively short amount of time, but for that he''d need money¡­ and that was a whole problem of its own.


    On the other hand, he couldn''t just lay aside his search. He was so close, so close to unraveling what he hoped to be the answers to¡­ everything. He''d have to balance things, and he''d have to use his time as intensely as he could. The first year of each life afforded him the most freedom and the most opportunities to make sure the realm didn''t go tits up, and he had a lot of thinking to do.


    He concentrated his will around him like a sturdy holdfast, opening his eyes once more. The black morass still skirted the edges of his mind, but nothing would be gained by letting it go wild.


    I can''t brood, I have to keep moving or I''ll go insane¡­ again¡­


    He shivered at the prospect. If he went mad again from the unrelenting despair¡­ from the pervasive bleakness that seemed to crawl just a tiny bit around his vision after every life¡­


    If I lose it again¡­ I''m not sure I''ll be able to come back¡­


    He took a deep breath yet again. At least his ongoing hunt of Littlefinger''s assets was providing a much needed vent to air his frustrations. The Master of Coin was, though Joffrey hated to admit it, a financial genius. Where others would have skimmed off the top of the Crown''s taxes, Littlefinger had set up elaborate trading companies, warehouses, docks and pillow houses (many of which didn''t seem to exist in reality) and used them to funnel taxes before they reached ''him'' in his official capacity. With of course the bi yearly supplement of loans from everybody from the Lannisters to the Faith to the Iron Bank¡­ all in the King''s name.


    He was slowly, very slowly shedding light on the bastard''s huge financial enterprises, though he''d kept his activities strictly confined within King''s Landing for obvious reasons. He had no doubt the bastard had a hand in the murder of Tyrion during his last life, probably using his mother as an unwitting pawn¡­ the imp must have gotten too close to the truth. He''d spent many a night silently reading through the Baelish''s records, and it was obvious Tyrion must have found several discrepancies, just as he did.


    The players make the game, and the game makes the players¡­ he thought cryptically. With so many puzzles surrounding him he was feeling a bit poetic, truth be told. Perhaps Rhaegar Targeryen and his obsession with the harp had not been as crazy as he''d thought¡­ or he was already as crazy as him anyway.


    He shook off the errant musings as the bells tolled midday. There was work to be done.


    And what incredibly and fulfilling work that was going to be¡­


    -.PD.-


    Robert had laughed out loud when Joffrey asked him if he could attend the small council meetings, and laughed again when he''d insisted. When Robert realized he was actually serious though, he''d been strangely silent, his thoughts only his own as he stared at some far away distance. He''d acceded with a slight nod shortly afterwards.


    Whatever small measure of respect he''d gained with his erstwhile ''Father'' had been lost when Joffrey had tried to make him see reason.


    "Father, a hundred thousand gold dragons for a tourney¡­ its insane!!!" he said, grabbing his head with both hands.


    They were in the small council chambers with the whole worthless lot of them, excluding Ned of course. The usually cool temperature within the small council chambers had disappeared, replaced by a mind numbing heat that Joffrey had to somehow slog through without risking madness.


    I don''t remember the sum being so high¡­ its¡­ its¡­


    "This is insane," he whispered as Robert eyed him dangerously.


    "Don''t you dare take this away from me, boy," he said, looking only a few steps away from rage and maybe even¡­ despair?


    Joffrey shook his head dumbly as he turned to Ned, "Lord Stark, please make my Father see reason," he pleaded to the Hand of the King.


    Ned looked wary and uncomfortable, shaking his head too as he gazed back at Joffrey, "I''ve already tried to make His Grace see reason¡­ to no effect," he finished, looking back at Robert.


    "I bloody well see reason, and it says ''stop yapping and do as your damned King says!''" he snarled, smashing his goblet on the table. "Now, about the Targeryen wench!" he said as he turned back to Ned and Varys, "I want her dead, and that idiot Viserys too," he sentenced.


    Joffrey was not paying attention though, he was rubbing a hand against his face almost compulsively.


    The Realm is already in debt for six million gold dragons¡­ six million! He despaired as he looked at an outraged Ned trying to defend a Targeryen of all people.


    Six million already making its way to seven!


    "We don''t have the gold for the Royal Army nor the Royal Scouts, but we have the gold for this spectacle?! I could equip the First Legion with that much!" he burst out as he stood up.


    Robert looked as if he was deciding whether to strike him or just laugh out loud. "Oh yes, we do. You can play at war when you''re the bloody King, I''m sure that spectacle will be a sight to see¡­ Royal Army¡­" he said with a grunt, finally deciding on a small chuckle, mirrored by the patronizing smiles from most of the small council. Everyone from Renly to Pycell had regaled him with a tidy little lecture about how warfare worked when he''d floated his idea about a large military force beholden to the Crown only. It involved things like vassals and levies, which mustered when called.


    He sat back with a huff.


    ''I KNOW HOW WARFARE BLOODY WORKS, I''VE KILLED MORE MEN THAN ALL OF YOU PUT TOGETHER! I''VE SEEN THE END OF THE WORLD AND THE LEGIONS OF THE DAMNED!'' He''d wanted to scream, but instead he''d managed with a sardonic grin which granted, hadn''t helped his case at all.


    He was a green, idiot boy prince again, and he''d forgotten about that little fact when he''d returned from the Purple yet again. He shook his head, returning back to the moment. Seeing the dysfunctional small council that steered the Seven Kingdoms (for a given value of steer) in action was an incredible learning experience on how not to run a realm. It was no wonder the stability of the Seven Kingdoms shattered every time after Robert died¡­ the conflicting interests and the ineffectual ruler ship thanks to an absentee King had degenerated governance to the level of a Free City. Sure, even a big city like Volantis could get by with the constant scheming of its magisters and advisors at the top level, but try that on a whole continent¡­


    "Sometimes, rulers have to commit horrible acts for the good of the whole realm, Lord Stark, it is a terrible reality to be sure, but a duty we must take on nonetheless," said Pycell. He really had a gift for sounding patronizing.


    "Think of the thousands that will die, my Lord Hand, should Viserys Targeryen cross the narrow sea with an army of Dothraki at his back," continued Varys, his voice reasonable. He was making a better effort than Pycell, though knowing Ned¡­ he doubted it would work. Watching the small council decide on Daenerys'' assassination was fascinating¡­ he could only conclude Ned had managed to talk Robert out of it eventually, given the fact that she''d seem very much alive when he saw her in Quarth¡­


    He supposed now was the turn of dear Lord Baelish. He turned to look at him with interest and disgust, wondering what sage advice he had in mind. He wouldn''t be all that surprised if the unpredictable bastard declared himself a Targeryen supporter right then and there and somehow came ahead, or if he''d concoct some twisted argument to spare Daenerys and kill Viserys, that would explain why he hadn''t seen him in Quarth at least¡­ With his penchant for succeeding in the midst of chaos, anything was possible.


    Finally he spoke, though Joffrey''s constant stare was starting to make him sweat for some reason¡­ he looked a bit ragged too, his perfect, helpful fa?ade strained after many sleepless nights no doubt.


    Having your financial empire get gradually dismantled by an ominous, unknown threat might do that for you, Joffrey thought vindictively, a cruel smile peeking out unconsciously as he kept staring at the man. Baelish managed to look away from him before turning to Ned.


    This should be interesting¡­


    Baelish cleared his throat before going for his standard, assured smile. "When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes, get it over with," he said, as his smile turned knowing, "Cut her throat," he said as he grabbed his cup and drank.


    He fumbled with the cup, the wine spilling as everyone in the room was startled as if by a great sound. Joffrey kept staring at Baelish, tinges of red trying to flood his vision as he bit his lip.


    He suddenly realized everyone was staring at him, and that his hand was on his broad hilted dagger, which was stabbed upright over the oak table. He wrenched the dagger out, sheathing it back to his belt as he leaned back on the table, trying to wrench his savage bloodlust into a harmless smile.


    "Yes, cut her throat¡­ you''d know about that wouldn''t you my Lord," he said, still staring at Baelish, his smile more feral than harmless. He looked confused and vaguely scared as Joffrey managed to grab a hold of himself. He decided to keep talking and make as if nothing had happened.


    "I concur with the rest of the small council, Lord Stark. Daenerys Targeryen can''t be afforded to live¡­" he said truthfully, looking back to Ned. "I know the vague prospects of future war seem hazy when compared to the lives of an innocent child, and of a woman that did nothing wrong but be born in the wrong family¡­ But Ned, you''ve seen what war does to men, to innocents, to towns, to this very city¡­ please, remember their faces, the faces of the widows and the starving children, the failed crops and the muddy, bloody fields¡­ sure, the Royal Navy will make mincemeat of any sellsail fleet, but catching them in the open will be hellish task, there''s a high chance they''ll slip through and land in the mainland¡­ and then, yes, we will defeat them¡­ at the cost of thousands of bodies just as the next winter strikes. Please, Ned, think of the thousands you are condemning to die," he pleaded.


    I hope Daenerys never crosses the Narrow Sea¡­ he thought as Ned mulled his words, the conflict clear in his face. Yes, she''d lost her Khal and her khalasar somehow during her march through the Red Wastes, but she''d also hatched dragons¡­ and there was something within her¡­ something that set the hairs at the back of his neck on edge.


    So many lives could be spared if she died, though there was also a high chance the pit of intrigue that was Essos swallowed her whole, and dragon''s wouldn''t do much to help her there¡­


    Robert slammed his hand on the table again, "Never thought I''d say it but my son talks sense, by the seven Ned, just do it!" he said.


    Ned looked conflicted before shaking his head.


    Here we go again¡­ thought Joffrey.


    -.PD.-


    His frequent forays into the city had not gone unnoticed, especially the ones during the morning where he used the daylight to case the various fronts Littlefinger had throughout the city, watching them carry out their nominal operations. When his mother had confronted him on his forays, he''d blurted the first thing to come to his mind. Well, the second.


    "Tyri--" he''d trailed off as he remembered the hate she had for his uncle, "Ah, I mean, I''m courting Lady Sansa, of course," he''d said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.


    She''d seemed pretty mollified by that statement¡­ it was only later that he''d come to regret that particularly bright idea. The lie would collapse upon itself if anyone so much as asked Sansa about it¡­ and then he''d bring more attention on himself¡­ He should have gone with Tyrion instead and damn the outburst that would have followed. It had worked well enough a few lives ago, when he''d met¡­ Nalia¡­


    He took a deep breath.


    "Joffrey? What''s wrong?" asked Sansa as they walked through the Hook.


    "Hm? Nothing," he said as he blinked, looking behind him and spotting the Hound a few meters back, keeping an eye out for trouble or pickpockets.


    Sansa looked curiously at him, her red hair doing little to help her disguise. She''d found the notion of going out in ''secret'' with the Prince throughout the city to be hopelessly romantic¡­ Joffrey had thought himself clever for hiding his secret purpose under plain sight of another, much more benign ''secret''.


    After all, who would suspect dutiful little Sansa to serve as the cover for the murderous maniac tearing apart Littlefinger''s empire bit by bit? Granted, suspecting him of all people would be insane even by Baelish''s standards, but the Littlefucker had to know it was someone with easy access to the Red Keep, and after he exhausted every other lead he was bound to consider the coincidentally absent little prince.


    He had to admit though, he''d come up with all those justifications after the deed.


    "It''s so big¡­ how could they make the stained glass big enough to cover those windows?" she asked him as she looked at Baelor''s Sept which towered nearby.


    "They actually had to import the pieces straight from Myr, and half of them shattered on the way here," he said, remembering the time he''d spent studying architecture. "You can actually see the indentations below the window proper where the work crews built a temporary crane to hoist them up, one for each window," he said.


    "It must have taken months of hard work," she said, distracted as she grabbed his hand.


    "Years," answered Joffrey, feeling vaguely warm and relaxed as he turned to look at her face.


    ''Joffrey please! I had to! I had to!'' screamed a voice, his hand holding the sword in anticipation as his own grin grew and grew and grew-


    "Ou! You''re hurting me!" suddenly yelped Sansa.


    Joffrey let her hand go as if it were a hot poker, breathing hard and swaying unsteadily. "Ughf¡­ ughf¡­" he mouthed after each breath, his mind still reeling from the unexpected sucker punch. He would have fallen on one knee had it not been for Sansa''s steadying hands. She grasped him firmly, and he could hear her suddenly wildly beating heart close to him as she guided him somewhere.


    "Joffrey? Joffrey?!" she said as they sat on a couple of discarded crates by the side of the road, the throngs of people passing by with not a care in the world, the Hound looking at him strangely and a second away from ending this whole charade and dragging them back to the Red Keep.


    "I''hm¡­ okay¡­" he said, breathing deeper as the fuzziness disappeared gradually. "Its¡­ It''s been a while since I had one of those¡­" he said shakily as he took refuge within Sansa''s arms, which had not stop holding him since they''ve sat down.


    He came back to his senses and stood up as if he''d been sitting on a bonfire, Sansa''s touch both soothing and tremendously painful at the same time.


    "Sansa I''m sorry, please I''m so sorry--" he said in a panic even as she shook her head.


    "My hand is fine," she lied as she tried to hide it beneath the plain dress, but Joffrey could see the blood starting to circulate through it again, gradually returning it to a healthier pink.


    I hurt her again-


    "Joffrey! Don''t zone out like that again! I''m fine!" she insisted fiercely as she shook him lightly.


    Joffrey was mildly shocked at the uncharacteristic behavior, but not enough to make him reconsider his decision, this whole thing had been a terrible idea.


    "We''re going back to the Red Keep, no-" he was interrupted by a slap to the face, from Sansa''s hand no less.


    He stood there, nonplussed and dumbstruck as the left side of his face tingled, blinking slowly. Sansa looked defiantly at him for a quarter of a second longer before she went red from chin to forehead and covered her mouth with both hands.


    They stared at each other for what seemed like hours before Joffrey let out a grunt.


    Suddenly, his face disfigured itself as a strange, snorting sort of chuckle emerged from his mouth like some kind of unwilling, grumpy Snark. Sansa still had her hands over her mouth as she started to laugh too, looking for all the world like she was having the worst time of her life as she tried to contain her steadily rising chuckle to no effect. Joffrey kept laughing, not even trying to hold it in any longer and just losing himself in the unreality of the situation.


    She stopped shortly after him, as Joffrey took a great, deep breath.


    Gods that felt¡­ good, he thought, vaguely surprised.


    Joffrey scratched his head before looking back at Baelor''s Sept. "Eh¡­ the main altar is even more beautiful than the glass¡­" he trailed off awkwardly.


    "Sounds nice," said Sansa, her voice nervous as she nodded almost compulsively, "Let''s go see it," she said quickly as she started walking towards it, pretending as if nothing had happened.


    Joffrey quickly followed her, mixed feelings warring inside him with the fury of sea and storm, his self-awareness but a small boat lost in the confusion.


    He barely cased one of Littlefinger''s fronts that day.


    -.PD.-


    Sandor entered Joffrey''s usual spot in the Royal Library, and was confronted by the sight of the Prince standing to the side of ten other assorted servants with varying expressions of long sufferance, fear, confusion or humor.


    "Alright everyone¡­ wait for it¡­" Joffrey said, standing very still.


    "Now!" he said, staying deathly still as everyone else took a step to the right.


    They stayed in that position as Joffrey closed his eyes intently¡­ and opened them with a sight.


    "Nothing," he said, disappointed. "Maybe if we do it the other way around¡­" he mused as he scratched his nonexistent beard.


    "¡­ I''m desperate alright?" he said as he saw the Hound, as if excusing himself.


    The Hound just looked nonplussed before recomposing himself.


    It hadn''t been the strangest thing he''d seen him doing as of late.


    "Your mother''s been looking for you," he said as the servants started to leave the library. He could only guess what the little shit had been making them do for his own amusement.


    "What does she want?" Joffrey asked back, walking back to the table and looking at the constellations drawn over it in supreme detail.


    If he had any hope of saving Westeros, then he had to get to know the players of the damned game, and that meant investigating all the players present in the capital. He''d started with Littlefinger, for obvious reasons... not least the little stunt he pulled off just before he died. He supposed he''d have to do something about his mother as well¡­


    He sighted, gazing at the constellations again even though he''d already memorized them backwards and forwards.


    He''d almost killed Baelish when he woke up in this life, but caution and the prospects of a better reward stayed his hand. He had to know every little scheme the bastard had before taking care of him¡­ all those gold dragons must have fled somewhere¡­ and he needed those dragons, the sooner the better.


    He had plans.


    "Something about the frilly dress you should wear for the Hand''s Tourney," Said Sandor as he collapsed on one of the couches with a tired grunt, no doubt irritated about being treated as a glorified errand boy. Joffrey for one was grateful for the snark, Sandor seemed to be coming out of his huffy shell, like he''d remembered him so long ago¡­


    He grunted as he shuffled the sheets and parchment, "A frilly dress huh? I''ll go in my armor, maybe ''Father'' will start taking me seriously then¡­ bloody hundred thousand gold dragons¡­" he said, shaking his head at the stupidity of it all before his back suddenly straightened.


    "A hundred thousand gold dragons¡­" he mouthed, savoring the words.


    "A hundred thousand gold dragons," he repeated as he turned to Sandor, a slightly manic smile taking over his face.


    The silence stretched as he gazed at his sworn shield thoughtfully.


    "Sandor, I need you to teach me how to joust," he said.


    The Hound looked dismayed.


    -.PD.-


    The tourney grounds just outside the walls of King''s Landing were a beehive of activity. Laborers were busy setting up tents and stalls, as well as viewing stands all around the three main areas of the coming competition. Joffrey could feel the excitement of a whole city, nobles and commons alike as the great pavilions of the great houses and the wooden stands for the smallfolk erected themselves like great whales awakening from their slumber. Each day more and more banners joined the tops of the tents to greet the city each morning, though the lords and knights were absent, only the smallfolk laborers, smiths and lumberjacks working day and night to complete the tourney grounds ''for'' the Hand were in sight.


    And Joffrey, clad in the full plate he''d used just a life ago to lead the Crownlands into war, atop a black horse and with a lance and shield in hand.


    "GO!" roared the Hound from the ground to his right.


    "Come on Moonlight!" Joffrey bellowed as he spurred his trusty mount, lowering his lance as he quickly gained speed, galloping down the jousting ground.


    "Your lance is too low! Up! Up!" bellowed the Hound.


    Joffrey compensated just in time to slam into his wooden backed, hay filled opponent. The mock up''s shoulder erupted in splinters as Joffrey let the lance go with a wince of pain. He slowed Moonlight with an unconscious command from his knees as he rubbed his own shoulder, grimacing in pain.


    "A bit better, but you''re still not bracing enough. It''s not a hammer, you need to brace it with your whole body¡­ your arm is barely the¡­" the Hound trailed off as he searched for words in the air with his hand. Joffrey had the impression he never expected to teach someone how to joust¡­ much less him.


    "The end result of the equation? The natural expression of the combined effort put in before? The story''s natural resolution?" Joffrey tried as he stopped Moonlight just besides the royal box, otherwise deserted except for Sandor and a few peeking smallfolk.


    Sandor huffed as Joffrey knew he would. "Just think of the arm as the end result of everything else, your inertia, your knees, your back, your arm barely tells them if they succeeded or not," said Sandor.


    "Hm, the arm is the thing that ties it all together then? It has the power to deny a perfectly good tilt, but can''t make one by itself¡­ sounds like a bloody king!" Joffrey grunted as he trotted back to his end of the jousting ground.


    "Again!" he commanded as servants replaced his wounded combatant with a fresh one from the cart at the end of the grounds, another one handing him a lance.


    A charitable man might have called the expression on the Hound''s face as one of grudging respect when Joffrey looked at him with a nod.


    "GO!" he roared.


    Joffrey spurred his mount forward like a lightning bolt, his lance coming down, but not too down on the target as he narrowed his eyes, bracing himself forward. In an instant he was past it, his lance shattered but his shoulder only hurting a little instead of the huge, strained bruises he''d been leaving on it for days. The wooden enemy lay on the ground with a hole on its center, and Joffrey smiled as Moonlight cantered over to Sandor.


    "¡­ You''re a fast learner," said the Hound, a faint tone of disbelief hiding behind the statement.


    Joffrey laughed at the good joke, "I wish," he said with another smile as he called out once more. "Again!" he said as he cantered back.


    "We''re actually done for today, you have done well¡­ very well," said Sandor as he leapt back down from the royal box.


    "What are you talking about Sandor?! We''re burning daylight!" he called back, grabbing another lance from the slightly wide eyed servant.


    The Hound tried to digest that as the servants replaced the fallen hay man for another one. Joffrey slammed into it again, improving his aim as he skewered it through the center.


    "¡­ We''ve been at this since first light, you''ve already trained harder than any squire I''ve seen¡­ you''re done for the day," Sandor vaguely commanded him, his face uncanny.


    Joffrey looked downright insulted as his horse trotted in front of Sandor. "Done for the day? Sandor, my charge''s pathetic, I''m supposed to be a King and I can barely defeat some straw man in a knightly charge?" he said, his disbelief supreme.


    Alright, I don''t know which girl he wants to impress but this has gone long enough, thought Sandor as he made to grab Moonlight''s reins, "We''re going back to the Red Keep, no but''s about it-" he said before Moonlight almost bit his hand off.


    Sandor felt chill run down his spine as the boy prince that had raved about his food a couple of months ago stared him down, his face made of marble as he willed Sandor to step back.


    "We''re staying here under literal moonlight if we have to, are we clear Sandor?" he commanded, his voice carrying itself throughout the grounds.


    The Hound said nothing, his eyes trailing down and seeing Joffrey''s slightly swollen shoulder and the bit of blood from a scratch on his hand. "Your wounds-"


    "I know my own body Sandor, I''m good for another two dozen tilts," he said as he passed him by, shaking off pain that would have left a middling squire red faced on the ground, to Sandor''s estimation.


    "Again!" called out Joffrey as he neared the servant. "And go get more lances," he told the man as he gazed at the half dozen lances left in the barrel.


    -.PD.-


    The Red Keep slept uneasily in the night, patrols of guards making their way through halls and battlements as the nightly shift of servants silently took care of waste and dust. One guard in particular, a Redcloak from Lannisport named Tyfer, took a moment to look out the window. He peeked down the heights of the tower, gazing at the Red Keep''s courtyard and making sure no would be assassins were scaling the wall. The irony of a Lannister soldier looking for climbing killers intent on breaking into the Red Keep was not lost on him, and he shook his head with a snort. Hypocrite or not, Tywin Lannister was his liege lord and the man which had indirectly raised him from a likely life of squalor.


    Content with his vigilance, Tyfer kept walking down the corridor, the red carpet below his feet muffling his steps as he checked the corners occasionally left by the buttresses along the long corridor.


    A slight breeze of wind picked up when he was gone, the torches fluttering a bit before returning to normal, a bird chirping in the distance. There was silence in the hallway for a while before a pair of leather boots slowly lowered themselves from the window''s top. The pair of boots were followed by midnight black pants and a cloak, and soon a black clad figure was prowling through the corridor, his feet all but silent over the red carpet as he moved quickly. The figure turned past an opened door and climbed the long, spiral steps up the high tower, before stopping for a moment.


    The man''s pale green eyes narrowed for a second, the rest of his face inscrutable under the black handkerchief. Suddenly, he leapt through the window to his side, and there was silence.


    A few moments passed before trundling, heavy steps resounded throughout the spiral staircase, soon revealing a man in mail walking down the stairs, torch in hand. He passed down the window with barely a look, yawning.


    The stairs were silent again, and the black figure prowled once more up the flight of stairs. He stopped in front of an oaken door, placing his ear close to it for five minutes before kneeling slowly and taking out a set of lockpicks. He cursed quietly as he worked, seemingly unfamiliar with the tools at first but quickly getting more and more efficient as picks were tested and clicks were heard. He opened the door slowly, entering the room and closing the door behind him.


    Grandmaester Pycell''s study looked awfully familiar even though Joffrey couldn''t remember the outlines of it, piles of parchment and maesterly instruments scattered through the shelves or the heavy oaken table. He prowled inside swiftly, his eyes scanning everything as he got to the Grandmaester''s great desk. He worked his lockpicks on the big drawer for a bit, before opening it and grabbing ahold of a pile of letters. He shuffled through them lightning fast, the already opened seals revealing nothing but platitudes or requisition orders, as well as the occasional academic correspondence with the Citadel. Joffrey shook his head as he kept shuffling letters quickly, eyes moving swiftly before his hands exchanged letters, bringing a new one to his attention every few moments.


    He stopped when he heard steps, strong and quick. He looked desperately around for a hiding spot inside the cramped chamber, but there was barely space to stand in in between the books and the mess.


    He looked up to the high ceiling as he heard a key entering the door''s keyhole, and he took a single step back before running for half a second until he was climbing the wall itself, his feet and his hands scrabbling up the bricks.


    The door opened to reveal a suspicious looking Grandmaester Pycell holding an oil lantern, looking strangely at his keys as he closed the door. He shook his head before walking quickly to the reagent''s cabinet, muttering to himself too lowly for Joffrey to hear. He stood hanging from the study''s wall, a few meters from the ground and deathly still as Pycell looked around the room, shaking his head yet again and taking a key to the nearby reagents cabinet. His motions were completely self-assured, with not even a single stutter or stumble, his stooping motions replaced by a decisive stride. Joffrey could barely believe his eyes as the Grandmaester took something from the cabinet, a small flask he quickly uncorked and took down in one gulp. He sighed contently, leaning on the cabinet for a few minutes as he popped his neck.


    Joffrey licked a bit of sweat that travelled close to his mouth, barely breathing as the Grandmaester grunted, closing the cabinet before going back to the door. Joffrey heard him lock it shut, but it was not before he heard his steps, becoming more slow and hesitant the more he descended the tower, that he decided to slither down the wall. S?a??h th? Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    I knew something was bugging me around our erstwhile Grandmaester in my last life¡­ his eyes gave him away. Too alert to be the doddering fool he presents himself as¡­


    He sheathed the dagger that had found the way to his hand as he walked next to the unlocked cabinet, opening it and taking the empty flask. He gave it a quick sniff, before bringing it closer to his nose and taking a deep breath.


    "¡­ Lady''s lace¡­" he whispered as he tilted his head, taking another deep breath, "With something¡­ Nightshade..? No¡­" he said to himself as he searched at the far reaches of the cabinet, behind a line of big bottles that obstructed his line of sight, big bottles that Joffrey could tell right then and there that were filled with nothing but vinegar.


    Interesting¡­ what do we have behind here¡­


    He found two other flasks with some orange tinted liquid, and he uncorked one before taking a careful sniff.


    "Definitively not Nightshade¡­ a bit of Liverwort? Yes¡­ Interesting¡­ what else what else¡­" he muttered, completely taken by the thrill of the investigation. It had been lifetimes since he''d done this at the Citadel. "Goldencup?" he asked himself before dabbing his finger lightly on the vaguely viscous liquid, leaving a little of it on his tongue before wiping it clean with his sleeve.


    "No¡­ too strong¡­" he whispered, his other hand grasping air as he thought.


    It''s on the tip of my tongue, he joked to himself as he scrounged his face in vague frustration. He relaxed before taking another sniff.


    "Spiceflower¡­" he muttered as he looked at the vial. "But why blend it with Lady''s la¡­" he trailed off as he raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he whispered.


    To make Spicemilk, a stimulant.


    A very potent stimulant considering it was laced with Liverwort.


    A very potent, very addictive stimulant.


    Sneaky sneaky Grandmaester Pycell¡­ not only is the scoundrel faking old age''s deterioration, he''s actually even more aware and active than he should be if he were merely faking it. I wonder how many others have fallen for the first bait¡­


    He carefully stashed everything back as he''d left it before returning back to the desk. Knowing what he did now of Pycell, he knew he''d find nothing on the big drawer. Even the locked strongbox at the back below the window was obvious bait. Instead, he kneeled below the table, his hands questing everywhere and feeling every contour of the table, until he found a small bulge hidden behind the bulk of the big drawer. He carefully nudged the small drawer open, using his dagger in case Pycell had left some kind of trap tied to it.


    His caution proved unnecessary as a wooden box fell on his hands, Joffrey''s pale green eyes glinting in the light delivered through the window by the rising moon.


    He opened it to find a bundle of letters and three other orange flasks. He riffled through the letters carefully, reading quickly but effectively.


    It was all in code, but Joffrey had come prepared with parchment and quill. After the months and weeks he''d spent remembering and even expanding his knowledge of ciphers from the most modern to the most bizarre in his wild attempts to crack the code behind his answers, he found the reversed version of Maester Goyle''s vertical cipher almost cute.


    His eyebrows rose higher and higher with each letter.


    Tywin''s pet through and through¡­ nothing new there I suppose¡­


    The depths of the cooperation between the two of them was a sight to behold though, and Pycell had been much, much more than merely an informant supplying all manner of valuable information to Casterly Rock. Through the Grandmaester, Tywin had unrestricted access to the medication of the entire Red Keep and directed it at his leisure, from botching Cercei''s weekly Moon Tea so thoroughly as to render it harmless but also useless, to his instructions on how to handle Robert''s heartburn. The last bordered on treason¡­ what with mixing the usual remedy with distilled Saffron buds¡­ an obscure, light coagulant.


    No wonder Robert barely bled after that pig mauled him¡­ by the Gods¡­


    Joffrey shook his head in disbelief, hard in thought.


    Holy shit, half the times his ''poor heart gave out'' must have been genuine instead of Foxglove... with his bloody eating habits¡­ King''s Landing''s nonexistent sewers must be cleaner than his arteries!


    But why? Why would Tywin do this?


    ¡­Well, why now?


    Something must have gone wrong with the plan, he thought as he sat back, still keeping an ear out for movement but hearing nothing. He closed his eyes as he hazarded a few guesses, delving into the murky world of intrigue which seemed so alien to him. What does Tywin want?


    Easy, Lanniser rule above all. Which means me as King¡­ and Robert dead¡­ I''m still too young though, he must know an early succession would have a high chance of Renly chancing his claim¡­ Why not wait until I''m older, more seasoned and secure in the minds of the realm? Maybe he thinks the threat posed by Renly is too small to care for? Maybe he''s not aware of the Tyrell''s backing¡­


    No, he decided, Tywin''s too careful when his accursed pride is not involved¡­ even the Stormlands alone could wreak havoc on his legacy¡­ he must have planned for Robert to eat and drink himself to death a few years from now, to take Robert of the picture when the heir¡­ me¡­ stood in a better position. That makes sense considering his meddling with Mother''s Moon Tea dosage, he wants a couple more heirs just in case¡­


    There must be a flaw in the plan¡­ he thought, trying to dredge up everything he''d found out about Pycell during this life''s investigation.


    He wasn''t the brightest mind in medicine, at least according to rumor. Sure, he got his silver link, but Saffron buds are tricky to handle, especially given their relative obscurity as a medicinal reagent. Most Maesters would use¡­ he wracked his mind searching for the name.


    Gilerose, a much simpler coagulant¡­ easier to detect too.


    Pycell''s calculations must be off somewhere, the dosage too strong¡­ add Jon Arryn''s death, plus his reckless lifestyle¡­ it''s no wonder Robert keeps dropping dead one way or the other.


    Joffrey blinked.


    The damage¡­ its already done.


    Sure, there were palliative treatments and changes in lifestyle that could help but¡­


    Joffrey kept rifling through the letters, quickly realizing the ''treatment'' had begun quite some time ago. Far too long.


    Robert was dead man walking.


    ¡­ You bastards¡­ ignorant, foolish bastards¡­


    The linchpin keeping the peace in the Seven Kingdoms was going to die one way or the other¡­ the only real question was when.


    Joffrey smothered the dark urge to slaughter Pycell with a rusty sword, trying to keep his mind out of it as he searched for the other letters. There was a missing piece somewhere. Someone had to be supplying the old fool with Spicemilk, because the tricky bit of chemistry required to make it was beyond the scope of his laboratory, and possibly his expertise as well¡­ and Tywin''s letters showed no knowledge of Pycell''s addiction.


    Joffrey frowned as he found a few letters with no cipher, but a simple list. The subjects varied immensely, from ''Ibbenese merchants'' to ''Jon Arryn''s death'' to ''Daenrys Targeryen'' to ''Dragonpit''¡­ along with a small leather strap smaller than his hand, perfect for fitting a vial or two of Spicemilk¡­ and no signature.


    On and on they went, and Joffrey quickly realized the sender was asking for information¡­ though there was no way to be really sure without seeing Pycell''s own responses.


    Another double bluff, two hidden masters, one hiding in the shadow of the other.


    The game of thrones went deeper than he thought¡­ and he hadn''t even started with Varys, the most obvious player of the intrigues¡­ or was he? Could an even more competent player be hiding beneath the shadow of the spider too?


    I hate intrigue, he thought, annoyed with the twists and turns. They weren''t all that different from the puzzles regarding the Purple now that he thought about it, just different kinds of frustration and double guessing.


    How is Pycell receiving the Spicemilk though, it can''t be through the rookery unless his two apprentices are in on it¡­


    He hummed slightly as he walked to the window, looking down briefly before feeling the window''s frame for anything out of order. The sill was wiped clean, very clean.


    Joffrey narrowed his eyes as he felt the edges of the sill, feeling something dry and vaguely sticky right by its edge. He sniffed at the black thing before he scrounging his nose, wiping his finger clean with a handkerchief.


    Raven waste¡­ They''re delivering Pycell''s dose and orders through his own window¡­ that means Pycell''s second master has access to specially trained ravens¡­ Interesting.


    He ordered everything as it had been when he found it, silently lockpicking the door and locking it behind him as he made his way down the stairs. He had a lot to think about.


    -.PD.-


    Wyll of Old Bridge had been a delight to follow. As one of the four Master of Keys, he reported directly to Baelish and served as one of the intermediaries between the Master of Coin and his corrupt network of Goldcloak gate captains, shipping ventures, warehouses and, of course, pillow houses.


    He''d gotten a good long look at the sizable financial empire Baelish had somehow managed to erect in the capital without anyone knowing. Of course, he''d also personally burnt and maimed a large part of said empire, an extremely needed exercise in venting his frustrations. As of late, however, other musings had taken root in Joffrey mind.


    Idle musings of getting said empire to work for some other¡­ more enlightened pursuits. After all, why burn what you can use? Especially when Joffrey had some rather¡­ expensive ideas in mind.


    His nose twitched as he nonchalantly hid behind a wagon full of steel ingots, just as his mark looked back.


    Fixing the capital''s sewers sound like a good idea right about now, he thought as he slowed his pace just so that when he walked out from behind the wagon, he was sedately walking behind a laborer carrying a tall crate.


    His mark kept walking, the singing of the Street of steel''s hammers and smithy''s a constant tempo of creation. Baelish had finally realized Wyll had been thoroughly compromised, and Joffrey had realized he''d realized when Wyll had spent two whole days just walking in circles around the city, not even getting close to Littlefinger''s remaining ventures. That and the bands of thugs that followed the Master of Keys, no doubt intent on finding his tail and bashing the dreaded ''Shadow''s'' skull in with a club.


    And so Joffrey had moved on to greener pastures, following the underlings of another Master of Key''s, one Jennet Waters. It seemed the responsibilities of this particular stooge had more to with pure espionage than economical ventures, as he spent the majority of his days organizing a pack of spies that spent their days following the various high born or otherwise important inhabitants of the city, from Lady Stokeworth to Thoros of Myr.


    He stopped by a gaggle of squires haggling with a beefy looking smith and his vaguely larger apprentice, stopping just so the casual observer would think he was a part of the group, but far enough that the group itself could write him off as just another passerby looking at the wares.


    He tilted his head just so and saw Jennet Water''s lackey, a no name gutter rat from Flea Bottom, stopping near another shop, pretending to look at the wares. His eyes constantly moved between that, however, and another smithy, one guarded by two gruff looking northmen in Stark livery.


    Joffrey repressed the urge to groan.


    By the Old Gods Ned, must you be any more conspicuous?


    The gutter rat haggled halfheartedly with a smith, a quick show of coin showing he deserved the attentions of at least the apprentice and not the apprentice''s hammer, despite his ragged clothing. All the while he kept an eye on the smithy at the other side of the street, the Stark guards as oblivious as their master about the unwanted pair of eyes watching them.


    Ned Stark came out of what he suddenly remembered to be Tobho Mott''s smithy, his face scrounged in concentration as he distractedly waved at his guards to follow. Joffrey thought he could have been standing right behind him and he wouldn''t have noticed. The spy soon followed, and Joffrey was left to stretch his wits.


    What the hells is Ned doing at a smithy, and why is Littlefinger taking note of it? Did he know Ned would come here and is he thus making sure everything went as planned? Or is this a surprise as much to him as to Ned? He thought as he made his way inside Tobho Mott''s. He was ''playing'' the game for a given value of play, but that didn''t mean he had abandoned the bull headed audacity that had carried him through so many lives.


    "What did Lord Stark want?" he asked Tobho at point blank range, startling the man and making him drop the hammer he''d been fixing.


    The man stumbled back a bit as he directed a half second gaze to the ringing pounding of metal on anvil to the back of the store before they turned back to Joffrey, "I don''t know-" Tobho said instantly before biting his tongue, his face quickly turning red at the intrusion and preparing to unleash a powerful invective as Joffrey passed him by.


    "Of course," he said as he followed the direction of the gaze, walking past a cloth partition and weathering the sudden heat of the forge. In the middle of it was Tobho''s apprentice, a broad shouldered boy with powerful arms and dark hair, hammering the anvil with great strength, a length of hot iron held by tongs.


    The apprentice stopped working mid swing, his hammer still held in the air as his sweat drenched face turned to look at him. Joffrey could almost imagine Rhaegar Targeryean in place of the anvil, blood on the boy''s face instead of sweat. The boy didn''t have time to say anything before Joffrey walked out of the store¡­ he''d seen enough. Tobho Mott watched him go, carefully gripping his hammer like a man who knows what to do with it.


    Joffrey walked down the streets deep in thought, cutting through an alleyway.


    He had come to realize that a considerable chunk of Ned''s time in King''s Landing was always devoted to unearthing the truth about his parentage. No matter if he saved Bran or not, Ned was always suspicious of his origins and always strived to investigate it¡­ almost as if there was an active force pushing for that development. A particularly wretched and rotten force which smelled awfully familiar. He''d already seen him visit a few brothels where Robert''s most recent bastards had been whelped, and it hadn''t been all that hard to tie the dots, what with Ned''s tremendous grasp of intrigue. He was being carefully guided from bastard to bastard, left to follow the trail of clues that ended with him in the black cells and the realm with the War of the Five Kings. Only the matter of the puppeteer remains.


    The obvious follow up question was, Varys or Baelish? Pycell was unlikely given how deep he was in Tywin''s pocket, mysterious enabler or not, and Cercei and Barristan were obvious nonstarters. Stannis had decided to dump the game overboard and flee to Dragonstone¡­ which showed a remarkable amount of common sense really.


    That left Renly, an interesting choice¡­ except he''d never declared Joffrey or his brothers and sisters bastards. His claim always assumed nobody wanted a Lannister puppet, and that the follow up choice then of him or Stannis was obvious. It was likely he didn''t know the truth.


    Varys was always a likely culprit. The spider kept his cards close, seemingly never making waves nor involved in great schemes¡­ which of course meant the opposite in reality. The hard question there was finding the where and the why, and maybe the how¡­


    But in his heart of hearts, Joffrey just knew the Littlefucker was behind it all. It all smelt like him.


    Littlefinger always ended up on the Lannister''s side after each confrontation in the throne room¡­ backstabbing Ned and ensuring chaos and war. If he had orchestrated events for Ned''s honor to have no choice but to dispute the succession, and had at the same time placed himself before Cercei as the solution to the very same problem he had created¡­


    Then he really was as good a player as any, setting events in motion so he could rise even higher due to the damned chaos, thanks to his aide with the goldcloaks, with Maergery''s marriage, with everything that followed¡­ It fitted with what Joffrey knew of the fucker.


    There was one quick way of finding out if Baelish was behind it all indeed¡­ but he needed someone closer to the Master of Coin, not the cats paw''s doing the dirty work.


    He turned through another alley as he put on his black cowl and hid his mouth with his black handkerchief, his pace quickening as he ran up a stack of crates and jumped to a balcony hanging from a small if well-furnished manse. The man with the crossbow barely had time to draw an alarmed breath before his throat was slit, collapsing on his knees. Pushing the gurgling man aside, he entered a hallway which quickly led him to a small study.


    He opened the door to find the gutter rat giving his report to one of the Master of Key''s, Jennet Waters, a rotund man clad in far too much overcompensating finery for his post¡­ and his earnings. Jennet''s eyes widened as he saw Joffrey, who already had a hand on the gutter rat''s mouth as the other pierced the long and thin Braavosi stiletto through the man''s jaw and up, the smooth metal sliding up like a Valyrian Steel through sand.


    "You!" gasped Waters as he stumbled back, the chair behind him falling to the ground.


    A part of him dreaded the pleasure he was soon to feel¡­ even as another reveled in anticipation.


    "Me," agreed Joffrey as he extracted the stiletto and the spy crumbled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.


    -.PD.-


    He washed his hands almost compulsively, the water bucket turning red as he kept rubbing his hands again and again. The closed door behind him throbbed inside his mind, even as he tried to pay it no heed.


    He kept telling himself he hadn''t wanted to do it, but he knew that was a lie.


    He shunted the conflicted feelings back to the back of his mind, pitying the poor sod that entered the room come next morning and found the husk that had called itself Jennet Waters. It had taken a while to him talk. He was- had been very scared of Lord Baelish.


    At least I didn''t do it for its own sake, I did it for a purpose. To save the realm, he told himself as he kept washing his hands. He shook his head, trying to bring his mind back to what he''d learned.


    Baelish knew the location of every single one of Robert''s bastards in King''s Landing, and had even shuffled a few to more visible locations. He''d personally instructed Waters to keep eyes on Ned at all times, and to report back to him the moment Ned went to Mott''s and saw Gendry, Tobho Mott''s apprentice and the oldest and most similar of all of Robert''s bastards.


    All my lives¡­ it has been Baelish the one that''s most caused me harm¡­ after myself of course. He knows the truth of my birth and is manipulating Ned to find out by his own¡­ all a part of his plan to rise on top of the eventual confrontation¡­


    Baelish had also paid for more than a score transcriptions, all of a single book, most of which had been stashed under the manse''s cellars¡­ except for a handful delivered to Baelish himself.


    Looking at the book, ''The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms'', Joffrey couldn''t help but sigh. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.


    I need to meditate, he thought as he shook his head.


    -.PD.-


    As the Red Keep''s heart tree whistled with the wind, his awareness kept sinking lower and lower, his attention intent on the thread of meaning and direction granted by the tablet. Just as he always knew where the tablet was in relation to himself, away in his chambers and below his bed to be precise, so did he know the direction where its essence lay. As he''d done before with Stars, he let his consciousness follow that thread of meaning as he kept sinking and sinking and sinking, the outside world loosing meaning, loosing existence itself as he felt and saw and touched and smelt a kaleidoscope of sensations, arriving to a place deep within him. He could feel the ominous, reality shattering strength of the fractal filled purple pillars above him, holding him to the aeons if he but cared to look, but Joffrey didn''t give in, not even risking a quick peak to the sanity shattering thing that somehow held everything that he was. He kept following the meaning like a bloodhound as he smelt blood and heard shattering steel, felt passion and strength and loneliness. The last sent a metaphysical shudder throughout his¡­ he didn''t know. He couldn''t feel his body. He was his body. But more. He was awareness.


    He traced the line until he reached the essence of the tablet itself, anchored by thick, powerful tethers to what he knew to be himself. He cradled it, it was mystery, it was bone and salt and storms.


    But more. It was Meaning, the thought reverberated throughout Joffrey. The twisting lines, his twisting lines, him, the part of him that snuggly anchored the essence of the tablet was complex, full of meaning, practically a shadow of the tablet itself due to its very nature. A part of Joffrey had been molded to receive the tablet, lovingly, thoughtfully, forcefully¡­ Carefully.


    Joffrey realized he was at the contours, the edges of his very soul, a vast sphere of meaning that encompassed all below him, around him, but not above him.


    Above lay the pillars.


    The twisting lines that anchored the tablet to him were very, very familiar. He''d seen something like it before. He was sure.


    He extended all of his awareness to the tablet itself, cradling it close and tasting the mystery and the salt and the bone and its very shape and form and composition as he realized the tablet had never actually left him, never, it was practically a part of his soul. It was right there. Right here.


    Right here, he thought as the tablet flooded him.


    He opened his eyes, and found the tablet fitted in between his hands, as if he had been holding it this entire time.


    He held it up with a trembling hand, unsure if he was still within or without, the sound of nearby birds and the soothing winds surrounding the heart tree soothing his nerves, making him realize he was back in¡­ in what he was almost certain was reality.


    He breathed slowly, almost frightfully as he lifted the tablet close to his eye, gazing at the runes and lines and twists it held like never before.


    The tablet did not depict a language, they were not runes, they were not messages. Joffrey realized it depicted a crude caricature of the contours of his very soul¡­ but only a small part of it, the edges of a small, empty space very much like the one the tablet''s essence occupied, the one he''d just seen deep within himself, snug against his soul.


    "It''s a map¡­" Joffrey muttered in awe, "A map to some section of my very soul¡­ a map to an empty anchor," he whispered, the words sounding unreal to his ears.


    ¡­


    But what is it supposed to anchor?


    That''s all the tablet depicted, the contours that should anchor a very specific something, a something that was missing right now. That was the purpose of the tablet. To bring his attention to that missing section of his soul.


    ¡­


    "I need a drink," he muttered.


    -.PD.-


    --------


    ----


    Thanks for reading and, as always, remember to comment!

 Chapter 35: Sleep.

    AN: Mhmmmrrraaagh been having trouble with this one, the Joffrey of the moment is damnably hard to characterize correctly without falling into one of several pit traps, just hope it works. Special thanks to Duesal Bladesinger for the feedback, much appreciated.Chapter 35: Sleep.


    "Where the fuck is Lord Langward?!" Joffrey shouted at the man besides him as he pummeled a wight to the ground with his hammer.


    "They''re still trying to break through your gr-" his report was suddenly cut in half by the arrow that planted itself on his neck.


    Joffrey turned back to the gaggle of shrykes and westerosi leavies holding the tiny hill against the onslaught, seeing they were about to be overwhelmed. "Stand tall! Stand tall!" he shouted.


    He turned back and came face to face with Jon Snow, his eyes blue as he opened his mouth to speak. "Joffrey," he said, blood bubbling from his mouth like a fountain and flooding the battlefield in death.


    Joffrey opened his eyes to the sight of the Red Keep''s ceiling, bathed in the light of the morning sun. He could hear the last minute preparations for the incoming tournament as the armory was emptied and horses were led through the Red Keep''s portcullis.


    He knew was already late, at least half an hour late for donning his armor at his own pavilion¡­ but a strange force was conspiring to keep him in bed, his limbs slow to move. Joffrey thought he''d been running a lot lately, it made sense he was a bit tired.


    Come on, got to get moving, I''ll miss the archery competition if I don''t, he thought.


    He''d been planning this for months, surely he was not going to let the chance slip by because he was a bit tired in the morning?!


    ¡­


    Joffrey took in a deep breath as he thought about all the lives his legion would paradoxically save, all the good he could do with that money, all the incredibly important preparations for the apocalypse, all the lives living in squalor right now.


    He rose from his bed with a grunt of effort, rubbing his face for a while before taking in a deep gulp of water from the goblet on the nightstand.


    He stretched for a bit, shaking off the strange feeling. He yawned as he dropped to the floor, doing a few quick scout exercises to loosen the wrists and strengthen the arms.


    He was already feeling a bit better as he left his room, cursing when he realized he was even later than he''d imagined.


    -.PD.-


    Ser Balon Swann had a good chance of winning the competition, at least in his opinion. Most other archers had already shot their arrows, the chaff inherent to any competition swiftly falling away as a bit less than half of them couldn''t even hit the first mark. He was keeping an eye on Jalabhar Xho, King Robert''s pet prince from the Summer Islands and a worthy opponent with his goldenwood bow. For all that they called him a beggar prince the man was good with a bow, he''d give him that. There was also a smallfolk that showed promise, though he couldn''t remember his name. There was always one in these competitions, hardy hunters and trackers who tried their luck when in town. He''d buy the man a drink if he made it to the finals, such talent was well worth cultivating.


    He''d have to disappoint them all though, because there was no way he was going to let ten thousand gold dragons escape his fingers. Enough to build a keep of his own if he could get the land for it somehow¡­ or the finest destrier and armor this side of the Narrow Sea.


    Everyone had already taken their shot, and the servants stood ready to move the wicker roundel twenty paces back for the second phase.


    Well, everyone but one.


    "Next up, his Royal Highness Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said the crier again besides the wooden board filled with heraldry, unleashing whispers and even a few barely heard scoffs.


    Ser Balon didn''t know the prince practiced archery, in fact from what rumors he''d heard the boy was barely capable with a crossbow, and he didn''t have the most sterling of reputations. Ser Balon rarely paid heed to such rumors, but he had to admit that great or terrible with a bow, the crown prince''s absence spoke badly of him. If this had been a joke then it had been ill played.


    "His Royal Highness, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said the crier yet again, looking around at the crowd of participant. They were nearby the Melee grounds, the gaggle of participants looking at each other and muttering in irritation. In front of them and besides the crier with the competition board lay the chalk line, and beyond it a barren stretch of field with a wicker roundel right in the middle of it.


    The crier shook his head as he made to remove the shield of House Baratheon of King''s Landing, only for a few startled cries to shift his attention back to the crowd. Said crowd was busy parting way for a knight in red and gold plate atop a black warhorse, the great beast stopping with barely a command from its rider some fifteen paces from the chalk line.


    "My apologies for the delay, my lords and ladies, it''s been a rather busy day," said the rider with a heartfelt sigh as Balon realized it was just a boy. "Have I been struck from the list already?" he asked the crier.


    "Not yet your highness," said a nearby knight in a vaguely disrespectful tone. Ser Balon looked at the man with thinly veiled contempt, such was no way to treat royalty! Most of the competitors merely looked on in boredom or amusement though, waiting for the prince to get out of the way already.


    "Right, give me a moment," the Prince said somewhat apologetically as he stood over the stirrups, looked at the target for a half a breath and then nodded nonchalantly, sitting back down and spurring his horse into a gallop.


    He must have confused this with a tilt! Balon thought in slight shock as the horse cleared the space in mere seconds, a bow suddenly materializing on the Prince''s right hand as his horse reared just a few paces from the chalk line and whirled in a half circle, an arrow leaping from the boy''s bow before he was galloping back the way he came from, not even looking at the target.


    "Be right back, keep going without me!" he called out, his mind clearly intent on something else as he sped away.


    The crowd was stunned into silence, same as Ser Balon as he looked at the target down range with an arrow placed right in its center.


    Getting those dragons was going to be harder than he thought.


    -.PD.-


    Taking his time with the bloody armor had almost cost him the competition¡­ and then he''d forgotten his helmet. He really needed a squire¡­ and he needed to talk to whoever had arranged the time table. Who put the first phase of the tilts just after the archery competition?!


    Be that as it may, he''d arrived just in time for the second shot, a modest one he''d been able to take from Moonlight''s back again, but after that things had gotten interesting. Jalabhar Xho had bit the dust during the last round, and now only him, Ser Balon Swan and a hunter from the Dornish Marches named Anguy.


    I used to have so much fun with archery¡­ he mused as he looked at the target downrange.


    He took in a slow breath as he steadily drew his bow, the arrow''s tip glinting in the midday sun as he aimed higher and higher, the string reaching his cheek. He spent a timeless moment in that position, feeling the whistling of the wind and the slow thrum of his heart.


    Suddenly, the arrow leapt as if with a will of its own. It flew high and true, before descending and planting itself on the wicker roundel.


    "There goes the Keep," said Ser Balon Swann with a slight shake of his head, not too bothered by that fact as he turned to Joffrey. "A magnificent shot Your Highness," he said, the compliment sounding truthful and simple to Joffrey''s ears.


    "You did great as well Ser Balon, few indeed are those that can reliably place an arrow at such distance," said Joffrey, honestly impressed with the man. He seemed dependable as well as not very prone to schemes¡­ Hadn''t he served as Kingsguard sometime during his first reign..? If so, he must had been one of the few good choices for the order since Robert acceded to the throne.


    The servants made haste to move the target back another ten paces, the roundel shrinking once more in the distance¡­ now it was up to him and Anguy.


    "Anguy of the Dornish Marches!" called the crier, peeking at the range and trying not to miss the shot. The rest of the defeated participants, plus the small crowd that had gathered around it, watched in baited anticipation as the doughty looking smallfolk hefted a well-worn bow to the skies, nocking a simple hunter''s arrow.


    The hardy, smallish hunter let the arrow go, and Joffrey followed its arc through the sky until it reached the roundel''s edge, almost missing.


    The crowd''s halfhearted clapping redoubled in intensity when Joffrey joined in.


    Bloody hells he''s really good, he thought as the crowd muttered in interest and slight awe, exchanging gold on bets missed and bets to come.


    Joffrey was troubled, the man had a lot of recent practice, and he seemed superbly competent with the bow. He''d taken shots like that during his time with the Scouts¡­ but that had been a long time ago¡­


    There was no way he was botching this though, he needed that gold. The thought of a properly trained legion under his command made his mouth salivate.


    By the gods give me five thousand men, no more, five thousand men and I could dance rings around any levy five times the size.


    He took a deep breath as the crier called his name, taking an arrow from his quiver and stepping up to the chalk line. He nocked and drew with long practiced ease, feeling the call of the wind as he heard the delighted laughter of children and the merry feasting of lords and even commons in the distance.


    He loosed, watching the arrow fly for a second before turning back to Anguy and nodding respectful at him, "Your skill is superb, the gold''s well deserved," he said with a slight, wistful smile as the arrow almost reached the target, burying itself on the dirt a meter to its left.


    The crowd erupted in shouts and hesitant cheers, cheers which redoubled when Joffrey raised Anguy''s hand up in the air, proclaiming him the victor.


    "Thank you ya''grace," said Anguy, his voice coarse as he looked at the crowd and the crown prince of the realm in vague shock.


    "I don''t suppose you''d take a job offer right about now?" Joffrey asked, taking the edge off the question with a smirk as a squad of Redcloaks carried forth a chest filled with gold.


    "Ah, no, thank you ya''grace," the man blabbered as he looked at the chest, no doubt thinking about the ten thousand gold dragons stashed within.


    "Thought so," said Joffrey with a shrug of his shoulders.


    Oh well¡­ nothing to it.


    He made his way past the crowd, his armor clanking with each step as he readied himself for the first phase of the jousts. The crowd parted around him, showering him with compliments and small talk that would no doubt lead to some favor or another.


    He resolutely ignored them as he made his way to his horse, squashing the small tendrils of longing at the sudden companionship and popularity. It would only bring pain.


    He stumbled in surprise when he saw Sansa, Septa Mordane and Lady nearby Moonlight, Sansa twitching her hands nervously as she avoided his eyes.


    "Lady Sansa! I thought you were watching the first tilts?" he asked, confused as he walked up to her.


    Lady tilted her head and regarded him carefully as he neared her master, the lean and vaguely regal looking direwolf seemingly judging him for a moment before deciding he was not a threat.


    Foolish, blind dog, thought Joffrey all of a sudden.


    "I was going to, but then I heard you had entered the archery competition¡­ that was, was, incredible Joff!" she suddenly blurted, sounding much too similar to Arya for her comfort, he suspected.


    Both of them reddened as Joffrey politely nodded at Septa Mordane. The old crone partly responsible for Sansa''s future plights nodded back, constantly weary for any sign of impropriety.


    Stupid crone, I''d never¡­ never intentionally¡­ he fumbled with his thoughts as his face creased and the budding butterflies in his stomach were replaced with a slowly rising black bile.


    Sansa snapped him out of it as he grabbed his hand, carrying him forwards almost hesitantly towards the jousting grounds. "Come on, aren''t you going to participate in the tilts as well?!" she asked him, her voice cheery with the spice of summer and the wonder of a little girl whose dream had come true.


    "Come on Moonlight," he said over his shoulder, distracted as the horse cantered behind them.


    Joffrey let himself be carried forwards, deciding to let himself go of the worry and apprehension. Letting himself enjoy the simple moment.


    Even after all those years, Ned Stark''s council still held sway over him.


    There was something about Sansa that simply made him feel happy. The banners swirling atop the hundreds of pavilions seemed more colorful somehow, and the flower petals that flew around the grounds from the hands of laughing maidens seemed fresher, hypnotizing. So far, so far away from the horror of war and death and betrayal that they seemed like a bad nightmare, instead of his past and soon to be future.


    "It''s not that impressive really, Anguy beat me there in the end after all," he told her as he savored the feeling like a fine wine, gorging himself on it.


    "Not that impressive?" she asked as they walked hand in hand, looking around the plentiful open aired feasts around the great tents, lords and knights toasting to King Robert as they ate their way through the treasury.


    "Well, such accuracy is seldom used in the battlefield, as it''s hard to take long shots when there''s a man in front of you trying to chop your head off," he said as he raised his eyebrows.


    Sansa genuinely pouted as she looked at him, "Now now, Septa Mordane says false modesty is almost as bad as pride," she reprimanded him, loud enough for the Septa to hear her, chaperoning them as she was a few meters behind them.


    Did she just bad mouth the Septa and myself at the same time? Maybe not all his lost! He thought with a chuckle.


    "What''s so funny?" she asked, slightly defiant as they waited for a wagon to pass through a quickly forming road in between the tents.


    "You. You''re cute," Joffrey told her simply, smiling.


    Her face turned so red Joffrey was afraid she''d explode, and that only made his grin grow and grow as he laughed yet again.


    "Stop that! You''re doing it again!" Sansa wailed as she turned even redder and her hands flew to her mouth, an unwilling chuckle emerging from her lips. This time though instead of holding it in, she let it go wild, reveling in the feeling as she dropped her hands and embraced his arm, still chuckling as she leaned her head on his shoulder.


    Joffrey let the air leave his lungs as he closed his eyes and let his head lean on hers, feeling a strangely timeless sensation of wellbeing, the hopelessness fading like a bad dream in the morning''s light.


    A grumpy ''Ahem!'' shook him off the trance, but he didn''t want to go back. He really didn''t.


    He realized what he was doing quickly though, startling himself and letting go off Sansa as if she were on fire.


    Septa Mordane was looking at them with a thunderous expression, but what took his attention was Sansa. She seemed bewildered as she blinked heavily, almost shaking her head when she saw him looking at her. She offered him a tentative, apologetic smile, the fear of rejection plainly drawn upon her face as if by a skilled sculptor. "I''m sorry my prince," she said as some rigidity returned to her pose, curtsying lightly, "I- I got carried away," she said, sounding a bit confused.


    Joffrey stood still as a statue, feeling vulnerable and unsteady. What he really wanted to do though was hug her like a drowning sailor hugs a piece of flotsam. Instead, he turned his back on her, staring at the ground and breathing hard, screams of agony and memories of blood passing through his mind''s eye almost too fast to process.


    By the Old Gods and the New, get it together you imbecile! He screamed at himself in the privacy of his own mind, the promise he''d swore under moonlight and black stones a guiding beacon for his battered mind to rally around.


    The rest of the walk was devoid of that magical feeling, their talk strained as Sansa took his reaction as some sort of disgust aimed at her.


    Better this way, Joffrey told himself as they reached his private pavilion, each step almost painful.


    "You should go, Lady Sansa. You''ll miss the other jousts," Joffrey told her, feeling vaguely ill.


    She looked like she wanted to say something for a moment, but instead she curtseyed yet again, Septa Mordane guiding her back to the stands.


    Joffrey entered the tent and swiftly closed the flap behind him, taking a few deep breaths as conflicted feelings left something sour deep in his being.


    He gave a might bellow as he tore into the wooden, armored mockup of a knight he''d placed inside the tent a few nights ago, chips of wood flying everywhere as he reduced the thing to splinters under the savage pounding of his hammer and the brutal, barely aimed cuts from his arming sword. Just as fast as the incoherent fury had taken him, it was gone, leaving him breathing hard as he stared down the shredded remains.


    At least it wasn''t a person, he thought as he made a mental note of getting the servants to secure him another one of these.


    At least he felt a little bit better.


    He frowned for half a second before he gave a step to the side, raising his arming sword and placing the tip of it just below a boy''s throat.


    "What are you doing here!?" Joffrey all but roared.


    "M-M-M-MMMore w-wine?!" sputtered Lancel as the tray in his hands fell to the ground and the precious liquid started spilling from the bottle.


    "Please!" Joffrey said as he sheathed his sword and kneeled for the bottle, taking a long swig before looking back strangely at him, "Mother sent you with wine?" he asked dubiously. Cercei had almost forbidden him from participating, so that sounded unlikely to say the least.


    "Ah, no my prince, that was the King," he said, before sputtering again, "King Robert I mean," he amended, still shaking slightly.


    Joffrey tilted his head slightly, "You don''t say? It could have been King Mudd freshly raised from the grave!" he said as he raised his eyebrows.


    "Wha- I, maybe-" Lancel tried to answer as Joffrey shook his head.


    "It was a joke, relax. Gods¡­" he trailed off as he heard a horn in the distance. His turn was coming up soon.


    He waited a few seconds for his erstwhile cousin to recompose himself, securing his own helmet and grabbing a lance from the rack. "Why did Robert send you?" he asked him.


    "Ah, he, ah, wanted to make sure you were ready for the joust my prince," he said, stiff lipped.


    "I''m sure, and the wine?" said Joffrey as he left his sword and hammer in the rack.


    "To, ah, that is-"


    "Spit it out Lancel!" he shouted as he turned back to him.


    "So you don''t unman yourself! I''m sorry my prince!" he let out, almost cowering.


    Joffrey''s expression turned thunderous as he stared at Lancel. "Unman myself¡­" he muttered.


    The prince in red and gold armor shook slightly, and the chuckle that came forth from him sounded very different to the one he had enjoyed mere minutes ago.


    "Unman myself!" repeated Joffrey as he laughed, as if he''d heard the best joke in the world. "Guess there''s only one way to find out eh Lancel?" he said as he closed his visor, still chuckling lowly as he strode out, "Bring my lances! I need a squire!" he commanded as the big, black war horse outside the tent snarled.


    Lancel did not unman himself.


    -.PD.-


    The banners roiled with the wind, shifting this way and that with each gust, the crowd cheering as the latest knight was defeated and the other returned to the front of the royal box, bowing at the King, the Queen and the various high born nobles around them. Even little Tommen and Myrcella were watching, taken in by the splendor of the colors and the cheering crowds of smallfolk by the enormous stands that had been erected around the jousting grounds.


    "Come forth, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, and, Jory Cassel of Winterfell," proclaimed the crier.


    Jory Cassel''s plate armor shined in the afternoon sun, the smooth polish speaking of the care the man had dedicated to it, making sure Winterfell was well represented in the Tourney. He met Joffrey right in front of the royal box, looking at him wearily as the prince''s horse reared to a standstill seemingly by its own will.


    Joffrey nodded at the Captain of Winterfell''s guard, before turning his sight to the assembled nobles. Cercei looked extremely nervous, quite the contrast to Robert who looked at him with thinly veiled resignation.


    Have I fallen this low in his esteem? He thought darkly, his jaw working all on its own.


    Ned, Bran and Arya all looked at him in varying degrees of fascination or excitement, same as little Tommen and Myrcella. Sansa however didn''t look at him, she was busy gazing at the stands behind him.


    They bowed in unison, as Robert waved away negligently with his hand, "Yes, yes! Get on with it!" he said, his eyes stopping for a second on Joffrey''s, and then moving on.


    Joffrey closed his helmet and ordered Moonlight back to his area, the shield of House Baratheon of King''s Landing securely strapped to a wooden pillar. He found Lancel with a lance and shield waiting for him, and he shook his head as his cousin passed him the implements of war.


    He looked at the stance and saw Sansa, who he realized was seated right in front of Baelish. He could see the weasel faced man now, tilting his head forward and filling Sansa''s ear with poison.


    Joffrey snarled as he closed his helmet, hefted the lance forwards and kicked Moonlight into a gallop, just as the horns thundered. Moonlight quickly gained speed, the thundering of his hooves overwhelming as Jory Cassel neared, his lance angling for his chest.


    Joffrey snarled as he tilted his body forward and slammed the lance into Jory, absorbing his with his shield. Jory was sent flying back to the ground, tumbling wildly as Moonlight kept going, finally stopping at the other side of the jousting ground.


    He turned back and saw Jory bleeding on the ground, clutching his leg with a pained expression, his helmet laying a few meters behind him. Two other Stark men helped him off the ground as his face squeezed itself in pain, biting off a scream.


    Joffrey returned to the center of the royal box as he dropped his wrecked lance, stopping in front of a vaguely speechless Robert.


    "My breeches appear to be unsoiled, Father. Must be the wine," he said with a sardonic smile as he took off his helmet. He didn''t deign look back on Robert''s startled expression as he rode past a somber looking Ned Stark and a horrified looking Sansa, Baelish still whispering sweet poison as Joffrey reigned in a monumental instinct that kept insisting his dagger should be up in the bastard''s throat.


    "I wouldn''t listen to him Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish seems scared of even shadows these days," Joffrey twisted the metaphorical knife gleefully, startling littlefinger into silence and making him swallow something sour.


    Come on Baelish, tie the dots, you''re a smart fellow, he thought as he gave him a smirk.


    He kept riding out of the field, straight for the Red Keep. He hoped the Heart Tree would be able to soothe his frayed mind once more.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey was submerged in the depths of his soul again, his awareness a fleeting balloon floating over the contours of his self as he searched for the piece of the puzzle the tablet had given him, an empty anchor meant to hold something. He scoured sideways along the glossy surface of his self, the ominous Purple strength of the pillars above almost calling him, like a siren''s call. The intricate depictions on the bone tablet were but a fleeting caricature of the depth and breadth of the confusing meanings carved into his self, a jagged landscape of soulstuff that stretched on until it reached a purple tinged horizon beyond sight and sound and self.


    Joffrey kept searching, remembering the shape and form of the edge he was supposed to find. The task seemed titanic, and yet Joffrey felt strangely on point as he searched. As if knowing what he was supposed to find already gave him a sense of direction in the almost infinite expanse of meaning.


    Here, whispered an instinct older than him, older than time.


    Here, thought Joffrey as he felt himself near his edge.


    As a child''s scribble resembles a Tyroshi masterpiece, so did the tablet resemble the anchor. Joffrey neared the strange, empty space, so similar yet different from the tablet. It seemed somehow deeper, stronger, more robust than the contours that surrounded the tablet''s essence. It reached deep into the core of himself like a deep water well, the bone crushing depths of his being which not even his awareness could traverse. From there it reached to the edge of his self, the jagged landscape of his soul below the baleful glare of the Purple.


    His awareness reached to the contours themselves, the metaphorical flower that peeked out of the earth instead of the roots themselves. He did not know the purpose of such a gigantic tear that reached so deep into his very self, but as he reached the outer edges of it he could feel something. The perfectly molded edge was like a shadow to the thing it yearned to embrace, to anchor. Joffrey breathed in the edges, his quest for answers unrelenting as he tasted something old. It smelt of purpose. A tool. A bridge. And sharp¡­ so sharp.


    Something shifted his concentration and Joffrey peeked up for a second and saw the gloryoftHEETERNALPILLARS-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    JoFfReY gave a startled scream as he opened his eyes. He shivered wildly as he scratched at the ground with his nails, trying to feel something real with his hands as he folded his knees close to his chest, a silent scream locked inside his throat as he swayed lightly, trying to feel anything as he swayed and swayedandswayed-


    "Joffrey I''m sorry! Please! Joffrey!!!" wailed Nalia right on his ear, and Joffrey froze in horror.


    But it wasn''t Nalia''s voice, not really. He realized it was Sansa''s as a pair of hands kept shaking him wildly, something small and wet landing on his face. He dared to open his eyes again and saw her frantic face, desperately calling for a maester as tears fell down her cheek to land on his face.


    "Sh¡­ Sansa?" Joffrey asked, dazed.


    "Joffrey?! I''m so sorry, please I didn''t know-" she blabbered before Joffrey placed a hand on her thigh, trying to calm her down.


    "It''s okay Sansa, I''m¡­ I''m okay," he tried, realizing he lay sprawled on the ground. Sansa managed to hold in a shuddering breath as he managed to sit up, blinking slowly at the too bright sun.


    "Wh- What happened?" he asked her, rubbing his own face compulsively.


    Sansa almost burst out in tears again as she opened her mouth and closed it again. She took a deep breath before she swallowed, talking quickly but coherently, "I don''t know! You were sitting below the Heart Tree in a weird position, so still I thought you''d fallen asleep! You were so pale¡­ your forehead was drenched in sweat too¡­ I, I thought you had fallen asleep and were having a nightmare so¡­ so--" she stammered the last part, Joffrey holding her arm gently both to steady her and to anchor himself back to reality.


    Sansa Stark. His bones knew she was real.


    "So I tried to wake you up but then you- you fell to the ground shaking and your face looked as if, as if you were coursing through this terrible agony and I thought you were- were-were dying," she managed, barely holding in the tears as Joffrey hugged her, breathing deeply.


    "It''s okay Sansa, you did nothing wrong, you did nothing wrong," Joffrey said as she slowly stopped shaking, their breathing slowly evening out as Joffrey smelled the scent of her hair.


    He let her go jerkily, swaying a bit as he stood up, shaking his head.


    "Joffrey¡­ what¡­ what happened?" she finally asked him as he leaned back on the Heart Tree''s trunk.


    Joffrey looked at her for a long while, the falling leaves of the oak tree distracting him, "I looked at something¡­ I shouldn''t¡­" he said, shaking his head.


    Sansa looked at him with questing eyes, she seemed ready to ask him something else entirely when they heard the shouts of several guards, the Hound loudest of them all as they searched the Godswood.


    "It seems they heard your scream," Joffrey told her, smiling sheepishly.


    She didn''t look ashamed though, instead taking a step closer and looking straight at his eyes, "Joffrey¡­ What were you looking for?" she asked with uncanny insight, confused.


    "I¡­" Joffrey mouthed before the Hound broke into the clearing with a few Redcloaks, looking from him to Sansa and shaking his head. "Alright, who was screaming for a Maester just a minute ago?!" he huffed, annoyed at the apparent waste of time.


    Joffrey just shook his head again, taking another deep breath as he tried to clear his head.


    -.PD.-


    The Tower of the Hand seemed almost deserted, many of its guards joining the festivities below as they took part of the incredibly extravagant feasts Robert had arranged (or rather the grudging Hand himself). Joffrey carefully scaled the last stretch of bricks between himself and the window, hugging the wall even more tightly as a sentry peered down from above the crenellations. He stayed still until the man went away, leaving the way clear for him as he carefully but quickly climbed the last few red bricks before peering at the Hand''s solar through the window.


    The sheer drop would surely mean his death if he lost his grip, but Joffrey persevered, making sure no one was present before jumping up and over the sill in a burst of strength.


    His encounter with Sansa had left him rattled. Did she think him a bloody butcher for laying on to Jory in such a way? He hadn''t intended to leave such a grievous wound on the Captain of Ned''s guard, but when he''d seen Littlefinger whispering in her ear something within him had snapped. And the Godswood¡­ he''d seen her before, peeking at him from beyond the clearing sometimes, when he meditated.


    In the Godswood¡­ He''d been a second from babbling everything and being consigned to Pycelle''s milk of the poppy and possibly Tywin-ordered foxglove to make way for a saner heir¡­ thankfully, blessed Sandor had showed up and broken him from his reverie before all the progress he had achieved in this life evaporated.


    Must have a weakness for beautiful women, he thought with a light snort, mirth and painful loneliness playing with each other before he dispelled those thoughts and cleared his mind.


    He prowled through Ned Stark''s solar, and he didn''t take much time at all to find what he was looking for. Right there on the bookshelf as if the fate of thousands of lives didn''t depend on it, lay Ned''s copy of ''The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms'', Baelish''s very own perfectly aimed stroke that had, arguably, already sent Ned to his doom.


    The scripture was very similar to the copies held in the late Jennet Water''s burnt out manse. Both this copy and the other odd score ones that had been held there in a cellar clearly came from the same copyist¡­ a maester in Littlefinger''s pocket, no doubt.


    He stared at the book for a while, already intricately familiar with its content. To call the evidence contained therein ''satisfactory'' was a stretch, but combined by the great distrust and hostility between houses Stark and Lannister, along with Jon Arryn''s suspiciously badly timed death¡­ Joffrey could see how this book would and had propelled Ned through the labyrinth designed for him, a mere rung to be stepped on in Baelish''s rise to power.


    He returned the book with a sigh, shaking his head. Taking it now would only arouse further suspicion from Ned¡­ and Baelish was stoking the hostility and suspicion already. He''d found out Summer''s recent ails came from poisoned food, delivered on Baelish''s orders. A brawl in a tavern near the Street of Silk had left a Lannister guardsman dead and two Stark ones injured, and Joffrey was looking at troubling activity from one of Littlefinger''s surviving Master of Keys, sniffing around Flea Bottom for something more difficult to find than mere spies¡­


    Knowing what he did now, it was obvious that Bran''s various assassinations throughout his past lives (carried out from within the Red Keep no less!) had been Baelish''s attempt at stoking the fire when the stakes between both Houses were not as high as he wished.


    He returned to the window, looking up at the dark, cloudy night as he thought. He''d already mapped a substantial portion of Baelish''s assets in King''s Landing, and spied a few in Gulltown as well thanks to intercepted correspondence. The Master of Coin himself was nearing the end of his usefulness, but Joffrey still wanted to milk him for all he was worth, to make his revenge absolute even as he used everything he stole for worthier endeavors.


    He was already exchanging letters with the Citadel, inquiring about Maesters and Archmaesters by name. If he was going to rule, then by the gods he was going to rule. Halfhearted musings of trading companies and infrastructure projects from dreams many lives ago were troubling his mind once again, and they were thirsty for coin¡­ though the prospect didn''t make him as giddy as before. In his mind, his vision of a prosperous King''s Landing now seemed fake, its denizens uncaring, false.


    There was nothing to it though, he had work to do.


    I''ll need more than an army to stop the Walkers, after all, he thought as he jumped through the window.


    -.PD.-


    The second day of the tourney opened up with the Melee, twenty thousand gold dragons in a chest atop a high table, as if daring the participants to stretch up and grab them.


    Of course, the combatants would never admit something so crass. No, the greatest price in the melee was honor and glory, and the different Houses seemed to be united in the sentiment. The great ring was chock full of banners and shields depicting all manner of fantastical and mundane beasts, quartered in varying shades of vermillion, blue, green, yellow and all the colors imaginable as the knights and lords readied themselves.


    A small gaggle of courtiers and bootlickers had neatly assembled for Joffrey, praising him for his surprising showing in the archery contest yesterday and showering him with compliments and worthless nothings. Joffrey had just silently stared at them for a while, until they realized their hasty torrent of words was not being returned at all. There was an awkward silence as he kept staring at them, his eerie gaze finally too much to bear as they slowly dissipated from his surroundings.


    It seemed lifetimes ago since he''d had a good night''s sleep, so long in fact he had gotten used to it. What he was not used to were the strange difficulties he was having to get out of his bed. Sure, he''d been having them for lives now but he didn''t remember the temptation to just lay there after waking up being so strong¡­


    Joffrey snorted as he readied his hammer and sword. His choice of weapons was frowned upon by some knights, and gazed in consideration by others. After the prowess he''d shown in both archery and his first joust, Joffrey had shown the realm he was no weakling prince. A green boy playing at war? Probably, but it seemed his efforts had been noted by some of the nobility, and a crown prince with at least a minor knack for warfare was something a vassal could approve, he supposed.


    He stopped his ruminations when he spotted a familiar face amongst the prospective combatants.


    "Lord Buckwell!" shouted Joffrey, pleasantly surprised as he walked towards the doughty man in plate.


    "Prince Joffrey? I don''t think we''ve been formally introduced, an honor," he said with a respectful nod.


    Joffrey had almost slapped his breastplate in camaraderie before he remembered himself. "Thank you my lord. Looking for a share of the honor? I''m afraid you won''t find it here," he confided with a flippant smile as he looked at the banners everywhere. Lord Buckwell chuckled lowly, shaking his head, "And yourself, your highness? I heard you made a strong showing at the archery contest, perhaps you''ll reap a share of the nonexistent glory yourself?" he asked him. S?a??h the N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Perhaps my lord, perhaps¡­ If I fall today, then I hope it''s beneath your blade, I''d be honored," Joffrey told him truthfully.


    He raised his eyebrows as he considered something, "I note you said ''if'', not when," knowingly remarked the lord of the Antlers as he put on his helmet and nodded.


    Joffrey snorted as he nodded back and returned to his position. The participants were all around the ring, almost hugging its circumference, looking at their neighbors thoughtfully and planning their stratagems.


    Joffrey put on his helmet and looked around, seeing if anyone he knew was watching. He didn''t find anyone he recognized, so he shrugged and wielded his hammer and sword, popping his neck. He didn''t feel any excitement, any purpose as he readied himself.


    I need that gold, he told himself as the horn thundered and he moved.


    -.PD.-


    Thoros of Myr circled around Joffrey carefully, his flaming sword swaying in circles as if probing ghostly defenses. Joffrey kept up with the man, his feet moving with a will of their own as he readied for the final clash. All around them lay knights and lords in differing conditions, from barely conscious to barely bruised. All of them, however, had been defeated.


    "If you think a bit of fire is going to unman me Thoros, then you''re sadly mistaken," he called out playfully, feinting left and then right, the damnable washed out fire priest not falling for it.


    His head was drenched in sweat, from the heat of the fire or that of the confrontation Joffrey couldn''t say, but the man was already parrying when Joffrey leapt. He pivoted after he dodged Thoros'' riposte, feeling a searing heat sail above his head as he rose up again, his sword slamming into the man''s arm and making him stumble back, the follow up hammer blow wrenching his flaming sword from his hands. He finished it with a slightly flashy water whirl, his arming sword''s tip ending just a centimeter beyond Thoros'' throat.


    "I yield your highness, and well fought," said Thoros, wide eyed.


    Joffrey smiled as he lowered his sword, "And well fought to you too Thoros," he said, out of breath as the exhaustion caught up to him. The crowd around the ring seemed vaguely speechless as the crier beckoned him to take his winnings, declaring him the winner of the Melee.


    Joffrey was startled by the sudden cheering, smallfolk and lords alike clapping and even whistling as he walked to the great stand where the gold lay. He hazarded a smile to the wild public, and to his surprise, found it almost genuine.


    Ironically enough, his old self loved the cheering of crowds, and in a way he still did. The fake, simpering kind only made him mad though¡­ He didn''t know if that made him better or worse. In any case, the sweet sight of the gold was enough to soothe his aches as he beheld the golden glint of the dragons. His mood worsened when he remembered seeing that very same gold in the sad excuse for a ''treasury'' the Red Keep had.


    He saluted and nodded respectfully to lords, knights and even smallfolk in his way, but was briefly startled when he saw none other than Petyr Baelish staring at him, mouth wide open. The Master of Coin was startled as well when he realized Joffrey was looking back. He swiftly disappeared from the crowd, leaving Joffrey with a cruel smirk all to himself.


    Ah, the dots connect! He thought. Messing with the Littlefucker was one of the few things he seemed to take joy in nowadays.


    -.PD.-


    With what he''d won so far he''d be able to equip the greatest force of scouts ever seen in the continent, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to train and arm one legion at the very least. Westerosi knights had no equal in mounted warfare throughout the known world as far as Joffrey was concerned, and they''d butcher Dothraki horsemen in a melee.


    No, it was the infantry that needed work. Peasant levies stiffened by the odd men at arms was not going to cut it against the string of apocalypses he was sure to hit before the White Walkers, much less the White Walkers themselves. Joffrey doubted his infantry as is would even make it to the melee against the ice demons, they''d melt before even getting to bow range, he was sure.


    For his first legion, he needed to win this bloody joust and take home the forty thousand gold Robert had all too freely tossed down the potty. It would be hard, he could tell already, to try and push through noble interference and inertia and poor recruits¡­ a mind-numbing slog it was going to be¡­


    But duty kept carrying him forwards, and in a brief but furious burst of violence, he unseated Ser Arwood Frey, Ser Andar Royce, and Lord Beric Dondarrion. By then the crowd was going wild every time the ''Golden Prince'', as the damnable improvising singers and mummers skirting the edges of the grounds had called him, unseated one knight after the other. He had to admit, Robert''s steadily disbelieving expression was a sight to behold, not so the horrified expression in Mother''s face. Tyrion was very confused, while Bran didn''t know whether to clap or to cry, a study in contrast to joyous Myrcella. Sansa regarded him curiously, the grand joy of losing herself in the magic of her dreams come true, the reveling in the spectacle and the banners and the knights had¡­ been tempered, somewhat. She still looked wide eyed and joyous at the tilts, the fancy armors and the well-dressed ladies, but her rare, thoughtful frown was appearing more and more often.


    But now came his biggest challenge yet: Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Joffrey had made an extremely good showing by almost anyone''s reckoning, considering previous standards at least, but if he wanted to pass the round of sixteen and enter the round of eight, he''d have to defeat one of the most skilled riders in Westeros.


    Loras cantered atop his horse as he soaked in the cheering crowds, giving winks to blushing maidens and leaving young knights and squires green with envy. Ser Loras came to a stop in front of Sansa, his bright silver armor enameled with green flowers and vines shining in the afternoon sun. He gave her a smile as he handed her a rose, Sansa blushing at the attention.


    Joffrey felt a brief stab of something before it was ruthlessly squashed, Ser Loras giving him a leer as he cantered back to the front of the royal box, right next to him. "Beautiful flowers do naught but attract a lot of bees I''m afraid," he said, twisting the knife.


    The fact he knew it was obvious ploy to shake him didn''t do anything to placate the part of him that wanted nothing but to jump and strangle the flowery bastard.


    "Tis'' fortune then that the bee searches for a different kind of flower entirely, eh Ser Loras?" Joffrey said with a suggestive smirk.


    He left the nonplussed Knight of Flowers to think about that as he bowed to the fat king on the big chair. "My breeches remain unsoiled thus far Father, though I fear the end might be nigh for them this time," he said in worry.


    Robert raised his eyebrows before he let out a loud guffaw, chuckling in good mirth for the first time in ages. "Just show that flowery ponce how Baratheons do war!" he waved away in good cheer.


    Joffrey bowed rigidly as he closed his visor swiftly, before anyone could see his suddenly red eyes. Moonlight guided himself to the end of the jousting ground before Lancel handed him a lance. Against all odds, Joffrey had taken a liking to his not-squire. His fumbling ways seemed awfully familiar, and Joffrey felt his cousin was somewhat lost in life¡­ maybe that''s what the boy needed, a firm hand and a worthy duty¡­ there was potential behind those perpetually self-doubting green eyes, he could feel it.


    Moonlight sped as the horn sounded, his lance coming down as Loras did the same atop his brown stallion, the distance shrinking until there was a sudden crash of sound and pain. Joffrey took a painful lungful of air as Moonlight kept going, slowing down as he circled the tilt barrier for the next tilt.


    Joffrey tossed his broken lance away, shaking his head. Ser Loras was good, he''d barely gotten him on the shoulder while the Knight of Flower''s own blow had almost unhorsed him. The pain from the blow made him feel vaguely useless¡­ as if he was not himself. What was he doing here, playing at war? Why do any of this? Why was he denied the sweet embrace of oblivion?


    The last few thoughts startled him as he shook his head like a terrier with a rat, almost painfully bringing himself back to the present. He checked his body for wounds or nicks, maybe for some trace of poison, but found nothing. Perhaps he''d been pushing himself too much lately¡­


    He shook his head once more as the horn sounded and Moonlight sped up, his lance lowering again and seeking his opponent''s chest. He remembered the wars to come and his need for an army worth the name, to save everyone and stop an apocalypse¡­ The Knight of Flowers barely managed to intercept the blow with his shield, his own lance striking Joffrey right in the center of his breastplate. He flew backwards from the blow, slamming into the ground painfully and tumbling through the mud.


    Joffrey laid there in the mud, breathing slowly as he gazed up at the blue sky, framed by flying leaves and birds startled by the sudden noise of the clash.


    He felt so tired suddenly, an all pervasive bleakness somehow bypassing the holdfast that was his will. Joffrey realized he didn''t want to stand up¡­ he wanted to be left alone here, looking at the sky. The unexplained and abrupt desertion of his will should have left him panicked and afraid, but he couldn''t bring himself to care.


    He tried to stand up, barely lifting his head before letting it fall back to the mud.


    More war, more death, more plots, no escape.


    He could hear the cheering crowd, fickle as the wind as they acclaimed Loras, no doubt already bowing to his fat oaf of a supposed father¡­


    We should all just sleep¡­ we should all close our eyes¡­ thought Joffrey as he kept looking up, feeling drained until Lancel was suddenly at his side, helping him stand up and taking off his helmet.


    The crowd was cheering again for Ser Loras as he cantered around the tilt barrier, saluting and soaking in the glory of the lords and the smallfolk. Moonlight was right next to Joffrey, ready for him to jump atop and ride back into battle as he had been trained, but Joffrey just shook his head as he patted his dutiful companion''s head. Moonlight neighed, impatient.


    "Not today you beast," he told him with a halfhearted smile before turning back to Lancel. "Thank you cousin, take him back to the stable please," he said. Lancel had looked worried for a moment, perhaps thinking about all the manner of hells Cercei would deliver on him if something untoward had happened, but he settled for a relieved nod as he took Moonlight''s reigns and guided him out of the field. Joffrey himself walked to the front of the royal box, where Ser Loras was bowing to Robert, though Sansa was looking at Joffrey with a frown. Fortunately, Baelish was not in attendance or the bastard might have received a throwing dagger to the face.


    "Unmanned yourself yet?!" shouted Robert in good spirits.


    Joffrey just looked at him, feeling hollow.


    Robert looked nonplussed for a second before speaking again, the words rushing out of his mouth as if he could not bear the silence, "A good showing son, a good showing, don''t you agree Ned?" he asked his best friend almost desperately. Ned looked startled for a moment, before nodding, "It was, Your Grace," Ned said simply, as was his want.


    He''s made up his mind already, Joffrey realized as he looked at Ned. Whether he knows it or not¡­


    He reconstructed the holdfast of his will as he could, though he could tell it was cracked¡­ no, it had been hollow for a while now¡­


    He''d been pushing himself too hard lately, that must be it¡­ that had to be it¡­


    He shook his head as he bowed to the royal box. He walked out of the grounds, the crier already calling the next tilt.


    -.PD.-


    Petyr Baelish could scarcely believe it. He''d thought himself mad for even contemplating the possibility¡­ but after exhausting every other thread, and after seeing him in action¡­ there was no doubt.


    Prince Joffrey, the simpering man child, was the fucking Shadow. The living, breathing killing machine that had burnt most of his work in King''s Landing to ash.


    Years of practicing his cool, collected demeanor had ensured he didn''t panic, but it had been a close thing. He''d barely been getting enough sleep when he started to find black handkerchiefs in his solar inside the Red Keep¡­ after that, he''d been sleeping maybe one or two hours every night, his dagger under the pillow as he nervously watched the barred door.


    He took a deep breath as he collected his wits, the not so gentle swaying of his cog enough to steady his nerves. He''d never given up before, not even when Brandon Stark had gutted him like a fish for daring to protect Cat from a life of misery and barbarism¡­ and he wasn''t going to give up now. With Prince Joffrey of all people revealed as the Shadow, he had no choice but to tuck tail and run. His plan had been set back by months, or most likely years, but he''d adapt with the new circumstances, hatch new plans, ride the ever changing currents of chaos like he''d always done.


    Yes, he thought, it was merely a slight setback. He still had Lysa and through her, the might of the Vale. He had a few hidden nest eggs in Gulltown too, that would provide some much needed cash for the wars and plots to come.


    Baelish smiled as leaned back on his chair. The first thing he was going to do after disembarking at Gulltown was going to give him great satisfaction: Hire a dozen good killers to jump at the bastard the moment he dared step outside the Red Keep again, and signal his contact amongst the Prince''s own servants to poison his wine. He didn''t care which one got to him first, as long as he was dead.


    He looked at the empty goblet on the small table before he called out, his voice smooth to his ears, "Jerryk, wine," he said.


    He frowned when nothing happen, his superbly trained servant nowhere in evidence.


    "Jerryk," he called out again.


    Unacceptable, he thought, shaking his head. He thought Jerryk knew better than this¡­ a shame really, a shame.


    He got up from his chair and opened the door to his personal cabin, only to find Jerryk slumped against the wooden bulkhead, a thin trail of blood sluggishly running down his neck and pooling at his pants.


    Baelish took in a startled breath of horror, fumbling for his dagger as he looked down the corridor, his heart beating wildly as he found nothing.


    No, he thought in dread.


    He gave an unsteady step forwards, his dagger shaking like a leaf in his hand. I''ve got to get out of here, he thought as he kept walking, gaining speed as he turned a corner. He found two of the cog''s crewmembers on the floor, one with his throat slit and another with his face locked in panic, a sea of blood around him that had probably erupted from his now empty socket.


    Baelish felt as if he were in a nightmare as he kept climbing ladders and walking down corridors, finding every single member of his crew slain one way or the other. The hallways of horror were almost too much to bear as he finally reached the deck, vaguely hyperventilating as a cold gust of nightly wind froze him to the bone.


    He was still as a statue when he saw the Prince, his head and face bare for all to see as he splashed a bit of lantern oil on a pile of kindling near the main mast.


    "Oh, Baelish. I was wondering when you''d come up," he said as he looked at him, before returning to his task with all the nonchalance and boredom of a sailor with long hours of work ahead of him.


    Baelish swallowed as he grabbed the door''s frame, looking around the deck and spotting a dozen crewmembers plus the half dozen mercenaries he''d contracted for this very journey, all dead. The waves jumbled the ship from side to side, the lack of helmsman making it sway dangerously after each wave.


    "You really thought you''d be safe here huh?" Joffrey said as he shook his head, placing a bit of pitch around a batch of folded canvass. "The double bluff was interesting, I''ll give you that. It takes guts to arrange the departure of your official vessel in so obvious a manner and actually board it, instead of taking that little carriage of yours up the Kingsroad," Joffrey said as examined the pitch with a frown.


    Baelish ran to the edge of the ship, looking down to the grumpy sea and noting the lack of his small cutter¡­ though he could see the coast not that far away.


    "I wouldn''t bother if I were you, I''ll just fish you out and then I''ll be wet and irritated. Trust me, you don''t want to do that," said the crazed Prince as he pulled a rope, the ship''s last sail folding on itself.


    "Wh¡­" Baelish swallowed, trying to gather his wits once more as he turned to improvisation, the one tool that had never failed him. "Of course my Prince," he called out with his smooth voice, not a hint of worry present in it, "You have won our little game decisively and proven yourself the better player by far, and I commend you for it. You have seen for yourself my skills at building what most other nobles would never even dream of¡­" He let the silence build up for a moment before continuing, "I can be a powerful ally to have at your side, all for the price of a few minor concessions, certainly less than what you have already destroyed¡­ Whatever you want, I can get it for you," he told him with confidence. His model for Prince Joffrey was still off kilter and slightly shattered, but he was busy reconstructing it as he spoke, already gleaning useful tidbits of information. The spirit that had somehow possessed the crown prince was ruthless, incredibly skilled and likely valued competence. He had no care for honor or pageantry but was incredibly centered on the task or goal at hand. He could work with this.


    Joffrey looked at him with a sad, vaguely amused smirk. "What I want is not in your power to give, Master of Coin. I want a happy people and a Kingdom worth governing, I want my friends to remember me, I want to beat the Night King to a pulp with my bare hands¡­ I want to feel wonder at the world again, even a little would do¡­" he trailed off in longing, looking at the night sky. "Most of all, I think I''d like to sleep¡­ yes¡­ a dreamless, eternal sleep¡­ Feels like I haven''t gotten a good night''s rest in decades¡­" he continued as he returned his gaze to Baelish, "You know, as of late the only thing that is sure to motivate me out of that damned sinking bed is the prospect of your suffering. Ironic I know," he gave a mirthless chuckle as he cleaned his hands with a rag, "After tonight I don''t know if I''ll have the willpower to get up again¡­" he said as he walked closer to him, stopping a few meters away and leaning on the rear mast as he gazed at him. He seemed eager to talk.


    He''s melancholic, severely melancholic¡­ suicidal even, Baelish thought in a hurry, keeping his body nonthreatening and rigidly still after sheathing his dagger carefully. He''d always been a good reader and had read Maester Gwylliam''s ''On the Moods of the Mind'' quite a few times, finding some very interesting tidbits amongst the useless drivel, tidbits that had served him well even if he''d forgotten half of it. Perhaps he could-


    "I admire that, you know? Your mind is always moving, always planning the next step, always ready to jump, always improvising¡­ You could have been such a boon to the realm¡­" Joffrey trailed off, looking disappointed.


    "I can still be that, Joffrey, our ambitions need not be opposed, we can talk-"


    "Stop," commanded Joffrey, shutting up Baelish with a single word. He shook his head in exasperation, "What am I even doing? Fucking Baelish¡­ fucking Baelish," he repeated, the shift in his tone of voice sending shivers down his spine as Joffrey''s face turned angry, perhaps even furious.


    "Your body will never be found. Your ship will burn to the waterline and sink to the depths of Blackwater Bay. All will wonder about the fate of Lord Petyr Baelish, scoundrel thief who was never seen again in this life¡­" he said with a cruel smirk.


    Petyr swallowed something dry, trying to find his voice again as he inched slightly to his left, "You intend to burn me?" he asked, buying time.


    Joffrey looked at him strangely before his face suddenly disfigured itself, a horrible, runaway laugh emerging from his throat. Joffrey laughed loud and hard, as if he''d been told the funniest joke in history.


    The hair at the nape of his neck was on edge as Joffrey looked at him once more, still trying to restrain a few errant chuckles. "Oh Baelish¡­ you poor, ignorant bastard¡­ I should feel pity for you, but all of this is making me feel rather good! Burn you? Faster than you deserve I''m afraid. No, I''m going to torture you until I extract every single tidbit of information I''ve missed so far, and then I''m going to keep going until your emaciated husk stops breathing. That''s what I''ll do," he said with a wink.


    Baelish couldn''t restrain the anguished cry that escaped his lips as his heart battered against his chest, his hands almost fumbling with the loaded crossbow on the deck before he gripped it steady and turned around back towards Joffrey.


    Joffrey was right in front of him, his hand moving the tip of the crossbow an inch to his right before Petyr pressed the trigger, the bolt flying harmlessly away into the cold dark night.


    "Let''s begin, shall we?" Joffrey said as a dagger flashed and he lost control of his limbs, falling to the ground in a heap. He screamed for someone, anyone to help him as the Shadow dragged him by the legs back inside the ship, whistling the Rains of Castamere in a terrible, off kilter tone.


    -.PD.-


    The depths of his soul stretched up the purple horizon in the distance, his awareness again returning to the place he''d sough before. He held the empty place with his awareness, bringing it closer to him, trying to understand the missing thing through the shadow the contours formed around it. It was something meant to channel, to kill, to bridge, and sharp, so very sharp he could almost cut himself as he beheld its shadow, his concentration supreme as he tried to understand what they wanted, what he''d been forcefully shaped to receive¡­


    But it was not enough¡­ he needed to get even closer, he needed to forget about his body entirely, transcend it and flood himself with the empty anchor¡­ and there was only one way Joffrey even suspected could work¡­


    He opened his eyes and gazed at the vial of poison in his hand, tilting it so the moonlight flooding the Red Keep''s Godswood illuminated the little vial perfectly.


    Ned already suspected and would likely not be dissuaded¡­ Stannis plotted from Dragonstone as Renly gathered swords from the knights and lords of the tourney¡­ The players readied for war as winter came and the dead shambled and Sansa likely thought him a monster¡­ he didn''t know why the last one bothered him so much¡­


    He gazed at the poison thoughtfully. The tourney was over, he had not been able to get out of bed today until the late afternoon. He had grown tired of the sneers and the intrigue, of the war and the death, of the plans and the hopes¡­ Did that make him a bad person? Did he even care?


    The depressingly hollow miasma that clouded his sight was different from the harrowing despair he''d felt before. There was no angst, no throat squeezing ghost that would sometimes attempt to choke him, no terrible flashbacks of agony. He just felt¡­ empty. As empty as the anchor within him.


    What did he truly have to look forward to? The intrigues of the capital. And after that, the war and Robb and Tywin and Renly and Stannis and Balon and Daenerys and the Walkers¡­ so much to do, so much to do die for. If he ran? He left everyone to die, and the end of the world would catch him once again and throw his soul back into the fray¡­ forever more.


    What happened at the jousting grounds? He wondered. He was starting to crumble into pieces but nothing bad had really happened. Baelish was gone, he wouldn''t bother him any longer. He could build his scouts, he could try to ride out the war, he could confine Ned to the cells and keep him healthy, he could, he could¡­ he could¡­


    He could. But he didn''t want to.


    When did I get so tired? He thought as he leaned back on the Heart Tree, an invisible force begging him to close his eyes.


    Maybe the answers will make me care again¡­ he mused as he gazed back at the vial.


    Maybe the answers will finally kill me¡­ he mused again, tilting it so it was obscured once more.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    ----


    He opened the cork and took it in one fell swoop, swallowing every single drop of the liquid and leaning back on the Heart Tree. He closed his eyes and let himself sink through himself, his awareness delving deep within his soul and reaching for the empty anchor. He studied it for a while, an ominous rumbling rising in intensity as the Purple above seemed to glow more strongly, a rumbling of his very being as pain assaulted him, pain and agony that sought to crush his limbs and his throat, to torture him beyond sense or reason.


    But for the first time, Joffrey didn''t care. It was not the empty denial of madness, nor the courage of defiance. He greeted the pain with a metaphorical grimace, his mind narrowing as he kept gazing at the empty anchor and his soul was flayed by the Purple, intent on making him loose himself in the agony and the pain¡­ but he would not be denied, he would not be blinded. He could feel the Purple''s incomprehensible strength carrying him up and up and up, the Pillars absorbing him and propelling him through an incomprehensible array of twisting structures bigger than anything he had ever felt, bigger than the Hightower, than the Mountains of the Moon. He was carried through something bigger than the eternal horizon of the Grey Beyond, bigger than the night sky and the stars beyond and Joffrey knew that if he dared look he''d be no more, but would it truly be oblivion? Or would it be mere madness?


    He let the temptation slip by with the agony, the assault on his senses so harrowing as to paradoxically clear his mind, no sweet numbness hiding the atrocity being committed to his soul as the natural order of the cosmos was broken in a terrible discordant tune of unreality. Still he gazed at the anchor through soul rending agony, his being pure thought, pure awareness as he felt the contours of the empty space and savored sharpness, as he smelt oldness, as he sensed purpose wrought in magic and blood for petty power and glory, now waiting to be reused, now soon to be scavenged by something far, far greater in breadth and intent than its original creators, to serve as a makeshift, desperate bridge, a tool of death, a tool of creation, a weapon of war, a legacy of his blood, so sharp, sharper than steel, sharp as Valyrian Steel, old and forgotten, a tool to complete his purpose. To complete Joffrey''s purpose. To complete the Purple''s purpose.


    There was no break in his awareness, no dizziness to hide the memories, no hidden transition as the eternal Pillars thrummed and the fractals glowed, no disorientation as the pain screamed and he opened his eyes to the sight of his room in the Red Keep, no vomit as he stood up from his bed and fell to his knees on the cold floor, no doubt as he gazed at his steady hands.


    "Brightroar," he said as he kept looking at both anchors even as he gazed at his hands, illuminated by the morning sun rising from the east and peeking through the window, the tablet materializing over his left hand in a brief twirl of silent fractals as he gazed at it thoughtfully with both sights.


    "They want me to get Brightroar," he mused in soul deep certainty as he looked at the crude caricature inscribed in the tablet.


    -.PD.-

 The Black Princess and the Purple Prince.

Here is a little OMAKE Pic depiction Xover between The Black Princess Alyanna and Purple Days nJoffrey in his quest to climb that Stinkin Mountain...Siblings Omake S?a??h th? N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 36: Skies.

    At LAST! Its done... Might want to strap in for this one folks, its a bit long, as the alert no doubt warned you...-.PD.-


    Chapter 36: Skies.


    The small yacht tumbled through the stormy seas, one incoming wave almost capsizing the small ship as it broke against its hull. The clash unleashed a mighty spray of saltwater that seemed to obscure the ship almost entirely, the lone man at the tiller wiping his pale green eyes as the yacht''s jib was inflated to its maximum extension by the powerful winds. The small ship rode the back of the wave in seconds, quickly gaining speed before the next great wave was upon it and it struggled against the high slope, barely making it to the top before it went downwards again, the man holding the tiller with all his strength as he eyed the fixed compass next to him.


    Joffrey could see the outline of the Valyrian Peninsula steadily becoming larger and larger, the wretched sea around it in perpetual anger as if the Doom still echoed down the ages, large plumes of smoke blotting out the horizon and becoming larger the closer Joffrey got to the mainland.


    He maneuvered the small boat steadily, reading the currents and the force of the waves to judge his approach to the peninsula. Every bit of his skill as a sailor and a navigator was put to the test as he skirted the edges of strange whirlpools and unnatural currents, roaring as he shoved his body weight against the tiller and barely missed a great vortex of water, as if some god had unplugged the bottom of a gigantic Braavosi tub.


    He wondered how many bigger ships had been unable to skirt the strange currents and hazards undamaged, how many ships had been lost to the abyss that was the southern approaches of Valyria. The Eastern and Western approaches were safer for ships, for a given value of the word anyway, but the noxious fumes that seemed to flood the peninsula were at their strongest there¡­


    The waters calmed as Joffrey cleared the worst of the currents, the winds growing less and less pronounced as he neared the jagged, black cliffs of the doomed peninsula. There was barely a wisp of wind as he neared the great black horizon that seemed to stretch high into the air as the city walls of Volantis itself, as if some great giant had cleaved a mountain in half and submerged one piece even as he raised the other higher into the air.


    Joffrey gazed up the black, jagged cliff with a considering look as he threw the yacht''s small anchor down, the ship coming to a stop right beside the great unnatural wall. He took a hold of his climbing rakes and got to work on it, a length of rope tied to his belt as he left his big backpack behind, climbing the near vertical slope of what had once been the middle of the peninsula. The black stone was difficult to work with, and only experience ensured he didn''t tumble down to his death when the rakes slipped.


    He made his way up, grunting with effort every time a rake loosed and he dangled from the cliff. Eventually, he reached the crumbling summit and managed to stand up, gazing at the desolated wasteland beyond.


    He hadn''t known what to expect when he set his mind to the task that had doomed so many other would be explorers, the task that had seen the loss of King Tommen Lannister and Brightroar, the task that had even claimed the life of his great-uncle Gerion. Sometimes he''d imagined Valyria as a sea of ruins and monuments to long forgotten gods, other times he''d envisioned the lost peninsula as a land reclaimed by some sort of twisted nature, like a dark, ashen Sothoryos¡­


    What he saw when he cleared the last boulder on his way was a sight that took his breath away, both lesser and greater than he had imagined. From his feet to the horizon, what had once been the heartland of the Valyrian Empire beckoned. S?a?ch* Th? N0??F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    It was a terrible wasteland of black, jagged rock and dull grey pumice, an ashen desert of unending grounded dust that seemed to whisper with but the slightest breeze. Instead of gently rolling hills, Joffrey found faceted, chiseled outcrops of ancient bedrock jutting up at seemingly random intervals, where he''d expected horrible monsters and stuff of nightmares, he found only unending ash that continued onwards to the horizon, where it formed a great curtain of grey that reached the heavens themselves.


    Joffrey took in the sight for a moment, caught in between horror and awe, stunned by the scorched, mangled wasteland where not even worms could hope to survive. He shook his head after a moment, taking a deep breath before he started walking, one foot at a time, same as he always had.


    -.PD.-


    The climate was oddly still as Joffrey munched on some hardtack, the salty, meaty meal a feast to his ash filled mouth. He was inside a small tent, trying to fight the otherworldly chill that had seemed to invade the blasted wasteland that was Valyria by night. He rubbed his hands against his arms as he thought about his objective¡­ because as unnerving as his surrounding were proving out to be, he had not come to gaze at Old Valyria¡­ he had come to retrieve a family heirloom lost to time and ambition.


    Brightroar, the Valyrian Steel family sword of House Lannister, had been lost when the current head of House, Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock, had taken it along with a great fleet of galleys straight towards ruined Valyria in search of wealth and glory. Neither King nor ship nor sword were ever seen again¡­ and it was that sword that the Purple needed to¡­ do something. It was a missing component in the eldritch thing''s plan, and Joffrey''s most clear lead in a long time, one he''d grabbed with both hands. One thing was certain though, Brightroar might have been created as a weapon, but the shadow within his soul whispered other things¡­ a tool of life and death, a key to slot into the great hole that reached to the core of his soul, a connection¡­


    He was shaken out of his introspection when he noticed the ominous rumbling of the ground, his tent shivering slightly as a distant roaring increased in intensity. Joffrey peeked out of the tent and saw an all-consuming curtain of grey ash and black smoke blanketing the horizon, blanketing the earth itself as the previously stilted winds suddenly increased in intensity to the force of an autumn storm, stronger and stronger until the terribly jagged sand was scalding his face and his eyes, the winds somehow still gaining power and shrieking like a great beast of old myth. The grey curtain advanced steadily across the horizon, straight towards the shore and against Joffrey''s tent.


    He retreated back inside, trying to open his backpack and grabbing a finely woven handkerchief which he promptly soaked in water. He tied it around his mouth and noise as the wind shrieked like a demon, the tent shifting to one side as fabrics strained and Joffrey covered himself in his blanket. The tent finally couldn''t take it anymore as great gashes ruptured it, almost disintegrating once the first gash gave way and unleashed a chain reaction. Soon there was no tent anymore, only Joffrey hugging the scorched earth as everything turned ashen grey, Joffrey barely seeing his hands as the wind deafened him and he coughed, holding both hands close to his mouth and the wet handkerchief. He coughed again and again, each time more strongly as the smoke turned overwhelming, a sickly, warm thing which flooded his lungs, his eyes, everything turning black and grey as he coughed and coughed and coughed until the handkerchief was swept with the wind and Joffrey tumbled lightly against the ground, the wind dragging him even as he grabbed his throat and tried to breath, only for a strangled, whining sound to come out instead.


    No, he thought as he managed to grab a hold of the ground, dragging himself upright and stumbling towards his backpack. It felt as if he were pushing against a Leviathan, but he was soon on his knees again, not a smidgen of air entering his lungs as he gaped and shook, dragging himself forward even as streaks of purple flooded him and he was consumed.


    -.PD.-


    Everyone but the purple prince takes a step to the right¡­ does that mean everyone moves on but I remain here, trapped, unable to truly die? He mused, looking at the constellations.


    No, he''d discarded double meanings from his musings a while ago, they seemed too complex, too easy for the true meaning to be misinterpreted. If Joffrey knew one thing from the mysterious beings behind it all, was that they wanted him to understand, wanted it fervently¡­ The constellations held the real message, and the riddle was merely the key they''d left so someone else who knew the westerosi tongue couldn''t crack it completely. It was a message for him only, and he felt the answer should be so bloody obvious¡­ try as he might though, he couldn''t crack it. There was not enough information to align a simple substitution code, and it was too short to try Maester Klin''s comparative equations¡­ he''d been reduced to the most obscure of cyphers and decryption methods known to the Citadel, with no luck so far. He couldn''t shake off the feeling he was overthinking it however¡­ the constellations held the answer somehow¡­


    He took a deep breath as he stood back up, his resting time over as he climbed the small room''s great closet, placing his legs securely on its top before leaning backwards in a hanging position. He started repeating the same repetitive movement, quickly raising before falling down again. After so many lives of getting back to shape, Joffrey knew his body like a Maester knew his chain. He knew exactly what to do and when, how to turn the body of the weakling, idiotic man child Prince Joffrey into something that was vaguely respectable without killing himself in the process.


    He was focused, his entire being aligned on a single goal, his stubbornness on finding his answers serving as an adequate bulwark against the despondent, black pit that did its level best on ensuring he didn''t leave his bed every morning. He had the sinking suspicion that once those answers were found all would come tumbling down¡­ even now he could feel his motivation on finding his answers being slowly, oh so slowly chipped away every time he woke up and stared at the veiled disdain in Sandor''s eyes, at the simpering flattery of the courtiers, at the dull repetition of the Red Keep''s day to day routine as everyone kept dancing to the strings of fate. His burning curiosity, his all-consuming desire to know what he was, the thing that had carried him so far¡­


    To see it being slowly grounded down seemed almost heretical to Joffrey, as if he were starting to become less and less of a person and more a¡­ some kind of machine, a mill spinning endlessly against the rivers or the air, a cog that did nothing but spin and spin and spin¡­


    He reached a hundred repetitions as he suddenly shouted, giving voice to his amorphous frustration as he stayed still, hanging down from the closet and looking upside down at the small, abandoned room he''d commandeered as his lair in the Red Keep.


    He stayed there for a moment before the door opened to the sight of Uncle Tyrion, goblet in hand.


    Hmm, his quarters are not too far away from here, must have been on his way to Chatayas'', thought Joffrey as he left his arms to hang, looking at the upside down form of his favorite uncle.


    Tyrion looked nonplussed as he eyed the shirtless Joffrey, debating inside his head whether or not he should keep walking. "Didn''t know you fancied a new room nephew," he finally called out, looking at the heap of opened books and wall sized drawings of constellations, the old plate armor stashed by the corner and even a few colorful pieces of canvass tossed around the room.


    "Needed a place with peace and quiet Uncle. You off to Chatayas''?," he asked him as he grabbed the mace he''d left at the closet''s top, now repeating his exercise again but this time holding the mace with both hands and giving a quick jab in a random direction every time he returned to the stretched position.


    "¡­ maybe. Yes," Tyrion said distractedly, looking at his nephew. "¡­What are you doing?" he asked him.


    "Getting my body back in shape as fast as I can, it''s a chore but always well worth it," he said as he kept repeating the exercise, changing hands and now jabbing at imaginary, upside down enemies to his left.


    "Getting back in shape for what exactly?" asked Tyrion as he decided on finally entering the room, his curiosity already piqued as he closed the door behind him. He''d never seen his nephew quite this concentrated¡­ and quite as uncannily alien as he felt right now, hanging from atop a closet and moving every part of his body as he twirled with a one handed mace, an open book below him almost as if he could read a bit of it after each repetition, if such a thing were of course possible.


    "For Valyria. I''m going to go fetch Brightroar, if I can dig it from the mountain of ash its most likely buried under that is¡­" he said with the resigned air of a man contemplating a time absorbing chore to come.


    Tyrion stood still for a moment before a small chuckle emerged from his lips, the little bastard had played him well. Tyrion was not too disappointed with himself, after all, elaborate jokes had never been Joffrey''s focus, so he was forgiven for not anticipating that one. "Right, and the hammer is for heroically fighting the sphinxes guarding the palaces, I suppose?" he said with an amused smirk.


    "What palaces? Damn thing''s a barren wasteland, can''t believe it''s been a magnet for power and wealth hungry fools for hundreds of years now¡­ I''ll be sure to write you if I find any though," Joffrey said as he kept pumping up and down.


    Tyrion raised his eyebrows as took a sip from his goblet, "Not charging out to glory just yet then?" he said, following his game.


    "Nah, I''m going to the Citadel two days from now to try and shake Archmaester Benedict''s head until some sort of breathing apparatus comes out his ear¡­ basic Westerlands miner''s gear is not going to cut it," he said as he stopped for a moment, turning to gaze at Tyrion for a moment. He tossed the mace at the pile of sheets and blankets before he raised himself one more time, grabbing the top of the closet before letting his legs lose their grip, the falling inertia making him spin in midair before landing on the floor. "I have some sketches already, but I could use your head for this, Uncle. Ash and dust can be stopped by compressed feathers, but the noxious, volcanic fumes are more complicated. What do you say, fancy a tour to the Citadel?" he asked him as he dried the sweat with a towel.


    "¡­ You''re serious¡­" Tyrion realized in mild shock as Joffrey put on a simple white shirt before strapping a dagger to his hip. He gazed at the intricate sketches of full face masks and air tight tubes that lay sprawled around the room, the carbon drawn lines smooth and purposeful as an Archmaester''s sketch of the human body.


    "Dead serious Uncle," said Joffrey as he popped his neck from side to side.


    -.PD.-


    And so Tyrion was somehow swept in a wild, strange adventure that brought him, Joffrey and the Hound to ancient Oldtown itself, home to the Citadel and the legendary Hightower. What had at first begun as a way to keep his nephew from killing himself and avoiding the stresses of the Capital, had turned into a dizzying race of horses and dirt roads and fevered discussions of ideas and materials.


    When they had finally reached the city, Joffrey had gone straight to the Citadel and Archmaester Benedict, whose rod and mask were pure steel. Joffrey had known exactly how to communicate with the at first reticent Archmaester of forging and smithing, and soon Tyrion had found himself in a dense discussion of such and such material''s strength and the crazed diagrams of two experts with too much to do and not enough time to talk about it. He''d been way out of his depth, contributing what sane, common sense advice he could to the Archmaester and the spirit that had possessed Joffrey.


    At first he''d been humoring him, and then he''d been making use of the opportunity to get out of the capital and the intrigues that had been thrown in wild disarray after Petyr Baelish had been found in his bed with his throat slit. By now though, Tyrion was just trying to make sense of the whole thing, watching as Joffrey crafted himself a set of climbing rakes and otherwise equipped himself with a sundry array of tools and ropes and equipment.


    "Why are you doing this, Joffrey? It''s not fame nor wealth¡­ but what?" he''d suddenly asked him one day in incomprehension.


    "I''ve got to get Brightroar Uncle, I just have to," he''d told him with bone deep certainty.


    "Uncle Gerion said the same before sailing to Valyria as well... He preferred to speak of the prestige and honor it would bring back to House Lannister though¡­" Tyrion had mused out loud as his eyes were suddenly lost in recollection.


    "You two were close," Joffrey had said, more of a statement than a question.


    "Yes, Gerion was¡­ different from Tywin and Kevan. He took a more¡­ relaxed I suppose, approach to life than either of his brothers," he''d said.


    "Wise man," had said Joffrey, "The pair of them must have been rather jealous, having a brother without a stick up his ass," he''d delivered with aplomb.


    Tyrion had cracked up, tears almost leaping out his eyes in mirth, "I suppose so, the nanny must have run out of sticks by the time Gerion traipsed out of grandmother''s womb, that''s for certain," he''d said in between laughs.


    Perhaps his biggest discovery had been the fact that this new Joffrey was a delight to have around. Witty, smart, charismatic when he was arsed to try, a great conversationalist and genuine, good person. The last had been somewhat of a rarity back in King''s Landing¡­ and the world in general really. Despite it all though, the force that had transformed his nephew had left him somewhat melancholic, prone to heavy silences and an almost hollow brooding. Occasionally, Joffrey would not come down from his room at the inn until lunch time. He''d claim he''d been oversleeping, though the bags under his eyes and the occasional harrowing screams in the middle of the night seemed to kill that little white lie before it was even born. When questioned, Joffrey had simply looked at him over his cup of exotic, distastefully strong tea, blinking before a small, wan smile peeked out.


    "It''s complicated," he''d said before taking a big gulp of the strong tea.


    The afternoons were the time when Joffrey really came alive though, his seemingly suicidal quest taking him and not letting go. He''d tinker with the Archmaesters, consult books, lore and more besides¡­ strangest of all perhaps, despite the mysticism and the smithing, was the trading. He''d sometimes spot a ''good'' deal in the harbor, and the day later the small bag of coins he''d carry around would double in size.


    "Time¡­ it all boils down to time, Tyrion," He''d said with surprising passion when asked, over a late night dinner with Sandor and himself, the fine Arbor Gold going down like apple juice down their throats.


    "One would think gold is what it''s all about, being merchants and all," the Hound had said with a disbelieving snort.


    "You''d think that!" Joffrey had jumped, his eyes wide and his smile smug. "I thought that too at first. Gods, it took me a while to get that¡­ so complicated and yet so simple¡­ It doesn''t matter if you could get a deal twice the better if it takes thrice as long. Harbor fees have to be paid, watchmen bribed, ships maintained¡­ but it goes even further than that. The time you spend selling that cargo for the perfect price is time you could have spent bringing forth another batch, or doing anything else to your benefit¡­ this applies to everything, not just ships and ports, but the grain trade, the smallfolk''s labor, even war¡­ Time is the universal currency, shared by all who follow its stricture; time is gold, pure and simple," He''d said with his by now usual clarity¡­ when devoid of mysticism that is.


    Tyrion was not completely lost, after all he was an avid reader himself and the concept was not revolutionary. He suspected though that never before had a prince of the realm known such a truth so intrinsically, so instinctively.


    "I suppose that makes me the wealthiest man in the planet," he''d bitterly whispered almost too low for Tyrion to hear, as if it were a curse. The mystery deepened.


    "So you sell them time?" had asked Sandor with the face of a man humoring an imbecile.


    "Eh¡­ yeah, kind of. Though I suppose it would be better to say that I buy their uncertainty," Joffrey had told him.


    Sandor had just stared at Joffrey.


    "I think you broke him," Tyrion had told him as he poked Sandor''s non burnt cheek.


    "Get your hands off me!" He''d barked as he shoved it away, the slight smile betraying the gruff exterior.


    Joffrey had looked almost teary eyed, before he quickly recomposed himself. The Hound hadn''t seemed to notice though, taking a big bite out of the pork chop they had been served. "Give me good solid steel and I''ll show you what the universal currency is," he''d said sagely.


    "No argument there," Tyrion had agreed.


    "Copper," Joffrey had muttered, so low Tyrion didn''t think he had meant to be heard.


    "Hm?" Sandor had asked as was his wont.


    "It should be Copper," Joffrey had said, taking a deep gulp from his cup of Arbor Gold before taking his leave.


    "¡­ you think he''s really going to do it?" Sandor had suddenly asked, intense.


    "I think he will," Tyrion had told him.


    There was silence as they thought about that, the gentle light of the Hightower flickering in the distance through the inn''s small windows.


    -.PD.-


    Tyrion woke up to the sight of the Hound''s burnt face screaming in his ear.


    He could already tell this was going to be an interesting day.


    "What did he do?" Tyrion mumbled as he got up.


    "Going to get himself killed, left us a letter though!" The Hound thundered, saying the last as if it were a curse.


    Sandor was already rushing down the stairs as Tyrion waddled after him, trying to tie the last of his clothes before he spotted him sprinting out of the tavern, straight towards the harbor.


    Instead of running after him and loosing what little was left of his dignity, Tyrion instead turned around and left through the backdoor, getting a bucket and using it as a step to mount his horse. He sped for the harbor quickly, to the sight of Sandor blocking the Prince from a cog''s boarding ramp.


    "This has gone long enough Joffrey, I''m not going to let you kill yourself," he declared, brooking no disagreement.


    Joffrey smiled at the mention of his name, "Sandor, if I wanted to kill myself there''s nothing you could do to stop it¡­ please just take the gold I left you, live a good life somewhere south, Lys or Tyrosh maybe, Tywin won''t-"


    "To hell with your fucking bribe! And to hell with fucking Tywin! I''m not going to let you die over a fucking sword!" he''d spat, red faced as he advanced on Joffrey with both hands.


    Joffrey somehow twisted away, sweeping Sandor''s legs from him. The Hound lay there in the ground, nonplussed as a crowd formed around them, the cog''s crewmen grabbing clubs as they made towards the plank.


    "Keep working," Joffrey commanded as he walked towards the plank. He was about to say something else when the Hound, already up and moving, grabbed him from behind. Joffrey gave him a face full of elbow, swiftly followed by a blow right at the Hound''s left hand, making Sandor release him. He was not going to let him go so easily though, as he grabbed him again and threw Joffrey against the hard cobblestones. Joffrey recovered as he tumbled, and Tyrion could only look on horrified as who he suddenly realized where his best friends charged each other in pure anger. The Hound slammed a fist against Joffrey''s face, making him tumble back before he jabbed Sandor two times in the chest and a third in the jaw, making him fall back down.


    "Sandor, stop, please," he said staring him down.


    Clegane looked at him for a moment before standing up, looking defeated.


    "Thank you-" started Joffrey before a fistful of sand crashed against his face, swiftly followed by a sucker punch that left him spluttering on the ground as Sandor bodily grabbed him like a sack of potatoes and tried to carry him off. Joffrey twisted his legs in midair, working the inertia to make them both tumble to the ground in a heap. They started hitting each other as Tyrion finally had enough and reared his horse right at their sides.


    "THAT''S ENOUGH!" He roared, his small frame incongruous with the power behind the shout. Both of them looked at him as he dismounted and waddled towards the ship, "I''m going with you, my crazy nephew," he declared as he strode up the plank as if he owned it, the sailors shuffling away as they stared at him warily.


    "You too, stupid Imp?! That sword worth your life too-" started the Hound only to be interrupted by Tyrion.


    "I DON''T CARE ABOUT THE GODSDAMNED SWORD!" he roared back from the ship, "I''ll go make certain Tommen and Myrcella grow up with a loving brother!" he spat, something shining in his eyes, "And maybe find Nuncle Gerion''s body, bury him below Casterly Rock¡­ Gods know he deserves it, truer Lannister than both his brothers combined," he said as he shook his head, walking towards the cabin.


    Joffrey and Sandor stayed still, still looking at the ship as they lay there, vaguely knotted together.


    "¡­ I can''t just tell him no I suppose¡­"Joffrey muttered.


    "Why not, hypocrites are nothing new in Westeros," said Sandor.


    They stayed still for a few more seconds before there was a silent agreement to mutually disentangle themselves.


    "Wine?" asked Joffrey.


    "Please," the Hound said, thinking. If he couldn''t stop the crazy idiot then by the Gods he was going to see this whole thing through.


    Joffrey dusted himself off before handing him the wineskin.


    "Who taught you to fight like that?" he asked before taking a gulp. Incredible as it sounded, the damn kid was good, and not above dirty tricks. He approved.


    "You," said Joffrey, taking a step to the side as Sandor spat and a shower of precious Arbor Gold rained over the cobblestones.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey smiled lightly as he lowered his far eye, the green coast of Sothoryos coming steadily closer as he shouted at the helmsman, correcting their approach. He stood at the cog''s bow, the ship at his back a hive of activity.


    "Sothoryos¡­ Why visit only one place of certain death when you can visit two!" Tyrion exclaimed from beside him.


    "Sorry uncle, but it''s the only place one can get Sothori Cotton¡­ it''s kind of there in the name, I''m sure you''ll get it," Joffrey said cheekily.


    "We should visit the Thousand Islands after Valyria, sing a song with the fucking cannibal frogmen, why not?" mused Sandor, taking it all in stride with a vague ''why the fuck not'' attitude.


    He''d gotten like that past Naath.


    "Feathers, pre heated charcoal, now Sothori Cotton¡­ I''ll be surprised if you can breathe anything at all after all those layers," said Tyrion with a raised eyebrow.


    "That''s the idea," Joffrey said before turning back, "HELMSMAN! FIVE DEGREES PORT!" he roared.


    Tyrion watched the display of expert seamanship in silence, watching Sothoryos steadily consume the horizon in deep green before he spoke once more. "What will you be needing next Nephew? Some Levaiathan''s from Ibb mayhaps?" he asked him.


    Joffrey actually looked considering as he tilted his head, "Leviathans..? Nah, too big¡­ I''ll need some pigs though, or rather their bladders," he said.


    "Do I even want to ask?" said Tyrion.


    "Air containers for emergencies¡­ only problem is they keep popping after a vaguely useful amount of air is pumped in," he said as he shook his head.


    "Valves giving you trouble?" asked Tyrion. He remembered seeing him and the Archmaester pouring over that particular diagram for days¡­ it had looked durable to him though, and a rather ingenious device.


    "No, it''s the material itself. I need some kind of reinforcing agent that''s able to stretch along with it and not break apart in the process¡­ No luck so far though," he said as he raised the far eye again.


    They spent a while in silence, the southern, warm waters of the Summer Sea making Tyrion yawn.


    "¡­ I could help with that," Sandor said all of a sudden.


    Both of them stared at Sandor in mild surprise, waiting for him to spit it out.


    "¡­ It''s a poultice¡­ smells disgusting¡­" he said as he stared at them, "Should do the trick after a bit of work though¡­" he trailed off.


    Joffrey was possessed by burning curiosity, but didn''t ask¡­ showing respect to his friends made him feel a little more whole these days.


    "Mighty'' Warrior!!! It''s fucking huge!" bellowed the man atop the spotter''s nest.


    Joffrey scanned the coast with his far eye and quickly found the cause of the sailor''s distress, a huge monstrosity of green scales and claws, moving on four legs. Joffrey lowered the far eye and blinked, still able to see it.


    "That''s it for the cotton then?" Tyrion asked, feeling faint.


    "What?!" Joffrey spluttered, then laughed, "Uncle, don''t be ridiculous, it''s harmless!" he said in exasperation and not a smidgen of sarcasm as he turned around and ordered the crew to lower the cutter.


    "Well, so slow as to be harmless anyway, clumsy, bumbling buildings that they are," he amended with a wistful smile, "Stupid too, can''t understand the difference between a staked pit and a leafy tree¡­ makes a mighty stew though," he said almost to himself, licking his lips. "You know uncle? Maybe we could eat one tonight, supplies are low anyway," he said in sudden realization as he turned back.


    He blinked owlishly at the ogling crew of the Yellow Streak, the frenzy of activity gone.


    "¡­ What the fuck are you waiting for!? Klens, lower that boat! Helmsman, steady does it! And somebody rig that foresail!" he roared, the crew startling back into action.


    The stew was delicious, Tyrion gave his crazy nephew that at least.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey had thought about visiting Lys, Tyrion learned, but in the end decided it was too much of a hassle for the unlikely prospect of a better ship and crew. Tyrion didn''t know who the hells Nakaro Faenys was, but his ship and crew had long sailed by now and could be as far away as Braavos right now, according to Joffrey''s¡­ prophecies, for the lack of a better name.


    "So you were not thinking about bedding a fair woman one last time?" Tyrion had asked him, rather disappointed with the final decision. The prospect of one or two dozen Lyseni beauties waving tearful goodbyes as he sailed towards certain oblivion appealed to Tyrion.


    "Hah! Not a bad idea Tyrion¡­" He''d trailed off, looking at the floor in mild disgust all of a sudden.


    "Hey, it''s not the floor''s fault!" Tyrion had told him. "Good, solid wood, don''t heap this on it," he''d said seriously.


    That had served to crack him up, though the same melancholic air hanged about him as he hugged Tyrion.


    "Thank you uncle," he''d said with a heartfelt smile.


    Confused as he was, Tyrion did not hear any screams from Joffrey''s bed that night at least.


    -.PD.-


    The passage through the Valyrian peninsula''s southern approaches had almost cost them their crew and their life. Joffrey had practically nailed himself to the ship''s bow, calling out corrections and maneuvers with supreme attention. The water churned and raged, an eddy of wild currents that sought to rip their ship apart as Joffrey navigated his way around a million hazards that turned the southern approaches into a veritable maze of death. The Western approaches were easier to sail, but carried one directly to the Smoking Sea and a slightly more certain death¡­


    They knew it could be done, after all, that had been King Tommen''s original route before no one saw him and his fleet again. Joffrey had been almost prescient, as if he''d already scouted the route, guiding him through the currents and the waters. His instructions had to be obeyed without hesitation by the Helmsman, instantly and with no doubt, for even a second''s delay could mean their doom. Such had been Joffrey''s insistence on this that he''d placed the Hound with an unsheathed dagger right behind the poor man, with instructions to cut him slightly if he delayed.


    Tyrion had to fast talk his way out of no less than three distinct mutiny attempts, only the promises of hideous torture, mountains of gold and even lordships managed to halt them, along with the Hound''s full plate and longsword staring menacingly from beside the Helmsman.


    Tyrion supposed the snug cloak Joffrey had fashioned out of that Sothori thing had also played a part in his intimidation tactics. Talk of mutiny made their captain irritated.


    He had not been irritated when he brought down a monster the size of the Red Keep''s gatehouse with a saber, a bow and a shallow ditch. No. He''d been having fun.


    And so they sailed past the corridor of death, and soon the winds mysteriously gave way to unnatural stillness. Joffrey had been, unsurprisingly, prepared for this too. He ordered out the oars he''d commissioned in Oldtown, and the crew made haste to fit them in the loops specially made for this occasion¡­ and so they sailed. Awkwardly and gracelessly, like any cog sporting oars, but sail they did.


    It was only here that Joffrey seemed to pick up more interest in their surroundings, the huge, fractured wall of black rock and pumice that seemed to emerge directly from the sea and up towards the sky seemingly not enough to get his attention at first.


    Tyrion personally thought he was taking all this rather well, for a man all but doomed to die¡­ in fact, he was beginning to feel quite the adventurer, and the jolt of excitement that travelled through his being was redoubled when they started seeing shipwrecks around them.


    Joffrey''s careful eyes steered them clear of sunken, jagged rocks of incredible hardness, the tallest of them crowned by cogs and galleys of ancient times, graves to those who sought Valyria and failed. Some of them seemed older than others, and it was not long since they started seeing old fashioned galleys with distinctly Westerosi styles, some of them sporting roaring lions that seemed all but rotten, or fading twirls of gold along their masts.


    Soon, as days gave to nights and rowers ate and rested, they began to appear everywhere. As the seabed below grew more and more uneven and jagged, so did more and more ships appear from the thin mists around them. It seemed they had found Tommen''s treasure fleet¡­ or rather its graveyard. Great war galleys lay split apart or torn asunder, rotten and blackened by the passage of the ages, with nothing inside but dust and bones.


    The Yellow Streak hugged the coast as much as it could, trying to find any sort of beach where Tommen''s flagship could have landed, but all they could see was more and more of the eternal black wall. Tyrion thought there was a good chance Brightroar was in the bottom of the ocean right now, because for every ship they saw now there must have been a dozen more in the depths¡­ and King Tommen''s flagship''s bigger size must have made it unwieldy¡­ a death sentence in these waters.


    Joffrey thought seemed sure the sword was somewhere accessible, not even bothering to sleep as they neared what the old, pre Doom maps of the peninsula labeled as ''Vhagar''s Valley''¡­ a valley not too far away from Old Valyria proper filled with agricultural estates, and by Joffrey''s reckoning a likely candidate for a post Doom sunny beach¡­ a descent enough harbor given their surroundings and perhaps smooth enough to climb without gear, and near enough the City that Tommen must have been drawn there like a moth to a flame.


    Joffrey had apparently earned his Geology link at the Citadel too, because why not?


    I any case, his nephew''s guesswork paid off immensely when they sailed into the newly renamed ''Vhagar''s Bay'', a great harbor filled with a mishmash of jagged black rock as well as smoother, grey hills. And just where the water ended and gave way to a steadily rising slope lay The Goldray, the ruined, rotten hulk that used to be King Tommen Lannister''s flagship.


    -.PD.-


    "Nothing but dust and¡­ shit, there''s not even maggots here¡­ even the flies are smart enough to stay the hell away," said Sandor as he ripped a hatch apart with a small hand axe, peering at the dank hold with a torch.


    Joffrey was busy searching the Captain''s cabin, and only finding rot and filth. "Keep looking Sandor! Valyrian Steel doesn''t just rust!" he called out.


    Tyrion was walking around the beached hull''s exterior, feeling it with a gloved hand as he lost himself in reverie.


    "Tyrion! Found something?!" Joffrey shouted as he cleared a hallway, peering at the imp below from a hole in the rotten hull.


    "Nothing but two dozen cairns a bit upslope, each next to the other in groups of seven," he said as he shook himself off.


    "Graves¡­ any one fancier than the rest?" called out the Hound as he jumped from another hole, his hard boots sinking a bit in the wet, gravelly pumice before he managed to walk away from the waterline.


    "They all looked the same to me," said Tyrion as he sat down.


    "This thing must have sported more than two hundred crewmembers¡­ no way in hells they all fit in two dozen cairns¡­ plus, who buried them?" Joffrey said as he appeared over the top deck.


    "The survivors could have boarded one of the escorts and tried to sail back," Tyrion mused.


    "After the hell they just went through? And come back empty handed assuming they survived the way back? Come on uncle, you know us Lannisters, what would you have done in Tommen''s place," Joffrey asked him before sliding down the length of rope they had tied to the hull.


    "Press onwards, see something before I die or we''re forced back," he mused out loud.


    "I think so too, and from here to Old Valyria shouldn''t take too long, maybe two weeks on foot assuming the slopes level out a bit¡­ and Volantene records show the Goldray alone was carrying three months'' worth of supplies for its entire crew¡­ crates and urns that are nowhere to be found right now¡­" said Joffrey.


    "Because they took em with them," said Sandor, taking a small gulp from his wineskin.


    "Only one way to be sure," said Joffrey as he sat next to them.


    They spent a while in silence, eating their midday meal as Tyrion gazed at the anchored Yellow Streak in the middle of the bay.


    "How long do you reckon they''ll last?" he suddenly asked.


    "Two days," huffed the Hound.


    "More like none," said Joffrey with an amused smile as he pointed at the rising anchor with his finger, gazing at the ship as it lowered oars and started to leave the harbor.


    "¡­ Can''t say that was unexpected," Tyrion said as he watched them go.


    "I told them to leave," Joffrey confessed, unashamed as he sat down and got a bit of hard tack from his backpack.


    "You told them?!" Tyrion said in disbelief.


    "Never give an order you know won''t be obeyed. Besides, if they stayed too long they might have gotten greedy and looted our only chance of survival," he said as aimed at the small, one masted sailing yacht that had carried them ashore, filled to the brim with supplies.


    The Hound grunted approval, and Joffrey smiled.


    "You have it all figured out huh¡­" Tyrion mused.


    "Well, up to this point anyway," he said with an innocent shrug.


    "Oh," Tyrion said as he looked at the great slope. "Should be interesting," he added.


    "That''s the spirit! The Broken Knight spirit!" Joffrey suddenly said with an admiring smile.


    "The what now?" asked Sandor.


    -.PD.-


    They traversed through what remained of the valley, clearing outcrops and jagged boulders that blocked their way through the slope. Soon, Joffrey was once again in sight of the vast, ashen horizon with nothing but blackened ground to tread upon, a flat plain of black, brittle rocks that snapped loudly when stepped upon. They walked for hours, days with no other sound but the brittle cracks under their feet. Joffrey imagined the Seven Hells, if such a small minded and human centric concept had ever existed, may have looked like this¡­ for it was not horror that drove the soul to despair, it was the absence of it and everything else.


    He knew.


    Still, no hells could have had such fine a company, and although the Broken Knights were missing a bastard and a wolf, Joffrey still found immense pleasure in simply talking the nights away, their meager campfires of scavenged wood giving a bit of solace and color to the blighted landscape. The imp''s wit was a constant salve on his frayed nerves, and a useful resource when confronted by the unexpected. Sandor''s rare, approving nods were a delightful dessert to his soul, and his incredible strength helped both in emergencies and in speeding up the moving of their base camp. His backpack was the biggest by far.


    Joffrey had been whistling a sailor''s tune, scouting ahead a bit before suddenly stopping.


    He gazed intently at the dark grey horizon and realized it was moving.


    "TYRION! SANDOR! MASKS NOW!!!" he roared as he raced back down the small hill of aged black rock.


    They didn''t need further prompting as they started to get the unwieldy masks out of their backpacks, Joffrey already securing his as he braced against the rock. "Over here! Brace damn you!" he screamed as he fitted the filter and his vision was reduced to two small glass windows the size of his thumb.


    His breathing sounded heavy as Sandor bodily carried Tyrion through the last steps, reaching the small overhang Joffrey had taken refuge under. "Hang tight and hold on!" Joffrey shouted as the wind screamed and the sun slowly began to dim, his voice sounding strange under the mask.


    The horizon slammed into them with the fury of a hundred storms, bits of rock chipping away as the sheer backdraft of the speeding winds made small whirlwinds along their side, picking up smaller rocks and unsecured gear. Darkness descended upon them as the sun was completely blotted out by the dark clouds, the air tasting warm to Joffrey''s mouth as each time he had to breathe harder for air to reach him. The wind almost seemed to pick him up, but the Hound held him steady with one hand, the wind shrieking like the screams of the damned... After everything Joffrey had seen, they might as well be just that.


    The three of them braced closely, the black smoke reducing visibility to nothing and staining his glass, and the only way he had of knowing he was still alive was the Hound''s bulk, holding him tightly.


    They passed what seemed like hours there, only for the wind to suddenly reverse directions, the black wind going back the way it came from.


    When it was over, Joffrey took off the mask and breathed in hard, coughing before doing it again. He slapped the Hound''s back in heartfelt gratitude, the gruff dog shaking it off with a snort.


    Tyrion however, lay still.


    "¡­Uncle? Tyrion?!" shouted Joffrey as he turned him around, ripping his bent mask off and freezing for a second at the pale hue of his face.


    "Hang on!" he shouted before he breathed air into his uncle''s lungs, followed by a frantic heart massage the Maester''s of the Citadel called the Sustained Breath, learned from the priests of the Drowned God many centuries before Aegon''s Conquest.


    He kept breathing and pumping his uncle''s smallish chest, leaning his ear close to his mouth and trying to shush his frantic heart.


    He heard him breathe, slowly but surely. He collapsed on his back, wiping the sweat of his forehead as Sandor tossed him the wineskin.


    "He''s alive," he said as he leaned over and heard him breathe, vaguely surprised.


    "So¡­ it ¡­ seems¡­" mouthed Tyrion as he struggled to get up, coughing wildly and holding his head as Sandor helped him the rest of the way.


    "Must be the luckiest imp in the blasted world," Sandor said with a relieved smirk.


    "Well¡­ I''ve always wanted¡­ to glimpse what''s on the other side¡­" he said in between breaths, trying to smile as Joffrey passed him the now half empty wineskin.


    "Saw anything Purple?" he suddenly asked, looking at Tyrion intensely in mixed dread and hope.


    "Purple? No, only fading blackness I''m afraid¡­" Tyrion said as he shook his head. "Should be purple though, much prettier color," he ended with a half-smile.


    "I suppose¡­" Joffrey trailed off, peeking to look at the steadily receding grey-black horizon.


    "Right, that''s enough whimpering! Need to find a good place before its night again," said Sandor as he stood up, shaking them off their respective musings.


    Sometimes, that was all one needed.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey was laughing at the antics of his Broken Knights, Jon and Tyrion playing a silly little game with Ghost, seeing who could make the direwolf sprint faster as they threw a bone down the small study they had taken for themselves, almost at the top of the Dawn Fort''s Bastion District. Joffrey shook his head fondly as he returned to the constellation he was studying, that of a simple man, standing alone. He didn''t know what bothered him so much about it, and as he tried to find out the figure slowly began to disappear from the book, slowly turning immaterial before Joffrey''s own eyes.


    "Guys, look at this!" He shouted as he gazed up, but Sandor, Tyrion and Jon were looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. Tyrion looked at him in deep disappointment as Sandor stared in silent disgust, while Jon looked at him as if he were some unknown beast that had just neared the campfire.


    "Sandor? Jon, Tyrion, Wha- What''s going on?" he asked them in mounting despair as they turned their backs on him.


    "Wait!" Joffrey pleaded in desperation as he grabbed Jon''s shoulder and turned him around.


    "Kill him," Jon commanded as he looked at him, blood flowing down his mouth.


    Joffrey turned around to the sight of a monstrous Ghost turned wight, jumping at his throat with a snarl in a blur of cold blue eyes.


    Joffrey opened his eyes, a silent scream dying inside his throat as he gazed at the half hidden stars beyond the ceiling of black smoke that blanketed the sky. He slowly sat up, looking around the small outcrop they''d taken refuge amongst the black wastes of Valyria. Sandor was sleeping at his side, while Tyrion kept watch over the horizon. When his uncle turned back to look at him, Joffrey was half confused to find no wary distance nor disappointed disgust. He was so disoriented for a moment that he thought the Purple had gotten dizzy as well and had started to fragment his reality.


    "It''s a bit early for the shift yet. You should try to get a bit more sleep nephew," he said as he stretched and yawned, looking a bit concerned.


    "It''s okay Tyrion," He rasped, touched by the concern evident in his voice. He coughed a bit so he could speak better, looking at the black horizon. "What do you think await us there?" he asked him.


    "At first, monsters out of my worst nightmares¡­ but I''m sure you''ll have a word with those if they dare show around," he finished with a fond smile as he gazed at Joffrey''s bow. He hadn''t even realized he was holding it already, and dropped it with a sheepish smile. The small composite bow had turned into another nightly companion as far as Joffrey was concerned.


    "Then I thought more riches and wonders than I could dream of, until¡­ well, this," he said, gesturing at the black wasteland.


    "It does rather put a damper on the whole ''glorious adventure'' part implicit to raiding Valyria¡­" Joffrey mused.


    "Think how King Tommen must have felt, wasting the brightest and boldest of the Westerlands for this¡­ plus his whole fleet," said Tyrion, still looking at the horizon.


    They stayed quiet for a while, before Joffrey spoke, "Do you think we''ll find Gerion out there?" he asked him.


    "Sometimes I find myself hoping not to," the Imp surprised him as he turned to face him.


    "Why?" Joffrey asked.


    "Can''t imagine him living a happy life away from Tywin and the rest if I find his body," he said with a sad smile.


    "I suppose so," Joffrey said, thinking. "What was he like?" he suddenly asked, hungry to further get to know another decent Lannister. Tyrion liked to talk about him sometimes, though never for too long.


    "Foolish," Tyrion said simply, as if it were a complement.


    "¡­How so?" Joffrey asked.


    "He was quite impulsive and didn''t have a smidgen of self-preservation," he said fondly.


    "I suppose that''s quite obvious, what with Valyria and all," Joffrey said.


    "Indeed, he lived his life as he saw fit, and didn''t mind losing if it was well lived," Tyrion said, somewhat admiringly. "He was always quick with a joke or a jape, a story or a song. He had a penchant to make others laugh¡­" he trailed off.


    "Well, now I know where it comes from," Joffrey said with a smile, looking at his uncle.


    "What? Me? Please, I am but a simple novice in front of a Grandmaester, compared to him," said Tyrion, completely serious.


    "Oh? Well, he must have been good then. Make Sandor laugh good," Joffrey teased.


    Tyrion chuckled slightly, before shaking his head, "He could have made The Mountain laugh," he said with a snort.


    "I''m going to take a nap, if you don''t mind," he said after a while, laying down on the small blankets.


    "Don''t mind at all," Joffrey said with a slight smile, looking at the horizon. His friends didn''t remember him, but now they knew him again. He was not alone.


    He kept repeating himself that as he grasped the bow again, eyes steady on the horizon, aware of monsters and smokestorms that may be prowling nearby, intent on snatching everything he held dear.


    -.PD.-


    The rest of the week was devoid of further smokestorms, their pace uninterrupted over the long, desert like plains of charred stone and pumice, the horizon and Joffrey''s compass the only things that ensured they didn''t lose their way. The sun blasted them with heat every day, and the cursed ground released more of it by night¡­ they knew they were in the correct direction, as every day they spotted a couple of manmade stone cairns, unmistakable in the distance. Likely victims of exhaustion or starvation along the march to Old Valyria, perhaps. Joffrey doubted the smokestorms had killed them, because in that case they''d just find a whole lot of skeletons and no cairns at all.


    Joffrey guessed they were four days away from Old Valyria proper when they found the actual remains of something. A small village, or likely a wealthy estate, being this close to the capital. The great houses were made of black stone typical of Valyrian fortifications, chief amongst them the central manor, still somewhat standing after Doom and centuries of neglect.


    "They might have taken refuge there," Sandor said as he examined the houses from the small hill they had stopped upon.


    "I don''t know about Tommen, but we should! Right now!" Tyrion said as he turned back from the horizon and sprinted for the manor.


    Joffrey saw the curtain of black, horrible smoke coming closer yet again, giving it barely a moment''s thought before running after the Imp with Sandor close behind him.


    They reached him halfway to the manor and passed him by quickly, crashing against the heavy, purple tinted door which seemed made out of sheer iron for all that it failed to move.


    "Fuck! Door''s heavy!" muttered the Hound as he slammed it again with his shoulder at the same time as Joffrey.


    "hhhmmMMMRRAAAAAAAHH!!!" roared Joffrey as he strained against the door with all his might, not even budging as Tyrion caught up to them.


    "It''s no use! We''ll have to weather it here!" shouted Joffrey.


    "Push damn you!" bellowed the imp as he crashed behind them just as they shoved, the door moving a hair''s breath as something within snapped in half. They roared as they pushed again, this time moving it halfway open before they scurried inside, the steadily darkening horizon leeching the light out of the skies as the constantly buzzing sound of crazed sand, dust and ash increased in intensity.


    "Close it!" roared Joffrey as they all pushed and the door closed grudgingly. The Hound spat as he saw the broken, rusted iron braces lying on the floor. He took out his longsword, sheath and all and rammed it through the brace, securing the door just in time as the horizon slammed against the house and everything rattled.


    "Fuck, I think I lost my flint¡­ Tyrion?" called out Joffrey.


    "Here," he called out as something snapped and the torch in the imp''s hand flickered to life. He already had his mask on, and Sandor and Joffrey followed through quickly enough.


    The dark interior of the house seemed like a cavern, the screeching wind vaguely muffled and only their torches bringing in any light. Joffrey turned around and saw two strangers hugging each other, mouths wild agape in terror and fear. He screamed as he took out his arming sword, followed by a cursing Hound with his hand axe.


    The two strangers didn''t move, still holding themselves tightly, bracing against the back wall and looking at the door.


    "What the¡­" Tyrion murmured as he walked closer, the tip of his dagger touching the frozen figures. Soon as he did though they crumbled, turned to so much ash in the floor.


    Joffrey looked around and realized the whole floor was filled with ash, one trembling hand lighting up his torch as he stared around the countless figures frozen in groups or alone. "Bloody hells¡­" whispered the Hound, his voice muffled through the mask, staring at the final moments of over twenty people in the lobby alone.


    They walked slowly down a set of wide stairs, torches illuminating the macabre gallery of ash statues frozen in various positions. Joffrey spotted a group of seven or so childlike figures hugging each other under a ruined metal table, a bigger shape trying to grasp them all and failing.


    "Gods¡­" muttered Tyrion, adjusting his mask as he breathed uneasily.


    "Death must have been near instantaneous¡­ though they must have seen the Doom coming in the distance," Joffrey hypothesized, trying to analyze the scene rationally.


    "How much time?" the Hound asked as he peered at a side room, gazing at the crumbled remains of a couple holding each other tightly atop a broken bed.


    "Minutes¡­" Joffrey whispered, imagining the agonizingly slow passage of time as a whole village or family despaired with nothing to do but await death.


    "There''s more here," called out Tyrion. Joffrey followed the glare of the imp''s torch, down another set of wide stairs and finding a curious sight. Groups of figures sat or stood upright around the small room, looking for the entire world like dignified magisters convening for an afternoon of leisure, though some of the ashen sculptures still retained enough definition Joffrey could sometimes see the expressions of subdued terror. The figures tended to converge nearby, and many of them crumbled to ashes as the Hound cleared the way for the rest of them, the three of them traversing the silent statues that made the air at the nape of Joffrey''s neck stand upright.


    They reached a rotten, crumpled door guarded by two stern faced soldiers by the look of it, even their armor turned to ash as they kept at their vigil for more than four hundred years, still holding their ashen spears. The other figures gave them a respectful distance, though they were all in some way gazing at the doors.


    Joffrey pushed his way past them, their watch ending for this life as they crumbled to dust. His breathing sounded harsh, almost drowning all other sound as he wiped the mask''s glass with a handkerchief.


    He looked at nine kneeling figures, their forms incredibly preserved as he gazed at their expressions of stern, supreme concentration, their hands folded across their chests. At the center of the circular room was a tenth figure, standing tall with both arms opened grandiosely.


    "What the fuck¡­" Sandor''s mask managed.


    "Spellwork," Said Joffrey as he walked around the central figure, looking at the sheer hope and terror lovingly edged and preserved by the ash. "Didn''t work," he added.


    Tyrion swallowed inside his mask before peering at one of the kneeling figures, "I suppose the failure is rather obvious¡­ Trying to stop the Doom?" he voiced out loud.


    "Unlikely," Joffrey mused as he examined the etched remains of the ritual circle. "I don''t think anything could have stopped something the sheer size, the sheer magnitude of the Doom..." he said as he kneeled and peered closely at the lines etched into the rock itself. "They were most likely trying to shield the villa or the house¡­ maybe it did work, in a way," he continued, his breathing amplified by the mask.


    "Time," mused Tyrion out loud.


    "Whatever the Doom was, I don''t think these poor bastards had a chance even if they''d had hours to prepare¡­" Joffrey said as he walked to the black wall and knocked it with his hand. "Whatever it was, it scythed right through solid Valyrian blackstone¡­ the shield, if that''s what it was, may have blocked the blast and the searing heat, but we all know the Doom was much more than that. The metaphysical component must have punched right through¡­" he said as he hit the wall twice with his hand.


    "Metaphysical component?" asked Sandor as he pointed with his torch at two figures not in the ritual circle proper, bent over a metal table at the other side of the room.


    Joffrey walked towards the figures as he kept talking, "Magic, Sandor. The magic must have¡­" he trailed off as he looked at the figures, both of them peering at something in the table.


    "Metaphorically speaking, I suppose it might have been as if a child had shored up his sand castle''s walls before a flaming shot from a trebuchet reached it¡­" Joffrey said as he waved away the figures, turning them to disassembled ash so he could see clearly. Atop the table and in the floor under it he found the telltale shimmer of Valyrian Steel, still glossy under the ash.


    They look like instruments, Joffrey thought as he lifted what looked to be some kind of Valyrian Steel astrolabe, numerals and arcane symbols still etched along its intricate surface. Another instrument looked like a compass, though with multiple arrows and arcane, bizarre symbols. He found a few others, all having the look of precision instruments but he utterly lost on their purpose. It had likely been lost along with the rest of Valyrian knowledge.


    "Found something?" Tyrion asked as he neared.


    "Our first batch of loot I suppose, rings any bells?" Joffrey asked him as he handed him the astrolabe.


    Tyrion stared at it under the torchlight and the small glasses, tilted his head and gave it back to Joffrey. "While I can barely see my own hands and this damned mask keeps fogging my vision, I can confidently say I have no clue what this is¡­ except for a very expensive finger cutter," he said.


    "Storm''s ending," Sandor called out from the entrance.


    "Good, we''ve got to change filters soon," Joffrey said before turning back to the instruments, tossing them all inside a bag and into his backpack.


    "I''ll say this for the Valyrians, they died with their boots on," Sandor said as they walked up the stairs.


    "All one can hope for in the end," Joffrey muttered.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey was breathing hard, the rhythm of his heart slowly accelerating as he stared at the slightly quivering form of Sansa Stark, kneeled on his room and holding her face with her hands.


    Joffrey stared at her in silent horror, before trying to run away from the accursed room. He quickly found he couldn''t move a single finger however, his entire body locked still as he stood there, gazing at her. Sansa''s sobs didn''t change, retaining the same cadence and volume even as Joffrey''s heart kept pumping faster and faster for every second he stood there, a terrible, all-consuming dread slowly forming around him, slowly squeezing him from all sides of the room as his breathing got out of control. Sansa kept crying silently as Joffrey tried with all his might, with all his willpower to get out of there as the room kept getting smaller around him and his heart hammered out of his chest, he screamed silently when Sansa lowered her hands and looked up at him with no face at all¡ª


    Joffrey gave a scream as he woke up and sat up from the ground, the sleepy, bleary eyed form of Tyrion shuffling at his side before grunting and turning around, still asleep. Sandor was next to him, poking at their pathetic little fire with a piece of looted wood before looking at him.


    "Just a nightmare Joffrey," he said gruffly, if not unkindly as he patted his shoulder.


    He''s right, for once, Joffrey thought whimsically as he rubbed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the cobwebs that didn''t want them to open completely. Even before Valyria his sleep had been thrown off kilter. Here, looking at the eerily silent black wastes that stretched as far as the eye could see, Joffrey was not surprised to find his sleep reduced to only a few tormented hours a night.


    Still, the companionable silence was a slow acting balm on his frayed nerves as he sat there, staring at the fire with Sandor as the half glimpsed moon moved along the sky, her form shrouded by the distant clouds of black smoke.


    "Sandor¡­ the modified poultice we used to coat the pig bladders," Joffrey suddenly said as he aimed at the unused, balloon shaped forms hanging from his backpack. They''d be good for only a few breath''s worth of fresh air, but sometimes that''s all one needed. "Where they for the-"


    "Aye," interrupted Sandor, looking him over, "¡­ They were for the burns," he said with sigh, one hand subconsciously moving to his face before returning to his side.


    Joffrey nodded, staying silent as the small fire crackled. They didn''t even need the heat at this point, but the sight of it calmed Joffrey''s mind, and Sandor''s too, even if he wouldn''t admit it. In a place like this, even his old torment was a familiar sight.


    "My sister applied it when the Maester stopped," he said after a long moment.


    "You''ve never told me her name," Joffrey said as they watched the fire.


    "Aye," he agreed.


    They stayed there as Tyrion snored, watching the fire before Sandor shook his head and tried to sleep, leaving Joffrey alone to ponder the heavy weights in his mind.


    He took a deep breath as he felt for the tablet, its physical manifestation stashed far away in King''s Landing even as its essence lay anchored snuggly against his soul. He stared at his hand as he stared at the essence at the same time, for why close his eyes when the strange perception of his soul relayed on means that had nothing to do with the material world? Indeed, the tablet travelled with him through the Purple, it was clear that the essence of its existence was something immaterial to human sight¡­ thus, there was no reason he had to meditate to reach it. He just had to feel its shape, anchored deep within.


    He stared at his palm as his awareness neared the essence of the tablet, understanding the simple truth that for all the distance that separated them, the tablet was always at his side.


    He let the essence flood him as he metaphysically grabbed it and he smelt bone and mystery, felt salt and purpose and a message as the physical manifestation of the tablet appeared on his hand, a brief, almost too quick to see silent sea of fractals materializing out of thin air and drawing its shape in but a heartbeat before they were gone and only the whalebone tablet remained.


    He stared at the tablet as he grabbed it with his other hand, looking at the caricatures of the empty anchor in his soul. What purpose had Brightroar, he wondered. Was it just a weapon to help him kill White Walkers? Somehow, he didn''t think that was the answer. After all, the plentiful obsidian stashes the creators of the Purple had left him served that function adequately. No, it was a key piece of¡­ something, he could feel it. A weapon of war, of life, a bridge¡­ a bridge to what exactly? Why did Brightroar''s anchor cut so deeply into his soul?


    The questions chased him all the way to Dawn, and were only banished by a disapproving thump in the back, courtesy of Sandor.


    -.PD.-


    They were roughly two days away when they saw one of the Fourteen Flames¡­ or rather what remained of it. What had once been the first of the proud volcanoes of Old Valyria had seemingly exploded at half its height, for the great bulk of the volcano ended abruptly, a jagged line unevenly bisecting what by all rights should have been but half of its true height, as if some godly headsman had beheaded the mountain itself. A great dark torrent of smoke poured from its gaping mouth upwards towards the heavens, only for it to fall away in the distance.


    The ground itself seemed to grow hotter and hotter the closer they got to Valyria, and the cairns seemed to grow more numerous the closer they got. They seemed more haphazard too¡­


    The slope gradually got steeper as they neared the destroyed city, until they were almost climbing its jagged edges, the Smokestorms almost claiming their lives as the smoke and wind tried to batter them off the ledge...


    But they persevered, and when the climb had almost turned impossible they managed to clear the peak and Joffrey saw the ruins of Old Valyria, Capital of the Valyrian Freehold.


    What remained of the city looked as if its foundations had been tilted vaguely clockwise and then plunged downwards. It was nestled inside what seemed to be by all rights a gigantic crater, and the city itself seemed to have sunk downwards and sideways. Joffrey could see the upper parts of great black towers peeking from the sea of blackened stone and pumice, all either crumbling or destroyed. All of them seemed tilted to the right, all but the tallest of towers buried the ash, stone and solidified lava.


    "Gods¡­" whispered Tyrion.


    "No, Uncle. Men," Said Joffrey as he surveyed all that remained of Old Valyria.


    What immediately caught his attention though was the enormous, titanic black dome in the middle of the city, tilted as the rest of it. It must have been bigger than Aegon''s High Hill, and that was only counting what Joffrey could see. The whole structure could range anywhere in between King''s Landing and the whole of Dragonstone, depending on how much exactly had the city sunk.


    "Ten golden dragons Tommen made a beeline for the dome," Tyrion suddenly broke the silence.


    "Bad bet," Joffrey said automatically.


    "Twenty golden dragons Joffrey makes a beeline for it," Sandor said in turn.


    "Even worst bet," Joffrey said as he turned back, "Let''s go and get that damned sword, I''m being roasted right now," he said as he wiped his head.


    There was no disagreement as they made their way down the slope. Joffrey quickly touched the sea of pumice and rocks, finding it not too hot to walk over.


    "That dome must have been halfway submerged in lava and it''s still standing," Tyrion said as they walked through what had once been the city''s skyline, taking care not to get near any of the tilted towers. With Joffrey''s luck, it was bound to fall upon them if they strayed too near wrong.


    They walked for a long while, wary of smokestorms as they traversed the almost barren plain.


    Old Valyria must have been huge, twice as big as Volantis at the very least¡­ Joffrey thought uneasily as he kept moving. He tried not to think about the likely millions of bodies he was walking over right now. The big dome in the distance seemed to grow and grow until finally they were in front of it, its great bulk dizzying to look up.


    Joffrey quickly found an entrance, or rather a window. The arched window gave way to an open aired hallway with blackstone handrails, intricately carved with figures of Dragons and monsters. He peeked down over the handrail and saw the cavernous interior of the dome, big enough to fit the Red Keep, the Dragonpit and Baelor''s Sept all together and leave enough space for more. He lit a torch and threw it down as Sandor and Tyrion caught up, all three of them watching the torch tumble down as it illuminated the vast, circular walkways that kept spiraling along the dome''s edge. The ones nearest the top were filled with decorative work over the handrails, while the ones at the lower levels seemed simpler.


    "What is this place?" muttered Sandor, the glare of his torch illuminating the burnt side of his face. Some parts of the walkway seemed ruined, missing sections.


    "Must be the Agora," Tyrion said in vaguely restrained awe as he gazed at the open aired walkways. "It is said all the freeborn landowners of the Valyrian Freehold had a hand in its government, and for that to be true you''d need a veritable arena to house them all," he said as he gazed down, "Well, at least those who lived in Valyria proper¡­ or half a day away on dragonback¡­" he amended.


    "The upper floors must have been reserved for the dragonlords themselves, the Forty Families," Joffrey said as he started walking down the huge, spiral walkway.


    "You''re telling me the Targeryeans used to hatch their schemes right here?" Sandor asked as he and Tyrion followed him.


    "Well, scheme is too strong a word, after all this whole dome, Agora, however you want to call it, was in all likelihood a mummer''s show," said Joffrey.


    Tyrion looked on proudly as he nodded, "Well said nephew, the Forty Families had in all likelihood ''governed'' from their private manses, convening in private to square out matters of greater import," he said.


    "Or atop their dragons," remarked Sandor, showing the Hound was not as simple as he wanted people in general to believe.


    "Indeed," Joffrey said as he gazed down again, "Is that¡­ are those bodies?" he said as he broke into a sprint.


    They managed to catch him as he kneeled over the broken remains of a couple of skeletons, still clad in rotting light armor.


    "No Valyrians, these ones," Sandor remarked as he lifted a rusted sword, "Castle forged steel," he said.


    "For common sailors?" Joffrey asked.


    "Tommen Lannister had all the wealth of the Rock at his back and no liege lord to send his taxes to. I''d say outfitting the crew of his flagship with good steel was not much on an expense, all in all," remarked Tyrion.


    "Good point," muttered Joffrey in vague envy as he stood up, "Come on, there''s bound to be more further down," he called out as he kept going.


    They found dozens of bodies the further down they went, most of which seemed to have been in the middle of doing something to the finer looking of the handrails, before they''d stumbled randomly and died.


    "They were looting the masonry," said the Hound in faint disbelief.


    "Yeah, they must have been desperate¡­ can''t say I blame them, this place is a wasteland," Joffrey said as he looked at the disposition of the skeletons.


    "A smokestorm must have hit them while they were in the middle of it¡­ poor fools never had a chance, did they?" Tyrion said as he turned back from one of the corpses.


    Joffrey shook his head "Smokestorms must have been even hotter back then, these bones look almost charred," he said before he kept walking down, his eyes alert for fine armor and the gleam of Valyrian Steel, jumping over missing sections of the walkway that had fallen not to any mortal hand but to time itself. They reached the bottom of the stairs soon enough, or rather, reached the point where the sea of rock and pumice made it impossible to go on even if one jumped downwards. The rocks and pumice seemed to solidly placed Joffrey might as well have been on the ground floor.


    All around the sea of rocks Joffrey could spot great chunks of black masonry, some bigger than a heavy wagon. They peppered the area randomly, and Joffrey could see the telltale signs of structural failure¡­ It seemed the missing parts of the walkway had fallen here, their support beams giving way under the strain of time.


    "How many more floors do you think this thing goes?" Joffrey muttered as the Hound caught up to him again and he walked over the sea of rocks, grabbing the torch he''d tossed a while ago.


    "Too many," he rasped, breathing hard. Poor Tyrion was even worse, still trying to catch up and in dire need of ''tits and wine'' as he''d been haranguing for the past few days.


    Joffrey walked to the middle of the Agora, the pumice creaking under his boots as he gazed up at the huge, gaping hole up in the middle of the dome. It served as a convenient skylight, letting in a bit of sunlight from the exterior. He looked back down to the veritable sea of choking skeletons and shook his head, looking everywhere around him and trying to find Brightroar. By now he wanted to strangle Tommen''s corpse for the doomed task the man had set upon himself. The black chunks of fallen masonry seemed like reefs jutting out from under the sea of pumice and solidified lava, their presence along with the burnt, mangled skeletons strewn around giving the whole place the air of a mausoleum.


    At least now I know where part of a certain, crazy devil streak comes from¡­ he thought with a snort, his eyes narrowing when he saw the glint of a pommel. Tyrion was already reaching the last of the stairs and the Hound was at the other side of the Agora, checking a few of the corpses.


    Joffrey''s heart raced wildly as he walked towards it quickly, reaching a mangled corpse clad in the remains of an incredibly fine armor, gold enameled armor. The husk itself didn''t seem to have any legs, and the torso was light in Joffrey''s hand as he turned it around.


    For once, could it be so easy? He dared ask himself as his hesitant hands descended over the corpse. The skeleton of King Tommen was locked in place, both hands grasping forwards almost desperately. It was there, half covered by the corpse, that Joffrey found Brightroar.


    The bastard sword''s hilt sported a snarling lion head, and the blade itself shimmered slightly when the light from Joffrey''s torch caught it, a golden yellow that gave the classical Valyrian Steel gloss a stately aura. Joffrey lowered his hand almost against his will, trembling slightly as he dared grasp a piece of the Purple''s plan.


    He lifted the deceptively light sword with his left hand, its grip feeling both awkward and familiar in his hand. He didn''t use bastard swords all that often, but there was something about Brightroar that made it feel right in his grip. The ancestral blade of House Lannister made the wind whistle slightly as he twirled it about, feeling its grip, its essence. There was something about the blade that seemed to just¡­ fit¡­ no, not the blade. Him.


    "Tyrion! Sandor! I found--" he stopped after he turned around and everything turned dark, the light that reached the ground through the great hole in the dome no more. Joffrey looked up, confused as he saw some dark blob blotting the entirety of the gaping hole, as if some great black tarp had suddenly attached itself to the ceiling.


    His breath hitched as he gazed up, petrified as the thing that had been blocking the light suddenly fell towards them, the returning sunlight illuminating its enormous, scaled form.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click and set to loop. Recommended volume: Maximum.


    ----


    A Dragon bigger than Maegor''s Holdfast landed in the middle of the Agora, its glossy black scales almost vibrating under the sunlight as the impact sent Joffrey tumbling to the ground, the great beast rearing its head upwards and roaring, the echo threatened to leave Joffrey completely deaf as he covered his ears in pain. It stood on its hind legs before slamming its two wings into the ground and using them as forelegs, both of which ended in wickedly sharp claws bigger than a horse.


    He stood up drunkenly to the sight of Uncle Tyrion still standing, his mouth agape in complete and utter shock, slowly taking the form of an unrestrained childish smile, "A dragon¡­" Joffrey could somehow hear him whisper before the beast opened its great maw and unleashed a searing firestorm that almost blinded him. Joffrey cried out loud as he held his eyes, blinking repeatedly as he struggled against the glare. Even through the almost blinding light, Joffrey could see how Tyrion''s sillouhette disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash and a blackened smudge against the black wall.


    "TYRION!!!" he screamed as tears leapt from his eyes, the sight of his uncle vaporizing in front of his own eyes repeating inside his head again and again. Memories forever lost, the quiet moments by the campfire, the silent approval, the caring concern, the fits of laughter, all now soon to be replaced by the weary disgust, as it has always been, as it will always be. The Dragon turned around almost lazily, its great coiling form making it seem slower than it actually was. The beast''s great maw opened to reveal rows upon rows of ashen, wickedly sharp teeth, and the back of its throat glowed orange before Sandor was suddenly shoving him sideways, both of them landing on the hard rocks as most of the firebreath slammed into the wall behind him and vaporized Tommen''s corpse.


    Most of it¡­ Part of the fire had latched itself upon Sandor''s back. The Hound''s face was but a millimeter away from Joffrey''s, and he could see it disfigure itself in fear and pain as he smelt cooking flesh. "Run," he whispered in agony as he stood up and bodily threw him towards the walkway.


    Joffrey stumbled towards the stairs, the words of his sworn shield echoing inside his head as Sandor bellowed a mighty roar and charged the black dragon. He managed to slam his longsword against its lower chest, barely scraping its tough scales before the beast gored him with a great claw longer than himself. It rented apart what little armor Sandor had been carrying and made him tumble through the floor, half his guts spilt over the rocks. He didn''t even manage a scream before the dragon devoured him whole. All of three seconds passed between Sandor''s last command and his death.


    Joffrey was still stumbling in shock towards the walkway, his mind staggering under the sudden events as he turned to face the dragon, the beast roaring at him. "No¡­ no¡­ They knew me¡­ I had them back¡­ I had a piece of them back¡­" he mumbled as he tripped and fell to his knees, feeling drained and hollow like never before, the last embers of his will burning away as he lost the strength to even crawl.


    "It''s all pointless," he whispered as he turned around, the dragon stalking towards him, each trundling step shaking the ground and making the pumice rattle wildly as it turned its maw towards him and finished the job of returning him to the Red Keep, back to the sadistic, disgusting Prince Joffrey Baratheon.


    Back to the wariness and the disdain.


    As it always had. As it always will. Forever.


    Bottomless rage surged from the depths of his being as an animal snarl escaped his lips. Rage at the monster that had taken his true friends, never to be seen as they were. Rage at the world at large, for fulfilling only death and suffering. Rage at the Purple for cursing him with existence. Rage at the despair and the emptiness. Rage at himself.


    "No," he told the Dragon as the back of its maw turned orange, giving light to half the Agora as he stood up, purged and hollowed. An emptiness soon filled and overflowing with an all-encompassing red rage.


    He jumped and rolled behind a piece of fallen masonry, the blast of fire and heat making him sweat instantly as a torrent of flames incinerated the spot he''d been occupying just before. The dragon''s maw followed him, toasting the great piece of masonry Joffrey had used as cover and turning the air around him almost too hot to breathe.


    When the torrent ended, Joffrey walked out from the other side, twirling Brightroar in his hand as a cruel smirk adorned his features and he charged the colossal black dragon.


    He didn''t know where the thing had come from. He didn''t care why it had done what it did.


    He only knew he was going to make it suffer.


    The dragon roared and tried to skewer him sideways with one of its great claws, but Joffrey ducked down at the last minute and let the claw fly by, lifting Brightroar and slamming it upwards against the leathery wing that followed it, trying not to be buffeted aside with the force of the blow. It was incredibly strong, but Joffrey kneeled and braced Brightroar further as the sword pierced the wing and the Dragon''s strength did the rest, tearing a long section of the wing and extracting a toll of sizzling blood.


    The Dragon reared back as it roared in rage and Joffrey darted towards it with a roar of his own, a torrent of great searing flames following his path towards the beast as he sprinted for its huge belly. The great Dragon screeched in pain as Joffrey slammed Brightroar with all his force against its belly, extracting it and rolling under its hind legs half a second before the beast let its weight drop and slammed against the sea of stones, cracking pumice and shreds of obsidian and making Joffrey stumble as he lost his equilibrium. He didn''t have time to dodge as the beast''s long, powerful tail slammed into him and sent him flying against the wall, tumbling against the sharp rocks in a shower of cuts and bruises.


    Joffrey spluttered as he tried to stand up, holding his belly as his eyes tried to close in pain. He shook his head slightly, stumbling as he coughed a bit of blood and searched franticly for Brightroar. He didn''t have time to get his bearings before a huge weight slammed against the earth after one leather flap that drowned his heartbeat, a huge maw filled with ashen white teeth filling his vision from one moment to the next.


    He bellowed as he jumped as hard as he could, rolling on the ground and barely missing the beast''s sword like double row of fangs, its huge jaw almost snapping him in half. It reared back and tried again, this time using the length of its neck like a coil or a whip to slam its head against Joffrey before he could even think of standing up.


    Joffrey rolled towards the beast as fast as he could, its head slamming against his former position and missing him by a breath, its huge maw only eating stone as Joffrey found himself beneath its huge head, blotting the light from the skies. Before it could raise its head again though, Joffrey slammed his arming sword up through its lower jaw, the castle forged steel finding it a bit softer than the rest of its scales. It was only a shallow cut though, and Joffrey had to leave it there as he rolled sideways as the beast slammed its head backwards and downwards, trying to squash him like a bug. The blade snapped in half, the pommel bouncing near his position as he stood up.


    The Dragon''s neck coiled back and forwards again, Joffrey spinning with a water twirl and grasping the shattered blade as he dodged the head again, barely. The Dragon opened its huge maw and roared at point blank range, leaving Joffrey deaf to the world at large and hearing only a continuous, high keened whistle. Joffrey screamed silently at the force of the roar that seemed to push him backwards with incredible force, kneeling before jumping forwards with a burst of strength and slamming what was left of his arming sword up the Dragon''s palate and leaving it there. He tried to retreat his hand as fast as it could, but it was too late as the Dragon snapped them shut and Joffrey''s left hand found itself missing two fingers, blood spilling everywhere as he ran and took cover behind another chuck of the walkway, a stream of otherworldly, almost liquid fire following his path and searing the piece of masonry. The Dragon retreated back, content to keep the range as it kept pumping the masonry with a jet of blood boiling heat and flame.


    Joffrey slowly slid down the chunk of steadily warming masonry, holding his hand close as it kept bleeding, his eyes closing in pain as he coughed blood again. He took out a rag from his slightly torn backpack, wrapping it tightly around the torn fingers. He had trouble breathing in the hot air as took off the backpack and stringed his composite bow, grimacing in pain as his fingers throbbed and his lungs burned.


    It has to stop eventually, he thought, sweating like a pig as the chunk of masonry turned too hot to touch and he had to slide a bit forwards. He finished stringing the powerful goldenheart bow, the castle forged steel arrows held tightly in his other hand. Despite losing his ring and little finger, he could still use the bow.


    It has to stop eventually, he thought as the jet of flames slowly acquired sound to his ears, a deep, gravelly throttled thrumming that whipped around with the force of a hurricane.


    It has to stop eventually, he thought as his lungs burned and his vision grew dizzy.


    The earth thrumming power of the flames disappeared from one second to the next, and Joffrey was already rising, his boots smoking as he sprinted besides the half slagged chunk of masonry, the residual heat hurting his face as he tensed the bow, aimed and loosed at the dragon in a second.


    The arrow sailed into its mouth just as it took a deep breath. It slammed its mouth shut, biting into the thing that had dared hurt it and only spurting more blood in the process. It turned its hateful, yellow eyes towards Joffrey and breathed in quickly, a burst of fire emerging from its maw.


    Joffrey was already running for the next chunk of fallen, blackstone masonry, but this time he was too slow. The gust of flame clipped him in the shoulder, and he arrived behind the chunk in a tumble, his upper shoulder an agony of pain as he rolled and tried to put out the flames. They carved deeply into him before they were put out, but Joffrey was already nocking another arrow, screaming in pain even as he let it purge him of all further thought but the murder of one of fate''s tools.


    He peaked and loosed, the arrow bouncing against its scales as the Dragon closed the distance and took in a shallow, little breath before flames exploded out of its mouth. Maybe it had learned not to leave its maw exposed, or maybe it couldn''t draw longer breaths because of the damage already done. Either way, short, furious bursts of fire began assaulting Joffrey''s position.


    He was exhausted and in great pain, the furious anger that had propelled him just moments ago giving way to a strange kind of serene emptiness as fire raged and black smoke slowly started to invade the Agora from above.


    Breathe, someone whispered.


    Scalding hot fire buffeted his position, making the great weight of the masonry slide minutely against the ground under the force of the blast.


    In, Joffrey whispered in the stillness of his mind.


    Another gust of fire slammed against the masonry, but this one was aimed at the opposite side from where Joffrey had entered, the one he was closest to right now. A bit of the searing hot flames disintegrated one of his eyebrows as he closed his eyes.


    Out.


    In between that one and the next he was already moving, boots sizzling against the ground and bow aiming up and up and up at the Dragon as it reared on its hind legs, its body several stories tall as its head followed him and its eyes narrowed, as distant as a banner atop Maegor''s Holdfast.


    He loosed the arrow as he ran, its wickedly sharp tip piercing right into one of the Dragon''s beady eyes and unleashing blood and gore as it screeched in ear renting agony.


    But the beast would not die as it closed the distance again, undeterred by the loss of its left eye as it moved as fast as before, its snaking, spiked form rushing Joffrey as he spotted Brightroar dozens of meters ahead of him, too far to reach before the beast was upon him.


    "Wind, guide me," he uttered in the harsh tongue of the Far East as he loosed, the arrow slamming against the Dragon''s right eye just before its clawed wing descended upon him. He twisted and barely avoided the deadly claw, but the hard bone and cartilage of the rest of the wing still slammed into his belly, sending him tumbling through the air and slamming against the floor.


    Everything was blurry as Joffrey raised his head from the hard stones, a trickle of blood descending from his forehead and blinding his right eye as sounds warbled and distorted, the earth shaking like the end of days as some sort of blackness kept filling the Agora. He blinked slowly as he turned his head and saw the Dragon thrashing wildly, its huge form butting into different sections of the Agora in literal blind rage, his bow turned to splinters nearby.


    Joffrey turned his head to the other side and saw Brightroar, its golden yellow sheen brighter than ever in the midst of the encroaching darkness. He crawled towards it, slowly making his way as the earth kept shaking and sky shattering roars thundered, he kept crawling as black smoke narrowed his senses to the pommel itself, the roaring lion.


    He stood up when he reached it, using it as a cane to steady himself, coughing blood as the Dragon tried to take flight blindly, only to crash against part of the walkway.


    It''s trying get its bearings, trying to fly up¡­ he thought in strange staccato, his thoughts jumbled and confused as he shook his head and felt pain, clearing it slightly.


    He coughed again, and looked up to see more and more smoke billowing in from the hole in the dome and the windows of the upper floors from where he''d entered. He swayed as he searched for his mask, finding it mangled and almost broken as it hanged from his half destroyed backpack. He put it on before looking back at the great thrashing beast, flying up a few stories before crashing against the walkway and back into the ground. It was only a matter of time until it got it right.


    No, came the thought in crystal clear clarity as he turned to the walkway and ran like never before, the Dragon screeching as it heard him and unleashed a torrent of flames that followed him up the walkway.


    Joffrey sprinted up the spiraling walkway like a man possessed, the path making him run great circles around the Dragon in the ground floor as it desperately tried to angle itself for a clean surge upwards, drunk with pain. It kept shooting streams of fire randomly, setting whole sections of the walkway ablaze as Joffrey ran and ran and ran, searing heat scalding his legs and his lungs wheezing in agony as he stumbled thanks to the poor vision and tripped, the mask cracking under the blow, black smoke intermingling with the clean air of the filter.


    His own wheezing breath sounded distorted through the mask as he stood up and kept running, vapor crawling atop the glass surface and further limiting his vision as he looked down and saw the Dragon finally angle itself correctly and launch itself upwards with a burst of strength and a roar of triumph, circling the great Agora from the inside as its titanic wings unfurled themselves, pumping with enormous power time and again as it flew higher and higher.


    Joffrey traced its flight as the great wings echoed through the silent mausoleum, sprinting like lightning over the bones and ashes of the scions of Ancient Valyria and the Barbaroi of the West, all united through the silent embrace of oblivion. He ran and ran and ran until he suddenly leaped over the handrail and fell, his guts and spirit crawling to his throat as the great acceleration of free fall threw him downwards with ever increasing speed, Brightroar held down straight as he roared in grief and pain and rage and loneliness as he slammed against the back of the Dragon with the force of a siege ram, Brightroar biting deep into its spine until only the hilt remained in sight.


    The great black dragon roared in agony as it folded its wings and the inertia carried it up past the hole in the dome and the black smoke, unfurling them again amongst the clear skies as it climbed higher and higher into the air and it tried to shake Joffrey off, blood raining over the black wasteland that was once Old Valyria. Joffrey ripped the useless, broken mask as he coughed, looking back down as the great ruins kept getting smaller and smaller, the Dragon doing its best to shake him off as it cart wheeled in the air.


    Joffrey gritted his teeth silently as the dizzying maneuver made his feet and legs fly off their own will, the rest of his body following as his arms extended and he grasped Brightroar with all his strength, the blackened sky and the black earth intermingling again and again until he lost sight of which was which.


    The Agora was the size of his arm when the Dragon stopped spinning, and Joffrey braced himself with both legs as he extracted Brightroar with a bellow of effort, his hand bleeding again and intermingling with the beast''s. The Dragon was gaining altitude once more, flying up and up in a frenzy as Joffrey used it''s spikes as climbing rakes, getting closer to the neck with each gasping strain of effort, legs and hands climbing the beast as if it were a mountain, the incredible speed of the ascent making him narrow his eyes as much as he could, the air slamming into his face nonstop and leaving him slightly dazed.


    He reached the base of its neck, breathing hard as he straddled it and raised Brightroar high in the air.


    "DIE!!!" He roared with all his might as he brought down the blade vertically, piercing scales before twisting brutally, sizzling blood erupting like a small fountain and splashing him. The Dragon gave a keening, agonizing screech before it tried to shake him off once more, the horizon spinning as the black of the ground became larger and larger.


    No, not the ground, Joffrey realized as the beast kept pumping its wings, carrying them even higher and directly against the horizon of black smoke. Joffrey desperately searched for his spare mask, but found that what remained of his bag had been torn asunder¡­


    Only the pig bladder with the fixed valve remained, coated in the Hound''s modified poultice.


    He tried to grab it but failed, his hand screaming in pain as the stumps of his fingers slipped, the curtain of black smoke consuming his vision as the Agora was reduced to the size of a finger. Joffrey changed hands, holding the impaling Brightroar with the injured one as the other one grasped the bladder and the Dragon slammed into the curtain of choking, searing hot smoke.


    Joffrey coughed as the heat and ash raked his face and he brought the valve near his mouth, trying to open it with his teeth but only managing to break one of them in his maddened effort, holding his breath as long as he could as his lungs burned and he tried again and a smidgen of air began leaving the bag from the bladder.


    He clamped down on it, staying as still as he could, keenly aware of exactly how little air the bladder had inside. The Dragon kept flapping wildly, still flying up but starting to tilt its flight to the right. Joffrey breathed slowly as they kept rising, higher and higher amongst the black heavens as his eyes closed tight and his mind went hazy, higher as he struggled for one more breath¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­¡­.


    ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­.


    ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­


    ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­..


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Set to loop.


    ----


    He slowly opened his eyes to the sight of the night sky in all its breath stealing splendor. The stars shone intensely, twinkling in the dead of night like never before, their familiar shapes escorted by a plethora of other stars that filled his entire field of view. Big, small, twinkling, still, he could see them making their way around him, so far away yet so close he swore he could almost touch them if he but dared reach with his hand. He could see the different colors that hanged upon them like celestial auras, reds and blues and yellows combining in a riot of stars and constellations, nebulas and distant shapes that radical Maesters were sure represented whole other cosmos'', just as big the one they all inhabited, however big that was.


    Stars, he thought, slipping in and out of consciousness.


    Stars, not Constellations, he thought cryptically, his head sluggish.


    He blinked again, watching meteors tumble and burn against the black backdrop, leaving long searing trails of red and orange that faded to nothing just as quickly.


    Is it over? he thought, feeling strangely weightless and cold. Was this how true death felt?


    He blinked slowly in raptured awe at the majesty and sheer thrumming power of the Red Comet, slowly beginning its orbit around the planet as it bathed him in red and sailed so close by he could jump at it and hold it in both hands if he but had the strength to lift his head. Its red tail seemed longer than he''d ever seen, almost spindling back around the earth itself, its sheer presence filling him with awe and dread.


    He let his head droop to the side and saw the Dragon''s wings drifting aimlessly, slowly gliding back down from the skies, its head drooping as Joffrey''s breath hitched, looking at the earth below partly blanketed by a sea of clouds. He could just make out the curvature of the planet with the naked eye, whole continents and islands floating amongst the grand oceans which encompassed them, holding all he had ever seen and all he had ever heard.


    When he closed his eyes again, this time willingly, he hoped it would be the last sight he''d ever see.


    A beautiful, serene end to his existence.


    ¡­


    ¡­..


    ¡­¡­..


    ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­


    When he opened his eyes again, instead of stars he saw the rapidly growing shape of a city, filled with thousands of ant sized people who did nothing but run in circles in absolute mayhem. Joffrey''s dragon was barely pumping its wings anymore, barely gliding as they kept losing altitude and Joffrey''s guts tried to climb out of his body.


    "Wowowow!" Joffrey screamed as he grasped the still stuck Brightroar with all his strength, "Slow down! Slow down damn you!" he screamed at the dumb animal as it glided towards a tower in the middle of the city, barely moving its head.


    How do I steer this thing?! Can''t be that hard, the fucking Targs managed it! He thought in a frenzy as he slammed Brightroar left, the Dragon giving a muffled screech as it drifted vaguely leftwards, narrowly avoiding the tower as a lovely looking woman of Valyrian stock screamed through a window.


    What if I travelled back in time to Old Valyria? Was it a crime to kill a dragon? He thought in confusion as he twisted Brightroar to the right, making the Dragon barely miss a big, luxurious estate and instead aim for a rapidly clearing plaza.


    "Alright! Nice and easy you fucking monster!" Joffrey shouted at the thing as he pulled Brightroar back, jolting the beast somewhat awake and making it flap wildly a couple of times and slow down before it suddenly turned lax like a puppet with its strings cut, Joffrey managing a single curse before the great beast crashed against the plaza in a rain of cobblestones and torn apart stalls.


    Joffrey found himself alive somehow, the Purple seemingly content to let him wallow in the sea of cuts, bruises and pulped internal organs. He cursed the damn thing as he stood up from atop the lower neck of the creature, thoroughly fed up with absolutely everything as he extracted the damned reason for the whole trip in a shower of blood and gore, swaying slightly as he walked down the length of its neck up to its head, cursing all the while. He held Brightroar in one hand as he carefully climbed the Dragon''s head, mindful of the spikes.


    He spotted a man cowering beneath a stand of apples only a few meters in front of the overgrown raptor''s head, both hands bracing his head, shaking wildly as if he''d just spotted the Stranger.


    "Uh, excuse me, good man, would you mind telling me where I am?" he called out in High Valyrian before grabbing one of the fallen apples and tearing into it like a starving wolf to a fat lamb.


    "What?!" Joffrey shouted, pieces of apple flying wildly as he tried to understand the mangled dialect. He really needed a place to lay down for a while.


    "Tolos?! Are you drunk?!" he shouted at the man, throwing him the apple core.


    "Yes! Yes! Tolos! I swear it in the name of Great Meraxes! Please let me live, great one!" the man blabbered as he shrunk himself into a ball.


    Joffrey stared at the man in mild incomprehension, "Tolos? That''s on the other side of the godsdamned peninsula!" He spat, turning to the Dragon and slamming the tip of its nose with Brightroar''s flat edge, "You fucking lizard -- WOW!" he screamed as the Dragon opened its maw and tried to bite his arm off, shuffling only a tiny bit forwards.


    "DIE DAMN YOU! WHY?! DON''T!? YOU!? JUST!? DIE!!!" he snarled as he shoved Brightroar through what remained of its shredded eye, driving it up to the hilt and churning it like spoon as he tried to liquefy its brain.


    An enormous rattle resounded throughout the plaza as the huge black dragon trembled in its death throes one last time, finally relaxing completely as it slumped vaguely forwards, twin wisps of black smoke lazily coming out of its nostrils as blood bubbled out of its eye socket.


    Joffrey stood there as he stared at it, breathing hard as he tilted his head in curiosity, lifting the fold of its lip and scraping a bit of the hard bone above its huge teeth with his dagger. "Hm," he muttered, "I think I know what I''ll make the sheath out of," he said before turning to the man beneath the stall.


    "Hey! Which way to the nearest inn?" he called out to him, so tired he couldn''t even feel his legs.


    The man gave a gasp as he fainted, sprawled over the cobblestones.


    "Seems like a good idea," Joffrey remarked before darkness claimed him. He was out before he reached the floor.


    -.PD.-


    -----------


    -----

 Interlude: The Great One’s Apprentice.

    Interlude: The Great One''s Apprentice.Gaenys Bernaris would remember that day until he drew his last breath. He''d been working a double shift in his father''s leather tannery again as punishment for ''slacking off'', mindlessly helping tan and hang the horrible smelling hides that constituted the mainstay of his family''s trade. He''d been wondering why the hells he hadn''t become immune to the smell of the filth yet despite working there since tender childhood when he heard the screams.


    "Father, what''s happening?" he''d called out, nervous as his usually stoic Father burst into the tannery and grabbed him by the neck as was his wont. Gaenys'' friends often mocked him about how his Father treated his slaves better than him.


    "Go get your mother and sister to the basement and close the doors, NOW!" he''d screamed as he tossed him out, turning back and closing the tannery''s windows and doors.


    He''d stumbled out of the tannery but hadn''t managed a single step towards the nearby house before he''d been almost run over by a runaway carriage. All around him people ran and screamed nonsense about the end of times and the return of the Dragonlords, nonsense that quickly crystalized into dread when he''d gazed up and saw an enormous black Dragon gliding towards their city.


    His life flashed before his eyes as the great Dragon straight from the tales of old decided to spare the Tower of Remembrance and half the city''s nobility, before diving for the main plaza, built during the reign of the Dragonlords to fit even the largest of mythical beasts. He remembered thinking that even the great plaza wouldn''t be enough to hold the huge beast, but at the last moment what he realized was a dragonrider did something to the dragon''s neck and the terrifying beast flapped and stalled, folding its wings and falling like a rock against the plaza and presumably devouring all within it.


    He''d stood there, petrified as Captain of the Guard tried to harangue a group of terrified slingers, the pride of Tolos'' military might who had humbled barbarians and pirates far and wide, hardened veterans of a thousand and one battles against sellswords, Dothraki, and Ghiscary Privateers. Every single slinger walked like their lead balls were attached to their feet and not the pouches they carried at their hips, the slightly less terrified Captain shoving and cursing as they made their way to the plaza.


    Gaenys didn''t blame them, he would have been running in the other direction if he didn''t feared his Father''s fists more than a huge beast which presumably had a thousand people around it to sate its hunger¡­ unlike his Father...


    And so he''d gotten inside his house, found his steely eyed mother and his crying sister, and hid them all under the cellar. He remembered thinking about Dragons and their senses, and hoping to Great Meraxes that the beast would not find them there.


    As the hours wore on and no screams nor smells of cooked flesh assaulted their senses, Gaenys left their shelter to find the city''s denizens sheepishly getting back to their routines.


    Two days later they were told the truth, and a day after that he met Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, acclaimed as Great One by the citizens of Tolos, Savior of the City, and Dragonslayer.


    -.PD.-


    At first sight, the Great One didn''t look all that imposing for a man which had slayed one of the largest Dragons ever recorded. He was not too tall, had golden hair and a weary weight which was only accented by the cane which he used to walk. No, it was the eyes that told the truth. Pale green they were, like metaled sheen given form, a dulled, steely green which seemed to pin him in place whenever the Great One stared at him. The contrast they gave when paired with the man''s sword was even alluring, in the same way a tempestuous lightning storm was. Understated yellow which turned almost transparent, a steely gold which reflected the pale green as the man raised the sword caringly with both hands, staring down its length as he aligned the pommel vertically with his eyes, staring through it and beyond into the world of spirits.


    "Magic and heavy deeds forged this¡­ obvious I know," Said the Great One as he inspected the Valyrian Steel blade, made by the Dragonlords of old through secrets long since lost to man.


    He seemed to breathe in the essence of the sword as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Spells, dragonfire and death¡­ Yes¡­" he muttered as if he were savoring a fine if exotic wine.


    Gaenys stood still as a statue inside their workshop, not daring to even breathe as he saw the man feel the flat edge of the blade with his palm, eyes closed as he tilted his head slightly, as one might when the summer winds flew over a lazy afternoon.


    "Terrible and bold, wrought in blood and fire and sorcery and screams," he said as his palm kept travelling the length of the sword, frowning minutely. "Such power¡­ so petty a purpose," he said as if disappointed, deep in thought.


    Gaenys managed to swallow as he saw the Great One lift the blade up and hold the cool flat edge against his forehead, his eyes still closed even though his gaze was evidently peering beyond. "Made for gold, an instrument of prestige¡­ petty power and petty Kings¡­ Purpose long lost and obsolete¡­ but what is your destiny now..?" he asked the sword itself, his forehead tilting vaguely downward. "No. Deeper," he whispered, his concentration supreme, "Purpose reborn¡­ a desperate bridge¡­ a connection with no endpoint¡­ I see it now, a makeshift fix, a causeway of great energy and Purple purpose¡­ but to where? And why?" he seemed to ask Gaenys as he opened his eyes and lowered the sword, gazing at him in puzzlement.


    "I-I don''t know, Great One," he managed, his voice almost quiver free.


    He smiled sadly at him, "Neither do I, Gaenys, neither do I¡­ but even now I feel it, how it longs to belong to me¡­ How with but a push it will slot just right¡­. How perfect and form fitting is the anchor¡­" he said in wonder as he gazed back at the blade, deep in thought, "I am to be its essence''s scabbard¡­" he whispered.


    After making it clear the beast had been a wild one, the whole of Tolos had breathed a sigh of relief, content that the era of Dragonlords had not returned. Joffrey had been claimed as savior of the City, having slayed the enormous, untamed dragon before the fateful day where it could have returned to civilization and burnt Tolos to the ground. The man had been well cared for, and after gifting most of the Dragon''s corpse to the city as reparations for the damage, his popularity had only soared. No one slayed a Dragon on foot with a sword¡­ except for legends like the one which had descended upon Tolos that fateful day.


    So when he''d asked for a simple workshop and someone who knew a bit of working with bone, Gaenys'' Father had been all too willing to offer his son for a glimpse of recognition from the nobility. According to Joffrey, the Lords of Tolos had practically showered him with gifts in an attempt to make him go away, terrified of the leverage he might be able to use if he decided to try and take over the city¡­ much to his amusement.


    The Great One didn''t seem to have much worldly ambition beyond his mysterious search, but he''d pacified the nobility with his plans to move in a couple of months and his simple requests for an apprentice and a workshop.


    And so, Gaenys'' hobby, which had caused so much trouble with his Father before, had turned into his new profession, working part of the Dragon''s jaw bone into the shape of a sheath for the Dragonslayer''s sword. Well, more like fetching supplies and helping tidy up the workshop as the Great One worked on the bone with unparalleled skill, but still¡­


    A simple apprentice and an ear to nightmare inducing musings which he had no choice but to hear, a companion to the solitary and mysterious Great One. s?a??h th? N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Joffrey stayed still for hours, as had been routine for weeks. Gaenys stood still besides him, not making a sound throughout the long hours as the Great One kept tinkering with his soul, making the final adjustments in the ethereal plane only he could see. Gaenys had known nothing of the arts of the Warlocks before the day of the Dragon, and yet the Great One had seen fit to explain to him what he sought to achieve, happy to speak as he worked with bone and blade and soul, a simplified version of the no doubt horribly arcane and dangerous game he was playing with a dread sorcerer more than a million times more powerful than him¡­ a million times more powerful than the Great One himself! The sorcerer he called ''the Purple''.


    "Gaenys, hammer," he suddenly spoke.


    It was time.


    Gaenys made haste, prepared for the occasion as he deftly placed the still unfinished scabbard under Joffrey''s feet and a hammer in the man''s hand. The Great One got to work with deft skill, his eyes still closed as he used the very same sword as an unwieldy tool to carve ominous, incredibly complex runes into the scabbard. In the hands of the Great One, the bastard sword may as well have been a surgeon''s scalpel as he hammered lightly and certainly, carving a complex pattern which spanned the entirety of the dragon bone sheath.


    "It would take ages with common steel¡­ besides, the sword carving its own sheath? Much more poetic," the living legend had said with a touch of whimsy when asked.


    He stayed quiet as he watched the master at his craft, slowly edging out the last traces of the twirling, twisting pattern which now envelop the sword. He''d been getting more cryptic with the passing weeks, preferring the sound of his voice to the sharp loneliness of the workshop.


    "They don''t do anything, not really," he suddenly spoke out loud, happy as always to reveal the secrets of his arcane doings, "But it''ll help me focus, help me place them correctly¡­" he trailed off as he opened his eyes and lifted the scabbard, blowing lightly into it and scattering the coarse dust that had been once been part of a Dragon''s flesh and bone.


    "A vessel wrought to enable its content''s purpose, wrought from the flesh of the beings that helped forge that very same content¡­" he whispered cryptically, the meaning clear to him alone. "Wrought to help the content''s wielder fulfill an ancient task¡­" he trailed off as he lifted both sword and sheath, gazing at them side by side.


    "But it''s not enough," he said with vaguely crazed eyes as he turned towards him, "Precisely wrought were the anchors, they were not made to carry a side passenger¡­ but the Purple is moldable, changeable," he whispered with a crazed grin, as if he were telling him a great secret. "What is a slight tweak to a thing that is more real than reality? What is a small passenger in the shadow of Brightroar?" he asked yet again as he carefully fitted the blade inside sheath and Gaenys realized Joffrey had been talking to himself all this time, "What is to a them if I carve a slight valley into my soul?" he said as the blade clicked and he sat on the ground in the strange position he''d glimpsed envoy''s from the East use, the sword in the scabbard starting to almost glow as the hair in Gaenys'' hands, arms, neck, everywhere stood on edge, the sharp smell of crackling air and stormy seas filling the room as Joffrey closed his eyes and hugged the sword he held vertically, the pommel like a crown above his hair line as the golden lion head started to bleach into silver and the Great One spoke.


    "Will they notice the extra scabbard as the Sword slides into the anchor?" The Great One asked himself before his head turned towards Gaenys, gently.


    "Goodbye, Gaenys," he said as the runes along the scabbard started to glow very slightly as well, his serene smile growing as wisps of static started to roam its length.


    Gaenys bowed deeply as Joffrey''s smile turned into a grimace, followed by pain. He did not trust himself enough to speak as he grabbed the sack the Great One left for him by the door, filled with the tools of his trade and shining Tolosi Honors. He left the room and the building entirely as he walked quickly, just in time to hear a harrowing scream and a flash of light coming from the upper windows that blinded him even though he closed his eyes.


    -.PD.-


    ------


    ---


    AN: The muse briefly debated extended Essos loop. The plot had words with the muse.

 Interlude: Ser Bucketman.

    Interlude: Ser Bucketman.King''s Landing had turned into an interesting place throughout the last few days, at least in Tyrion''s opinion. First had been the death of Jon Arryn during suspicious circumstances, found dead in his sleep due to ''natural causes''. Then came the death of Petyr Baelish under even more suspicious circumstances, found sporting a bloody smile along his neck just after dawn. It seemed being a member of the Small Council was starting to become an even more dangerous prospect than usual, unleashing double shifts of guards and heightened tensions inside the Red Keep.


    The most bizarre and daunting of events had not been a murder however. It had come from the most unexpected of persons¡­ his nephew.


    Three days after the death of Jon Arryn, Joffrey had simply stopped talking. His nephew had, from night to day, simply changed. He slept till late in the afternoon and spent what was left of it meditating in a strange half kneeling half seating position, right in front of the Godswood''s heart tree. Strangest of all was the way his nephew seemed to be avoiding him, his face turning neutral the moment he saw him and not even looking at him after that. It was a strange sort of behavior which seemed to happen with everyone in the Red Keep, from Cercei to Myrcella, though apart from him only the Hound seemed to have been relegated so far from Joffrey''s new life. The sworn shield had told him that Joffrey reacted the same way, his face disfiguring itself into something inscrutable before acquiring careful neutrality and avoiding him, or asking politely to leave him alone.


    And alone he''d been.


    He''d barely spoken a word or two with him during the trip North, and things hadn''t seemed to change over there¡­ if anything he''d isolated himself even more thoroughly, with every Stark except maybe Bran or Rickon unleashing the same reaction, or lack thereof. Lord Eddard and Jon Snow seemed to hit him particularly hard, but strangely enough it was Sansa, the oldest daughter of Eddard, which seemed to make Joffrey smile and then immediately shake his head in self-loathing and shame, usually accompanied by hurried steps fleeing wherever it was he''d seen her.


    Hilariously enough, poor Sansa seemed to have been devastated over that, her wailings audible from rooms away as Lady Catelyn tried to make her understand that no, she was not some horrible, ugly hag.


    Joffrey would spend most of his afternoons either meditating, staring at the silver lion headed pommel of the fine sword he''d gotten ahold of somewhere that never seemed to leave his side, or gazing at drawings of what seemed to be constellations.


    Tyrion''s curiosity burnt brightly, but he was concerned for his nephew as well. He may have been a cruel boy far too pampered by Cercei, but Tyrion felt some kind of duty to at least attempting to get to the bottom of the matter, in the name of his dysfunctional House if nothing else.


    He had a plan. He always did.


    -.PD-.


    Joffrey had, as was his wont for weeks now, sequestered himself in Winterfell''s Godswood, doing his best melancholic princely impression, making maiden''s hearts flutter and poor Sansa to cry even harder. He was sitting still at the moment, facing the Heart Tree in that strange position of his as cold winds blew and the handful of papers over the small table he''d carried here shuffled as if annoyed.


    "Go away, Tyrion," he said before turning his head a little backwards, his surprisingly keen ears knowing it was him before he looked at him.


    Joffrey didn''t wait for a respond as he returned to his tree staring exercise, before turning back once more.


    "¡­ Uncle¡­ what are you wearing?" he asked, completely befuddled.


    Five words! Success! He thought as he waddled towards him, his vision reduced to a small rectangle and almost costing him his footing as he stumbled over an unseen root.


    "I thought that was evident, dear nephew," he said as he came to a stop by his side, "I, am wearing a bucket," he called from under the wooden bucket he wore as a helmet, stolen from one particularly angry looking cook which would have Tyrion checking his meals for the rest of their stay in Winterfell.


    "¡­ I can see that. Why are you wearing a bucket?" he asked as the sheer strangeness of the situation seemed to shake him out of his weary demeanor.


    "So you don''t see my face nephew, then your face doesn''t have to revolve itself like a bowl of milk in the hands of an angry hag," he said, staring at a nonplussed Joffrey through the messy rectangle he''d carved into the bucket, before leaning in closer and whispering.


    "It''s very unsettling," Tyrion assured him, wearing the bucket for all the world as if it were some sort of knightly helm.


    Joffrey stared at him for a second before an extremely unwilling chuckle tried to desperately escape from his sealed lips, clawing like a forsaken soul until its jailor finally gave up and a strange, vaguely high pitched chuckle was heard throughout the Godswood.


    He had expected an annoyed scoff really, but he could work with this!


    "Do you mock me?" Tyrion asked him with his arms crossed, standing on the tips of his toes and trying to make himself slightly bigger, trying to intimidate any who would dare sully his honor.


    "Tyrion! Please stop," Joffrey managed as he tried to clamp down his mouth with a hand, seemingly in genuine distress as he kept chuckling.


    "Tyrion?! My name is Ser Bucketman of House Bucket, and you will address me with the respect appropriate to my rank!" he said indignantly.


    "Tyrion! Stop!" Joffrey repeated as he laughed harder, tears trying to jump out of his eyes as he vaguely hid his face with both hands, his back leaning against the Heart Tree.


    "One more time and it will come to water, dear Ser! Where is my squire?!" Tyrion yelled as he turned around, "Maybe you have seen him? Rope of Deepwell, a no name smallfolk I met at a hanging, thin as a reed but potently endowed!" he said as he kept turning, still searching.


    "Stop Tyr-¡­" Joffrey stopped himself as he shook his head in a strange mixture of fondness and grief, "Ser Bucketman, please stop," he said with a slight voice which seemed to contain a sigh, smiling tenderly as slow tears kept streaming down his eyes and he slowly slid downwards, holding sobs with both hands.


    It was now Tyrion''s turn to stand confused as Joffrey cried silently, his knees curled up and his arms hiding his face in shame, each sob a drawn out affair which stayed completely silent until Joffrey had to breathe air and thus concede a slight sniffle now and then, a few grudging tears sliding down his cheeks and pooling in his sleeves.


    He''d expected a disdainful snort at the most, not him crumbling down! The last time he''d seen Joffrey cry had been more than two years ago.


    Tyrion took his ''helmet'' off slowly as he approached the last few steps, "Come on, it wasn''t that bad," he faux complained, making him smile wistfully for some reason.


    Tyrion was at a frank loss by now as he carefully sat by his side, holding the bucket awkwardly with one hand as he patted Joffrey''s back with the other, "Bucket?" he offered it to the boy for a lack of ideas.


    "W-what?" he managed after a muted, almost inaudible sob, staring at the bucket with red eyes before chuckling against his will again, "Oh Tyrion, this is worse than that time with the damned lemons," he said with a wistful smile despite his swollen eyes.


    "Which lemons?" Tyrion asked and immediately regretted it as Joffrey closed his eyes as if in physical pain, trying to return to the neutral face before Tyrion clamped the bucket on his head.


    "Wh-what was that fhor?" said the voice from the bucket.


    "Very unsettling Joffrey! If not me then you''re wearing it! Now stop this nonsense unless you want me to knight you as the next Ser Bucketman!" He warned him.


    "You aren''t even a knight," Came the halfhearted response from the bucket.


    "Can''t say I am, doesn''t mean I won''t," said Tyrion.


    "¡­But you are, actually," said Joffrey as he finally took off the helmet, looking at him fondly as he blinked away the last of the tears, "You''re a Broken Knight, always will be," he spoke in the manner of a strange farewell as he regaled him with the most heartbreaking smile Tyrion had ever seen, his voice coarse as he finally really looked at him. There was so much triumph and regret and meaning that Tyrion almost lost himself in that gaze, before Joffrey sniffled again and took out a handkerchief, blowing his nose.


    "I''m sorry, it''s been quite a while since the last time this happened¡­" Joffrey said, gesturing vaguely, his motions slow.


    "Apology accepted. As long as that bucket is in my head, you''ll call me Ser Bucketman," said Tyrion, buying time as he conjured and discarded hypothesis as fast as he could.


    "Uncle¡­ you truly are unstoppable," said his nephew, looking at him fondly even as the distance between them was reconstructed.


    By now Tyrion was completely lost on who the lost soul that had been Prince Joffrey was now, and try as he might to cheer him up, Joffrey knew that as well. There was a great chasm before them, and Tyrion realized he had to do something before Joffrey in turn did something irreversible and stupid.


    They stayed there in companionable silence for a while, Tyrion occasionally offering the bucket to Joffrey, who would scoff in good nature and smile distantly, looking west now and then. His nephew seemed to know him somehow, and Tyrion was somehow saddened he was not able to reciprocate the feeling.


    "Tyrion¡­ thank you¡­ for everything¡­" Joffrey suddenly spoke, and he had the impression the boy was talking about something altogether more than this particular evening¡­ and it sounded like a farewell.


    "Don''t think about it, I-" Tyrion started but was interrupted by Joffrey.


    "No, I want to say this¡­ I wanted to end it quietly but that would be unfair, selfish even," he said quickly before taking a deep breath, staring into his eyes, "Thank you for being there for me when the rest of the family did nothing. Thank you for setting an example I could aspire to, to show me I could be proud of my Lannister blood¡­ Most of all Tyrion, thank you for being my friend," he said, his words burning in truth and his smile recalling happier times.


    There was silence as Tyrion found himself at a loss for words, a rare occurrence.


    "I don''t understand," he finally managed.


    Joffrey''s smile returned, rawer than before as he gazed at him, "I know you don''t¡­ it would take lives to explain and would likely not make much sense anyway¡­" he said as he blinked slowly, "I''ve been travelling for a long time Uncle, in search of an answer¡­" he trailed off as he stared beyond him, "It has been a hard road, my search¡­ a harrowing journey which I would not wish upon any man¡­" he said as his eyes refocused on him, "But now it''s nearing its end at last. I found the last clue, a message written in code, using constellations as letters," here his speech quickened, halting randomly in between words, "I spent months upon months¡­ years even, trying to extract some sort of meaning or symbolism¡­" he snorted as he shook his head, "In all that time, the answer had been staring at me unflinchingly¡­ stars, not constellations¡­" he said as he kept shaking his head slowly, "Each constellation was actually¡­ a number, determined by the amount of stars in said constellation¡­" he trailed off.


    "I see¡­ and you fitted each number with a letter of some obscure tongue?" Tyrion hazarded, lost as to what sort of game Joffrey was playing but trying to keep up.


    He smiled with a strange sort of pride, "Yes, the common tongue actually¡­ it seemed obvious as soon as I arranged the constellations from least numerous to most... A single dot in place of an ''A'', two for a ''B'', The Broom with its three stars for a ''C'' and The Shield for a D, its four point kite construction bare for all to see¡­" he said with unsettling intensity which seemed to melt the wariness, "Some letters were previous constellations with an extra dot or star, but it was a simple enough puzzle in the end¡­ from the simple lone star to the twenty six point construct the First Men christened as The Weirwood, spanning over half the hemisphere¡­" he said as he trailed off, the wariness returning with a crushing if strangely serene weight.


    "So you cracked the message, in the end?" Tyrion dug for information.


    "It was a bit more complicated than that, but yes¡­ it was soon apparent a step was missing, though. The translation came up as garbled nonsense anyway¡­ the key was missing. You see, this message was meant for me alone, and a sufficient number of scholars with sufficient time and motivation could have stumbled upon the idea of lining up the constellations from least to greatest in stars, and then compared them to the Westerosi alphabet specifically¡­ unlikely as it sounds. No, they had to be sure, it had to be me," he said.


    Tyrion didn''t know why Joffrey was telling him all this, but it was clear the boy needed someone to talk to, and it seemed some sort of conspiracy had been aimed at his nephew using cryptic keys and messages. S~?a??h the ??v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "So they made a key only you could understand?" Tyrion guessed, unsettled by the hollow intensity in his nephew''s voice.


    "''Everyone but the purple prince steps to the right''¡­ the moment I thought about it again after aligning the constellations under the alphabet¡­ the answer was clear. Obvious even," he said as he shook his head and Tyrion restrained the urge to scratch his head in confusion.


    "¡­ what was it?" Tyrion asked, his voice sounding hushed in the stillness of the Godswood.


    "Me, Uncle. Joffrey," he said with a sad smile, "I am the purple prince. Everyone steps to the right but me¡­ so I took every letter but the ones in my name and moved them once to the right, to see if it made sense then. The ''Z'' was now represented by the single dot, ''A'' by two, ''B'' was now The Broom, ''C'' was the Shield, and so on. I aligned the entire alphabet one step to the right, jumping over the letters held within my name¡­ Joffrey, ''the Purple Prince''," he said the last as if it were a curse, "Those I let stand still, trapped in place¡­ fitting, I suppose" he said as he stood up.


    "And the message?" Tyrion asked, feeling the hair at the back of his neck straighten.


    "Oh it made sense then alright¡­ I had expected inane word games or allegories, more clues to chase in an endless cycle until the end of times¡­ instead I got two phrases, separated by a simple dash," he said as he buckled the sword to his belt and gazed west again. "It was refreshingly direct," he whispered.


    Tyrion sat still as Joffrey finally turned around and said the words as if they were prophecy, "''Sail west from point of origin and through the Sunset Sea - speak within the structure and we shall answer''," he whispered.


    Tyrion couldn''t say anything, Joffrey''s paralyzing gaze seemed tormented even as the serene weight in his voice turned accepting, perhaps even relieved, "I can feel it Tyrion, deep in my bones¡­ it will end soon, it will all end soon," he whispered, closing his eyes, "Two times I''ve already drowned under the storms of the Sunset Sea, great behemoths of frothing rage and destruction of such a scale that the words to describe them fail me even now¡­ but this time¡­ this time I''ll reach the Structure and meet them. My cycle shall be sealed, my questions shall be answered, the Purple shall fade to black," he whispered almost in religious fervor as he opened his eyes again and his gaze penetrated Tyrion and beyond.


    ¡­ He''s mad, thought Tyrion, and he could somehow tell Joffrey had read his mind. His nephew''s face turned pained again as he scrounged his eyes in weary, all-encompassing frustration, before letting it all go in a long breath.


    He smile bitterly as he grabbed Tyrion''s shoulder, "Goodbye, uncle," he whispered before walking away.


    When Tyrion warned Winterfell''s Maester and Robert himself about the strange fugue which had taken hold of his nephew, it was already too late. Joffrey was nowhere to be found, and the search parties returned empty handed even after weeks of furious searching up and down the Kingsroad and Winterfell''s surroundings.


    -.PD.-


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    AN: Soon...

 Interlude: W$a#t#c%h=e/r#%s

S?a??h the N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 37: Answers.

    Chapter 37: Answers.Spoiler: Music.


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    AN: Set to loop.


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    The deep sea storms of the Sunset Sea were things of raw power and emotion, amorphous beings with no purpose nor direction but a will to exist, towering waves whose crests sought to blot out the stars above as they rumbled in the grave tones of last whispers and forgotten omens.


    Joffrey somehow understood that raw, primal call, that deep throated bellow of existence as great waves emerged from the depths like phantasms of the past, carrying his small yacht upwards towards the heavens only to fall short, a deep sigh escaping the sea as the wave lost strength and it sought to return back to its restless sleep, its longing denied by other great waves which slammed against each other in primeval fury, unleashing great explosions of salt water which tore into sails and slit open terrible, burning wounds.


    As the raw force of nature sought to destroy itself in fury and storm, and as he slammed a cutlass against a rope and the remains of sail flew away never to be seen again, as titan waves crashed and great explosions of saltwater buffeted him clean off the mast, as the stars above were framed by churning water¡­ Joffrey felt he could understand, to some small degree, the melody of existence itself. It was only there, in between the raging of sea and sky, pelted by freezing rain and illuminated by great cataclysms of thunder which illuminated the whole horizon as far as the eye could see and beyond¡­ it was only when the melody assaulted him so greatly that he could hear it.


    As a deaf man could feel the rhythm of a song by the way the drums thrummed against chest and guts if it were loud enough, so could Joffrey barely glimpse the subtle beat of existence inherent to all things. Existence was a thing that could not be explained by language, it was a melody that ebbed and thrummed beyond sight or sound¡­ the closest sensation Joffrey could begin to liken it to were the timeless moment between inhalation and exhalation, a subtle weightless thing-moment-place somewhere between his lungs and his throat, a fraction of a millisecond that could sometimes, somehow, be more.


    His small ship skirted over the titan waves quickly, propelled by great hurricanes of wind as he followed the invisible line westwards from his point of origin, the place where everything had begun, the place where he''d first died and the place where he''d since been reborn¡­ the Red Keep.


    West he sailed, following the orders from his creators, deep into the Sunset Sea, deeper than any had done before. He endured storms which would have broken up Brandon the Shiprwight''s galleys into tinder, squalls which had once even propelled Joffrey himself out of his ship and up into the air before crashing him against the dark seas, the waters strangling him almost caringly.


    He ate what he could fish and drank greedily from the constant storms, his body withering away even as it became taught like worked leather, his body becoming one with his soul. His ship leaked and ailed, and once he saw a great kraken in the distance, of a scale with the titanic waves which trundled over the sea. Joffrey saw its great grey form only once, cataclysmic lightning illuminating it in all its breath taking grandiosity, with its great tentacles each the size of the Hightower and its huge eyes which seemed to stare at him unflinchingly. Joffrey had stared back in awed wonder at the being in between the heavy rain and the wind, but when the skies split apart again in ear renting thunder and spindly, horizon spanning streaks of light¡­ the being had disappeared.


    Joffrey felt strange during the quiet moments of sunshine and calm winds, like a child shifting uneasily in between its mother''s lullabies. He spent time with Stars, petting its salt drenched silver fur and enjoying the sound of his purring, the lion seemingly sharing his state of mind as he spent hours perched at the tip of the boat, gazing at the horizon in silence as Joffrey meditated. He knew too that a transformation of their existence was at hand. S?a??h the N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Other times he spent with Brightroar, wondering at its purpose now that the time to use it, he supposed, approached. The golden lion pommel had bleached and acquired a silvered tone as it anchored itself into his soul, slotting deep within and leaving him with a connection to the depths of his being. Its faint, yellow gold aura still seemed prevalent within the Valyrian metal, resting snuggly against its runed dragon bone hilt. Sometimes he''d practice with the sword in wide, graceful strokes which had more in common with meditation than drill. It felt strange to wield a bastard sword with both hands, and its deceptively light weight had more than once ended with it slipping his fingers and splashing into the seas.


    He sailed with map and compass, astrolabe and ruler, mind and hand straining to the limit as he kept following the line in the map that spanned from King''s Landing to the uncharted waters of the Sunset Sea. He sailed and sailed and sailed until the earth decided to end him, the sky itself descending against the seas and unleashing a storm of such proportions that the air seemed scarcely breathable in between the rain, waves that dwarfed comprehension itself finally managing to defeat his half blind steering and pummeling him to the depths of the sea, cracking his ship in half and more.


    As he drowned, Joffrey had the strangest certainty that this third trip would be the last, sun-like lightning illuminating the depths themselves and the mighty silhouette which crossed his awareness, from vigil to sleep or sleep to vigil he couldn''t tell.


    -.PD.-


    His eyes didn''t want to open at first, and his body felt strangely purged, devoid of joy and angst. He strained to hear a distant roaring, almost nonexistent, so far it was. As he focused on the sound, he realized it was coming closer, a highly pitched sibilant shriek accompanied by a gravelly throttled thrum which seemed to speed for him, becoming greater and greater the more he focused upon it.


    The sibilant shriek maintained its intensity as the grave one receded, only for it to come again. Stronger and stronger it thrummed until it exploded in agony, its remains splattering against his body as felt his hands again. He raised one hand haltingly up his side, feeling something jagged and hard, coarse to the touch and drenched in water. He kept lifting his hand until it reached his face and he scraped the encrusted salt from his eyelids, managing to open his eyes just as the deep thrumming reached a crescendo once more and he saw a great wave slam against the rock he was laying upon, ferociously spilling its guts upon it and himself.


    He realized the high pitched shrieking was the sound of the wind itself as it passed through the jagged landscape before him. Another wave crashed and pelted him with its remains as he looked back at the thunderous sea swirling behind him, the horizon lost to mist and storm. He turned back his head as he stood up and saw that which lay in front, a black, oily stone construction that began after the artificial reefs carved around it ended, a perfectly triangular black shape lying on its back in perfect geometry, like a great black three pointed starfish atop jagged black stone. Its contours seemed chipped and weathered, no ornamentation marring its form as it stretched over the waves like a monolith, only a few stories tall above the waterline¡­ but below¡­


    Below¡­


    Joffrey followed its length down and down and down until the dark seas shrouded its form entirely and impeded his vision, the triangular tower continuing beyond the murky, stormy waters beyond his sight and the light from the moon and stars, only the occasional flash of lightning from above giving Joffrey glimpses of the Structure as it kept going down and down and down until even the great searing light of the enraged thunderstorm above grew too dim, and for all Joffrey knew the great black triangle reached down to the bowels of the earth, or perhaps the material entrance to the Purple itself.


    He stumbled amongst the shoals of black rock as the waves tried to pull him down, spotting bits and pieces of his ship here and there. He spotted a piece of his cabin as he made his way towards the Triangle, the sight making him loose focus as he stumbled, crawling on all four when he lost his balance. When he stood up again he realized too late the great snarling wave which was upon him and he fell head first into the seas, powerful currents grasping him like chains as he swam desperately for the rocks. Primal lightning illuminated the Triangle as he looked down in between the swirl of bubbles and foam, an eternal tunnel with no end.


    He broke the surface with a harrowing breath, hands tight on a section of the black reefs. He climbed the jagged surface haltingly as thunder roared in might and the harsh rain pelted him with ice.


    He shivered from the cold as he reached some sort of ramp which climbed the sides of the Triangle, spotting a bit of flotsam stuck between the ramp and a particularly big piece of jagged reef. He stumbled towards it, the baleful moon making his skin seem a pale yellow as his trembling hands held one of the sealed, small crates which he''d hammered shut from before he departed Westeros. He tried to pry it open with his hands, waves bursting left and right and soaking him to the bone again as the storm raged and the wild wind shrieked and stole his body heat.


    He gave a muffled scream as two of his nails broke, standing up and roaring as thunders screamed and Brightroar materialized itself in a twirl of purple fractals and an explosion of salt water, coming down on the crate and slicing a corner of it like bread.


    Joffrey tossed the sword aside as he kneeled and retrieved the medium sized backpack from the crate, securing it quickly as he stumbled up the ramp, fighting against the force of the blows from the sea around him. He reached the top of the Triangle, gazing around him and seeing the same stormy seas wherever he looked, titan waves traversing the horizon as the wind bit into bones and he breathed hard, lowering his gaze to look at the interior of the Triangle. He shivered as he slid own the interior wall of the Triangle, gazing at the entrance of a black tunnel.


    The tunnel which had waited eons for him.


    He shivered as he retrieved a small, half soaked blanket and wrapped it around his back, leaning against the wall as he tore into a piece of beef jerky. He took a deep gulp of water from a small wineskin, closing his eyes as he took a deep breathe.


    In¡­


    Timeless existence beckoned as he lost himself to oblivion for a fraction of a second.


    Out¡­


    He opened his eyes as he stood up, retrieving a smallish oil lantern from the backpack as he walked towards the triangle shaped tunnel.


    The gentle, flickering flame of the lantern illuminated the weathered black stone as Joffrey found himself walking down a set of stairs, every thirtieth step ending at an angle and twisting to his right. His breath echoed strangely within the staircase, a muffled sound which rebounded down the Triangle almost eternally even thought it sounded vaguely muted, strangled.


    Water trickled down twin gutters at his sides, scurrying and waking him up when he''d stopped to sleep, the lantern''s light absent, only the echo of his breath and the slipping water keeping him company as he slept a dreamless sleep.


    Two times he stopped to sleep, and the cold grew muted the more he descended. His footsteps echoed down infinity as he turned right and went down the stairs, right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs and Joffrey thought he''d reached the next stage of his existence, an eternal penance through the dark stone tunnels as he went right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs until the stairs ended and Joffrey abruptly found himself in the bowels of the earth itself.


    There was no sound but the water which sprinted down the gutters, quickly disappearing through unseen means and leaving him alone as he walked past the tunnel''s end, entering a small hallway carved from the bedrock itself which wound through the earth in a very specific direction. Joffrey could hear absolutely nothing but his quickened breath, the place seemed as silent as a tomb as the hairs at the nape of his neck stood on edge and his hands trembled, his eyed wide open as he prepared to meet them.


    The hallway ended in a great chamber carved from the bedrock, filled with a forest of black pillars which bored into the rock above and below, the entire chamber filled with scribbles from top to bottom. Five hallways departed from the chamber in directions which seemed either random¡­ or extremely guided. He traversed through the chamber in slow steps, the periphery of his vision imagining eldritch shadows waiting for him behind each pillar, beckoning¡­


    He knelt, trying to decipher the carvings wasted away with time. He walked throughout the whole chamber, trying to decipher the same repeating pattern from its remains.


    "Speak," he said as he realized, gazing at the roof of the Structure, the lantern barely illuminating its vaulted ceiling and the weathered inscriptions above which eons before would have read but a single word.


    ''SPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAK SPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAK SPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAK, they read.


    ''Speak within the Structure and we shall answer'', Joffrey remembered the message, his heart taught as if on a string as he opened his mouth and found he had no voice.


    He spent and eternity like that, his heart hammering against his chest as a low keened sound emerged from his voice, blinking rapidly before he swallowed and he spoke.


    "What am I?! Why did you create me?! How do I end this curse?!" he suddenly shouted, his trembling hands balling into fists as he held them close to his mouth and he gave voice to anguish and despair and his desire to know why.


    His breath sounded like thunder to his ears, and he almost drowned himself as he tried to hold it in, trying to hear but the merest whisper in the wind, as his eyes bored on the hallways which might contain them.


    As minutes came and went though, Joffrey gave an unsteady step forwards, and then another, and another as he haltingly made his way towards the first tunnel from left to right. He walked through it almost in a trance, watching the millions of tiny black pillars that reinforced the tunnel through its sides and roof. The tunnel seemed to go in a very specific direction, winding and twisting as the chamber kept getting farther away, until the tunnel finally leveled itself as if they had found what they wanted, only continuing for a few steps straight ahead until Joffrey found himself in front of a great black slab of rock, with plentiful manifolds carved into it. It didn''t look like a door, perched as it was but a couple of steps above the ground as if it were a decorative painting.


    Nothing adorned it nor anything else, and the tunnel ended there¡­ as if the slab of black rock were the reason for the Triangle and the Chamber''s¡­ the entire Structure''s reason of existence. Joffrey''s trembling hands grasped the manifolds as he pulled back, channeling all his strength and fury and despair and loneliness and madness and grief and joy as he roared, pulling the great weight until it balanced itself on the edge.


    "What am I?!?! Why did you create me?!?! How do I end this?!?!?" he roared as he pulled the black slab finally out of position and he stepped to the side, letting it fall backwards on the ground.


    Joffrey stepped upon the black, fallen slab as he gazed at the mural which had been covered by it but a few seconds before, a mural carved for him. No pictures nor drawings it depicted, no constellations nor stars, no symbolism nor clues but the carved letters of the common tongue chiseled with clear purpose into the black stone, only lightly deteriorated due to the passage of time.


    The trembling light of the lantern illuminated the carvings as Joffrey read his answers.


    ''YOU ARE PART OF AN UNFINISHED WEAPONS SYSTEM DESIGNED TO END THE PHENOMENA DESCRIBED BY HUMANITY AS ''THE LONG NIGHT'', A RECURRING EXTINCTION EVENT THAT CLEANSES THIS PLANET''S BIOSPHERE IN PERIODIC NON REGULAR INTERVALS DETERMINED BY COMPLEX ASTRONOMICAL PHENOMENA. YOU ARE BUT THE LATEST ITERATION OF THIS SYSTEM, GIVEN FORM JUST BEFORE THE ONSET OF THE CYCLE''S NEXT STAGE.''


    Joffrey took in a strangled breath, a hand holding his mouth tightly as his wild eyes kept going down and reading the words, the clear cut script burning into his soul.


    ''YOU WERE CREATED/CATALYZED/ENGINEERED/GIVEN SOUL/FORMED FROM RAW ENERGY TO FULFILL THIS TASK, BUT NOT BY OUR WILL. WE SUSPECT YOU WERE CREATED BY THE SAME ENTITY OR ENTITIES RESPONSIBLE FOR THE LONG NIGHT/THE CYCLE, BUT THEIR ERA LIES MORE DISTANT TO US THAN YOURS IS TO OURS BY AT LEAST SEVERAL ORDERS OF MAGNITUDE, MAKING DIRECT POST-OBSERVATION OF THEIR TIMES IMPOSSIBLE TO US. YOU COULD BE THE PRODUCT OF BEINGS BEYOND GEOMETRIC COMPREHENSION WHICH HAVE SINCE LEFT OUR PLANE OF EXISTENCE, HAVE BEEN SUBSUMED BY THE CYCLE OR OTHER EQUIVALENT PHENOMENA, OR HAVE OTHERWISE LOST INTEREST FOR EVENTS IN OUR LOCAL PLANE OF REALITY. SMALL TRACES OF THEIR WORKS AND DEEDS ARE APPARENT TO US AS OF TIME OF WRITING, BUT HAVE FADED AWAY ENTIRELY BY YOUR ERA. YOU COULD ALSO BE THE UNFINISHED WORK OF ANOTHER CIVILIZATION SEEKING TO STOP THE CYCLE, WE KNOW OF AT LEAST TWENTY SEVEN DISTINCT PRECURSOR CULTURES WHICH SPANNED THIS WORLD''S NORTHERN HEMISPHERE BEFORE OUR TIME, BUT IT IS LIKELY THERE HAS BEEN COUNTLESS MORE BEYOND THEM, TOO MANY TO ENUMERATE. THERE IS SIMPLY NO WAY TO TELL FOR CERTAIN. LINE OF INQUIRY ULTIMATELY IRRELEVANT.


    Joffrey sat down as he stared at the carvings, blinking slowly and growing dizzy as he reached the last part and his last question, his hard breathing sounding like waves to his ears as he gazed at the black wall, his trembling hand aiming the questing light of the lantern.


    ''METHOD OF AUTHORIZED TERMINATION REMAINS UNCLEAR, THE PHENOMENA YOU REFER TO AS ''THE PURPLE'' HAS ALL THE HALLMARKS OF AN UNFINISHED/RUSHED CREATION. THE TRANS-ARRAY IS LIKELY DESIGNED TO FOLD ITSELF UPON THE COMPLETION OF ITS TASK/THE ENDING OF THE CYCLE, BUT WE ARE NOT CERTAIN. THE ONLY WAY TO KNOW MORE IS BY THE SELF-EXPLORATION OF THE CURRENT ITERATION''S MAIN MODULE. YOU. UNAUTHORIZED TERMINATION IS CERTAINLY POSSIBLE AND THE MOST STATISTICALLY PROBABLE OUTCOME FOR YOU/YOUR ITERATION, AS IT HAS BEEN SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL. ALL PREVIOUS ITERATIONS/YOUR PREDECESSORS HAVE BEEN SUBSEQUENTLY CONSUMED BY THE LONG NIGHT''S ATTENDANT SUB PROCESSES AND RECYCLED INTO RAW ENERGY TO FUEL OTHER, SECONDARY TASKS. THIS CAN BE ACHIEVED BY ANY OF THE CYCLE''S MOBILE PLATFORMS IF A PHYSICAL CONNECTION WITH SUFFICIENT CHARGE IS ESTABLISHED WITH YOUR BODY. WE RECOMMEND EXTREME CAUTION WHEN ENGAGING IN DIRECT OPERATIONS AGAINST THE CYCLE. FURTHERMORE, THE ARRAY IS ESPECIALLY VULNERABLE TO ENEMY INTERVENTION WHEN AT THE ONSET OF RECLAMATION.


    IF YOU ARE ASSIMILATED BY THE CYCLE, YOU/YOUR ITERATION WILL BE FORCIBLY SHUT DOWN, AND THE EXTINCTION OF ALL CURRENT SENTIENT/NEARSENTIENT LIFE WITHIN THIS PLANET WILL BE ASSURED SHORTLY THEREAFTER. WHAT YOU REFER TO AS THE PURPLE WILL ENTER A STATE OF DORMANCY AS IT RECHARGES THE VAST AMOUNTS OF ENERGY NEEDED TO CREATE AND SUSTAIN AN ITERATION, FEEDING ON BOTH PLANAR AND EXTRA-PLANAR TRANSIENT BACKGROUND RADIATION, BIDING ITS TIME UNTIL IT CAN CREATE ANOTHER SET OF HOSTS FROM A SUITABLY INTELLIGENT SPECIES WHICH FULFILLS ITS PROGRAMMED CRITERIA. ONCE ENERGY RESERVES ARE RECHARGED AND A SUITABLE HOST SPECIES EMERGES INTO SAPIENCE UPON THIS PLANET''S SURFACE OR SUB SURFACE, THE PURPLE WILL MAKE USE OF THE DISRUPTION CAUSED BY THE ONSET OF THE NEXT LONG NIGHT TO RESTART FROM ITS DORMANCY AND RENEW ITS WEAPONRY IN THE FORM OF NEW HOSTS.''


    There the text ended, just as the black relief did, as if the black stone could not have been expanded but a single inch more to the right. Joffrey tried to breathe deeply as he hyperventilated, both hands covering his mouth as he stared at the black wall, reading the words again and again until they became seared in his memory.


    He had come here for the closure of his existence, the final acts of his long life, to find answers to his circumstances and an informed end to his suffering¡­ and he''d found himself caught in a colossal, titanic, no, even words failed to describe the sheer magnitude of the struggle which had raged upon this earth for millennia upon millennia, eons upon eons of vast civilizations orders of magnitude more advanced than any Joffrey had ever seen, all ground down to dust by the Long Night, itself but a construct of elder beings literally beyond his comprehension.


    Joffrey walked back to the Chamber in a daze, trying to process the enormity of the task, a task even bigger than he''d thought, bigger than he could have imagined. Not even nightmares could have been able to convey the sheer titanic struggle of which he was but the latest in a long line of failed heroes...


    No¡­ Weapons.


    He didn''t understand the particular meaning of a few words, but what they aimed for seemed clear¡­ indeed, the gist of the message seemed as clear as water. He had been created by the Purple, a thing which sounded strangely non¡­ sentient he supposed, more similar to a complex Myrish clock than a man or a Shryke or some other thinking species. He was an unfinished weapon of some sort designed to counter The Cycle, The Long Night, The End of All Things¡­ a defective weapon which had failed countless times before and would likely do so again.


    Joffrey sat in the middle of the Chamber, hit by overwhelming waves of alternating awe and dread, shaken by the sheer magnitude of the Cosmos which had just revealed itself, a vast sphere of existence layered upon existence in a recursive pattern that, for all he knew, stretched to infinity.


    What might there be beyond the creators of the Long Night and the Purple? He thought. Are there beings and meanings as beyond them as they are beyond me? He wondered, his form slack as he lost himself in the paralysis of the thought.


    He shook his head slowly, very slowly as he came back to his reality, surprised to find the light from his lantern dimming as is throat ached, dry as he''d never before felt it.


    He drank a bit of water, not even an ounce of hunger within him as the few sips made him dizzy and nauseated, shaking his head again before he refilled the oil lantern.


    A picture was starting to emerge, a glimmer of understanding threading throughout his soul even as new questions emerged from his consciousness and what he thought the limits of the cosmos and existence itself opened beyond comprehension.


    ¡­ But if they didn''t create me, what is their role? Why give me this information? And the bone tablet? Who are they? Why go through all of this? Where are they? How are we talking like this? The questions kept barreling through his mind as he stood back up.


    "I don''t understand¡­" he trailed off, shaking his head once more as he straightened and shouted as clearly as he could.


    "Who are you? And where are you?... How can we speak like this? Why did you make me run through this whole¡­ pointless journey?! Why are you helping me at all?!" he shouted, the dread and the confusion almost overwhelming him.


    He needed to know why¡­


    He hesitated for a moment before quickly walking through the second hallway, never before seeing such a reinforced construction of their make. It was filled with reinforcing pillars that plunged from the ground and disappeared when they reached the ceiling, a forest of black pillars surrounding the Chamber and the hallways, everywhere. It was clear the entire Structure¡­ the Triangle and the Chamber and the tunnels all were but the tiniest endpoint of a colossal construction built from the ground up to stand throughout the ages, more than any of the ruins he had visited before. Joffrey suspected even the most radical of musings in the most nonsensical works of maesterly architects at the Citadel could not even approach the work of engineering this endeavor had likely required¡­


    Even after such a mighty work of otherworldly construction, Joffrey could see sections of the walkway which had collapsed, entire pillars which had given way, even the carved words or letters which lay everywhere along the tunnel seemed eroded beyond all comprehension.


    The tunnel or walkway again seemed strangely on point, taking a series of precise turns and dips before leveling off and ending in a short hallway which contained another black stone slab. He gave a muffled roar as he grabbed the manifolds and pulled back, the long effort finally paying off he stood to the side and the slab fall, clearing the black carved letters in the wall.


    He read silently as he illuminated the words with the oil lantern, almost wishing for the obscure meaning of the previous carvings as he gazed at the slightly chipped and weathered words from times of ancient past.


    ''DIFFICULT AND TOO EXTENSIVE TO EXPLAIN PROPERLY. WE SHALL PROVIDE A SIMPLIFIED ANSWER TO ALL QUESTIONS: WE ARE A SPECIES OF ORIGINALLY SEA DWELLING BEINGS WHO DEVELOPED SENTIENCE/THE CAPACITY FOR REASONED THOUGHT AND SELF EXAMINATION. IN TIME, WE ACHIEVED COMPLETE TEMPORARY MASTERY OVER THIS PLANET AS ITS DOMINANT SPECIES.''


    Joffrey shook his head in shock, blinking quickly as he read.


    ''FROM YOUR POINT OF VIEW, OUR SPECIES WENT EXTINCT HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO. FROM OUR OWN, WE ARE GLIMPSING A POSSIBLE FUTURE AND PREPARING IT ACCORDING TO OUR WILL. SIMPLIFICATION: WE ARE WATCHING YOU SPEAK YOUR QUESTIONS IN WHAT FOR US CONSTITUTES A DISTANT FUTURE, AND THE ANSWERS YOU ARE READING RIGHT NOW WILL BE CARVED AND EMPLACED WITH THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU WILL, IN TIME, FIND THEM. THIS FACT TIES WITH ALL YOUR REMAINING QUESTIONS. SIMPLIFICATION: TIME IS BOTH MALLEABLE AND PERCEPTIBLE, AND OUR VISION OF POSSIBLE FUTURES GROWS DIM AND BLURRED AFTER ONLY A FEW THOUSAND YEARS, EYESIGHT-LIKE PRECISION DEVOLVING INTO BARELY MORE THAN WHAT YOU WOULD CALL STATIC PAINTINGS AND DISTORTED WHISPERS, AND EVEN WORSE FOR EVERY GREATER ALLOTMENT OF TIME WHICH FOLLOWS. THIS BRINGS US TO YOU AND THE REASONS BEHIND OUR AID.''


    Joffrey scratched his hair almost compulsively, stopping for a second before continuing.


    ''YOUR ERA IS AN ANOMALY IN THE SKEIN OF TIME. PERHAPS THE PURPLE HAS A METACOMPONENT WHICH IS ITSELF ANOTHER CYCLE, BOOSTING NORMAL OPERATIONS ONCE EVERY EON. PERHAPS ANOTHER OUT OF CONTEXT FORCE SIMILAR TO THE LONG NIGHT OR THE PURPLE IS EXERTING ABNORMAL INFLUENCE ON YOUR TIMES, OR PERHAPS THIS IS SIMPLY A NATURAL OCCURRENCE. ULTIMATELY IRRELEVANT. WHATEVER THE CASE, THE OBSERVATIONAL QUALITY OF YOUR ERA IS UNPARALLELED, THUS PRESENTING A WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY FOR US TO EXERT THE LARGEST DEGREE OF INFLUENCE OVER IT. WE KNOW THAT THERE WILL BE AT LEAST THREE DISTINCT CYCLES BETWEEN YOUR TIME AND OURS, BUT WE HAVE ABANDONED HOPE FOR THEIR PLIGHT. FOR MULTIPLE REASONS, YOU ARE THE MOST STATISTICALLY LIKELY ITERATION OF THE PURPLE WITHIN OUR INFORMATIONAL HORIZON TO STOP/CEASE/DESTROY THE LONG NIGHT/THE CYCLE. TO THAT END WE HAVE WORKED TO GRANT YOU AID, MOSTLY IN THE FORM OF INFORMATION AS THE CYCLE SEEMS ADEPT AT INTERCEPTING COMPLEX TOOLS OR WEAPONS FROM ONE ERA TO THE NEXT.''


    Joffrey shook his head again, holding it with his hands, "No¡­ no," he whispered, "This doesn''t make any sense, how can you see possible futures¡­ and plural at that?!" He asked himself in supreme confusion, unable to stop reading.


    ''KEEP IN MIND: EVEN THOUGH YOUR ERA IS CLEARER TO US THAN ANY OTHER WE''VE OBSERVED BEFORE, OUR INFORMATION OF IT AND YOURSELF STILL LIES ''FOGGED'' AND HEAVILY INTERFERED WITH. THERE ARE EXTREMELY FEW GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATIONS WHICH WE CAN OBSERVE DIRECTLY AND SOMEWHAT CONTINUALLY FROM OUR ERA TO YOURS, AND LOCATIONS WHICH ARE ALSO ACCESSIBLE TO YOU IN SOME MANNER ARE EVEN RARER. THIS IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE WITHOUT VISION WE CAN NOT GUARANTEE THAT WHATEVER INFORMATION WE''VE EMPLACED UPON THEM SHALL SURVIVE TO YOUR TIMES. THESE LOCATIONS ARE THE PLACES UPON WHICH WE HAVE CONSTRUCTED THE WAYPOINTS THAT ULTIMATELY GUIDED YOU HERE: THE LOCATION WHICH POSSESSES THE LEAST AMOUNT OF INTERFERENCE. EXPLANATION: THIS GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION PROVIDES AN EVEN MORE DEFINITE VANTAGE POINT WITHIN YOUR ALREADY HIGHLY VISIBLE ERA, WHICH IS THE REASON WE CAN HEAR YOUR QUESTIONS CLEARLY. THIS ALSO MEANS WE CAN POSITION THE SLABS THAT HOLD THESE ANSWERS AS PRECISELY AS POSSIBLE WITHIN THE STRUCTURE, AIMING FOR THE EXTREMELY SCARCE LOCATIONS WHICH WE CAN BE CERTAIN SHALL SUFFER LITTLE DETERIORATION THROUGHOUT THE PASSAGE OF THE AGES.


    OTHER MEANS TO CONTACT YOU BEYOND THIS LINE OF INQUIRY HAVE BEEN ATTEMPTED, BUT MOST HAVE RESULTED IN FAILURES. THE BONE TABLET AND ITS ACCOMPANYING MODIFICATIONS TO YOUR ESSENCE/SOUL WERE OUR DOING, A DESPERATE SECONDARY PLAN IN CASE THIS PARTICULAR FUTURE, -WHERE YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY FOLLOWED THE WAYPOINTS AND THIS STRUCTURE HAS ENDURED IN TIME-, WAS NOT TO BE/WAS DIVERTED/DID NOT PREDOMINATE. SUCH PLAN WILL BE TURNED OBSOLETE WITH THE INFORMATION THAT WILL BE GIVEN TO YOU BY THE END OF OUR EXCHANGE. A REPETITION IS UNLIKELY, FOR MORE THAN HALF OUR NUMBER WERE ESSENCE-HOLLOWED/SYPHONED DURING THE TABLET''S TRANSPOSITION, AND WE HAVE NOT THE REMAINING STRENGTH TO DO IT AGAIN.''


    "Half your number¡­ half your number of what?" Joffrey whispered as he stared at the wall, "Of your team? Of your sorcerers¡­" he trailed off, a sudden shiver raising the hairs at the nape of his neck, "Of your species?" he whispered.


    ''WHY: OUR REASONS ARE COMPLICATED AND A PROPER EXPLANATION WOULD CONSUME MORE DATA THAN WHICH HAS BEEN ALLOTTED FOR THIS COMPLEX. ULTIMATELY, OUR RACE AND CIVILIZATION WILL SOON BE NO MORE, FOR REASONS INDEPENDENT OF THE LONG NIGHT AND WHOLLY OUR OWN. IT IS OUR WISH THAT THE LIGHT OF CONSCIOUSNESS WILL ENDURE BEYOND THIS PLANET, AND FOR THIS YOU ARE OUR TOOL AND HOPE AS MUCH AS YOU ARE THE PURPLE''S. IN THE END, LINE OF INQUIRY IRRELEVANT.


    WE RECOMMEND YOU USE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO ARM YOURSELF WITH AS MUCH RELEVANT INFORMATION -AS YOU WOULD SEE IT- AS POSSIBLE. WE COULD FILL TRILLIONS OF THESE CAVES IF WE HAD THE SPACE/RESOURCES FOR IT, AND STILL KNOWLEDGE WOULD BE LOST: ONLY YOU, WITH FULL VISION OF YOUR ERA, CAN TELL US WHAT INFORMATION YOU NEED EXPANDED UPON.''


    Joffrey was shaking his head harder and harder as the mural ended, holding his head with both hands and pulling his hair out, "NoNoNO! This doesn''t make any sense!!!" he screamed before he raced back through the tunnel.


    If they''re watching the future like that then it means they already know what I''ll say¡­ destiny does exist and nothing I do fucking matters! He thought, crazed as he sprinted out of the second tunnel and into the third, quickly reaching the black slab and pulling it with all his strength.


    He screamed as he pulled, a scream of rage and angst as the black slab fell, revealing the black mural behind.


    A black mural smooth as a pond, with not a single word etched upon it.


    Joffrey shook his head like a dog with a rat, feeling the smooth stone with his hand over and over. He gazed again at the blank wall, confused and bereft of understanding as his other hand held his mouth.


    So I do have agency? Because I didn''t say anything then nothing appeared on the mural¡­ but then how could they know I''d end up here in the first place?! He asked himself in frustration. It doesn''t make any sense, he repeated inside his head, walking compulsively up and down the partly collapsed hallway. How can they see but not see the future?! Can there be such a thing as multiple futures? Is the Purple working under that assumption?! The questions threatened to overwhelm him as he walked back, his nails almost raking his face.


    He finally gave up as he collapsed on the ground of the Chamber, taking deep gulps of air as he closed his eyes, centering himself.


    Spoiler: Music.


    ----


    AN: Set to loop.


    ----


    In¡­


    ¡­


    Out¡­


    ¡­


    In¡­


    ¡­


    Out¡­


    ¡­


    In¡­


    ¡­


    Out¡­


    ¡­


    He opened his eyes slowly, gazing at the black pillars. Maybe it was arrogance to try to comprehend such an incredibly complicated, complex thing. Maybe it was sheer human nature to be curious even if it made one mad¡­ maybe his mind just wasn''t built to comprehend the eldritch methods by which they had managed to set up the elaborate scheme to get him here¡­


    Does it matter, in the end? He asked himself truthfully, gazing at the remaining hallways.


    Yes, it does¡­ Came the answer¡­ but not more than the End of All Things and the destruction of everyone he''d ever loved, everyone''s he''d ever hated, everyone he''s ever seen or heard about, every living being which fulfills the extermination criteria of the Walkers, from Andals to First Men to Ibbenese to Brindled Men to Shrykes and who knew what else, perhaps not even the trees would live, in the end.


    Joffrey stood up, the upheaval of emotions fading away he felt the weight of not only humanity but those that had come before and those who will come after. He felt the weight increase¡­ and increase, and increase, and increase like never before until something inside him broke and a strange sort of serenity filled him.


    The weight of worlds unending¡­ there was a strange sort of honor there, a sort of Duty which dwarfed even the load he''d carried as Dawn Commander. A duty which elevated him as much as it crushed him, a purpose wrought into the creation of his very soul. He was a weapon created by eldritch might more potent than a million trillion Shadowbinders. He was the Hope for Tomorrow.


    He was Dawn, and the trillions upon trillions of those already perished and trillions upon trillions of those yet to be born¡­ he decided right then and there: they would not find him wanting.


    "Still We Stand," He whispered suddenly.


    The Structure echoed his oath back, down through the tunnels and up through the Triangle in a repeating pattern, ''STILLWESTANDSTILLWESTANDStillWeStandStillWeStandstillwestandstillwestandstillwestand¡­'' it reverberated through the halls.


    He was breathing hard, staring fixedly ahead, his eyes red as he remembered an old battlecry, one he''d abandoned as he lost his will. "For the Living," he whispered, his voice raw but firm to his ears. It was not an exaltation, not a denial, but acceptance.


    The crushing emptiness that had plagued him for lives now still remained, eating at him, consuming him¡­ but he let it in. He stopped fighting it even as he accepted it. If this was his purpose, then so be it. If he finished his transformation into a hollowed out husk of a man, then so be it. He would keep going come magic or intrigue, despair or self-loathing, as he''d promised himself before but failed. He would accept the suffering and the horror, for there was no escaping it. He would die fulfilling his duty as Ned would have wanted, as Yham and Shah and Jin and Jhos and all the others would have wanted, like all the versions of Tyrion and Sandor that he''d never see again would have wanted¡­ And if he failed, then he would have his rest anyway.


    Joffrey would have lied if he''d said the prospect didn''t fill him with horror, with a harrowing, choking dread, the prospect of continuing with the curse, to be forgotten by friends and family and comrades in arm, to return again and again and again to the body of a simpering, pathetic sadist, the prospect of continuing his cycle of war and death and anguish and physical torment¡­ but the prospect that it would end, even if with him gaping at a Walker sword as it pierced his heart, gave him some strange sort of serenity which had been missing before. If he fell apart¡­ as he fell apart, he''d do so while fulfilling his duty. His purpose.


    Joffrey wiped the lone tear from his cheek, taking another breath before gazing up. If he was to fulfill his purpose, then he''d need knowledge, knowledge of his enemies. To know that which one fought was wisdom older than man, and he didn''t need a celebrated general''s sayings to understand that.


    He paced around the Chamber as his eyes narrowed, thinking hard as he stopped thinking like a man and started thinking as a weapon should, for that he was.


    "I need more general information¡­ In practical terms, how does The Cycle work from beginning to end? I need information on its patterns, as well as whatever weaknesses you know of, both tactical and strategic," he asked the Past.


    He followed the path of the third tunnel, and came upon the fallen slab and the barren black wall, same as he''d left it a moment before.


    He stared at it, confused before he nodded, No, it makes sense¡­ or should make sense, in a twisted sort of way¡­ I''ve already opened and wasted this potential answer¡­ I should check the fourth hallway.


    He shook his head as he emerged from the third and walked through the winding path of the fourth hallway, realizing that for the first time in years, lives¡­ for the first time in a long while, his actions had consequences that extended beyond a particular life. The answers the¡­ he supposed Deep Ones was a name as fitting as any other¡­ The burial of answers the Deep Ones would carry out was outside and beyond the scope of the Purple, beyond the resetting of the World. He would have only these few answers and then one last question for the fifth hallway¡­ after that, no more.


    He held his breath as the fourth slab fell to the ground, and he opened himself conceptually to the knowledge of those that came before.


    ''CONVENTIONAL TACTICAL WEAKNESSES: THE CYCLE ITSELF SEEMS INVULNERABLE TO WEAPONRY FAR IN ADVANCED OF WHAT EVEN OUR CIVILIZATION IS CURRENTLY CAPABLE OF, BUT ITS PLATFORMS CAN BE EFFECTIVELY COUNTERED IN A MANNER OF WAYS. SEVERAL DISTINCT FORMS OF DIRECTED ENERGY MANIPULATION, WHAT YOUR CIVILIZATION HAS GROUPED UNDER THE TERM ''MAGIC'', CAN PIERCE ANY PLATFORM''S ARMOR AND DISRUPT ITS CONNECTION TO THE CYCLE. CERTAIN MOLECULAR STRUCTURES CAN ALSO ACHIEVE THIS, THOUGH ALL BUT OBSIDIAN ARE TOO UNSTABLE FOR PRACTICAL USE. BEING AN EXTREMELY ENERGY CONSCIOUS CONSTRUCT, THE CYCLE''S PLATFORMS CAN BE INDUCED TO RETREAT MOMENTARILY IF IT DEEMS ITS ENERGY LOSS AS GRAVER THAN ITS ESTIMATED BATTLEFIELD GAIN, THOUGH FREQUENT USE OF THIS TACTIC WILL EVENTUALLY MEAN AN ESCALATION OF FORCE. SUFFICIENT BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA CAN ALSO RENDER ITS PLATFORMS INOPERABLE, THOUGH THE AMOUNT OF FORCE NECESSARY TO ACHIEVE A MISSION-KILL IS LIKELY TO INCREASE AFTER EACH ESCALATION.''


    ''CONVENTIONAL STRATEGIC WEAKNESSES: IN MANY WAYS, THE CYCLE IS A THING BEYOND OUR MEANS OF UNDERSTANDING, WITH MANY SUB PROCESSES RUNNING IN PARALLEL ACROSS THE PLANAR SPECTRUM. IT IS EVEN POSSIBLE THAT METHODICAL XENOCIDE BE A MERE SIDE EFFECT OF ITS ACTUAL PURPOSE. REGARDLESS, IT IS USEFUL TO NOTE THE LACK OF HIGHER DIRECTION IN THE CYCLE''S PATTERNS, WHICH SEEM TOO RIGID AND INFLEXIBLE TO ACCOUNT FOR SENTIENCE. IN THIS SENSE, YOU COULD LIKEN THE CYCLE TO A MACHINE WITH ONLY A LIMITED NUMBER OF PROBLEM SOLVING SOLUTIONS. THIS CAN MAKE IT PREDICTABLE, AND MANY VICTIMS OF THE CYCLE HAVE SUCCEEDED IN SLOWING DOWN ITS PURPOSE WITH LATERAL-THINKING STRATEGIES AND TACTICS, WHICH THE LONG NIGHT SEEMS ILL-EQUIPPED TO HANDLE IF IT HAS NOT ENCOUNTERED THEM BEFORE IN THAT VERY SAME CYCLE, FALLING BACK ON BRUTE-FORCE ESCALATION IF RESISTANCE PROVES TOO EFFECTIVE. THE CYCLE CAREFULLY HUSBANDS ITS ENERGY, AND SEEMS SLOW TO ESCALATE THE POWER OF ITS WEAPONRY AS LONG AS ITS CURRENT STRATEGY STILL SUCCEEDS MORE THAN IT FAILS. THIS FACT CAN BE USED TO DRAG OUT AN EXTERMINATION AND BUY TIME FOR OTHER STRATAGEMS TO ENTER THE STRUGGLE, THOUGH THERE IS ALWAYS A LIMIT. WE SUSPECT THE LONG NIGHT HOLDS NO ACTUAL MEMORIES OF PREVIOUS EXTERMINATIONS/ERAS, AND IN A SENSE NEVER ''LEARNS'' BEYOND WHAT IT ENCOUNTER DURING THE CYCLE AT HAND.''


    "A machine," whispered Joffrey, mind heavy as he processed what he read, "A great piece of machinery with no operator, spinning and spinning through eons unending¡­" he trailed off, his mind staggering under the implications. The White Walkers had always seemed strangely mechanical to him, as if their souls were but pipes and valves with single minded purpose¡­ It made sense now.


    ''SIMPLIFICATION: THE CYCLE OPERATES ON A TWO STAGE PROCESS ONCE ITS PROGRAMMING HAS DEEMED THE WORLD''S CURRENT BIOSPHERE AS DUE FOR EXTINCTION. THE FIRST STAGE IS ONE OF CALIBRATION, AS THE CYCLE MATERIALIZES MEASURING INSTRUMENTS ALONG THE PLANET''S NORTH POLE, FEEDING ON THE LEYLINES WHICH NATURALLY FLOW THROUGH ITS AXIS. THESE MEASURING INSTRUMENTS SUBVERT THE LOCAL INHABITANTS, USING THEM AS SCOUTING PLATFORMS TO CONFIRM THE STATE OF THE WORLD AND ITS FLORA AND FAUNA. THIS IS ALMOST ALWAYS A VIOLENT PROCESS, AND IN MOST CASES WILL BE ENOUGH TO EXTERMINATE THE LOCAL BIOSPHERE WITHOUT NEED FOR FURTHER ACTION.''


    Joffrey found he couldn''t breathe, his hand slowly making his way up to his mouth with a will of his own.


    ''IF THE EXTERMINATION ORDER IS CONFIRMED AND THE TARGET SPECIES'' STILL LIVE, THE SCOUTING PLATFORMS WILL RETURN TO THE NORTH POLE AND HIBERNATE, LIMITING THEIR ACTIVITIES TO ONLY A FEW SUB PROCESSES, OF WHICH WE KNOW LITTLE ABOUT. WE KNOW A SIGNAL WILL BE SENT TO DEEP SPACE WHERE THE CYCLE''S PHYSICAL ENERGY REPOSITORY LIES DORMANT, ACTIVATING ITS ONBOARD PROPULSION SYSTEM AND SETTING COURSE FOR THIS PLANET''S ORBIT, A JOURNEY WHICH MAY TAKE THOUSANDS OF YEARS. ITS ARRIVAL ALWAYS HERALDS THE BEGINNING OF STAGE TWO.''


    "¡­ The Red Comet¡­" Joffrey realized in horror, trembling lantern illuminating the black words.


    ''ONCE THE REPOSITORY IS WITHIN RANGE OF THE PLANET, IT WILL BEGIN TRANSFERRING ITS VAST STORES OF ENERGY TO THE CYCLE''S CURRENT PLATFORMS BY MEANS UNKNOWN, WHO WILL THEN MAKE USE OF IT AUTONOMOUSLY FOR A VARIETY OF TASKS, SUCH AS THE MANIPULATION OF THE PLANET''S CLIMATE IN STRATEGIC AND TACTICAL ROLES, THE REANIMATION OF PROGRESSIVELY OLDER CORPSES, AND THE CREATION OF MORE STANDARD AND SPECIALIZED PLATFORMS TO CARRY OUT ITS DESIGNS. WHAT COMES NEXT VARIES GREATLY DEPENDING ON THE PLANET''S CURRENT INHABITANTS, BUT IN DUE TIME THE OUTCOME IS THE SAME: EXTINCTION. THE CYCLE''S MOBILE PLATFORMS WILL ADVANCE METHODICALLY FROM THE NORTH POLE, SLAYING LIVING ORGANISMS AND USING THEIR REMAINING ESSENCE TO REANIMATE THEIR CORPSES TO SERVE AS LIGHT INFANTRY OR SHOCK TROOPS, DEPENDING ON THE CORPSE IN QUESTION, ESCALATING ENERGY USE IF NECESSARY UNTIL ALL OBJECTIVES HAVE BEEN MET. EVENTUALLY, ALL TARGETED LIFE ON THE SURFACE AND SUBSURFACE WILL BE ANNIHILATED AND THE PLANET WILL IN ALL LIKELIHOOD ENTER AN ARTIFICIAL ICE AGE. THE VAST LEGIONS OF MOBILE PLATFORMS WHICH HAVE BEEN FORMED UP TILL NOW WILL DISSIPATE AND BE RECYCLED BACK INTO THE REPOSITORY, WHICH WILL THEN DEPART THIS PLANET''S ORBIT AND SET COURSE FOR A RANDOMIZED LOCATION IN DEEP SPACE WITHIN THE VICINITY OF THIS SOLAR SYSTEM''.


    As he read the final sections of the paragraph, Joffrey imagined vast legions of Walkers gazing up at the sky, all over a silent, dead world filled with white¡­ Staring silently at the fading form of the Red Comet as they melted into nothing.


    "Gods¡­" he whispered, the word harsh in the midst of the quiet. He had long since left the realm of Gods and jumped into the abyss of things infinitely greater in scope and purpose, never to return.


    "The First War for Dawn¡­ The Children and the Heroes of the First Age¡­ they were fighting their scouts¡­" he whispered in horrifying awe, his heart slamming into his rib cage as his throat was squeezed as if by a ghost, "They survived the First Stage, but now The Second Stage¡­ oh gods¡­" he choked.


    Joffrey walked out of the tunnel as if in a daze¡­ he had accepted his purpose, but¡­


    What can a man do against such cosmic power? Against a sort of construct which has endured eons unending¡­ a construct which touched the stars themselves and the veils beyond¡­ he thought, his eyes closed as he held his head with one hand, leaning on the edge of the Chamber. He felt for the presence of his soul, grabbing it and giving it form as he breathed. He smiled sadly as he kneeled and hugged Star''s silvery white mane, scratching its neck as the lion purred in satisfaction.


    ¡­ But I''m not a man, am I? I am ''part'' of the Purple, part of a Weapon created to end cosmic power¡­ however incomplete I am, there has to be a way¡­ he thought as Stars keened.


    He sat in the Chambers'' floor, gazing at the remaining hallway, Stars'' comforting presence by his side as the silver lion licked his vaguely red claws. He was still alone in a sense, as he''d long ago understood that Stars was but part of his soul given physical form, but the Silver Lion had a strange sort of majesty which soothed him anyway.


    He returned Stars back inside him with a deep breath and a long blink of his eyes before he exhausted himself more than he already was, thinking hard about his remaining questions. One last answer awaited, and he took his time formulating what he needed to know.


    He took another deep breath, gazing upwards as he spoke, "You said that I am but a part of an incomplete weapon, The Purple, designed to end The Cycle¡­ what does that mean? How is the Purple supposed to work? I need you to tell me what is missing from it, how I can fix it, and how to end the Cycle permanently," he asked with a strong, clear voice, all questions ultimately aiming for the same comprehensive answer.


    Tell me what to do, tell me how to kill them, he thought as he strode down the fifth and final hallway, arriving at the mural and pulling the black slab with a grunt of decisive effort.


    ''THE PURPLE SHADOWS THE LONG NIGHT AND OPERATES ON ITS OWN TWO STAGE PROCESS, FORMING ITS OFFENSIVE WEAPONRY AT THE EARLY ONSET OF EACH STAGE AND MAKING USE OF THE HEAVY DISRUPTION CAUSED BY THE CYCLE TO DO SO UNOPPOSED. EACH ITERATION HAS ITS OWN TASK. THE FIRST ONE''S GOAL SEEMS TO BE THE SURVIVAL OF ITS SPECIES AGAINST THE SCOUTING PLATFORMS, ENSURING MOBILIZATION OF THE CYCLE''S PHYSICAL ENERGY REPOSITORY. IF SUCCESSFUL, THE PURPLE WILL HIBERNATE UNTIL THE REPOSITORY BEGINS ITS FINAL APPROACH TO THIS SOLAR SYSTEM, AND CREATE ITS STAGE TWO WEAPONRY, ENGINEERED TO END THE CYCLE PERMANENTLY BY SOME METHOD WHOSE SPECIFICS ARE CLOUDED FROM OUR SIGHT. IT IS HERE THAT THE PURPLE SHOWS SIGNS OF DISRUPTION/RUSHED WORK/UNFINISHED CREATION, AS ITS VARIOUS MODULES AND MAIN ARMAMENT SEEMS SPLINTERED AND DISCONNECTED. ALL OUR EFFORTS AND INTERVENTIONS WITHIN YOUR ERA HAVE BEEN AIMED AT REPAIRING IT, SO THAT THIS CYCLE MAY BE THE LAST.''


    THE PURPLE''S MAIN ARMAMENT/YOU SEEMS TO BE PRECISELY ENGINEERED AS A SORT OF DISRUPTION/SCRAMBLING WEAPON, DESIGNED TO INTERFERE IN SOME WAY WITH THE TRANSFER OF ENERGY FROM REPOSITORY TO MOBILE PLATFORMS, MANIPULATING IT IN SOME MANNER. THE SPECIFICS ARE CLOUDED BEYOND OUR SIGHT, BUT WE KNOW THAT SEVERAL PIECES OF THE PURPLE ARE EITHER MISSING OR DISCONNECTED FROM EACH OTHER. THERE ARE TWO MODULES WHICH BOTH FIT THIS CRITERIA AND ARE ALSO INDISPENSABLE FOR THE ACTIVATION OF THE PURPLE''S MAIN ARMAMENT. ONE IS A CONNECTOR MODULE, A PHYSICAL AND PLANAR TOOL DESIGNED TO ESTABLISH DIRECT, CONTROLLED CONNECTIONS WITH OBJECTS IN THE THEATER OF OPERATIONS. THIS PIECE WAS NEVER CREATED/SUFFERED EXISTENCE FAILURE, BUT WE HAVE FOUND A REASONABLE SUBSTITUTE IN THE FORM OF-


    "Brightroar," said Joffrey aloud, nodding.


    AN ANCESTRAL FAMILY SWORD OF YOUR BLOODLINE, PRE-ATTUNED TO YOU AND ALREADY PRIMED IN CERTAIN PLANAR ENERGIES, WHICH YOU HAVE ALREADY RETRIEVED AND ANCHORED. IT IS POSSIBLE THE CONNECTOR TOOL SERVES AS THE VECTOR OF ATTACK AGAINST THE CYCLE ITSELF, A PIERCING NEEDLE INTO ITS FUNCTIONING SO THAT THE MAIN ARMAMENT/YOU CAN ACTIVATE, BUT WE ARE NOT CERTAIN. IN THE END, ONLY SELF EXPLORATION CAN ANSWER THIS IN A SATISFACTORY MANNER. THE SECOND CRITICAL COMPONENT WAS DESIGNED AND CREATED SUCCESSFULLY, BUT ITS ANCHORING PROCESS FAILED AND NOW LIES DORMANT AND SEVERED FROM THE CLUSTER OF MAIN COMPONENTS/YOU, LIKELY DUE TO THE CONNECTOR TOOL''S EXISTENCE FAILURE, WHICH ALSO SERVED A ROLE AS BRIDGE BETWEEN THE TWO PARTS. ITS PRIMARY PURPOSE SEEMS TO BE THAT OF AN AUTONOMOUS DEFENSE ADMINISTRATOR, INDEPENDENTLY DEFENDING THE MAIN ARMAMENT/YOU FROM EVENTUAL RETALIATION BY THE CYCLE WHEN ENGAGED IN PRIMARY WEAPON ACTIVATION.


    "Autonomous Defense Administrator? Something which would shield me from retaliation while I somehow mess with the Cycle''s energy?" Joffrey muttered, frowning. He didn''t want to know how the Cycle would retaliate if he messed with it, and the fact that he''d apparently need something else like Brightroar but somehow more independent just reinforced that fact.


    Autonomous¡­ Independent¡­ Am I going to have to anchor some sort of haunted, thinking item to my soul? I hope at least that the Purple will have materialized it somewhere fucking accessible¡­ knowing my luck, it''ll be stranded beyond the Thousand Islands¡­


    He wondered what might have happened to his mighty creators that made them build a partly disassembled and damaged weapon, before he shook his head and kept reading.


    ''THIS MODULE IS ANOTHER SENTIENT BEING OF YOUR SPECIES, AND THE SAME SPECIFIC ESSENCE/PLANAR WAVELENGTHS/ENERGY MACRO-CHARACTERISTICS THAT WENT INTO YOUR CREATION WENT INTO IT. THIS SHOULD RESULT IN STRONG EMOTIONAL FLUCTUATIONS BEYOND OPERATING PARAMETERS FOR A MEMBER OF YOUR SPECIES WHEN IN ITS VICINITY, WHETHER PHYSICAL OR IN MEMORY, FOR YOU AND IT BOTH. THIS SHOULD HELP IN ITS IDENTIFICATION. IF YOU HAVE ALREADY MET IT, THEN ITS IDENTITY SHOULD BE OBVIOUS TO YOU AS OF THIS MOMENT.


    Joffrey staggered back as if he''d been struck, clutching his belly as he shook his head like a madman.


    Curse another person with the Purple?!?!


    "No. NO! NEVER!!! YOU HEAR ME?! ARE YOU HEARING ME YOU FUCKING SQUIDS?! NEVER! NEVEEER!!!!" He roared manically, the walls closing in on him as he breathed every half second, feeling nauseated as a desperate urge to escape somewhere, anywhere, assaulted him, the tunnel feeling so constricted as to shove the air out of his lungs.


    No, I''d never to that, no¡­. no¡­¡­


    His vision was steadily reduced to a pinprick as he read the words again and again, fighting the urge to run with all his might even as he felt dizzy.


    ''IF YOU HAVE ALREADY MET IT, ITS IDENTITY SHOULD BE OBVIOUS TO YOU''. He read again, a choking dread seizing his neck as his mind turned to the question, the question whose answer he already knew to be true, an instinct deep in his bones.


    Who?


    Sansa of course,


    the answer came in an instant, not a hint of doubt as his soul thrummed in agreement.


    I love her, he thought, bile creeping up his throat as he staggered and his heart drowned his ears, I love her because we are parts of the same mechanism, I love her by the eldritch will of the Purple, I love her because I was engineered to do so, he thought as he kneeled, vomiting water and barely any food, the anguish so overwhelming he collapsed on his side, darkness claiming him.


    -.PD.-


    Joffrey didn''t know how much time he spent in that hallway, and in what state. The lantern''s oil supply had run out, and sometimes he didn''t know if he was still conscious or trapped in the depths of his mind... His mind¡­ it was a curious thing, swirling as if trapped by some sort of vortex, spinning endlessly around the same thought.


    Sansa was the ''Autonomous defense administrator'', a sort of defensive counterpart to him¡­ Which would enable him to manipulate Long Night''s energy without said Long Night retaliation presumably stopping the process¡­ if he understood correctly, however the fucking hells he was supposed to achieve that. She was a missing piece of the Purple, a missing component for an eldritch weapon¡­ he wouldn''t believe it if not for the bone deep, no¡­ soul deep certainty burning darkly within him. He supposed he was not really in¡­ both of them were not really in love. Love was supposed to have a romantic element, not this twisted, horrifying edict. That was a human concept, something both lesser and greater than what he¡­ and her too, he supposed, felt¡­ and they were not human, not really. Love was a human concept, supposed to be something more¡­organic¡­ something truer¡­ not this farce.


    Joffrey had not a clue what ''Planar Wavelengths'' and ''Energy Macro-Characteristic'' were, but to him it all sounded as if they''d been cut from the same cloth. Those tender, strangely timeless moments with her which had soothed his frayed mind back during the Hand''s Tourney, back in Winterfell before the Broken Knights, back in the Red Keep''s Godswood¡­ they had not been due to the simple human companionship of two friends, they had been due to some sort of twisted¡­ resonance maybe? Like two tuning forks vibrating together.


    He had an ugly, despairing sort of laugh when he realized Sansa''s maiden tales had been right all along. They shared the closest thing to a soul bond in real life¡­ that was one way of looking at it. The other was that they were two pieces of machinery which had had an artificial directive implanted on their minds from their moment of creation, forcibly molding their thought patterns so overall weapon efficiency was not compromised¡­


    Gods¡­ no wonder she''s attracted to a sadist imbecile¡­ that would certainly take some mind meddling¡­ he thought darkly.


    No, that''s unfair, he amended, She doesn''t even get to know me each life before falling madly in ''love''¡­ I''d thought that was because she saw me as the ''handsome prince'' come to take her away from dreary Winterfell and into the world of colorful tourneys and chivalrous knights¡­ fucking maiden''s tales¡­


    The truth had been much darker.


    He was also being a bit of a hypocrite¡­ after all, he counted her amongst his most cherished friends, people with whom he''d bled and cried through multiple lives¡­ even thought he''d spent but a small fraction of that time with her. He knew more about Nalia, a woman which had shared her bed with him, and nonetheless his feelings for Sansa dwarfed that of hers even if he forgot about the spying.


    How convenient¡­ the prince of the realm as one part and his betrothed-to-be as the other, two weapon parts perfectly positioned... he thought as he shook his head. Exactly how strongly had the Purple meddled with the world while in the process of creating him and Sansa? Had it seen the near future and planned accordingly? Had it caused the Rebellion so its pieces would fall in place perfectly, having its two main weapon parts as King and Queen of one of the World''s largest polities just before the next Cycle? Or had it just worked with what it found, mere chance perhaps? Had it caused the Doom of Valyria so Aegon Targeryean decided to conquer the Seven Kingdoms and set the stage for its designs? Could it even understand concepts such as kingdoms and individual motivations? It seemed to be a ''machine'' for a given value of the word, but machines could be smart enough to end worlds, as he now knew.


    Ultimately, Joffrey realized all of this pointless mental spinning was due to a simple fact: he didn''t want to face the decision that was to come. In the end, he had already accepted himself as a cog in a greater mechanism. He''d already given himself to the Purple, to be used and discarded for merciful oblivion. So what if his mind had been tampered by the Purple? He''d suffered far worse throughout his lives. He felt horrified on Sansa''s behalf, more than he could put into words, but ultimately the world was a cruel and cold place¡­ and again, there were far worse fates than having a part of your will suborned, even if it meant attraction to a hollowed out beast liable to hurt you even if he didn''t mean it.


    No¡­ what threatened to make him scream and tear his nails off was the prospect of inflicting the Purple on someone, least of all Sansa.


    Sansa


    under the torment of the Purple-


    "


    AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" He suddenly screamed, trying to do something with the despair which had lodged itself on to his chest. His scream faded and rebounded, becoming muted as it turned recursive, slowly dissipating into nothing¡­


    So slowly¡­


    At least now he knew himself to be awake. No other place had such a terrible echo, not even his nightmares.


    There was no escaping it. He had a choice.


    Either to inflict on Sansa the worst torture imaginable to a sentient being, from terrible, nerve burning agony to mind breaking loneliness and despair, or to leave the Purple''s weapon incomplete and see everything and everyone, including her, be cleansed by The Cycle.


    "FUUUUUUUUCK!" he screamed as he shuffled back into his knees. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!" He roared as he slammed his fists against the cold hard ground.


    How can they make me do this? How can they expect me to make this choice?!


    "AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa¡­." The last scream lost intensity as he leaned back, resting on his knees as he stared up.


    I''ve given you everything¡­ how can you ask this of me¡­


    He stayed there for a while, staring at the black ceiling.


    He gave a long sigh after a while, shaking his head slowly before searching blindly for his lantern and the last small wineskin full of oil, halfheartedly refueling it. He had to finish reading his answers, at the very least.


    He breathed slowly as he returned to the mural and read its final words, red eyes following the words of the Ones Which Came Before.


    ''ACHIEVING UNITY WITH THE MODULE SHOULD BE COMPARATIVELY SIMPLE AFTER EXPLORATION OF BOTH SELF AND CONNECTOR TOOL, AS YOU WERE ULTIMATELY DESIGNED TO FULFILL THIS TASK, REGARDLESS OF THE FACT THAT THIS SHOULD HAVE OCCURRED AUTOMATICALLY AND IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE PROCESS OF CREATION. ALL OTHER MISSING COMPONENTS ARE NOT SENTIENT, AND ULTIMATELY SUFFERED EXISTENCE FAILURE, SAME AS WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE CONNECTOR TOOL. UNLIKE THE CONNECTOR TOOL HOWEVER, WE ESTIMATE THE MISSING MODULES'' REPLACEMENT COSTS AS TOO PROHIBITIVE FOR THEIR PROSPECTIVE GAINS, WHICH SEEM CENTERED AROUND SECONDARY OBJECTIVES AND THUS NOT PART OF THE MAIN ARMAMENT. WE RECOMMEND AGAINST DANGEROUS SELF AND/OR IMPROVISED REPAIR, AS THE PURPLE CAN BE SURPRISINGLY FRAGILE.''


    "That''s news to me¡­" he commented bitterly as he kept reading.


    ''SOME MODULES ACHIEVED BOTH CREATION AND ANCHORING, BUT REMAIN INACTIVE UNLESS PROMPTED. THIS IS THE CASE OF THE SEMI AUTONOMOUS OFFENSIVE PLATFORM YOU REFER TO AS ''STARS''. FURTHER SELF EXPLORATION CAN RESULT IN THE DISCOVERY OF THE REMAINING ANCHORED MODULES, THOUGH THIS CAN BE AN EXTREMELY SLOW PROCESS. SUPREMELY DETAILED, DRAWN APPROXIMATIONS OF THEIR STRUCTURES WITHIN YOUR ESSENCE/SOUL, AS THE BONE TABLET WAS TO THE CONNECTOR TOOL''S ANCHOR, CAN AID IN THIS ENDEAVOR. HOWEVER, THE DELICATE AND PRECISE NATURE OF SUCH SCHEMATICS MAKES THEM UNSUITABLE FOR ENTOMBMENT WITHIN THIS COMPLEX, AS UNLIKE SIMPLE LETTERS, THE APPROXIMATIONS NEED TO REMAIN COMPLETELY WHOLE TO BE UNDERSTOOD/BE OF USE. ULTIMATELY, THE REMAINING ANCHORED MODULES ARE NOT STRICTLY NECESSARY FOR THE PRIMING OF THE PURPLE''S MAIN ARMAMENT, AND THEIR SALVAGE CAN BE CONSIDERED A SECONDARY OBJECTIVE TO YOUR OPERATIONS. A SECONDARY MISSION-GROUP WITH A CORRESPONDINGLY LESSER ENERGY ALLOTMENT HAVE NONETHELESS SOUGHT A RESOLUTION TO THIS OBSTACLE, TRYING TO BRUTE FORCE THE SLIM POSSIBILITY OF ANY APPROXIMATION MAKING IT WHOLE TO YOUR ERA BY SEEDING A VAST NUMBER OF THEM THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE WORLD. THIS SEEDING IS COMPOSED OF REINFORCED SEA-DRIFTING TIME CAPSULES, AS WELL AS A VAST LAND-BOUND NETWORK OF SCHEMATICS-BEARING MONOLITHS. BE AWARE: ALL OR ALMOST ALL OF THEM ARE LIKELY TO BE LOST OR OTHERWISE BECOME ILLEGIBLE DUE TO THE RAVAGES OF TIME AND CIRCUMSTANCE.''


    "The remains of that black obelisk back in the Westerlands¡­" Joffrey whispered dryly, his mouth parched, "It must have been part of that network¡­" he said as he imagined hundreds, thousands of them spanning the continents. It seemed none of them had endured the strife of the ages... just his luck.


    ''WE KNOW LITTLE OF THE MAIN ARMAMENT''S PRACTICAL OPERATION, THOUGH WE BELIEVE A PHYSICAL CONNECTION TO ITS TARGET ¨CTHROUGH THE CONNECTOR MODULE- IS NECESSARY FOR ACTIVATION. THE SPECIFIC TARGET OF THIS CONNECTION REMAINS UNKNOWN TO US, AND COULD RANGE FROM ONE OF THE CYCLE''S SPECIFIC MOBILE PLATFORMS, TO THE REPOSITORY ITSELF OR PERHAPS SOME OTHER CONSTRUCT WHICH WE ARE UNAWARE OF AT THIS POINT. REGARDLESS, NO KNOWN ITERATION HAS REACHED THIS POINT, AND WE CAN ONLY SPECULATE ON THE SPECIFICS OF ACTIVATION. WE ASSUME THIS IS ALSO SOMETHING WHICH CAN BE BETTER UNDERSTOOD BY SELF EXPLORATION, THOUGH THERE IS NO WAY TO BE CERTAIN.''


    Joffrey hoped to the heavens he didn''t have to stick Brightroar into the Red Comet itself, else he might as well find a Walker to commit ''unauthorized termination'' on him right now and get it over with.


    Gods¡­ what a mess¡­ he thought in familiar despair. It seemed the most familiar of emotions to him by now.


    ''THE DESIGNED INFORMATIONAL ALLOTMENT FOR THIS COMPLEX IS NEARING ITS END, BUT OUR CONSENSUS IS SECURE IN THE FACT THAT ALL MISSION CRITICAL KNOWLEDGE IN OUR POSSESSION -AS WE SEE IT- HAS BEEN DELIVERED UNTO YOU. THIS MAY BE DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND, BUT YOU ARE RAPIDLY NEARING THE INFORMATIONAL HORIZON OF OUR SIGHT, BEYOND WHICH ALL POSSIBLE FUTURES TURN IMPOSSIBLE TO OBSERVE. THIS MIGHT BE DUE TO ANY ONE OF A HUNDRED OR MORE CAUSES, BUT WE ESTIMATE THE POSSIBILITY OF THE CYCLE DETECTING OUR WORK AND ENGAGING SPOOFING COUNTERMEASURES AS HIGH. IF THIS IS THE CASE AND THE SPOOFING MEASURES DO NOT ABATE, THEN THE POSSIBILITY OF ANOTHER CIVILIZATION LIKE OUR OWN AIDING ANOTHER OF THE PURPLE''S ITERATIONS IN THE FAR FUTURE APPROACH ZERO. WITH THE PURPLE''S LACK OF AUTOMATED SELF REPAIR MECHANISMS, AND THE ABSENCE OF OTHER OUTSIDE FORCES TO AID WITH REPAIRS AND INFORMATION, THE CHANCES OF ANOTHER ITERATION BEYOND YOURSELF ACHIEVING MISSION READY STATUS ALSO APPROACH ZERO.''


    Joffrey was reaching the end of the small, black wall. He blinked slowly as he read the last words of the Deep Ones, alien beings whose mindset he didn''t and would likely never comprehend, beings which had nonetheless extended blessed aid through time and space. "A last chance for life¡­" He whispered as he shivered, reading his allies last will and testament, reading the last words from a civilization already long lost to the mists of time.


    ''JOFFREY, YOU MUST NOT FAIL. A SECONDARY MISSION-GROUP HAS CONSTRUCTED WHAT YOU COULD CALL A DISTRESS BEACON OF INTERSTELLAR RANGE, BUT NO BEING WILL ANSWER ITS CALL BEFORE YOUR ERA, AND THE PROBABILITY OF ANY RESPONSE AFTER IT APPROACHES ZERO AS WELL. WE HAVE NOT DETECTED SIGNS OF OTHER INTELLIGENT ORGANISMS ANYWHERE ELSE IN THE OBSERVABLE UNIVERSE, AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF SENTIENT LIFE SEEMS TO BE AN ANOMALOUS PHENOMENA UNIQUE TO THIS PLANET FOR REASONS UNKNOWN. SUCH REASONS ARE LIKELY TO END OVER A LONG ENOUGH TIMESPAN IF THE CYCLE IS NOT STOPPED. STOP THE LONG NIGHT''


    COMMUNICATIONS END.'' It ended abruptly, thought there was something more, a few words here and there, smaller than the rest, chiseled messily and irregularly as they tried to squeeze themselves under the last line of the last paragraph.


    ''DO NOT LET - THE LIGHT OF - CONSCIOUSNESS ¨C BE EXTINGUISHED. ¨C FAREWELL.''


    And like that, the message ended. Joffrey gazed at the chiseled line for a long while, tilted and halfway faded. He stayed there until the oil from his lantern slowly gave out, the Structure gradually sinking into a heavy darkness until nothing but a black, cloak like void could be seen.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 38: Currents.

    Arc 4: Sansa. Chapter 38: Currents.Spoiler: Music


    ----


    ----


    "They''re coming! They''re coming!" Arya squealed as she rushed past guards and frantic servants, wearing a ridiculous helmet as she ran for the rest of the family, standing solemnly nearby the outer courtyard.


    Sansa rolled her eyes, but couldn''t find it in her to rebuke her wildling of a sister as she made sure her hair brooch was still in place and tightly secured. Her belly was full of whirling butterflies, and her face felt a bit flushed as she watched the Outer Gatehouse with expectant eyes.


    "Arya!" she finally scolded her sister, unable to resist as she neared the rest of the family.


    She''s going to ruin everything! She thought as Father took mercy on her and took Arya''s ridiculous helmet away, giving it to Ser Rodrik. Arya made a face as she looked at her, but Sansa didn''t care anymore, the first riders were already reaching the gate!


    She''d been anxiously awaiting the King''s visit ever since the news had reached Winterfell, a breath of fresh air over the prospect of another dull year cooped up in the Main Keep sitting under Septa Mordane''s necessary, if sometimes long winded, lessons. Another year of white dullness with Arya as her constant and irritating companion, and Jeyne and Mother as her only confidants.


    She steadied her face into proper ladylike demeanor, taking her cues from Mother as the lead riders passed them by, dismounting as they held aloft the banners of Houses Baratheon and Lannister. Behind them came a big fat man who seemed to be restraining an easy smile as he dismounted from the huge horse which carried him.


    Is that the king? Sansa wondered as more and more people filled the courtyard until it was fit to burst. Her heart beat faster and faster in excitement as colorful banners of many different styling''s and shapes fluttered under the breeze, knights, soldiers, servants and big wagons filling the area. She even spotted what she supposed must be the Queen''s Wheelhouse, a stately affair of silver enameled wood and golden lines, rolling gracefully over the castle''s cobblestones.


    The King trundled over quickly, stopping mid stride right in front of Father as him and all of Winterfell kneeled in unison.


    He said something, but Sansa didn''t hear what exactly as she inched her head sideways at a couple of late comers, swiftly riding in between the dismounting knights and the scattering servants, already speaking with their counterparts from the kitchens and the dormitories.


    One was a big knight who wore a fierce helmet in the form of a dog''s head, and the other was a somewhat tall youth in rugged riding leathers, effortlessly guiding a huge black warhorse through carriages and servants, a sword and a wicked looking hammer strapped to his belt.


    "That''s the Hound!" whispered Arya, earning a shush from Mother.


    Both the King and Father laughed as he stood and they embraced each other, slapping each other''s back heartily as they spoke, but Sansa couldn''t hear them as she stood up with the rest of the family and Winterfell''s inhabitants, still staring at the handsome blonde youth as he effortlessly slid down from his saddle, walking straight towards Father and not even looking their way.


    "Oh, and this is my firstborn son, Joffrey," the King said as he waved back with a negligent hand at who he realized now was the Crown Prince. "Show some respect boy, this is the man that-"


    "Lord Stark," said Joffrey as he bowed in respect, "It''s an honor to finally meet you," he said, his face serious and still as if it had been made of stone.


    "Likewise, my Prince," said Father, a little puzzled as he returned the bow with a nod of his own.


    Robert looked at his son for a second longer before he was suddenly hugging Mother with his huge arms, "Cat!" he exclaimed, "You haven''t aged a day," he complimented her.


    "Your Grace," said Mother with a small curtsy, though the fond smile betrayed the solemnity.


    "And you must be Robb!" said the King as he moved and he obstructed her vision, saluting the rest of the family. When he got to her he smiled wistfully, a calloused hand holding her cheek, "Ain''t you a pretty one," he commented with a smile, leaving her with a blush as he moved on to Arya, who stood by her side.


    She was still a bit stunned after being complimented by the King of the Seven Kingdoms when, from one moment to the next, the crown prince stood before her, following the King as he gave his respects to the family. Now that he was closer, Sansa could see faint black smudges under the prince''s eyes, and his face seemed a bit pale.


    Why doesn''t he look at me? Has the powder turned foul? She asked herself in near panic as he bowed slightly and grabbed her hand, stern faced and avoiding her eyes.


    Her hand tingled as he kissed it lightly, the butterflies inside her belly turning both confused and strangely hopeful as the prince spoke. "Lady Sansa," he whispered almost as if in pain, strange longings and perhaps even grief lacing his voice.


    Sansa stared at him, puzzled and willing him to really look at her as the strange prince stood up. He must have noticed that somehow, for as he stood up smoothly and turned to greet Bran, he peeked at her for just a second¡­ and when their eyes met he seemed to stop moving entirely.


    Joffrey''s pale green eyes seemed bottomless, filled with meanings she couldn''t begin to comprehend as she felt him stiffen, his hands curling into fists as she smiled nervously. She almost lost herself in that enveloping, soul piercing stare as the butterflies froze for a second and she felt strangely lightweight, the rest of Winterfell fading slightly as she frowned, seeing something within his eyes. The dizzying moment was broken as Joffrey let out an almost explosive breath as he moved on, greeting Bran quickly and somewhat mechanically.


    Sansa blinked repeatedly as she looked down, nonplussed by the strange experience. Who she realized now was the Queen had already left the wheelhouse, and was smiling almost bitterly as Father and the King walked away. She looked regal and beautiful in her fine silk red dress as Mother swiftly introduced her.


    "The Far North seems too cold for a beauty such as yours, young Sansa," said the Queen, Mother smiling in approval as Sansa gave her a perfect curtsy. "Would you care for some refreshments, your grace?" asked Mother.


    The Queen accepted with a regal nod as Mother escorted her towards the Main Keep, looking at Sansa meaningfully as they walked, "And won''t the young lady be joining us?" She asked, her eyes as green as her son''s but lacking the almost glossy, steely paleness. Mother nodded slightly at her, bidding her to follow though she seemed as worried as she was interested.


    As Sansa walked a half step behind them, finally getting her first taste of real court life as the Queen spoke of King''s Landing, she couldn''t stop herself from looking back at the courtyard¡­ though the curious, blonde prince was nowhere to be found.


    -.PD.-


    The next few days flew agonizingly fast. It seemed the day had barely started when it was already over, and Sansa strived to make the most of them before the terrible dullness that was life in Winterfell returned, exalting in the happenings which she had only read before in stories. She found a new companion in the form of a Princess of the Realm, Myrcella Baratheon, and her evenings were filled with the exciting gossip of King''s Landing, listening in rapt attention to the girl''s depictions of the Red Keep, Baelor''s Sept, and the streets of the realm''s capital. Myrcella, Jeyne, and herself soon became a close knit group, awed by the tales of the great tourney''s and balls of the capital¡­ as long as Arya didn''t try her damned best ruin it all, running underfoot as was her want and making a mess of herself.


    Tried as she might though, she never managed to catch the crown prince himself, and only Mother''s constant reassurances that it was not her fault had calmed her. Myrcella had also assured her that he''d been like that since before leaving the Capital¡­ though that only served to make her even more curious¡­ of all the current inhabitants of Winterfell, he seemed to avoid her the most.


    She thought fate had at last started smiling upon her during the fifth day of the King''s stay, when a huge feast was arranged in the great hall. She had never seen the hall so full of people, raucous laughter and merry conversation drowning the sound of clinking cups and the footsteps of harried servants, bringing forth even more food and courses for the guests of Winterfell. The seating arrangements had been set from before, and Sansa found herself beside Myrcella in one of the long tables closest to the high one where Father, Mother, the King, the Queen and a few others feasted, though the Queen''s dashing brother was nowhere to be seen.


    Seated right in front of her, by the other side of the table, was the Crown Prince.


    He seems so tired¡­ She thought as she gazed at him discreetly, feeling happy to see him again¡­ and cornered by formality so he can''t run again, whispered a most unladylike part of her. He seemed to be barely playing with his food, his back rigid as he stared at the silverware¡­ or perhaps beyond. His eyes seemed somewhat unfocused, and though he might sometimes tilt his head left or right, he''d never look at her.


    What''s the matter with him?! Sansa asked herself in a huff, annoyed at the mystery which seemed to taunt her unceasingly. Myrcella was giggling with Jeyne over something as they looked at Robb, though Sansa didn''t pay them much attention as she kept staring at Joffrey, puzzled and searching for something... though she didn''t know what.


    He looks more than tired¡­ exhausted even, she thought as he stabbed a piece of venison with his fork, taking a good long while before finally eating it. Perhaps the journey from the Capital had left him like this?


    That didn''t sound right, no, she was somehow certain that whatever the matter was with the Crown Prince, it was a bit weightier than mere horses. Joffrey looked like he didn''t sleep at all, dark shadows surrounding a pale face which seemed slow to laugh or anger.


    She sought a way to cross the void that seemed to surround him, just to¡­ talk to him, nothing improper¡­. Though a part of her couldn''t stop remembering a hundred stories which started with a lonesome prince and a dutiful lady, stories in which the prince''s shell of ice cracked apart if only the lady had the courage to speak to him.


    The butterflies in her belly stilled as she took in a breath to speak, only to splutter as something slapped into her face. She looked down, stunned as the piece of pie slid down her cheek and ruined her dress, her hair sticking to her brow as she turned and saw Arya laughing without a care in the world.


    "ARYA!!!" she screamed at her, fury and despair mixing in equal measure as Mother stood up from her table and swiftly walked towards them. Fury turned to mortification as she realized Joffrey was smiling at her misfortune, an oddly bittersweet smile. She could feel her cheeks flushing in embarrassment as tears filled her eyes and Mother scolded her and Arya.


    Why does she have to ruin everything!? She despaired as she carried the both of them away from the hall.


    "But Mother! She started!" she wailed, struggling to keep the tears inside her eyes as she tried to pull Arya''s hair once they had left the hall.


    "Stop that this instant!" Mother thundered, "Go to your rooms, both of you," she commanded sternly.


    The Prince must think me a child, she thought in despair¡­ thought at least she had made him smile¡­ somehow, she felt he needed it.


    -.PD.-


    Vague musings had acquired crystal sharp reality the day Father had spoken to her alone in his solar, Mother the only other person inside the room as she stroked her hair gently. She thought she''d done something terribly wrong, but they had just gently asked her what she thought of Prince Joffrey.


    "I think he''s quiet¡­ bit sad at times¡­" she''d said, "Handsome too," she''d blurted at Mother''s piercing stare.


    There had been silence for a moment before Father nodded, almost to himself. "The King has made his wishes known in regards to uniting our Houses through marriage¡­ and we have accepted. A betrothal between you and Prince Joffrey has been arranged," he delivered stoically, her Mother watching her attentively.


    "I¡­ I am to be Queen?" she had asked, dumbfounded.


    "Do you like the notion, Sansa?" Mother had asked her, carefully.


    "I¡­ I¡­ yes!" she''d blurted, her head filled with visions of tourneys and balls, of her standing beside Joffrey as he ruled, same as Mother had done with Father.


    "Of course you would," Father said with a private smile, "If you have any concerns Sansa, let us know¡­ your Mother and I will always hear them," he''d told her, but she''d already lost herself to reverie as a hundred tales and legends suddenly turned real too.


    Her dreams that night had been confused and heavy, and she''d still been in somewhat of a daze when she''d woken up.


    I am betrothed¡­ she thought, still dumbfounded by the sudden news. They wouldn''t marry yet for a while, but she was betrothed, not to one of Father''s vassals, not to populate some destitute northern keep, but to the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms! The news made her drowsy¡­ the prospect of living a life beyond Winterfell, where you could meet other people without having to ride for a day, and where it didn''t snow every week¡­ Jeyne and her both had daydreamed of being swept away by a handsome, honorable knight one day in the far future, too many times to count. To suddenly find herself in that position, swept away not by a knight but by the handsome, enigmatic heir to the Seven Kingdoms left her breathless.


    Of course, that still left the matter of her betrothed himself¡­ which granted, she didn''t know a whole lot about, but she was just sure that all he needed was a bit of work on her part and he''d open up. Her nightmares had been full of visions where she was rejected, where she tripped in front of the whole court of King''s Landing as she tried to curtsy in front of the King and the unimpressed prince. Of course, she''d never been there before, but her mind had depicted it as a great hall full of banners and hundreds upon hundreds of nobles from dozens of great houses, all laughing at her.


    She shook her head as she walked, clearing the mind. If she was to get to the Prince somehow, then she''d needed to be a bit more bold. Being proper was all well and good, but all ladies had been maidens before, and maidens could afford to have a little more¡­ initiative, she supposed.


    Her nightmares of Joffrey falling in love with some other maiden had nothing to do with her hurry. Nothing at all.


    She was outside the Main Keep, walking down an open aired stairway to the Outer Courtyard when she spotted the Prince. He was atop his fierce warhorse, looking somewhat annoyed at a defiant Myrcella which stood under the Gatehouse with her arms crossed. Prince Tommen stood by the side, watching in a strange mixture of excitement and wariness.


    The Prince liked to ride out every day, spending most of the morning alone in the Wolfswood with only his horse for company¡­


    He''s so independent¡­ she mused as he gazed at Joffrey and the plentiful armament he carried. Whereas other noble dignitaries had made due with fine, comfortable clothes under furs once within Winterfell, Joffrey had not once stopped using his leather armor, and his sword and hammer never seemed to leave his side.


    She''d have to find a way to connect, even though she was not an adventurous woman, not like Arya was¡­ the brief thought of the Prince feeling something for Arya made her throat feel twisted, as if grabbed by an invisible hand. She shook her head as she returned her attention to the Outer Courtyard.


    "Myrcella¡­ I haven''t got the time for this¡­" Prince Joffrey said with a sigh.


    "Nonsense! You have plenty of time to search for trees! And Father will be staying all of next week!" pouted the Princess.


    "Myrcella¡­" Joffrey said with a tone of long sufferance, tinges of sadness coloring his voice.


    Always so sad and tired, Sansa wondered as she gazed at him from the stairs, debating the best way to start a conversation.


    "Please Joffrey! Pleaaaaaaase!!!" she pleaded, both hands close to her chest.


    "Ahg, fine¡­" said the Prince as he shook his head, and for the first time Sansa heard something approaching mirth from him.


    "Come on Moonlight, let''s dance for the lady," he told his horse as he did something with his knees.


    The great, black warhorse gave some sort of amused snort before starting to¡­ dance?


    Sansa''s stunned smile grew as she watched the black warhorse start moving from left and right, still looking at Myrcella as it raised and lowered its hoofs in an exaggerated manner, cantering sideways as if he were upon smooth, slippery ice instead of cobblestones.


    Joffrey chuckled slightly as he sang a little jig and Moonlight twirled in circles, spinning like a wheel, "From side-to-side, side-to-side, better watch the horse if you know what''s good!" he sang with a rough voice, like how Sansa imagined a sailor''s shanty must sound. Moonlight redoubled the frequency of its dance, his hooves slamming against the cobblestones quickly and giving the shanty an accelerated rhythm. "From side-to-side, side-to-side, why have a bear when you-can-have-a-horse!" Joffrey sang as Moonlight snorted and it twirled his head in circles as if following an annoying fly, only to suddenly end with a brisk step forward and a sloppy, wet kiss to Myrcella''s forehead.


    Joffrey laughed heartily at Myrcella''s stunned expression, giggling fits soon overcoming her as Tommen clapped wildly, eyes wide. Moonlight gave an appreciative snort as it trundled backwards, still dancing the jig as Joffrey kept chuckling. The horse gave a turn and Joffrey automatically stopped him as he saw her, blinking twice.


    "Lady Sansa," he blurted, surprised.


    "Prince Joflgrough," Sansa said as a Moonlight''s sloppy mouth gave her a kiss on the forehead¡­ and her eyes and nose too for that matter.


    "M-Moonlight!" Joffrey scolded him as he pulled the reins, "Lady Sansa I''m so¡­" he trailed off as she blinked, horror giving way to an unwilling, unseemly giggle as she gazed at Moonlight. The horse seemed positively satisfied. Her dignity had been shattered in front of Joffrey yet again, and there was not much to do but laugh in the face of failure¡­ the annoyingly smug face of failure.


    "I''m¡­ I''m sorry for that," Joffrey managed, chuckling slightly as he smiled and dismounted his horse.


    He has a nice smile. He should wear it more often, Sansa mused as Joffrey took out a handkerchief and wiped her face with it, his sheepish smile slowly giving way to the neutral fa?ade.


    "How did you teach him to dance like that?" she blurted, a dozen courtly conversation starters flying by the wayside as her mouth moved with a will of its own.


    He did not return to the levity of before, but the stern fa?ade''s progress was stalled as Joffrey wiped the other side of her cheek, leaving a tingling sensation on it. "It''s not very time consuming. With a sufficiently smart horse practically anything is possible," he said before turning back to his horse and clicking his tongue. The war horse stood attentively, all sings of mirth gone as Joffrey made a weird gesture with his hand, "Moonlight, apologize to Lady Sansa," he told him.


    Moonlight snorted as he bowed his head, Sansa playing along as she curtsied in return and got another smile out of Joffrey for her troubles. "You''re going out again?" she asked the Prince.


    "¡­ Yes. Riding helps¡­ well¡­" he shrugged in discomfort, swiftly mounting Moonlight again as his neutral face came back in full force.


    "Lady Sansa," he nodded respectfully at her, and Sansa couldn''t get another word in edgewise before he was cantering and then galloping past the gate, Myrcella waving goodbye at him. She felt a brief impulse to jump atop another horse and race after him, but riding side saddle through the Wolfswood was bound to break her neck¡­


    She shook her head, frustrated with herself. Riding after the Prince? What was the matter with her?


    -.PD.-


    Trying to interact with Joffrey was like having one''s teeth pulled out, or at least it felt like that to her. Joffrey was bound to disappear from any place if she showed her face, and her frustrations and fears had been mounting day after day.


    "Why does he hate me?" She asked her Father one day, "Is he in love with¡­ another lady?" she''d voiced one of her greatest concerns.


    "He doesn''t hate you Sansa, Prince Joffrey is just¡­ reclusive," he''d said awkwardly.


    "Did he object to the betrothal?" she''d asked him, red eyed.


    When he stayed silent, that was all she''d needed to know. "He didn''t raise a word over it. He merely¡­ seemed a bit wary," he tried, her sobs rapidly becoming stronger and stronger.


    "He thinks I''m an ugly, worthless child doesn''t he?" she''d sobbed, and Father had worn a look of absolute panic until Mother had chanced by her room, hugging her gently and soothing her with kind words.


    Jeyne seemed sympathetic to her plight, but her advice could be reduced to ''keep doing the same'', and Sansa was not dumb. It was obvious courting him like a proper lady was not going to work¡­ she''d have to move beyond the bounds of propriety if she was to talk with her future husband.


    And so she walked up the open walkway which stood over Winterfell''s training yard, making her way as silently as she could in her hardy furs, her dress left behind for something more robust and flexible as she eyed him leaning over the railing, staring at a few of the boys sparring below. If he walked away from her, Sansa swore she would chase him down¡­


    He seemed lost in his own world, staring hollowly at the training yard below as Robb and Jon exchanged blows between themselves, laughing as they circled each other, tourney swords at the ready. Her bastard brother had scarcely shown himself during the King''s stay, properly keeping his head down at least until the King''s visit was over. King Robert had left for an extended hunt, and the central courtyard seemed almost deserted but for the shuffling servants and Robb''s friendly taunts.


    She carefully walked through the slightly snowed, roofed wooden walkway until she was leaning beside him, staring at the clanging swords below as well. She spent a few moments looking down before she felt him stiffen, turning to look at her before quickly straightening.


    "I''m not going to bite you," she told him, though a bit of her bitterness must have shown in her voice because Joffrey seemed slightly startled as he blinked, looking at her again.


    "That obvious, huh?" he asked as he turned back to look at the yard, still wrapped upon himself as in layers upon layers of disciplined stillness.


    "No, its¡­" she took a moment to take a small breath, frowning.


    Acting delicately will get me nowhere¡­ she thought as she decided to vent a bit of her frustrations on to him. It was only fair.


    "Yes actually, it has been quite rude of you," she said, looking at the yard as well. "I spent hours looking at myself in the mirror to see if I had some sort of worm crawling over it. Seems about right for the amount of disgust I seem to provoke in you," she shot at him, the words coming from deep within as she blushed.


    Gods¡­ where is this coming from¡­ she asked herself as she kept staring at the yard so Joffrey couldn''t see her blush. True as it may be, he might¡­ no, I''m committed, can''t back out now, she thought quickly.


    Joffrey seemed only slightly less stunned than she felt, tilting his head and giving her a pained grimace. "I''m sorry my lady, I¡­ I assure you the matter lays not with you, but with me," he ground out, looking at the other end of the walkway and no doubt wondering how to escape now without turning his apology into some sick joke.


    "If it''s really something within yourself then it''s hardly something you can ran away from," Sansa reasoned, "Besides, the walkway can be a bit slippery this time of the year, wouldn''t want to break your neck," she said with an impish smile, going all out. The smile had not been at all fake, as the prospect of Joffrey slipping and hitting his head on the floor gave her some sort of vindictive, unfair satisfaction over all those sleepless nights.


    "Is that a threat?" Joffrey asked in disbelief, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards in the beginnings of something.


    "Are you going to keep running?" she asked in turn, still looking at the yard as she wasn''t confident she could say it with a straight face if she looked at him in the eyes.


    I think I''ve already ruined everything¡­ nothing to it but end it on a high note, she thought to herself as she hid the despair under a mask of nonchalance. Father will have to look for a third born son with a half snowed keep after this, she thought in mute dread.


    Joffrey stared at her before a short chuckle escaped his stern fa?ade, his eyes closing in mirth as he leaned back again on the wooden rail. "I suppose I deserved that¡­" he muttered as he returned to his yard staring exercise, this time by her side again, "It does seem a bit slippery, now that I think about it. Better stay here, safe and sound," he said as the chuckle died off, though not the smile.


    "Good," Sansa nodded firmly, her eyes still locked below.


    ¡­ did that just work?! She thought to herself in surprise. Not a single one of Mother''s courtship tales had started thus, though she supposed the fact that her own had at least started already gave her a small measure of relief. He had to keep him talking though, as the stern face was already solidifying and the way he kept squeezing the rail didn''t seem good at all.


    "Don''t you want to join them?" she asked him, looking as Jon disarmed Robb in a quick blur of swords.


    That might have been ill timed, she thought, seeing as she''d just suggested the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms to spar with a bastard. Joffrey seemed to smile wistfully at the notion though, his attempts at strangling the rail subsiding as he let a breath out. "I''m afraid those calm, sunny days are long gone," he muttered as if to himself.


    "Too grown up for playing at the yard?" she teased him.


    "I¡­ yeah. It would just make a scene," he shrugged. The confident boast sounded like a horrible curse coming from his mouth.


    Sansa stayed quiet for a while, the clanging of swords switching tempo as her brother and half-brother slowed down, talking more often between each round. "You''ve seen¡­ fighting before?" Sansa asked, "Like a, battle?" she corrected herself lamely.


    Joffrey stayed still for a long while, so long she thought he''d ignored her. Eventually though, he spoke. "Yes," he said simply, "¡­They spar and laugh now, but when the time comes they''ll weep for their lost loved ones. The fields will turn to mud and the villages will burn. They''ll wish they''d be back in Winterfell, laughing and dreaming of glory," he continued in a low monotone, the prophecy sending a shiver down Sansa''s spine.


    "Not a very princely thing to say though," Sansa pointed out.


    Joffrey snorted, "I suppose not. I''m not a very princely person anyway," he said slowly, the weight of the world in his voice.


    Why are you like this? What happened to you? She wanted to ask. Instead she tilted her head thoughtfully, "What person are you then?" she asked after a moment.


    Joffrey spent a long while staring at the yard, but it was clear he was not really looking at it. "I asked myself that question for a long time. In the end, the answer was simple enough," he said with a mirthless smile, letting the silence build for a while before letting out a breath. "Not a person, not really¡­ just the way things are," he said with another shrug, as if at peace with the notion.


    It was not tiredness or sadness, Sansa realized. Joffrey sounded broken. As if his soul had departed to the afterlife and left a grey husk behind, somehow still moving and breathing but without a shred of emotion left. She didn''t know what to make of the cryptic statement, but it was not Mother''s tales from her youth or Septa Mordane''s lessons which made her hand shift and grab Joffrey''s¡­ it was the gaping hollowness in her betrothed-to-be''s voice, devoid of hope and angst.


    She put her hand over his and she could see Joffrey inching his head almost immediately, staring at it as his hand still squeezed the handrail. Some sort of monumental struggle seemed to be taking place inside his mind as he bit his lip so hard a bit of blood seeped through, staring at both their hands so hard they might as well be opposing armies in the field of battle. His head shook minutely as he took a harrowing breath and his hand slowly grabbed hers tightly, their fingers interwoven.


    Sansa let out a breath she didn''t know she''d been holding as she blinked and leaned on his shoulder, a flurry of butterflies twirling inside her belly even as they disappeared just as quickly as they arrived, leaving her grounded firmly in a crystal clear reality, the doubts and the worry fading as if they''d been but mid-summer dew.


    The strange reverie was broken as Joffrey took in a strangled breath suddenly, managing to release her hand even though she''d been holding it just as tightly, stumbling back and hitting the other railing with his back.


    He was fisting his hands so tightly she could see he was hurting himself, though what stunned her the most was the panicked worry in his eyes as he gazed at her in dread. "No. I can''t do this to you Sansa," he said, breathing hard.


    "Joffrey¡­" she said, closing her eyes tightly as she tried to understand the strange sensation, blinking rapidly as it slipped away and Joffrey looked as if on the edge of a panic attack.


    "No. Never. This stops now Sansa. Don''t look for me again," he said, moving his head compulsively as if trying to shake off a blow and stumbling a few steps towards the Keep''s door, still looking at her.


    His rejection should have broken her into a thousand pieces, but Sansa kept blinked repeatedly as she looked back at him, chasing the threads of meaning rapidly disappearing from her conscious mind. "This is not about the betrothal," she whispered.


    "You don''t know what you''re talking about," he managed, his voice tight.


    "Then tell me!" she screamed, feeling overwhelmed.


    What is happening?! She thought as she tried to understand, but the threads of meaning had already disappeared.


    "I can''t. No," Joffrey choked, almost tripping as he turned back and ran towards the keep''s door, leaving her behind to shake before the suddenly cold winds.


    -.PD.-


    "¡­ it was so strange. We just held hands and¡­ I don''t know what happened. For a moment, everything made sense¡­ but, not," Sansa tried to explain, words failing her as Jeyne looked on with interest, both of them talking quietly as they did their needlework. Arya had tried to evade the class, but Septa Mordane had caught her in the act and she''d been trundled off to Mother, leaving the two of them alone to gossip.


    "It was¡­" she trailed off, thoroughly confused.


    "As if you had found a part of yourself you''d never knew was missing?" Jeyne supplied.


    "I¡­ maybe¡­ I suppose you could put it that way¡­" Sansa blinked, staring at her.


    "Oh Sansa, that''s so romantic!" Jeyne flushed, and Sansa shook her head.


    "No, no. He knew that I knew¡­ about the thing, tha-"


    "As if you could read each other''s thoughts?" asked Jeyne. S?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "I, no, ah, yes. Jeyne!" she said as he dropped her knitting, "You''re not helping!" she told her, annoyed.


    "I am helping. You''re in love Sansa," she said excitedly, "It''s just you haven''t even realized it yet! All this talk of strange feelings and shared insights, it''s so obvious!" she said as she looked at her, as if speaking to a child. "Sansa, you''ve been waiting for this moment for years, stop fighting it and enjoy it," she said with a touch of envy, "It sounds like everything we ever dreamed of¡­" she trailed off with a sigh.


    "Maybe¡­" she muttered.


    "So, so romuuuntic!" Arya laughed from behind her. Sansa stood up as she turned, mortified as she found her sister smirking from behind her tall chair, spying on them.


    "ARYA!" she screeched, trying to get to her to do¡­ something bad, but she skipped away, laughing like mad.


    "The stone prince gives you a smile and you''re already falling apart, maybe the Hound can growl your way and then your heart will split in two!" she twisted gleefully as she ran.


    "You-! ARYA!!!" she screamed as she followed her, bitter tears in her eyes, "You''re only jealous because, because you''re so ugly not even Hodor would marry you!" she shot back.


    "Y-you just want someone who''ll listen to your prattle!" Arya shouted as she ran, though the way her face twisted betrayed the nonchalance audible in her words, "To hold you while you swain and faint like a useless stupid"- Sansa screamed in fury as she managed to grab her sister''s hair mid insult and pull it back, Arya screeching in pain as she tried to ward her off with her hands, her nails biting into Sansa''s cheek. They were both tumbling in the floor when Septa Mordane found them, their red eyes, their hateful stares doing little to distract her as she grabbed the both of them by the ear and brought them back to Mother, her expression absolutely thunderous.


    -.PD.-


    Her punishment was horrible. To stay in her room for the next few days even as the King''s once-in-a-lifetime visit to Winterfell ground to a close. Her dreams were confused and filled with strong emotions, leaving her dizzy by morning. Try as he she might though, she couldn''t stop thinking about Arya''s hateful words.


    Is that all I really want? She asked herself. To have someone who can just hear me ''prattle''?


    Existence in Winterfell for a noble lady was a lonely enough affair, and Jeyne Pool and a handful of other girls, plus Septa Mordane and Mother, did little to alleviate that. She supposed the prospect of a handsome prince come to carry her away from the dreariness of Winterfell had played a part in her feelings for Joffrey¡­ she had enough self-awareness to realize that. After all, she''d spent countless nights throughout the years imagining just that.


    Do I just want someone who I can hold me while I faint? The notion sounded ridiculous¡­


    But then why does it hurt so much? She thought as she twisted in her bed.


    What did she want from her betrothed? The answer was obvious enough, to grow with him and have a family, to stand by his side as Mother did for Father¡­ but the notion sounded hollow when she thought about Joffrey. She couldn''t imagine herself at his side yet¡­ she barely even knew him and she was already dreaming about their perfect future together, ignoring his own wants and desires. She was here dreaming about their future when he was out there, walking about like a shattered soul with the weight of the world on his shoulders, lonely¡­ forever, it seemed. She seldom saw him with other people, not even his own family, and with their betrothal all but broken by his words it didn''t seem she would ever get a chance to know him either. He had been reduced to some sort of ghost, barely seen in between the keep''s hallways and rooms.


    Her punishment went by quickly enough for some reason, and as the they joined the caravan south towards the Capital, Sansa found herself doing a lot of introspection, something she''d never devoted much time before. She didn''t see Joffrey much, though she didn''t look for him either, caught up in her own mind.


    It was a surprise then when she found him near the Ruby Ford, the place the caravan had stopped for the rest of the day.


    "Prince Joffrey!" she said, startled out of her own musings when she almost collided with him, seating in a strange position with his knees bent and crossed, facing the river with closed eyes.


    "Lady Sansa," he said as he blinked, looking up. He seemed ready to storm off before he gazed behind her. "¡­And Septa Mordane?" he asked.


    "I snuck out," she confessed as a slight, mischievous smile tried to break her composure. She hadn''t done that since she''d been six years old¡­


    "¡­ Really?" he asked, surprised as he shifted his gaze to Lady, who had been following her dutifully.


    "I needed some time alone¡­ to think¡­" she told him simply, before shaking her head. "You don''t need to run away, I was just passing through," she said as she kept walking past him.


    "No, wait," he said when she walked to his other side.


    She said nothing as she stop, looking at him quizzically.


    "You¡­ you can stay if you want," he said with a pained shrug.


    "¡­Okay," Sansa told him as she took a seat over the next big rock next to Joffrey''s, her feet barely out of the riverbed.


    They stayed in silence for what seemed like an hour, Sansa slowly closing her eyes as she lost herself to her conflicted feelings and the river''s constant thrumming.


    "What are you thinking about?" Joffrey startled her.


    She looked at him for a moment, the corner of her mouth rising slightly. "I''ll tell you if you tell me," she said, "Though you''ll have to be truthful," she added.


    Joffrey seemed to consider her preposition very seriously, looking down at her rock before looking up again, "Alright, seems fair," he said, taking a deep breath as he looked back at the river before letting it out. "I was thinking about how someday I''d like to take a riverboat through the Forks¡­ just the swaying currents and the wind. I''d stop at small villages for the night, perhaps sample their wines," he said.


    "That sounds fun¡­ soothing even. I suppose you''d have a lot of the Riverlands to explore¡­ though you''d end up a bit smelly after a while," said Sansa as she twitched her nose, staring at the river as well.


    "The thought hadn''t even crossed my mind," he snorted with a vague smile. He turned quiet for a moment though, before letting out another breath, "It''s just¡­ I¡­ used to like the notion¡­ but now¡­" he trailed off helplessly, shrugging. "I don''t really care anymore. I remember all the reasons why I''d like to do it, the understated excitement as I designed the boat I''d use, the smile I had when plotting out possible routes¡­ I remember it all, but now the prospect of it just seems¡­ dull, boring even," he said, looking at the cluster of leaves riding the river until he lost sight of them.


    "What about you?" he suddenly asked, shaking his head.


    Sansa scratched the bridge of her nose thoughtfully before answering. "I¡­ it''s a lot of stuff really. I''ve been thinking about my place in Winterfell and beyond¡­ thinking about you too, actually," she said.


    "How so?" Joffrey asked, looking intrigued despite himself.


    "Well¡­ you''ve been quite the mystery to me, to all of Winterfell I really. I''ve been trying to get to know you through other people, since getting a hold of you has turned out¡­"


    "Difficult?" Joffrey provided with a wince.


    Sansa smiled mirthlessly, nodding.


    "What did you find then?" he asked after a minute.


    Sansa leaned back as she combed her hair with her hands, breathing slowly, "Nothing that made much sense. Tommen said you were ''very mean'', and Myrcella said Tommen was right but that you''d changed a lot lately. Your uncle Tyrion said you were ''quick to emotion'', whatever that means¡­ though I think that must have been the most inaccurate description of you I''ve ever heard," she said with a brief, unladylike snort.


    "¡­ I see," Joffrey muttered. He scowled when a fat drop of water landed on his head, and Sansa looked up to see the sky quickly filling with clouds.


    "What I saw though, had nothing to do with any of that," she told him.


    There was a long silence then, the longest in the evening. Only the sound of the river and Joffrey''s irregular breathing disturbing it.


    Finally, Joffrey tilted his head minutely. "And what did you see," he asked with a small voice.


    Sansa looked at him thoughtfully, deciding to just say what she thought¡­ the betrothal was already dead and buried anyway, Joffrey had been quite clear... "You are not mean nor ''quick to emotion''. You are a thoughtful young man who deeply cares about those around him, but have closed yourself to everyone around you. You seem so in control of every movement and gesture of your body that there''s a strange stillness around you, and you seem to carry a weight so big it drains you of all emotion¡­ you look¡­ you¡­" Sansa hesitated at last, her prattling as Arya would call it reaching a standstill.


    "I look..?" Joffrey asked, gazing at her eyes as the rain kept trickling down, the river turning turbulent.


    "You look¡­ broken," she finally spat out, "As if the weight finally crushed you. As if your soul had left your body behind, a lifeless husk in its place, as if you''d despaired for so long you can''t even manage to care any longer," she said quickly, breathlessly.


    Joffrey blinked rapidly as he gazed at something away from her, his hands coming together in front of his mouth as he leaned forward, not even deigning to look at her. His rejection seemed as clear as water.


    "¡­ I''m sorry, that was uncalled for," she said with a sigh, angry at herself. She looked at her rapidly soaking dress before she shook her head, "This was all before you told me about the betrothal"-


    "Sansa, I"- Joffrey tried to interrupt her but Sansa shook her head, not even looking at him.


    "No, no, it''s okay, I think I understand¡­ I¡­" she swallowed something sour before standing up, "You were clear enough back in Winterfell. I''ll speak with Father later today, tell him I can''t do it¡­ he''ll listen to me if I say it seriously," she said as she turned away and her heart ached painfully, wishing to get this over as soon as possible so it could stop hurting.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    "SANSA!" Joffrey bellowed as she felt callused hands grabbing her shoulders and turning her around almost violently. She was speechless as she saw Joffrey crying openly, tears intermingling with the rain, his eyes red and his face twisting in bottomless angst, "It''s not you, damnit! I told you it''s not you!!!" he shouted in anger, his eyes crazed as the absent despair now bubbled forth like pus from an infected wound. "I, I, I¡­" he mouthed as he breathed erratically, still holding her shoulders as he struggled with the words, "I''m fighting a War, Sansa!" he finally bellowed, looking for all the world as if he didn''t know what he was doing.


    The way he said it sent a chill down her spine, but she willed herself to be brave despite it as Joffrey''s iron self-control broke down and he took in a strangled breath. "It''s all true, what you said, it''s true," he choked almost quietly as he let her go, "I''m broken because I don''t know what to do, I can''t do it, it''s impossible," he muttered as he closed his eyes and tried to rebuild himself.


    "Joffrey, what war? Are, are the Targeryeans..?" she half asked, shaken by the way the stern fa?ade had disintegrated.


    Joffrey''s attempts at rebuilding it failed as he laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Oh Sansa, if only, if only it were the Targeryeans¡­ I''d choose a hundred dragons and a million Dothraki in a heartbeat, if only I could¡­" he whispered as he let himself fall on the muddy ground on his bum, his hands hiding his face as he breathed, ashamed.


    Sansa stared at him as the hair at the back of her neck tingled, her hands shaking slightly as Joffrey coughed and then rubbed his face almost compulsively. He took in harsh breaths every two seconds, and when he lowered his hands his face gave away nothing once more. "Lady Sansa," he said with the saddest mockery of a smile she''d ever seen, "I¡­ Forgive my outburst¡­ I was merely, joking¡­" he muttered, looking drained.


    "No," she said as she kneeled, the mud splattering her dress as she grabbed Joffrey fiercely by the arm, "You''re not doing this again. A war against who? Joffrey, who are you fighting against?" she asked him.


    "No one, I was-"


    "Joffrey. You told me you''d be truthful," she said as she grabbed his head and practically yanked it so he looked at her eyes, her heart beating wildly. Please tell me, please make me understand, she thought as she willed him to talk.


    "I¡­" Joffrey muttered as he didn''t even resist her manhandling, his pale green eyes boring into her own and loosing themselves in memory. "The Cycle," he whispered, and the word sent goose bumps all over her body.


    "What Cycle?" she asked, her voice almost strangled.


    "¡­ the White Walkers, the Others. Bran the Builder and all the other heroes merely contained them a few thousand year ago. They awaken once again¡­ and I can''t stop them¡­" he whispered hollowly, his eyes drooping away.


    "The White Walkers¡­ they''re.. they''re just a legend," she stuttered.


    Joffrey looked listless, as if he''d given up on lying to her. "The Wall was not built to contain wildlings," he said as he stared at the river again, surging with the power of the rain above it. "I''ve seen them with my own eyes, felt the chilling bite of their blades, the snarling of the corpses as whole regiments were raised from the dead to hunt and kill the living¡­" He said distractedly.


    "Joffrey¡­ you¡­ what¡­" she stuttered as Joffrey turned to gaze at her again.


    "You wanted to know, now you do. Nothing has ever stopped them in the end, not any one of the countless civilization''s they''ve exterminated throughout the ages has succeeded in stopping them," he trailed off as he shook his head. "What am I even doing¡­" he whispered before he took out his dagger and gazed at it thoughtfully.


    He has to be insane, she thought in a daze, her chest feeling heavy. He sounded so sure, speaking from bitter experience.


    "Joffrey¡­ how can you know this?" she asked him.


    He lifted his eyes from the dagger and looked at her, mulling about something before shrugging to himself very slightly. "Every time I die I wake up again in my room, three days after the death of Jon Arryn. I''ve been relieving this life for decades¡­ possibly centuries by now¡­ I saw everything fail against them, from cold steel to fire to magic¡­ it''s hopeless¡­" he said as he lifted the dagger and placed it over his heart.


    "Joffrey what are you doing?!" she almost screeched as Joffrey tried to kill himself.


    "Ending this life. Don''t worry, you''ll remember nothing," he said, his face drained of emotion as the dagger already pierced a bit of flesh.


    "Joffrey don''t!" she screamed as she grabbed his hands, trying to wrestle the dagger from his iron grip. "Sansa stop, you''re going to hurt yourself!" he shouted at her, a slight bit of emotion returning to his voice as Sansa pulled at it with all her strength. She winced as she cut herself somehow with the edge, and Joffrey let the dagger go as if he''d been the one who''d hurt himself.


    "Sansa! I''m sorry! I¡­ I¡­ this has all gone to shit¡­" he muttered as he tried to stand up but fell on the mud again, the rain pelting them both. Sansa shuffled away from him, still on the muddy bank as she held the dagger.


    She was breathing quickly, her hands trembling wildly as she gazed at the dagger and the cut on her finger. She looked up to see Joffrey giving a step towards the river, and she despaired as she tried to think of a way to stop him from jumping in to his death.


    "Magic, you said you tried magic against them, prove it!" she screeched quickly, trying to reason him out of his madness.


    Joffrey stared at her for a second, shaking his head, "If I ''prove it'', would you give me back my dagger?" he asked her, grey faced.


    "Yes. But if you can''t then we''re going to see the Maesters¡­" she said quickly, her mouth dry as he nodded, "And you''ll forget all about this, this madness," she added, only for Joffrey to nod again, "And, and¡­ and you''ll let me help you," she fumbled, her eyes widening as Joffrey kept nodding through it all, though the last request made him smile bitterly. He was sure of himself.


    He really is insane¡­ she despaired as Joffrey closed his eyes. "It''s not really magic per se¡­ But its close enough, a fragment of my soul given limited autonomy, to serve as a battlefield weapon¡­" he trailed off as he breathed in deeply.


    Sansa wiped away the rain from her eyes as she herself breathed, trying not to crumble as Joffrey opened his eyes. She gave him a tentative smile, nodding slowly as if he were a child, "Y-You see? We can go to, to my Father, he can send a raven to Maester Luwin. He could, know of a poultice, or-"


    "Sansa," he said with a sad smile, "Look behind you."


    She turned and came face to face with a silver lion the size of a warhorse, strange patterns running through its fur, its great white mane tickling her as the beast rubbed its great head against her arm, almost making her fall into the river as it keened softly.


    "Enough of that, come here you big fat cat," Joffrey said with a slight smile, bidding the lion to come to him and rubbing its fur as it purred, still looking bigger than Joffrey even after it sat by his side. Lady was looking at Joffrey and the lion confusedly, looking at one and then to the other, back and forth as if she had double vision.


    Sansa shook her head, staring at the lion and blinking again and again, "No¡­ it can''t be true, you¡­ you had that lion waiting for you, it''s all a sick joke," she blabbered as she held her trembling hands close to her mouth.


    Joffrey looked pained to see her like this, looking at the river again before he shook his head and returned his gaze to Sansa, extending a hand to his right and slowly tilting it as a trillion tiny golden and purple lines materialized out of thin air and twisted upon themselves, multiplying into even more lines, recursively repeating a pattern until the glow went away and Joffrey held a long bastard sword in his hand, the Valyrian Steel shining under the setting, overcast sun with a golden tinge, very similar but somehow different to the blue one she''d seen on Ice the two or three times she''d spotted Father with the greatsword.


    "No¡­" she whispered as the dagger slipped from her hands and she held her mouth. "No¡­" she whispered again as she looked at Joffrey with his golden sword and his silver lion, like a character come alive from the Age of Heroes. He left the sword there as he walked up to her, slowly kneeling and getting his dagger from the floor.


    "Thank you¡­ Brightroar is a bit unwieldy, and I wouldn''t recommend drowning to anyone¡­ ever," he said in dark humor, looking as if he wanted to say something else before shaking his head and stepping back.


    "You¡­ do you really- come back- every time you die..?" Sansa asked hollowly.


    Joffrey nodded as he walked back to his place by the rock, "In essence, yes¡­ don''t worry though, you''ll be back in Winterfell, with your family¡­ it''ll only take a few minutes. You won''t remember any of this," he said as he started to place the dagger over his heart and Sansa shrieked in near panic, trying to get his attention.


    "If it doesn''t matter what I do then I''ll kill myself!" she screeched, looking everywhere around her for something sharp.


    Joffrey looked as if he''d been struck in the head, "What," he said.


    "I''ll kill myself if you don''t stop this¡­ this stupidity! I''ll, I''ll do it!" she said as she turned wildly and finally ended up staring at the river.


    Joffrey still seemed stunned as he shook his head, "This isn''t some idiotic maiden''s tale you woman! What the fuck do you think you''ll achieve?!" he shouted as he stood up.


    "Why do you care?! You''ll just see me again in a month!" She shouted as she walked into the river, the powerful current trying to shove her downwards as she walked deeper still, Lady barking like mad from the shore.


    Joffrey seemed absolutely confused as he waddled after her, "Sansa stop damnit!" he shouted.


    She stopped and turned back to stare at him, "Now you drop that, that damned dagger or the last thing you''ll see before supposedly waking up again is me drowning and screaming in despair because you were a-a-a stupid, headstrong idiot! Too stuck in his misery for his own good!" she screamed back.


    Joffrey stopped on his tracks, staring down the river, "Sansa, let''s just step out right now¡­ let''s be reasonable," he said as he held his hands up in a pacifying manner, as if she were Rickon.


    Sansa stared at him for a second before some sort of relentless rage she''d never knew she''d possessed assaulted her and her face disfigured itself in fury. "Reasonable?! REASONABLE?!?!" she screamed in righteous anger, "You''re the one that tells me the world is ending and that you''re a an immortal sorcerer and you expect me to be reghlought"- she was cut off by a great wave which pummeled her hip and made her loose her footing, knocking her down and dragging her deeper into the river.


    She tumbled under the powerful currents before she broke the surface, coughing desperately as the rain pelted her eyes and she was pulled down again, breathing water as she slammed against an underwater rock and she tumbled in a sea of bubbles. She broke the surface again with a harrowing breath, and she saw Joffrey swimming like a madman towards her, weaving atop the waves with powerful thrusts and breathing only when he had to.


    "SANSA!" he shouted when he saw her, the rain muffling his voice.


    "JOFFREGH!" She tried to answer but she whirled underwater again when she hit some sort of fallen tree, her head thrumming like a winter storm as she sank and sank and sank. Her vision turned blurry as her lungs burned and her mouth opened as if by its own volition, breathing in more water.


    Her head broke the surface once more, and she breathed in a little bit of blessed air before she coughed water, desperately trying to breathe again but unable to do so as more water kept coming out of her lungs. "Hold on! Hold on Sansa!" Joffrey spluttered between the waves, holding her over his back in a strange position.


    She kept coughing water as Joffrey swam through the currents, dodging a big chunk of rock which would have ended slammed against them in but a second. "You didn''t kill yourself," she spluttered in between short breaths, feeling a terrible pain in her ribs.


    "Keep your strength Sansa, keep breathing," he shouted as he flipped and grabbed her from the front, looking everywhere around them as they kept going down the overflowing Red Fork, the sun almost completely hidden under the horizon and the clouds, leaving darkness in its wake.


    Sansa grabbed on tight, the strong currents trying to rip them apart as Joffrey stared at her eyes, "There should be a bend coming up ahead! Don''t let go!" He shouted at her face.


    "My chest, I can''t breathe," she managed in between rasps, the terrible pain spreading throughout her body.


    "Come on Sansa, short quick breaths, you can do it¡­" He said before a wave splashed against them and she almost lost her grip on Joffrey, "Be brave Sansa," said Joffrey as he paddled a bit to their right, "I know you can," he said desperately, eyeing something coming up downriver.


    Silent tears streamed down her eyes as the pain made her dizzy, a horrible burn throbbing inside her lungs, an agony stronger than any she''d ever felt. She was cold, though she was not shivering as hard as moments before, "You''ve seen me..? In¡­ other lives?" she asked him as she blinked, "Was I¡­ was I brave then?" she said, coughing in between.


    "You were, yes you were Sansa," Joffrey said as he swam, dragging her behind, "Even when everything was taken away from you, you were brave," he said in between the waves.


    Joffrey''s assurances made her strangely happy, joyous even. Whatever her future beheld, she had faced it head on¡­ she had not been a disappointment to Mother and Father. "Good¡­" she said, her strength deserting her out of nowhere as she sank and the bend in the river approached.


    The last thing she saw was Joffrey turning back to look at her in horror, his face as far away from the stone like fa?ade as it could possibly be.


    -.PD.-

 Art Omake: Sansa & Stars

    I must say. I dunno if was because i watched Omoide no Marnie or because i read this chapter hearing Joe Hisaishi''s Rain but damn! That was a magic trip your wrote baurus . I love the Moonshine dancing scene. You know, is these little things that make Purple Days so special. Hope you like the tribute fanart... S~?a??h the ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 39: Knights and Maidens.

    Chapter 39: Knights and Maidens.She opened her eyes slowly, to the sight of a shirtless Joffrey tending a fire to her side, the starry night above vaguely hidden by a great oak.


    "Anh," she croaked, her throat as dry as she''d ever felt.


    Joffrey shushed her as he scuttled towards her and gave her a sip of water from some sort of cup made out of leaves and leather. "Keep your strength, they''ll likely find us by morning," he said as he sat by her side. He placed a warm hand over her forehead as he regaled her with a worried smile.


    Sansa coughed a bit of the water back up, smiling slightly. She felt all warm and fuzzy, cocooned in leaves and rags next to the big fire. "Ahnd¡­ you shaid¡­ this was¡­ nhot a¡­ maiden''s¡­ tale¡­" she managed, though the shaky giggle that followed felt as if she''d been stabbed in the chest. She moaned as the pain took a while to go away, as if its echoes were still caught up trying to tear into her.


    Joffrey shushed her as he placed a finger over her mouth, "A couple of your ribs ended up in some places they shouldn''t. Don''t talk for now¡­" he said, and she beamed slightly at the complement even as it swiftly transformed into a scowl. He sounded as if he were talking to Rickon again. "You''re crazy, you know that?" he had the temerity to tell her, "What the hells is wrong with you?" he said before putting his finger upon her lips again, "No, wait. Don''t answer that," he said with a mirthful, outrageous smile.


    He should smile more often, Sansa thought as she tried to deliver a torrent of verbal abuse upon him, but all she managed was a monstrous yawn, her eyes drooping.


    -.PD.-


    She dreamed of a big forest with plentiful underbrush, filled with delicious little prey she could gorge on after swiftly breaking their necks. There was no time for that now though, as she caught the scent of her sister and barked at the smelly two legs behind her before sprinting through the underbrush, the scent barely in the air after the great rains which had claimed one of her pack. Her other sister barked as she howled, both of them converging on the smell as she dodged past felled trees and hanging branches, the two legs not too far behind her as she heard a distant shout.


    "OVEEER HEEEERE!!! LAAAADYYYY!!! NYMEEERIAAAA!!!" she heard as she kept sniffing and weaving through the forest, the noise helping her zero in on her target, the heat of a nearby fire making her more frantic as she reached a clearing and she spotted a familiar two legs holding two torches of dangerous flame atop his head, waving them around.


    "Lady! Good! Bring the others!" he roared.


    -.PD.-


    The next time she blinked, Sansa saw a few stern faced soldiers carrying her atop some sort of stretcher, the sun barely peeking from the horizon as each tiny bump made her wince in pain. "Don''t worry Lady Sansa, you''ll be alright," said one of what he recognized were Father''s men.


    She tried to ask where Joffrey was, but she blinked again and there was darkness once more.


    When she opened her eyes once more she was back in the camp, inside Father''s tent. His Father lay sleeping against his shoulder, sitting in a chair and leaning against the simple mattress, looking like he''d aged ten years since the last time she saw him. "Fh¡­ Fhather?" she mouthed, her mouth dry again as she tried to swallow.


    "S-Sansa?" he said, startled as he blinked, "Sansa!" he said again, the years lifting off his face as he hugged her gingerly, mindful of her chest.


    "I-I''m sorry about¡­" she trailed off, her Father shaking his head,


    "It was my fault for not seeing you properly escorted, it won''t happen again Sansa," he promised.


    A few stray tears escaped her as she hugged him back, but one thought kept her from becoming a sobbing wreck.


    I have to get back to Joffrey, I can''t let him out of my sight.


    What she''d seen him do¡­ she had no explanation for it. It was magic, straight from the legends of the Age of Heroes.


    Unless Joffrey was insane and also a sorcerer, then what he''d said was true¡­ and he''d been fighting the White Walkers for who knows how long. The implications of that fact seemed endless, and she had to pinch herself so she stayed on point.


    "Sansa, if you want to return to Winterfell just say the word and Jory will-"


    "No," she surprised herself by answering as swiftly as she did, not an ounce of indecision in her voice as her Father looked at her strangely.


    By the Old Gods and the New¡­ if Joffrey is telling the truth¡­ no wonder he''s so broken, fighting a hopeless war against living legends and children''s tales.


    Every moment he left him alone was another moment for him to sink back into his personal black abyss, and if he sank too deeply he might decide to kill himself and then she''d forget all about this. That could not be allowed to happen.


    "Father, I can-" she winced as she tried to stand up, Father''s strong hands gently pushing her back against the bed. He needed to find him and keep him off balance somehow.


    "You need to rest," he chided her, "The Maester''s say you''ll be able to walk in a week or so," he said.


    "A week?!" She exclaimed. She didn''t have a week!


    "Father please¡­ at least let me speak with Jof- Prince Joffrey, it''s important," she pleaded.


    Father smiled at that, "You''ll see your rescuer soon enough, but for now, sleep," he told her.


    She gave him the stink eye as the words unleashed upon her another huge yawn, and she was relegated to impotent drowsiness as her eyes started to droop again.


    -.PD.-


    She awoke with a start, and for a terrible moment of uncertainty she was not sure what she knew.


    Did I forget?! Did I forget it all?! She thought in a haze as she tried to liberate herself from her blankets.


    Joffrey¡­ the silver lion, the river¡­ gods¡­ she thought as she blinked awake, looking at her tent''s ceiling.


    He''s not done it yet, good¡­ she thought as she looked to her side and found Jeyne Poole knitting a Baratheon Stag. "Jeyne!" she said as she blinked again.


    "Sansa? You''re awake!" she said gleefully as she neared the mattress, dragging her chair, "How are you feeling?" she asked her.


    "I''m fine," Sansa said quickly, "I need you to do me a favor though, could you bring Joffrey here? It''s important," he told her.


    "Ah, it''s just ''Joffrey'' now?" She asked with a mischievous grin.


    "Jeyne please, it''s important," said Sansa.


    "Fine, but you must tell me everything afterwards, all about how our shirtless Prince fished you out of the Red Fork like a tanned fisherman with a trout," she said dreamily.


    "Fine! Just go!" She said quickly.


    Jeyne made her way out of the tent and left Sansa alone with her thoughts¡­ her steadily more complicated thoughts.


    So he can reverse time somehow? Where did he learn how to do that? And to summon a fierce lion protector to his side at need? And a Valyrian Steel sword?! How long has he been fighting the¡­ the Others?


    All questions she wanted to ask in person.


    A few hours passed and she feared Jeyne had failed or otherwise gotten distracted, her dutiful friend could be a bit scatterbrained sometimes, that she readily admitted to herself even if she vehemently denied it to Arya. In time though, Joffrey entered the tent. He looked a bit sheepish, perhaps uncomfortable as he walked slowly to her side of the bed, unsure about how to behave himself. She spotted Jeyne looking from the tent''s entrance, and Sansa''s stern expression soon made her fly away and leave them alone, though not without winking exaggeratedly.


    "Lady Sansa," said Prince Joffrey with a nod, his stern fa?ade spotless as if their episode by the river had been a mere fever dream.


    "Joffrey," she said simply.


    "Please, allow me to apologize for-"


    "Apology not accepted!" she said with a frown, "I''ll think about accepting it when you tell me, in detail, everything you know about¡­ the w-"


    Joffrey shushed her as he neared the last few steps to her bed, holding his hands up in a placating manner. "Not here, the tents have ears," he said, serious.


    "¡­ alright then. When we''re in a safe spot," she conceded, staring hardly at him. "And not even think about using that dagger! Joffrey I swear, if you do it I''ll¡­. I''ll¡­" she struggled for a way to threaten him through time. "I''ll be very cross with you," she finished lamely as Joffrey gazed at her in thought.


    "Very cross," she added, trying to look as serious and menacing as she could.


    Joffrey kept staring before he started laughing, shaking his head in mirth. "Ufff, Oh Gods¡­ I, ah why not?" he finally said to himself with a great shrug. "It''ll give you nightmares, Sansa. It''s¡­ It''s quite the tale¡­" he said as he grasped air with his hand.


    "Then I''ll be waiting anxiously," she told him firmly.


    He gave a sigh as he neared closer, "Search for me in the Godswood when we reach King''s Landing," he whispered as he camouflaged it with a dutiful kiss to her forehead that left her tingling.


    "I will," she whispered as he left the tent, looking at her one more time before closing the flap.


    -.PD.-


    Her dreams turned increasingly confusing and immersing the more she neared the capital, visions of great beasts of snow riding giant spiders as they swarmed Winterfell''s rookery and she yelled at them to go away. Other times she dreamt of rolling hills and flat fields of wheat, her attention caught up by the delicious rabbits she chased through the fields. She always broke their necks when she caught them though, she was not a savage. It was only proper to give them a quick, clean death before gorging on their deliciously warm bodies.


    King''s Landing was all she''d ever dreamed, three great hills crowning the landscape and holding living history in the form of the imposing Red Keep, shining Baelor''s Sept, and the broken Dragonpit. The streets were filled with people, merchants and stalls and carts and shouting smallfolk, more people than she''d ever seen in Winterfell or anywhere else.


    Their arrival to the Red Keep was rushed, Father and the King dashing to somewhere within as Septa Mordane guided her, Bran and Arya to their bedchambers and made sure they were settled in properly.


    It was not long before she sought Joffrey in the almost deserted Godswood. Septa Mordane was her constant shadow since the incident at the Red Fork, but the good Septa gave her some space as she neared the Heart Tree, her heart beating harder with each step, Lady trotting by her side in a dignified manner.


    There she found him. He was sitting in a strange position, eyes closed and legs folded almost painfully between themselves, back straight as a plank as his hands rested atop his knees, thumb and index finger joined in circle.


    "Lady Sansa," he said as he opened his eyes, detecting her presence as if by magic¡­ for all she knew, he just did.


    "Joffrey. Could you just drop the lady, else I''ll have to call you Spellsinger Joffrey," she asked him with an utmost disregard for protocol.


    The trick worked as Joffrey blinked repeatedly, "Sure," he said, his mind churning even as a belated smile adorned his features.


    Got to keep him off balance, she thought to herself even as her damnable cheeks turned red, her improper behavior making her blush. It was the only way of getting him out of his shell though.


    "Where did you learn to¡­ what is it you''re doing?" she asked him as Joffrey stood up in one smooth motion, his body disentangling itself gracefully in but a second. He beckoned her to join him as he walked past the Heart Tree, and Sansa swiftly followed, the Septa a respectful distance away. Enough to peek, but not to listen.


    "Meditating¡­ I learned it from your Father actually, though he never called it that," he said as his smile turned wistful.


    "¡­ What? I''ve certainly never seen Father twisted up like that," she told him, walking by his side as Joffrey guided her through a path in between the trees and the carefully tended foliage.


    "The Lotus?" he asked her.


    "Ehh..." she hesitated before Joffrey tilted his head.


    "My, ah, posture?" he asked again as Sansa nodded. "No, that I learned from a friend in Yi-Ti, where I perfected the whole exercise. It was your Father though that planted the seeds¡­ he meditates quite often in front of the Heart Tree in Winterfell, cleaning his sword or just staring at the carved face," he explained, though Sansa was still stuck on the fact that Joffrey had casually mentioned visiting fabled Yi-Ti. "That''s the least of it though, it''s an exercise of the mind, to clear it of conscious thought and emotion," he said.


    Sansa stepped over an overland root, minding her steps carefully as to avoid any more bursts of pain from her chest, "Do you do that a lot? ¡­ Clear your mind?" she asked him.


    Joffrey tilted his head this way and that, likely trying to say something else than what he was thinking. Finally, he gave up, "More and more these past few years. Depending on the moment it can be a bit more," he said vaguely.


    He must be spending whole days staring at trees if he tells me that¡­


    "Alright, we can stop here for a moment," he said as he sat against a random tree, "The Master of Whisper''s spies won''t listen to us here," he said as he made sure the Septa stopped some distance away.


    Sansa''s heartbeat had accelerated with each step, and she could feel her brow thick with sweat as she leaned on a tree next to it. It was time.


    "Before I go on, there''s something I have to make clear Sansa," he said, what little levity he still had in his voice gone. "There''s nothing you can do to actually help me, so don''t even try. Don''t despair trying to think of a way to stop them or somesuch. This is my fight," he said, rushing the last few words.


    He''s lying, some arcane instinct told her as she took in a deep breath. She didn''t know why, but something about that statement didn''t make sense.


    "Alright¡­ but you''ll have to agree to terms too. First of all, no killing yourself," she had to restrain herself from shouting the absurd terms, "If for some strange reason you have to do it, I''d appreciate it if you talked to me first¡­ wiping a person''s memory just like that is rude," she told him.


    Joffrey gazed at her for a long time, before nodding. "Okay¡­ I can work with that," he said.


    That must have been the most absurd request I''ve ever asked for¡­ she thought as she shook her head.


    "And you''ll promise to be honest. Don''t bend the truth just so I don''t have ''nightmares''," she told him as she stared into his eyes.


    "Done," he said immediately.


    "¡­ You''re a terrible liar Joffrey," she told him with a sigh.


    "Can''t argue with that," he said as he looked at a few of the trees. "Alright. I won''t promise anything, but I''ll try at least," he finally told her.


    I''ll have to be content with that then¡­ for now.


    "The other thing you need to know, and this is important Sansa," he said as he gazed at her eyes,


    "What?" she asked, clearing her throat.


    "Life in the South is not a maiden''s tale," he said seriously, again treating her as if she were five years old.


    She shook her head in indignation as she protested, "Of course I know that Joffrey! I''m not dumb, I-"


    "Yes, you know that," agreed Joffrey, stopping her mid tirade, "Intellectually, you know not everything is as it seems down here, and that there''s danger around, even if you''ve got the scale of it woefully wrong, even if you are underestimating it more than you could possibly realize right now. Emotionally, you''re still feeling as if you''re entering a land populated by Jenny''s and Prince Duncan''s, by chivalrous knights and colorful tourneys, by dutiful proper ladies and righteous Kings and Lords¡­"


    "You make it sound as if I were a simpleton¡­" Sansa protested feebly, some of the words hitting her somewhere deep inside, in a place where a little girl had dreamed of leaving a lonely, grey place during harsh winter storms.


    "You''re not," Joffrey said just as vehemently, "Just inexperienced with the world, and brought up by Lady Catelyn and that Septa in all the wrong ways," he said in unexpected anger.


    It was not every day that Sansa had her whole education and upbringing so belittled, and she felt her cheeks flush at the deeply piercing insult, "Thank you Joffrey. I guess I should now search for a little corner and cry myself to sleep? Or should I join you staring at trees?" she snarked back, her voice a tiny bit raw to her ears.


    Joffrey''s mouth tightened, and he sighed as he looked away, "I''m sorry, that was a bit harsh," he amended.


    "But not untrue," she said.


    "No. Look, Sansa," he struggled, rubbing his head, "Gods why is this so hard?! Listen, your family raised a wonderful person, kind and brave, possessing an insight which still startles me after a hundred lifetimes. Your being hides an inner steel core that never shatters despite all the horrors and hardships I''ve seen you endure, over and over. It''s just the finer points that need urgent attention," he said.


    Sansa gazed at him, her expression inscrutable, "I think I would have preferred a poem," she said drily, looking away as she flushed once more. "I''m glad there''s something salvageable at least¡­" she muttered bitterly before looking back at him, "Just say what you need to say," she told him.


    Joffrey stood up and beckoned her to follow, both of them continuing down the trail. "The tourney''s and the knights and the gossiping maidens are a thin veneer that hides a brutal world of backstabbing and war. All the colorful banners do is hide the fact that knights are little more than enforcers, killer brutes who follow the commands of their overlords when they are too weak to secure a position themselves, or else out of some sense of misguided loyalty. The nobles plot and scheme with only their interests at heart, and their plots do little but create war and destruction, harvests and infrastructure ground to dust for petty ambition and glory, changing nothing but who''s at the top for a small moment in history, while the Kingdoms take decades to recuperate. Maiden''s and ladies do the same, trading barbs and information in a pointless game of intrigue that see''s their houses rise for a moment in history or else see them utterly destroyed, making use of the innocent and the na?ve to further their goals. Danger is everywhere Sansa, wrong words spoken at an inopportune time can bring down dynasties a thousand years in the making, and armed violence is a constant specter that just needs the tiniest excuse to unleash a bloodbath either right here in the Red Keep itself, or anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms," Joffrey delivered with aplomb, his expression dark.


    Sansa just walked, staring at the ground and breathing slowly, "I think you must be the most cynical person I''ve ever met," she commented idly, trying to mask the growing unease.


    "You''re probably right, the human mind was not made for experiencing immortality, after all. You said it yourself, I''m broken. Partly because I''ve seen all that I''ve just told you a thousand times and the whole thing just seems pointless by now," he opened up, intense emotions too interwoven to decipher. "But that doesn''t matter," he grunted as he shook his head, "What matters is that whether you want it or not, you''re a pawn in what my mother loves to call ''The Game of Thrones''. That''s what it is Sansa, a sick game that will grab you no matter what to do," he insisted.


    He stopped by a small natural ditch, leaning on the slight slope. Sansa slipped by his side, not minding the dirt on her fine dress, "So you''re saying the world was a horrible place even before we get to the matter of the¡­ Others," she said, feeling slightly empty. The thought of telling Jeyne the supposed ''romantic'' details of her time with Joffrey now seemed a bitter joke. "Is this going somewhere?" she asked him as she hugged Lady absentmindedly, her red locks loosing themselves amongst her grey white fur. Never in a lifetime would she have thought she''d speak like this to anyone, noble, betrothed or prince, never mind all three. Her modes for communicating with proper courtesy and ladylike dignity seemed all but gone at this moment.


    "Yes. I know this is harsh but you need to understand. Never speak with anyone about what I tell you, or anything else that may seem even a little dangerous. The walls have ears in the Capital, and a spy of any of a dozen different ''players'' are bound to listen anything you say when not in a secure location, which most of the Red Keep isn''t. The other thing is¡­ no matter what you or I do, there''s always a chance things go to hell¡­" he trailed off as he took his dagger, and Sansa readied herself to jump upon him. There was no way she''d let him kill himself and leave her like this, wiped memory or not¡­ a concept she still had trouble getting her head around.


    He surprised her when he took it, sheath and all, and gave it to her. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked, holding it gingerly as the wound in her hand pulsed in painful memory.


    "Always carry it in your person, preferably somewhere hidden," he said as they both stood up and he walked behind her, grabbing her and leading them slightly to the right as he calculated Septa Mordane''s line of sight. "Hold it like this when surprise has been lost, close to your chest with the tip facing down," he said as he grabbed her hand and demonstrated, his breath tickling the back of her neck. "Otherwise, hold it upside down with the flat edge against your wrist, hiding it with your hand and your dress'' long sleeves."


    "Joffrey, this is absurd, guards and sworn shields exist for a reason-"


    "Have you not been listening?" he spat, "Guards can be bought, sworn shields can be slain. If I''m bringing you into this I''m going to do it well damnit!" he snarled, a tinge of despair coloring his voice as he whispered fiercely into her ear.


    "Okay, okay¡­ I¡­ what¡­ what do I do with it?" she asked, shaken by the sheer vehemence in his voice. If playing with daggers made him open up, then by the seven hells she''d do it.


    "Hold it tight, but not enough to whiten your knuckles. Don''t even try to resist at a distance as you won''t have a chance at succeeding, and at most you''ll get yourself killed. Whoever tries to subdue you will likely want to take you alive, and will severely underestimate you, a fatal mistake in combat which can tilt the odds heavily in your favor," he explained as he made a motion with her hand, moving it sideways or upwards at neck height. "If he grabs you, you''ll have a few moments to pierce his neck with it¡­ he won''t expect it. Do it with force, but not enough that you''d risk losing accuracy. The blade will slip in with surprisingly little resistance," he said, maneuvering around her and placing himself in front. "The idea is to pierce one of the carotid arteries, located here, and here," he said as he drew lines on his neck with his finger, "If he''s wearing full plate or the helmet interferes, jam it through the lower jaw," he explained the particularities of murder, Sansa growing nauseous as she followed the forms in a daze.


    "Don''t hesitate," he said before he handed her the dagger for good and he stepped back to her side, guiding her smoothly over a small clump of painted rocks, Lady sniffing the yellow chalk in dignified curiosity.


    "¡­ I¡­ I won''t," she said as she slipped the sheath into a fold in her dress. "Now can you please explain to me what''s going on with you? The Others and the magic and this immortality thing I, I just need to understand," she told him.


    Joffrey looked at her in sympathy, raking a hand over his hair, "It''s complicated¡­ so much has happened, so many horrors¡­" he whispered, deep in thought.


    "Take it from the beginning," she suggested, trying to shake him out of it.


    "The beginning? I¡­ it would take days¡­ weeks even if I had the time, which I don''t," he said, mysterious.


    "Then summarize it, and Father will likely stay here for a few years. I have time," she reasoned.


    "I¡­" he stumbled, his lips working awkwardly, "I''ve never actually told the full story to anyone¡­" he realized, sitting behind a particularly big rock.


    "There''s always a first time," she said, sitting by his side and almost pressing against him, her full attention devoted to him and not allowing even a chance of distraction. There would be no running away this time.


    He sighed deeply, his pale green eyes acquiring an even glossier sheen as he stared beyond the Godswood, beyond time. "I was an imbecile during my first life. I will not give you details, but I was cruel and stupid, and when my time came to reign¡­ little less than a year from now, Westeros exploded in a multisided civil war," he delivered the prophecy with a dark voice.


    Sansa''s breath hitched, her hands holding her mouth by a will of their own, "But, but how? How could there be a rebellion against their rightful King? And in less than a year? The kingdoms are at peace!" she said quickly, stunned.


    "Many reasons, but that''s not important right now. I was poisoned at my wedding, and when the pain cleared I was back in my bed in the Red Keep, three days after Jon Arryn died," he said.


    "You were poisoned!?" She almost screamed, lowering her voice when Joffrey waved his hands down. "¡­ And¡­ a wedding? Where we..?" she struggled awkwardly.


    Joffrey seemed to twist within himself for a second before he shook his head, "No. Our betrothal had been long since been broken by then," he explained.


    "Oh¡­ who was she?" Sansa asked.


    "Really, Sansa?" Joffrey said with a frown.


    "I''m trying to process the fact that you''ve been poisoned and resurrected by some sort of fell magic! Is a little pointless distraction too much to ask?" she shot back.


    He seemed stunned, though quickly recuperated himself, "Ah, it was Maergery Tyrell," he said with the air of an awkward confession.


    Sansa stared at him in growing amusement, "Was she pretty?" she asked with a most unladylike smile.


    "Ahh, I, ah¡­" he blabbered.


    Sansa closed her eyes as she looked down.


    Joffrey placed a hand on her shoulder as he leaned closer, "Yes-but-she was a dedicated schemer and quite fake Sansa, that''s for su-"


    He was interrupted as Sansa giggled wildly, looking at him with eyes filled not with tears but with mirth. "Oh Joffrey, you seem remarkably na?ve for an immortal warrior from the Age of Heroes!" she said as she couldn''t stop giggling, the high pitch of it making her laugh even harder. Joffrey just stared at her, his serious expression slowly giving way to a smile.


    "You''re taking this remarkably well," he commented.


    Sansa''s giggle stopped, "Well? Well?!" she said with raised eyebrows, "Not the word I''d use¡­ I just¡­ the prospect of you being awkward over that of all things¡­" she shook her head. "Thank you, I need that," she said with an uneasy smile.


    A lot of things start to make sense¡­ I don''t know if that Tyrell lady is lucky or cursed¡­ she thought with a painful twinge of bitterness. She shook her head slightly, dispelling the thought. She didn''t even care about the broken betrothal any more, all she wanted was to understand what was going on, and help Joffrey pick himself up. This¡­ thing was killing him, in a way much more horrifying than mere physical pain. He needed help, and she was the only one who''d managed to speak more than a few dozen words with him. Not his uncles, his brothers, his father nor his mother, no one seemed to be able to pin him down with any regularity, much less communicate with him.


    "Me too, I think," he whispered after a moment, slowly leaning on her as he lost himself in memory again. "To make things short¡­ I didn''t know what was happening at first. I tried revenge against those I thought had wronged me, I tried to change events so I could come on top, like any of the other players¡­ only I was the least competent of them," he said with a snort, "In time I started to investigate the cause, the purpose of my condition, and learned that I had been¡­ created to fulfill one task. Stop the Second Long Night," he said, his voice distant. "I''ve been trying to find a way to stop it since then¡­" he said.


    Been trying, the words rebounded inside Sansa''s head. He''d failed, the strong and fearless sorcerer king had failed life after life, failed against the most horrifying of legends and children''s tales, a living legend that even now approached.


    "So you were basically chosen by destiny to singlehandedly stop the end of times," Sansa said lightly, her head thumping as she blinked.


    "¡­ That''s one way of looking at it," he muttered.


    "¡­ And you have the audacity to tell me life isn''t a maiden''s tale¡­" she told him with a mocking scowl, her belly tying into a knot as she imagined Bran and Arya as, as¡­ as wights. Shambling bodies come back to slay their friends and family.


    Joffrey shrugged helplessly, and Sansa had to contain another giggle. There were more and more of those assaulting her as of late.


    This is all quite surreal, she thought as she gazed at her trembling hand.


    "I¡­ I think I need some time to¡­ think about this¡­" she muttered, her hand shaking so hard it wouldn''t be amiss amidst a howling snowstorm.


    Joffrey grabbed it as he looked at her, "I understand. If things get too bad, I can teach you how to clear your mind. It has helped me more times than I could count," he said gently, the trembling in her hand intensifying as she grabbed his whole arm and her whole body shook slightly.


    "Y-You, you mean stare at trees?" she asked shakily, the jest sounding strangled as her throat constricting as she imagined an icy apocalypse enveloping the world again and again as Joffrey raged futilely against it, like a sailor screaming at a thunderstorm.


    Joffrey closed his eyes briefly, as if telling himself ''I knew this would happen'', before looking at her again. "I think this has been quite enough already," he started, but Sansa lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at his eyes immediately.


    "No," she whispered fiercely, "Don''t even think about it. You can''t carry this burden alone," she said, eyes boring into his own.


    Septa Mordane cleared her throat, and Sansa had to stop herself from jumping up. She looked up to see the scowling Septa, glaring at their inappropriate conduct.


    "I was already leaving, Septa," Joffrey said neutrally as he stood up.


    "Joffrey!" Sansa said as she grabbed his hand again, "We''ll talk later?" she asked. S~?a??h the N?v?lFir?(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Joffrey nodded slightly, almost painfully, before walking away from the clearing. Leaving her alone with the Septa and what she suspected would be a stern talking to.


    -.PD.-


    There was at least one thing Joffrey had been right about, and that she wouldn''t tell him as long as she breathed.


    The nightmares.


    She found herself increasingly waking up at odd hours in the middle of the night, her heart beating wildly as she tried to remember anything beyond a supreme amount of dread. Her sheets were filled with sweat, and her throat kept feeling vaguely squeezed even after days without talking to Joffrey. It had gotten so bad she had taken to smuggling Lady into her room and sleeping with her confortable weight near her feet.


    He has been living through this for years¡­ maybe even decades¡­ This is nothing compared to what he must have seen, she thought to herself in the stillness of the night. I have to be strong.


    Whatever he''d said about being busy, it seemed to be true. She often spotted him riding out from the courtyard atop Moonlight, going Gods knew where during the day, and sometimes during the middle of the night.


    A few weeks passed with only a few short exchanges between them. After her incessant badgering, Joffrey carefully explained how the Long Night worked, trying to word it in terms that weren''t so terrifying, she supposed. If that had been his intent, he had failed miserably. The Long Night was a actually a vast, immaterial, clockwork like mechanism designed to end life itself, and it had been working since at least millions upon millions of years ago, wiping out great and terrifying civilizations by the hundreds. The Purple, the magical force which had made him relatively immortal, had been crafted to stop it (by who he hadn''t explained, and Sansa wasn''t sure she wanted to know), and it had tried and failed to do so through its ''hosts'', countless times.


    Sansa quickly found herself immersed in a world she didn''t understand nor comprehend, Arya''s immature antics and her cats doing little to distract her from her speculations.


    What can a man do against such eldritch things?!


    Joffrey had just smiled bitterly at the question.


    Even her lessons with Septa Mordane, a point of pride for both of them, began to decay. She frequently found herself staring through the window at the courtyard, thinking about Joffrey''s mysterious plans, her knitting all but forgotten in her hands. She couldn''t sing properly either, her voice sounding strained to her ears.


    Jeyne seemed to think it all the effects of her ''love'' for Joffrey, and all Arya seemed to do was enjoy the fact that her previously ''perfect'' sister was starting to ''fail''. Her decay had prompted the Septa to talk with Father, but it seemed his attention was flooded by the upcoming Tourney of the Hand.


    The tourney¡­ the Tourney of the Hand was all she had imagined it to be and more. Great flags and banners swayed with the wind as cheering crowds of people, smallfolk and noble alike, whooped and screamed to the sound of clashing knights. The knights themselves wore all manner of enameled armor, ranging from Lord Yohn''s ancient looking bronze to Ser Barristan''s white gold enameled white plate. Every house in the Seven Kingdoms had seemed to answered the King''s call, and a veritable city of pavilions larger than Wintertown had emerged around the tourney grounds.


    Despite the joy and the spectacle if it all, Sansa couldn''t fully suppress the shimmer of unease Joffrey had planted within her, and she gazed at the knights and visiting ladies with unusual wariness. Was it all really just a veneer for the world of barbarism he''d described?


    Looking at Ser Jaime Lannister in his glowing golden armor, crashing against a knight of House Redwyne in fierce red and blue colors as the crowds roared so strongly they drowned her heartbeat¡­ it didn''t seem so.


    Her wariness gradually went away as she lost herself in the excitement, the innocent bliss a soothing balm for all the sleepless nights. Joffrey had excused himself a few days before, saying he had ''business'' to attend to up the Blackwater, and Sansa hadn''t had the courage to ask him to take her.


    So she giggled and swooned with Jeyne over the dashing knights and the feasts, enjoying the midnight balls where throngs of gossiping maiden''s orbited around up and coming squires, in search of love. The seeds of doubt were a strong thing though, and she couldn''t avoid frowning at some strange remarks from other ladies, and at the way the great amount of knights from the Stormlands stared at the ones from the Westerlands in mutual, and growing, disdain.


    She saw someone die for the first time when Ser Hugh of the Vale received Ser Gregor Clegane''s lance straight through his neck. She''d almost cried as she hid under Father''s protective embrace and soothing nothings, unable to shake off the memories of Ser Hugh''s blood bubbling out of his throat seemingly without end. The harrowing episode passed without much comment by the rest of the audience, and Sansa couldn''t avoid feeling a little stunned by that fact. She couldn''t stop superimposing Joffrey''s face unto young Ser Hugh''s, laying bleeding and broken over a thousand battlefields.


    Was that war? She''d found herself asking, imagining thousands of knights charging each other with lances made out of steel, their necks and chests exploding in blood like Ser Hugh''s did, their colorful banners soaked in blood.


    Even so, the spectacle was something she''d never seen in Winterfell, something she''d never dreamed of either. The tourney lasted three days, though the whole week before it was filled with friendly tilts and feasts where she could lose herself in the colors of the south, like her Mother had spoken of when she was but a little girl.


    "Who do think will win the joust?" Jeyne suddenly asked her, startling her from her thoughts during the morning of the tourney''s second day.


    "Hmm¡­ I think Ser Jaime will, he never seems to hesitate, and he hasn''t lost a single tilt," she said, turning her mind back to the present as a Frey knight was dismounted by Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard. She applauded with the rest of her family near the royal box, the King himself bellowing as he shouted for more wine.


    "I think it will be the Knight of Flowers, he just seems to glide to victory every time¡­ and he''s so handsome too," Jeyne said with a sigh.


    Sansa nodded with an easy smile, Ser Loras Tyrell certainly seemed like every maiden''s dream: a dashing, handsome, strong knight with an easy smile. Honorable to his defeated foes and magnanimous in victory, he already seemed like the tourney''s victor, his master crafted armor in the shape of a field of flowers giving him a heroic air.


    Bran scoffed by her side, "The Silver Knight will trample him anyway!" he said with absolute confidence, "And then you''ll be crying because a flower can''t stand up to a lion!" Arya said mischievously from her seat behind her, drawing a scowl from Jeyne.


    Warning bells were tolling inside Sansa''s head as she looked back to Arya, Bran and Jeyne in quick succession, alternating between the three of them as her mouth opened and said nothing like some sort of silly fish.


    "You can''t even deny it!" Arya said in triumph.


    "What Silver Knight? What are you all talking about?!" she asked, feeling a terrible premonition.


    "Oh, he''s just some anonymous hedge knight," Jeyne scoffed, giving Arya the stink eye. "He won all his tilts yesterday afternoon, after we''d returned to the Red Keep," she said as if it were an afterthought, "Ser Arys will defeat him, never mind Ser Loras!" she said, vaguely outraged.


    "They say he''s a descendant of an exiled Lannister branch from before the Conquest, come back to regain the main House''s favor!" Bran supplied, smiling excitedly.


    "He''s just a hedge knight who got lucky. Anyone can go to a tourney and claim parentage to a Great House," Jeyne sniffed.


    "A hedge knight who got lucky?!" exclaimed Bran, "He won the Archery Contest without even taking his helmet and armor!" he told Jeyne as if she were a simpleton.


    "Fat lot of good it''ll serve him in the Melee today," she said.


    "He''s participating in the Melee as well?" Sansa asked as she looked at Jeyne.


    "Lollys Stokeworth mentioned it last night, she seemed to be quite interest in the drab, grey knight," she said as she rolled her eyes, "Why are you so curious?" she asked.


    "What''s his heraldry?" Sansa heard herself ask.


    "A silver lion atop a mountain, staring at a few stairs," said Bran absentmindedly, "Maybe he''ll win the melee as well! A master archer and a warrior!" he said with baited breath.


    "Syrio could beat all of them anyway," Arya grumbled.


    "Your ''dancing teacher'' wouldn''t stand a chance!" Bran exclaimed, but Sansa was no longer listening as she stood up and hastily made her way down the stalls. "Sansa, where are you going?" asked Septa Mordane with a suspicious eye.


    "I-I forgot to tend to Lady today, I''ll be right back!" she shouted as she grabbed her dress and ran, sorting through startled squires and food bearing servants. She belatedly realized she didn''t know where the Melee ring was, so she had to ask a few servants and along the way she realized Lady was by her side. She''d taken her to the Tourney today.


    Septa Mordane will not be fooled, she thought with a twinge of guilt, quickly smothered when he reached the ring. She squeezed herself past oddly silent smallfolk spectators and knights, Lady growling at anyone who would impede her passing.


    She arrived to the rail to see a veritable sea of limping or moaning men, some not even awake, all either prone on the ground or shuffling away. Five knights shuffled around a sixth, armed with maces, swords, shields and greatswords, all wearily swaying left and right as if waiting for something, their movements hesitant.


    Right in the middle was who she could already guess was the Silver Knight. He didn''t look like much at first sight, wearing a slightly dented plate which shone a dull grey under the morning sun, looking a bit small compared to the other, bigger but strangely frightened knights.


    He was swinging two one handed hammers lazily, constantly turning around his axis as if to look at all five knights at the same time, feinting nonstop and startling them every two seconds. The people were spectating in awed almost-silence, whispering between themselves and not even booing the other knights due of their cowardly, dishonorable conduct.


    One of the knights, the one in Hightower livery, gave a tentative step forward only for the Silver Knight to suddenly leap at him, an otherworldly roar of fury following him as his twin maces blurred and he pried the knight''s shield away, his other mace batting the sword aside and leaving the knight open for a helmeted head-butt which sent him sprawling down. The other knights were already moving, but the Silver Knight was faster. He charged at the one to his left, bending to his right minutely as his new opponent''s greatsword sailed past, almost touching him. He delivered a quick one two strike with both hammers against the man''s helmet which left Sansa''s ears ringing. The man fell backwards like a plank even as the Silver Knight twirled and dodged a sword that would have slammed into his back.


    He dashed towards the ring''s edge, two knights in radically different colors following and trying to skewer him from behind as the he reached the edge of the big pit and used the wooden, horizontal girder as a makeshift stairwell, surprising his opponents as he twisted mid climb and fell back to the ground with another roar, one mace catching the first knight''s sword mid swing as the other delivered a brutal blow to his head. He crumbled as the Silver Knight conserved his momentum with a roll, standing up in one graceful, familiar motion right in front of the second knight and slamming into him with a tackle. They landed in a heap, and a knight in the livery of House Connington gave a desperate roar as he took the chance to cleave the Silver Knight with an axe.


    The Silver Knight was still grappling with his downed opponent, but one tilt of his head was all the warning Sansa got before he twisted aside in half a second, using his grappled enemy as a shield when the Connigton Knight slammed his axe into his armored back. The prone knight gave a scream of pain and perhaps of yield before dropping his weapons, and the Silver Knight shoved him aside even as Connington lifted his axe again. He rolled and barely avoided the second blow, slamming into the man''s legs and making him fall above him. He dropped both hammers as he grappled briefly, using his legs as hooks as he pivoted and pinned the Connington Knight below him.


    The pinned knight desperately tried to reach for his fallen axe, but the grey clad monster had none of that. He tore off the man''s helmet in one smooth motion, batting aside the man''s other hand before grabbing him by the hair and slamming his gauntleted fist into his face one, two, three times, each time unleashing gasps from the public as the few remaining ladies covered their faces and the knights and squires stared in awe. She heard Lollys Stokeworth loose her breakfast nearby as blood jumped from the downed knight''s face.


    Sansa couldn''t stop staring.


    By the sixth blow the Silver Knight was screaming, and by the eight the fallen knight was not moving any longer, dead or unconscious she didn''t know. He stood up slowly, staring at the last remaining knight, the one in Hightower livery who was still trying to shake off the blow to his head.


    The Hightower knight looked up at the stands, thinking about something before shaking his head minutely and charging. He gave a shrill scream as he reached the unarmed Silver Knight, moving his sword sideways for a sweeping cut as he readied his shield for a follow-up bash. The Silver Knight took a step forward towards the sword stroke, grunting slightly as he received it with a vambrace and his other hand grabbed the man''s shield and directed the force of the bash sideways. They were locked like that for a few moments, the Hightower knight roaring as he brought the sword down two more times, each parried by the Silver Knight''s vambraces until he grabbed the man''s sword arm as well.


    The Silver Knight let go of the shield and pivoted towards the man''s sword arm completely, holding it strangely with both hands before twisting it down and sideways. The knight screamed as the sword fell from his hand and Sansa heard a sickening crunch. The Silver Knight pivoted again, doing something with his leg that made the Hightower knight fall on his knees. He tore off the man''s helmet before locking his throat in a vice like grip from behind, and Sansa could only stare in horror as the young knight''s face disfigured in agony, one hand hanging limply as the other tried to clutch the Silver Knight, to no avail. His face turned steadily purple, his eyes red as the Silver Knight squeezed with unrelenting force, not making a sound as he stood still in the middle of the ring, slowly choking the life out of the knight with his arm.


    Sansa took in a strangled breath in the midst of the horror filled silence, and the Silver Knight''s head swiveled to her position with terrifying speed. He seemed to stare at her through the fully enclosed visor before suddenly dropping the half dead knight, letting him fall to the ground in a rain of rasping coughs.


    There was silence only broken by the Hightower''s gasping, and the moans of the defeated, the Silver Knight turning and showing Sansa only his back as he recovered his two maces.


    "A-And the victory of the Melee goes to the Kn-Knight of House Stars!" the crier proclaimed looking somewhat shaky.


    Slowly, the crowd began to cheer, spectating knights and squires clapping in dumb awe and perhaps even dread. Lady Stokeworth was rapidly leaving the ring though, her escort gently patting her back and avoiding the pool of vomit beneath.


    The Silver Knight took a moment to gaze at the cheering crowds before slowly shaking his head, climbing the slight pit and saying something to the crier who stood beside a chest filled with twenty thousand golden dragons. The crier nodded as the Knight walked away, somehow loosing himself in a crowd which kept trying to give him space.


    Sansa scratched her cheek thoughtfully, still shaken by the macabre spectacle she''d just witnessed. The raw fury, the raw intensity of the Silver Knight''s blows betrayed a very familiar despair¡­ or at least that''s what it felt to her.


    She got an idea when she saw the crier leading four other guards who carried the big chest of winnings, slowly weaving their way through the crowds. She followed them from a distance, keeping an eye out for the Septa as Lady prowled obediently by her side.


    Eventually, she reached a rather nondescriptive tent in the middle of the section where the Hedge Knights quartered. One of them gave her a leer as he swayed towards her with a bottle of wine in his hand, only to fall on his bum when Lady growled at him. "Good Lady," she muttered as she scratched the side of her head, fingering her hidden dagger with her other hand as the hedge knight cursed her and stumbled away.


    The tourney guards soon exited the tent, bereft of their chest, and Sansa made her move after they had cleared the way. She walked up to the tent guarded by a single man in chainmail with an arming sword by his hip and a pendant with a piece of burnt wood hanging from his neck. He seemed very surprised to see her as he moved to bar the way.


    "Ah, m''lady, this here are private accommodations," he said awkwardly.


    "I won''t take long," she said as she tried to sail past him, only for the man to grab her arm.


    "M''lady I-" he stumbled for a second when Lady growled at him, her hackles raised as her head found itself millimeters away from the man''s groin.


    "I ah," he blabbered as he released her, though Sansa was already entering the tent.


    Inside, she found an assortment of training dummy''s, spare pieces of armor, lances, a few weapon racks and a trio of simple cots. The Silver Knight was leaning on a simple wooden tub filled with water, still in armor as he gazed at the water. Beside him was another guard, this one releasing the Silver Knight''s vambraces.


    "Lady Sansa," said the Silver Knight as he turned, "You''re intruding here," he said simply.


    "Oh cut it out Joffrey! You''re not fooling any-" she stopped for a second, shaking her head, "Well you may fooled everyone else somehow, but not me," she told him.


    "Lady Sansa, I''m afraid-"


    "Lady, where''s Joffrey? Do you know where Joffrey is?" she interrupted him as she kneeled by her side and scratched her regal looking direwolf''s fur. Lady barked at the Silver Knight twice, before running a circle around him as she wagged her tail playfully.


    He stayed silent as Sansa stood up and bored a hole into his armor with her stare, "Joffrey. Take. Off. That. Helmet!" she said defiantly.


    The Silver Knight gazed at her for a moment before his hands went up and he released the clasps of his helmet. Joffrey looked slightly emaciated, his eyes a bit sunken and rimmed with black. He had two bruises covering his face, as well as a few cuts¡­ his smile would not have looked out of place on a skeleton. "Hello Sansa," he said with a slight voice, avoiding her eyes.


    "Joffrey, you''re hurt," she said as she walked to him, the anger dissipating as she looked at his wrecked face. The guard finished releasing the chest plate before relieving Joffrey of cloth and gambeson. "Thank you Barret," Joffrey told him as the guard bowed and left the tent.


    "It''s just a few bruises," he protested as Sansa invaded his personal space.


    She was slightly speechless as the absence of plate and cloth revealed a sea of cuts and contusions, hues of blue and purple covering his skin as he shrugged. "Joffrey¡­ you, you could have died there," she said in near horror as her hands gingerly touched the swollen flesh, his face slowly angling away from her hands.


    "Not important," he said, and Sansa pinched one of the bruises in anger, "Ouch! Not what I meant Sansa!" he said, a bit of humor returning to his voice as he sat on a nearby stool, "It was not as dangerous as it looked, I''ve faced worse¡­ of course, the other knights were merely playing at a tourney, I on the other hand¡­" he shrugged once more, "If I''m going to fight, I''ll do it right," he finished.


    Sansa stared at him in incomprehension before shaking her head and grabbing a nearby sponge. She soaked it in water, her eyes troubled as she began to clean a few of the wounds. Joffrey didn''t stop her, but neither did he seem to even care about the state of his body. "It must have been shocking¡­" he suddenly mused as if to himself.


    "Yes, that was¡­" Sansa trailed off.


    "Brutal? Harrowing? Terrifying?" supplied Joffrey as she cleaned a cut near his forehead.


    "All three," she agreed, and Joffrey seemed to deflate at that. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asked him quickly, by now pretty adept at sensing his black moods.


    "Around a thousand battlefields, from a hundred friends and madmen around the world, fierce ship captains and canny scouts, dauntless soldiers and wise sages¡­" he said with a slight air of whimsy, "Perhaps I''ll write a poem about them one of these days," he laughed at his own joke.


    "You writing a poem? I can see it now, ''Bleak is black, black is bleak. Black and Bleak. Has a nice ring to it," she told him as she startled a laugh out of him.


    A thousand battlefields¡­ Seven. I''ve got to keep in talking¡­ she thought to herself as she wondered about the terrible burden Joffrey carried, the shredded shards of his soul even now cutting into him.


    "Just how long have you been bouncing around the world to the point where you barely feel pain anymore?" she asked him as he barely shifted under her inexperienced ministrations.


    "Five decades at the very least, lost count after that¡­ never made it past my twenties though," he said it as if it were a very good joke.


    Sansa took a deep breath at that, blinking. An abyss of time separated them, but Joffrey didn''t sound like an old man to her¡­ more like a young man who had hidden depths so deep that one could spend a lifetime exploring them without getting to know him fully.


    "Were you afraid? When you looked at me in the ring?" he asked suddenly as she walked to his back and gave a muffled wince at the state of it.


    "Why would I be? You''re fierce in battle, isn''t that someone all maiden''s look up in men?" she asked back.


    "Clever, but not an answer," he said as he scooped a bit of water from a small bucket to his side and splashed it on his face.


    I wonder how loud would Septa Mordane scream if she were to wonder into this tent right now, she thought in whimsy. The whole situation was improper, scandalous even. Delightfully scandalous. Did such a thing even exist? Perhaps this is how Arya felt every time she stole a sword from Winterfell''s armory¡­ it would explain why she did it so often.


    "Are you saying I''m not a maiden?" she shot back, enjoying the banter and taking her mind off the heavy things for a brief second.


    "What? No! I mean¡­" he stopped for a second before leaning back, relaxed as he chuckled slightly, "You have a way of keeping me on my toes Sansa," he stated in mirth.


    She blushed at the unconventional compliment, though fortunately he couldn''t see it as she soaked the sponge again and cleaned the sweat and grime of his hair. "I do try. I''m so far away from proper behavior I''m mostly making it up as I go along," she confessed.


    "A most bizarre courtship, I wonder if the bards would laugh or cry¡­" he said in a rush, chuckling.


    "So I am courting you?" she asked him.


    The question seemed to have been the wrong thing to say. Joffrey stiffened like a piece of wood, before standing up from the stool abruptly and moving away from her.


    "You should get going Sansa, the tourney,"- his bout of stupidity was swiftly stopped by a wet sponge smacking right into his face. He blinked slowly as a hand went up and rubbed his cheek.


    "There are two possible outcomes at this moment Joffrey, you either sit back down on the stool, by your own volition, or Lady and I will do it for you," she said in a rush as adrenaline flooded her and Lady barked in agreement, her threatening of a crown prince filling her with fire. If this indeed was a courtship, then it had a dangerous and delightfully forbidden spicy flavor no maiden''s tale ever had. And nightmarish musings and sleepless nights of course, but one had to take the good with the bad.


    Joffrey blinked at her for a few more seconds before mutely sitting back on the stool. Sansa smiled in triumph as she grabbed a second sponge and she kept cleaning his battered body, "Was that so hard?" she whispered in his ear as she couldn''t resist.


    "Yes," he said in a flat monotone.


    "That''s too bad," she said as she squeezed the wet sponge atop his head and got back to work.


    They stayed like that for a while, before Joffrey spoke again. "So, were you afraid?" he asked her again, the question having some strange significance to him.


    "¡­ I was, yes. But that was not what took most of my attention," she said truthfully.


    "Oh?" he asked as she rubbed the sponge against a mean looking cut on his back.


    "What shook me the most was¡­ the raw fury I suppose. The raw intensity of it all¡­" she said, "It looked as if you had something on your mind you couldn''t get rid of, and I''m not talking about your¡­ mission. It seemed somehow more immediate," she said thoughtfully.


    "I don''t know what you''re talking about," he said quickly.


    "Joffrey, what did I say about lying?" she chided him.


    "Mostly that I suck at it," he said as he deflated once more. "You''re scary," he added, though she could feel the troubled smirk even though she did not see it.


    "Dauntless Warrior Sorcerer Prince Joffrey, scared of a silly maiden with her head up in the clouds," she said to herself as she squeezed the sponge over his head again and the water flooded his face.


    He seemed to find that very funny, regaling her with an incredibly rare, deep throated laughter. She savored every moment of it, treasuring it like a valued heirloom before it was lost to the echoes of time.


    She finished cleaning him, but she couldn''t help but frown when he stood up and started to put on his armor again. "You''re going out again?" she asked him.


    "My next tilt is coming up soon, against Lord Beric Dondarrion of all people. That will be fun," he said with a smirk as he put on his cloth shirt and gambeson.


    "Why are you even doing the mystery knight routine? Do you plan for a big reveal in the end?" she asked him, confused.


    "That''s just distasteful. No, I just really need the dragons," he said simply, securing his breastplate on his own.


    "You''ve already won the Archery Contest and the Melee¡­ somehow. Why do you need so much gold?" she said as Joffrey started to secure his vambraces.


    He seemed to hesitate for a moment, lifting his gaze to look at her for a long moment before returning to his vambrace. "To build an army," he said, his voice distant.


    The Others, she thought with a slight shiver. She hadn''t forgotten about them, but the specter of their threat had dimmed back into legend during the height of the tourney and its accompanying celebrations. They hit her now again with the fury of a winter storm.


    Joffrey nodded solemnly, before attaching his other vambrace. "Them and all the other wars to come," he whispered.


    "Didn''t you say nothing could stop them?" she remembered, though she refused to believe it.


    "¡­ Not exactly. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve I want to try¡­ and¡­ experimentation to do. If two parts where needed then one should serve in a pinch, if I modify it enough," he said almost to himself, again with the useless mystery.


    "Parts needed? You mean like a spell? Like the silver lion was?" she probed.


    He looked supremely uncomfortable as he turned his back on her, "Something like that. It''s missing a piece for it to work. One I will never use," he said the last with unusual vehemence, "So I''ll have to improvise, modify the rest so it can work without it," he said as if he were trying to convince himself, staring at his vambrace.


    "I''ll help anyway I can Joffrey," she said fiercely, walking back in front of him and grabbing shoulders, stopping his fiddling with the vambrace. "You just need to get that into your thick skull. I''ll help you no matter what," she told him as she stared into his eyes.


    "It''s not your war to fight," he said, avoiding her.


    "It is now," she shot back.


    "You don''t understand what that means. When Ned returns North, you''ll go with him. This place is not for you," he commanded sternly, though it had an air of pleading.


    "My place is right here. I don''t care if you marry that Tyrell woman, but someone needs to help carry your load," she told him with an inner wince, her turn to be stern. "I don''t know your plans or your strategies, but you think you''ve somehow hit rock bottom¡­ when you''re still breaking apart. Have you even spoken to anyone besides a few servants? More than six words?" she attacked relentlessly, "Anyone besides me?" she insisted.


    "¡­I¡­ you can''t¡­" he stammered as Sansa kept talking.


    "You can''t close yourself to the rest of the world like that Joffrey, or you''ll go insane. So either you open up with someone else, or I''m staying right here," she declared forcefully.


    Joffrey stared at her for a second before his face disfigured itself in anger, "Open up?!" he whispered darkly as he stepped away from her forcefully, staring at a random corner of the tent before walking back to her in fury, "You think I do this because"-


    "Pri- Ser Silver!" called out one of the guards from beyond the tent, interrupting Joffrey''s tirade, "Your tilt will be coming up in a few minutes Ser!" he called out urgently.


    Joffrey clamped his mouth shut, taking a deep breath before walking to his helmet and putting it on. "You haven''t even eaten," Sansa said quietly, looking at the abandoned tray with a few slices of bread and ham.


    "I''m not hungry," he said curtly, his voice sounding distorted from within his helmet as he walked towards the tent flap, "You should get back to the stands, the good Septa must be going insane," he said before walking out.


    -.PD.-


    Bran cheered for ''the Silver Knight'' as he unhorsed Lord Dondarrion of the Stormlands, Jeyne frowning even as Arya gave her a leer. Sansa suddenly found her enjoyment of the tourney drastically lowered, Joffrey''s heavy words and the great risk of the tilts making her sweat in anxiety every time he took the field.


    Joffrey unhorsed more than three knights during the rest of the day, and every time he speeded atop a nondescriptive brown horse her heart pulsed in worry, her mind flashing back to Ser Hugh''s broken form. Proper ladies were expected to cheer for their favored knights, and yet Sansa could only find a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief every time he came ahead victorious.


    Septa Mordane would not let her out of her sight again, and she barely ate during that night''s feast.


    "Who do you think will take the prize, eh Ned?" the King bellowed from the high table in the Red Keep.


    Isn''t that question a bit¡­ non polite to ask in front of said knights? She wondered as Father frowned.


    "All seem quite skilled in lance and horse, your grace," Father said circumspectly, and the King laughed as gazed at the rows of great tables where all knights, both defeated and still participating, feasted.


    "Come on Ned! You''re allowed to have an opinion! Your King commands you!" he shouted, even though Father was seated right by his side.


    "Tomorrow will settle that rather thoroughly, your grace," Father said as he shuffled, and the King waved his hand.


    "Bah!" he bellowed, "Maybe the Kingslayer will take the dragons? He could use a bit more gold on that armor," he said with deep chuckle, the rest of the assembled knights laughing dutifully along with him as Ser Jaime sported a bent smirk, standing by his side and to the back.


    "Or that flowery welp! Young enough to be my grandson and yet besting the realm''s mightiest with that ridiculous armor!" he laughed, and the Knight of Flowers raised a cup to the air in good grace.


    "I shall certainly endeavor to be worthy of the praise your grace!" he called out, to the acclaim of the other knights from the Reach and even a few from the Stormlands, all seating together in the same long table.


    The King snorted in mirth as he took another drink from his big cup, "And how about this ''Silver Knight'' eh?" he asked Ser Loras, "He''s been slaughtering the competition like the lion on his shield! By the Gods I should have seen the Melee from what I''ve heard¡­" he said as he shook his head.


    "I think Ser Loras will unhorse him by the first tilt, brother!" Called Lord Renly from the very same table, "I''d wager Highgarden trains them better than some random hedge knight," he said to the banging cups of the Reachers and the tolerant laughter of the Stormlords.


    "Heh, you''d wager¡­" the King chuckled darkly as he stared at his brother, "That man has seen war. He''s got that killer instinct, that struggle to keep your lance from aiming at the other bastard''s throat¡­" he said as he laughed, this time all on his own, "I don''t see him now though, bad form that, to reject royal hospitality," he said darkly before abruptly giving out a heartfelt chuckle, "Must be out wenching!" he roared, and the other knights laughed with him.


    Sansa stayed quiet, and when the Septa came to retrieve her and the rest of the family, fleeing the steadily merrier and rowdier feast, she couldn''t stop dreading the moment when Joffrey and his unstoppable will slammed against the best knights of the realm.


    Her nightmares were filled that night with death and dread.


    -.PD.-


    She awoke early the next morning, and after hugging Lady tightly and combing both her fur and her own hair, she was swiftly moving down the Red Keep''s stairs and out towards the tourney grounds. Her plans were foiled though by the guards at the Gatehouse, and she had to content herself with anxious worry as she waited for the rest of the household to emerge. Father gave her a questioning look but said nothing, and Arya and Bran were too busy squabbling amongst themselves over something which happened in the kennels to notice her state.


    The procession towards the tourney grounds was painfully slow, and she was about to bolt when Father grabbed her shoulder, "Sansa, what''s the matter?" he asked.


    "Nothing Father," she said, Lady''s vaguely hackled fur betraying her state of mind somehow.


    Father frowned but did not press, and when they were taking their seats in the stands right beside and below the Royal Box, she tried to escape again.


    Septa Mordane had been waiting for her though. "I''ve really got to pee," she blurted, and the Septa''s frown made her feel guilty even as she shuffled.


    "¡­ Well then, let''s go," she said with the still suspicious frown, guiding her to one of the royal tents where the chamber pots were stored.


    Sansa nodded dutifully and bid Lady to stay. Septa Mordane kept a watchful eye on her the whole way there, and Sansa almost closed the tent flap on her face as she scuttled in.


    She immediately walked to the other side and tried to pass under the tent, but it was no use, it was too tightly fixed to the ground.


    She scowled as she gave up trying to lift the piece of canvass and instead grabbed the dagger Joffrey had gifted her. She only stared at it for a moment of indecision before slashing clumsily at the canvass, ripping a vertical hole and squeezing through it to find a startled servant.


    "Sorry," she told him before moving away, grabbing her dress so she could run faster.


    Soon she was upon Joffrey''s tent, and the guard didn''t even try to stop her as she barreled in.


    "Don''t do it," she blurted at him as the other guard fitted a thigh plate.


    "Sansa¡­" Joffrey sighed, giving the guard a meaningful look before the man retreated.


    "Just don''t, you already have, what, twenty five thousand golden dragons?" she asked him.


    "Thirty thousand," he corrected her as he secured what was left of his armor by himself.


    "More than enough," she said, feeling like a child during a tantrum.


    "I thought maidens were supposed to cheer for their favored knights," he said with an unwilling smile, following what was by now their very own private joke.


    "It''s not funny Joffrey!" She scolded him, though she couldn''t stop an unwilling smile of her own, "Besides, I haven''t even given you my favor," she added.


    "A shame, that," he said with the same smile as he put on his gloves.


    "I don''t care about the chivalry and the stupid honor, let''s go to the Red Keep and just¡­ I don''t know, just don''t ride out there," she pleaded.


    "Sansa, I''ll be okay¡­ relax," he chided her as he placed his hand on her shoulder, "I''ll send vaunted Ser Loras into the mud so hard he''ll be scraping the dirt from his silly armor for years, and if it''s not him then whoever stands in my way," he said confidently.


    He''s so bloody dauntless¡­ she thought in equal parts admiration and irritation.


    She sighed as Joffrey walked towards the tent flap, "Wait!" she called out.


    Joffrey stopped by the exit, his helmet in his hands, "Yes?"


    Sansa ripped a piece of her fine dress with the dagger, before walking up to him and tying it around his forearm. "Does this mean I have your favor then?" he asked in jest, though Sansa could see contested feelings clashing behind the pale green of his eyes.


    "I want you to return this to me, in person," she told him.


    "As you command, my lady," he said with a mock bow.


    "This is serious!" she protested.


    "I suppose the kiss comes now," he added cheerfully, enjoying the red in her cheeks.


    "Why not," Sansa huffed before she gave him a peck in the lips.


    Joffrey seemed absolutely paralyzed, staring at her in shock as she turned beet red from chin to hair. His eyes seemed lost in painful recollection, his expression not a pleasant one as he shook his head slowly. "By your leave," he said as if he''d just been stabbed, putting on his helmet, "Orland will escort you back."


    Sansa watched him go, and as Orland, one of Joffrey''s guard-squires, escorted her back to the stands she couldn''t stop thinking about his reaction. What was the matter with her that made Joffrey react like that? It went beyond his closing off from the rest of the world¡­ no, it had to do with her, but what?


    He seemed to regard her with some affection, but other times even her mere presence would make him wince, as if he were feeling guilty. Or distressed. As usual with Joffrey, the questions only seemed to increase with time.


    Septa Mordane didn''t even bother standing up as Sansa passed by her towards her seat.


    Father looked at her in disappointment as she sat next to him, Arya not even paying her attention as two knights clashed and the public roared. "I''m disappointed, Sansa," he said in his usual grave voice when he was angry.


    "Father, I'' was just-"


    "Septa Mordane told me she spotted you running to the Hedge Knight Quarter, is that true?" he asked sternly.


    Sansa shuffled uncomfortably as she shot the Septa a betrayed look, "Father, I can explain-"


    "We''ll talk back in the keep," he said, in a voice that promised consequences.


    She huffed quietly, sinking into her seat as Arya smirked. "Perfect Sansa escaping the stupid Septa, I think the world is going to end," she quipped.


    According to Joffrey, it is, she thought as she gave her a look of disdain, not even bothering with a reply.


    Her attention was quickly taken by other things, however. Things like the crier announcing the Silver Knight and Ser Jaime Lannister as the next participants of the tilt.


    Joffrey cantered atop his non descriptive horse in his dull armor as regal looking Ser Jaime rode from the other side. They couldn''t have looked more dissimilar, one in fine golden white armor and the other rigidly riding in his dented plate. They both bowed to the King, though Joffrey did not open his helmet''s visor.


    "Ah! Kingslayer!" the King shouted, "Against our Mystery Knight no less, this should be interesting!" he bellowed, both knights bowing again stiffly in curious similarity. They stared at each other wearily before riding out to their respective positions, and Sansa''s heart accelerated its pace until she was sure Father could hear it. Joffrey passed them by as he rode, his helmet staring at her for a second before he kept riding. He still wore the piece of her green dress, tightly secured around his arm.


    At the blow of a horn, both riders sped towards their opponents. Their clash was brutal, a rain of wooden splinters, the roar of the crowd almost strangled by the shock as Ser Jaime tumbled to the side, dismounted by the brutal force behind Joffrey''s blow.


    Joffrey rode back to the King as he shifted his shoulder, likely in pain. Sansa swallowed as he bowed, the King giving out a great roar of laughter as if he''d just seen the best mummer''s trope in the world. "Such fury! This man knows what its all about!" he bellowed, "War! And the ladies too¡­" he trailed off as he gazed at the piece of dress tied to his arm. "Tell me, which fair maiden has given her favor eh?!" He laughed, nearby nobles and ladies laughing along their King dutifully.


    The King stopped when Joffrey didn''t respond, tilting his head to the side, "Well, get on with it! Your King commands you!" he said again, slightly irritated.


    "¡­Someone very dear to me, your grace," Joffrey said, dead serious, his voice sounding distorted through his helmet.


    The King snorted as Joffrey bowed and left, Bran clapping wildly as he turned from his seat to look at Sansa, "Did you see that! He unhorsed Ser Jaime! He''s one of the greatest knights in the realm!!!" he shouted as if he could barely believe it.


    Sansa could only smile nervously, playing along. With that victory Joffrey had passed to the round of four, and the risks turned exponentially higher¡­


    The following tilts passed in a blur, one knight from House Crakehall receiving a splinter to the throat, and another from House Swann falling down with his horse in a tumble of limbs and metal that wouldn''t see him walk again.


    Ser Jaime had rejoined the King and Queen, guarding them even as the King asked him all kinds of uncomfortable questions. Ser Jaime admitted the Silver Knight was good enough, which coming from him was mighty praise indeed. The Queen on the other hand seemed tight lipped, commenting here and there something about the coming ''might of the Westerlands'' being no match for the little, ''brave'' hedge knight.


    But isn''t Ser Jaime the ''might of the Westerlands''? And he''s already been defeated? She asked herself in confusion.


    Soon enough, after a long break for lunch, Joffrey was announced again¡­


    "For the Round of Four, Ser Silver of House Stars, and, Ser Loras of House Tyrell," he announced, and the crowd was already cheering for two of the tourney''s favorites as they rode towards the Royal Box. The mysterious and stern hedge knight against the handsome, noble scion.


    The Knight of Flowers rode with all the grace of an experience horseman, saluting at the cheering crowds with a hand and an easy smile. Joffrey was a study in contrast, riding stiffly but even more easily atop his horse, barely holding his reigns as his horse moved as with a will of its own.


    Ser Loras came to a stop in front of Sansa, and he gave her a dazzling smile as he bowed and gave her a red rose. She held it gingerly, not sure what to do with it as she tried to calm her mind, fighting the urge to not look at the blunt tips of the lances.


    Ser Loras seemed confused by her lack of response, and Jeyne was close to fainting as both knights bowed to the King. "Sansa! He gave you his rose! He''ll surely crown you Queen of Love and Beauty after he wins!" Jeyne said in excitement as Arya rolled her eyes.


    She couldn''t care less about her inane prattling as she heard the horn and watched both riders speeding, faster and faster until they clashed, both of them rupturing their lances as they rode past the Royal Box and turned the wooden rail.


    She was squeezing Father''s arm tightly, her breathing barely under control as Joffrey clutched his chest in pain, shaking his head as he called for another lance. "Don''t worry Sansa, Ser Loras is a natural in the saddle, he''ll be alright," her Father tried to reassure her for all the wrong reasons.


    She couldn''t say anything as they clashed again, and she breathed a heavy sigh of relief as Ser Loras went flying back from his saddle and tumbled against the mud. Lord Renly was standing up, looking almost panicked as the crowds roared and the Silver Knight returned to the Royal Box, looking down at Ser Loras with what Sansa suspected to be a satisfied smirk.


    She gave him a reproachful look as he bowed, sending daggers his way for almost making her faint. He was going to have words with Joffrey afterwards, words about the meaning of risks and stupidity. "Seems Ser Loras didn''t roll through the dirt as good as he rides," Arya said as she looked at her with a smirk, and Sansa smiled back.


    "Everyone knows lions trample roses, it''s the natural order of things," she shot back with a smile of her own, not able to hide a strange sort of pride in her voice.


    Arya looked nonplussed by that statement as Sansa leaned back on her chair and she let out a sigh of relief. Joffrey did something to his horse that made it bow its head to hers, and she tilted the rose Ser Loras had given her up and down as she frowned, as if scolding both horse and rider. Joffrey couldn''t contain a small chuckle as he passed by her, and soon the crowds were chanting the name of ''Ser Silver'' as he returned to his tent for a brief break.


    Of course, Sansa''s anxiety returned stronger than ever as she remembered who exactly had won the other Round of Four.


    The Queen''s smile seemed vaguely predatory as she turned to her brother, "Seems this ''Silver Knight''s'' luck is about to run out," she told the snorting Kingsguard, who only replied with a shake of his head.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Sansa felt as if she were being choked as The-Mountain-That-Rides made his way to the Royal Box. The beast was the largest person she''d ever seen, bigger than Hodor by far, carrying a heavy shield and a black painted lance. His horse was equally monstrous, a midnight black stallion whose hooves sank on the ground with every canter. Joffrey looked small next to him as they bowed to the King, the audience mostly cheering for the Silver Knight as Sansa squeezed Father''s arm like a lifeline.


    "Sansa¡­ do you know this hedge knight?" Father asked, frowning as he thought about something.


    Sansa didn''t say anything as the participants took opposing sides, Joffrey grabbing his spear from the hands of Orland as he came to a stop next to his hanging shield, Silver Lion staring at a wide field of Stars. "Sansa?" asked Father as she held him tight, her hands trembling against her will as the horn sang and the riders made for each other, lances lowering as the distance was reduced to a hair''s breadth and they crashed, a furious rain of splinters enveloping them as the horses kept going and Joffrey clutched his shoulder in pain.


    Joffrey called for another lance as he wheeled, Orland supplying it to him as The Mountain readied his own and slammed his spurs against his horse with a guttural grunt. Joffrey sped as well, his lance coming down with careful precision as the horses ate the distance and she dug her nails into Father''s arm.


    Joffrey gave slight scream of pain as they slammed against each other, almost propelled out of his saddle by the immense force behind the blow as the Mountain kept going, barely making a sound. Joffrey swayed slightly atop his saddle, leaning left and right before he regained control and Orland passed him another lance. Sansa could barely keep still as the horn sounded once more and they charged again, the gasps of shock and awe amongst the crowds almost deafening as both riders slammed their lances with no mercy nor quarter again in a quick flurry of concentrated brutality.


    She gave a muffled scream when they crashed, Joffrey shaking his head in a daze as his horse cantered slowly and blood trickled down his plate, shaking his head again and again until he called for another lance.


    "He''s going to get himself killed! Father, please stop them!" she told him, unable to keep the shrill out of her voice as Father shook his head.


    "There can be no draw in the finals, the Silver Knight will have to yield," he said as he looked at her in confusion, and Sansa despaired as the horn thundered and they charged again.


    "But he can''t yield, he''s not capable of it!" she yelled at him as the Mountain''s lance caught Joffrey in the belly, the force of the blow noticeably slowing his horse as his own lance destroyed itself harmlessly against Ser Gregor''s shield. Joffrey came to a stop before turning around the fence, taking a moment to lean sideways and spit a glob of blood, a long trickle of it descending from his helmet''s visor.


    "Lance!" he roared at Orland, who rushed with a new one even as Sansa saw blood trickling down his suite of armor, staining his horse''s brown coat.


    "Stop! Please just stop!!!" Sansa screamed at him, and Joffrey looked at her for an eternal second before he slowly shook his head.


    "Sansa! Restrain yourself!" The Septa scolded her as nearby nobles and ladies gazed at her in confusion or irritation, a pale looking Jeyne grabbing her hand forcefully and trying to calm her down.


    He doesn''t know how to stop, Sansa thought in a daze as he grabbed his lance and charged again. Ser Gregor spurred his horse once more and he slammed his lance into Joffrey''s chest, even the King leaning slightly forwards in awe as Joffrey''s own hit claimed the Ser Gregor''s shoulder and made him sway dangerously atop his horse.


    Joffrey seemed barley conscious as he leaned left atop his saddle, his shield slipping from his hand as he came to a stop. The crier took in a breath of air to claim the victor, but Joffrey held his hand up just barely, halting him even as he shouted at Orland.


    "Orland! Shield and lance!" he bellowed, blood flowing from his bevor plate as he wheeled his horse with his knees. He seemed to be breathing heavily as he stared at the sky, slowly returning his sight towards the distant, monstrous form of Ser Gregor at the other side of the tilt.


    "I''ve got to stop him!" Sansa shouted to herself as she stood up and tried jump down the row of seats, but Father held her tightly.


    "Sansa what''s the matter with you!" he shouted as he grabbed her.


    "Father, Father it''s Joffrey, the Mountain will kill him!" she told him as she tried to get away from his grip, sobbing as Joffrey charged once more and the Mountain aimed its lance upwards with a roar of fury.


    Sansa gave a harrowing scream as they slammed against each other, the Silver Knight''s helmet flying away and revealing the pale face of Joffrey as his horse came to a stop near the end of the tilt line.


    Shouts of the ''the prince!'', ''It''s the prince!'' started to permeate the tourney grounds as Joffrey lifted his arm and took a long wooden splinter from below his armpit in a shower of blood, rivulets of it soaking his armor as his horse wheeled and he looked around him with wild eyes.


    "Joffrey?! JOFFREY!?" the Queen shrieked as she stood up and Sansa tried to get away from Father''s iron grip.


    "LANCE!!!" Joffrey roared at Orland, half his face covered by blood as his guard turned squire rushed with it, taking a moment to grab the shield from the ground and give it back to the rider.


    The King seemed stunned as he slowly began to stand up, the Queen looking to her side and back to Joffrey in a flurry of movement as she screamed. "JAIME! ROBERT, DO SOMETHING!" she said hysterically as Father stood up. "Halt the tilt! Halt the tilt!" he shouted at the crier as Sansa managed to slip his grip and Orland looked at the Royal Box, startled.


    But it was too late as Joffrey leaned over and grabbed the lance from Orland''s lax hands, settling it against his arm and chest as his horse charged.


    "STOP AT ONCE! STOP IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!!!" the King roared, but the Mountain didn''t seem to hear him as he sped, his huge warhorse unleashing great plumes of earth as it charged down the tilt, his lance bearing down against the helmetless Joffrey, blood covering half his face.


    She couldn''t reach him in time, jumping over Bran and the Septa and reaching the stand''s handrail just as Joffrey roared a powerful battlecry and the Mountain responded in kind, their clash drowning her scream as the force of the blow left her deafened to the world and everyone in the stands seemed to stand up in a panic, the Mountain leaning left like a huge colossus and slamming into the ground along with his horse in a tumble of flesh and dirt and steel.


    Joffrey''s own horse cantered back to the Royal Box, Joffrey somehow still atop it as he reigned it to a stop with his knees, gazing at Robert with a sneer as his shield slipped from his limp hand, hanging uselessly by his side.


    "I''d tell you to get the dragons back to the treasury, where they belong..." his clear voice cut through the pandemonium like a scythe through wheat, silencing the tourney grounds as if by a spell. "But you''d just waste them again anyway¡­ your grace," he said the last as if it were an insult. "Send them to my chambers," he told the crier, one eye closed because of the drying blood.


    The King was speechless as Joffrey turned to Sansa¡­ everyone seemed to have been momentarily shocked to silent paralysis as Joffrey gazed at her, "And give the crown to Sansa," he said.


    She stood in front and just a little bit to his side, her eyes level with his because of the stand, "Joffrey¡­ you''re hurt," she told him, her voice sounding abnormally loud in the midst of the silence as Joffrey looked down to his chest and saw that the old plate had finally given way, a long shrapnel of ash wood sticking from his belly.


    "It''s just a flesh wound," he said as he reigned his horse, making it canter back as he slipped from the saddle and landed face up on the mud, the Queen screaming as the King called for the Maester''s and Ser Jaime pummeled his way amongst the nobles in a rush towards the ground.


    Sansa had already jumped down, ruining her dress as she kneeled besides Joffrey.


    "You deserve that crown," he mumbled as he blinked.


    "I don''t want the stupid crown," she sobbed as she ripped a piece of her dress and placed it against Joffrey''s chest wound, surrounding the piece of wood.


    Oh gods, there''s so much blood, she thought in despair as the blood flow lessened, Father suddenly adding his hands to hers as he roared something and the ground trembled with the pounding steps of armed knights and guards, Jory Cassel grabbing her from behind and dragging her away from Joffrey as he closed his eyes and she screamed.


    -.PD.-

 Chapter 40: Lightning.

    -.PD.-Chapter 40: Lightning.


    The Red Keep seemed a somber place after the events of the tourney. The Queen had ordered the Mountain arrested in a peak of rage and grief, and Ser Jaime had jumped in some sort of bloodlust as he tried to fulfill that order. The Mountain resisted, but between the snarling, wild Ser Jaime and experienced Ser Barristan they had managed to fell the terrible beast like some sort of tale of old... His head now adorned a spike over Traitor''s Walk.


    Joffrey had barely been breathing when they carried him away, and Sansa hadn''t seen him since then. He''d been locked in a room inside Maegor''s Holdfast and been tended to by the Grandmaester and a legion of surgeons as they tried to save his life during the day and the following night. Sansa herself spent her days on a chair next to his door, trying to pass the time knitting or making strangled smalltalk with Jeyne until Father or the Septa carried her away to eat or to her bedchamber. No matter what they tried though, they couldn''t manage to make her stay away too long before she was back.


    She didn''t feel like talking all that much, and as Bran passed his days playing with Summer and training with Jory, and Arya kept trying to catch cats at the orders of her ''dancing teacher'', she couldn''t help but remember all those conversations she had with Joffrey. Perhaps more unsettling than his tales of ice and war, death and despair, things she could hardly fathom and which still seemed shrouded in a protecting cocoon of old legend and faraway times¡­ more unsettling by far was the way she started to focus on the goings on inside the Red Keep. When laughing maidens gossiped about the latest escapade of their favorite knight, Sansa now saw swift exchanges of information. When she''d seen councilors hard at work she now saw scheming courtiers.The guards which made her feel so safe before now patrolled with stern eyes and hands on their pommels, as if sensing the strange tensions inside the Keep.


    Lord Renly seemed particularly agitated, even before the events of the Hand''s Tourney, and many of his Stormlander knights and lords had not yet departed the Capital and instead devoted their days to hunting and feasting in Lord Renly''s private manse or in the depths of the Kingswood. His own personal guard seemed to have been augmented after the tourney as well, and they seemed at least a third as numerous as the Red Cloaks of the Red Keep¡­ when they found each other on patrol it was always a thing of tightened fists and suspicious glares.


    The King had descended into some sort of black melancholy, feasting harder and with lots of¡­ other women. His intense debauchery didn''t seem to be working for him, as his pale complexion seemed to only get worse and worse, even getting to the point where he had to harangue his gaggle of guests to laugh along with him after a joke, a new low for the charismatic king¡­ She''d overheard Father once or twice, and it seemed the Small Council was now completely running the Realm, to his increasing frustration. The Queen seemed to have turned inside on the other hand, barely showing her face in public and only speaking with her brother.


    Sansa had been forbidden from seeing Joffrey by the Grandmaester, to give him time and space to recuperate, but when the old man shuffled his way from the room and left the hallway deserted, only the stone faced Hound at the door¡­ Sansa had not been able to resist.


    It seemed Joffrey had talked the Hound along for his deception, and the man had grudgingly escorted the supposed ''Prince'' along a small journey around the Blackwater, to keep the Silver Knight''s cover intact as the actual Prince fought in the joust. A decision he had come to regret, if his expression was any indication.


    "Go on, I won''t stop you," he grunted before she had a chance to open her mouth. She nodded gratefully at the fearsome sworn shield before entering the room and blinking as she was buffeted by the smell of sickness and milk of the poppy.


    "Oh Joffrey¡­" she whispered as she sat by his side in a wooden chair. His form seemed to have shrunk, pale and emaciated under a gaggle of bandages that covered parts of his chest, leg, arm and face. It seemed the wounds he had accrued during his nonstop grand victory over all three competitions had been compounding, building over each other and worsening with every strain and abuse he''d inflicted upon his body. To Sansa he''d barely seemed conscious about his wounds, but she hadn''t thought the internal damage could have been so great¡­


    She grabbed his hand gently as she cleared her throat, the familiar ghost hand throttling her neck as she breathed deeply.


    I should have stopped him¡­ she thought in the quiet stillness of the room. If he''d died, then she''d remember nothing, and if her¡­ next self didn''t approach Joffrey as she had done in ''this'' future¡­ then it was likely Joffrey would continue as he had done, driving himself dauntlessly into his damnable ''duty'' as he called it, until there was nothing left behind those steely green eyes that hid raw wounds and slain dreams.


    "Shaaan¡­saaaa¡­" he suddenly rasped as the hand she held tightened, his eyes opening slowly.


    "Joffrey," she whispered with a gasp, quickly giving him a drink from the nearby cup of water. He drank it slowly, his eyes still boring on her even as they half drooped.


    "Thank you," he whispered, seemingly very conscious of decorum even in his mangled state, his eyes vaguely unfocused as he looked at her, "You''re very pretty," he said with a shy smile.


    Sansa smiled despite herself. Joffrey was not one to be direct, much less so simple in his complements, "No barbs nor backhandedness? Very unlike you Joffrey," she said as she held his hand gently.


    "It''s the truth," he said, "You just don''t give up¡­ very insistent¡­ I like that about you," he half rasped, his smile growing.


    Sansa turned red as she mirrored his smile, "You also love to make me blush¡­ now rest Joffrey, you need it," she told him, frowning as she smell the potent scent of milk of the poppy within his breath.


    "That too¡­ I like the way you laugh too¡­ makes me laugh¡­ and your keen mind¡­" he continued the stumbling, awkward litany of her good virtues as Sansa giggled lightly despite herself.


    "Now that''s just basic, Joffrey. You better get back to sleep if you want to do better than Wintertown''s drunk bard," she teased him as she removed a tuft of hair from his eye, worried by the sluggish, slow way it followed her hand.


    How much of the stuff have they been giving him? She thought as she beheld his wide pupils.


    "I don''t care if it''s basic. I''m not a bard," he complained as if this were a serious matter, "I don''t care the Purple made me to, loving you is nice," he said happily.


    Sansa frowned as she tilted her head in puzzlement. Joffrey seldom spoke of the ''Purple'', the strange force that somehow reversed time and made him remember everything¡­ The revelation that he did indeed love her sent a torrent of butterflies through her belly even as she leaned forward in confusion.


    "What do you mean Joffrey? The ''Purple''¡­ did it threaten you..?" she asked with a wince, the inane words stumbling out of her mouth. The idea of something as eldritch as the Purple threatening Joffrey¡­ to love someone, much less her, seemed as stupid as it was absurd.


    "No. No," he repeated as he tried to shake his head, only managing to tilt it vaguely left, "It just made me to. Created me that way. Should a man be angry because he has two arms instead of three or four? It''s just the way things are. Why be angry at the way you were designed?" he asked himself as if the answer were obvious.


    Designed to love me? This doesn''t make any sense! She thought, bewildered.


    Sansa leaned slightly forward, her confusion increasing as she gazed at him, "Created? Designed? Joffrey, what are you talking about?" she asked in growing unease.


    "I''m sorry Sansa, I haven''t been telling you everything," he apologized, "I shouldn''t though. Best not to," he said with a thoughtful nod.


    "Joffrey¡­ What are you talking about?" she insisted as she squeezed his hand.


    "But it will make you sad¡­ you won''t talk with me anymore¡­ I don''t want to be alone¡­" he whispered as if he were a child in dreadful confession, his eyes pleading, "Don''t make me to," he begged.


    He''s so drugged out of his mind he can''t resist, Sansa thought in a daze. What was she willing to do for Joffrey''s secrets? Was she willing to betray his trust if it meant having the knowledge to help him?


    The answer was as obvious as it was immediate. "Joffrey, please¡­ just open up, let me help you," she said, his eyes growing panicked under the poppy''s heavy stupor.


    He seemed to struggle for an eternal second before his mouth opened almost automatically, "I¡­ I''m sorry Sansa¡­ I''m not really a person¡­" he said incoherently.


    "How can you not be a person Joffrey? You''re breathing and talking right now!" She told him, her confusion making her nervous as she dismissed the absurd claim.


    "You just don''t understand the power of my creators Sansa. So much, power¡­" the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine, his eyes lost as if they tried and swiftly failed to behold the sheer immensity of what he tried to explain, "To reverse time itself, to play with the fabric of the universe like a sculptor with clay¡­ to lay plans eons in the making¡­ what is it to them to create life? Nothing, child''s play¡­" he said in breathless awe.


    "I¡­ how¡­" Sansa whispered as she held her mouth with her other hand.


    "It''s hard, I know¡­ but it''s the truth. I told you something about parts before¡­ I am one if those parts Sansa. The Purple created me as a weapon, to try and most likely fail to destroy the Long Night¡­" he whispered.


    Sansa let a long breath of air as she looked at him, "I¡­ I¡­ I don''t care Joffrey," she finally told him as she lowered her hand, "Sorcerer, Hero, Weapon, Idiot, I don''t care, I¡­ I want to be with you all the same," she finally confessed, the butterflies singing in agreement as Joffrey squeezed her hand painfully, his great strength still with him even in this state. Her declaration seemed to hit Joffrey harder than the Mountain''s lance, his face cringing in anguish as he squeezed her hand like a lifeline, his head turning away from her as a strange sensation took a hold of Sansa, a niggling of her senses as something didn''t make sense and she shivered.


    "Joffrey¡­ Why would the ''Purple'' create you with¡­ with some sort of in built love for me," she finally asked him, her heart beating so hard she was amazed the Grandmaester had not yet come back.


    He stayed silent as her breathing intensified and she heard a strange buzzing in the distance, "Joffrey¡­ why do I cause you so much anguish?" the nest question suddenly emerged from her, knowing them to be related, her head thrumming as if she were nearing a great truth, both her trembling hands grabbing Joffrey''s again and squeezing as she willed at him to look at her.


    "I''m sorry Sansa," he whispered in a tiny voice, still not looking at her.


    "Joffrey," she called him, and he tilted his head back to her almost against his will. "Why?" she asked again, her voice sounding abnormally loud.


    "Because you are another piece of the weapon," he said as he gazed at her, "We were made from the same source of cosmic stuff, energy of some sort¡­ that''s why you ''love'' me Sansa, and I you. We were designed, created, meant to live and die together like hammer and anvil, hilt and pommel, wheel and axel, bow and arrow¡­ to live life after life together, to suffer and rage together, to be broken down together¡­ to be annihilated by the Long Night together¡­ I''m sorry Sansa, I''m so sorry," he whispered fiercely as if in the midst of a fever dream, his eyes wild. "It really is a Maiden''s tale¡­ it just has a horrible, horrible ending¡­" he said in anguish.


    Sansa stood up in a daze, stumbling back and making the chair fall as she breathed into her hands, the sound of Joffrey''s desperate apologies growing faint as her soul thrummed in agreement with his words, her denials dying in her mouth as she clashed against something behind her.


    "Young lady, Prince Joffrey needs his rest in full!" The frowning Grandmaester scolded her as he walked into the room, but Sansa couldn''t hear him as she ran past him and through the hallway, to where, she did not know.


    -.PD.-


    She had ended up in the Godswood, ironically enough, trying to make sense of the torrent of emotions buffeting her like a ship adrift at sea. Every time she tried to deny Joffrey''s words though, she found herself incapable of doing so, the terrible glow of truth unwavering inside her no matter how she questioned it.


    He was right. Seven help her, she''d never felt so sure about something before.


    She spent the whole afternoon and even the night staring at the Heart Tree, as Joffrey often did. Was what she felt for him a¡­ instruction? Some sort of law codified into her soul?


    She''d shaken her head wildly, forcefully. Those questions seemed inane after all that had happened, more than inane, stupid even. She loved him, no matter the cause¡­ and she''d been designed to help him stop the Long Night¡­ That little fact filled her with as much dread as elation, somehow. To know that her drive to stand by his side against the tide was not a silly, stupid fantasy but purpose somehow inscribed into her creation¡­


    She shivered as she contemplated that thought, enraptured. She''d come to care for Joffrey, more than any other person. Innate instructions or not, she would not allow him to continue his steady decay into little more than a broken husk, she would not let him face the apocalypse alone. The fact that this seemed to be a core purpose, to stand by his side and together stop the end of everything she knew, just made her even more determined. Joffrey had told her the truth as if it were a horrible doom, but to her it felt deeply empowering, to know that all the doubts that had plagued her these past few months were baseless¡­ for how could she doubt her course of action when she''d been molded for it? How could she be afraid of being unworthy of her goals if that''s what she''d been created for?


    Right then and there, as she lay upon her bed in her chambers, the thoughts and musings which had been revolving around her head for the last few months coalesced into something greater.


    She would have a talk with Joffrey, when he was coherent. She would not be denied.


    She would stand with him, against his burden and his enemies, whatever the cost.


    -.PD.-


    She ran through the thicket in joy, chasing her jumping prey as her brother and sister howled from her sides, cornering the prey as it saw it was finally surrounded. It swayed in circles, menacing them with its wickedly sharp looking horns, but she was undeterred when she sidestepped and jumped, her teeth rending flesh as she brought the beast down and her brother and sister joined in, slaughtering it even as she made sure it died swiftly, tearing into its throat and breaking its great spine.


    It was only proper.


    She then gorged on its carcass, tearing not as wildly as the rest of her raucous family, taking care not to dirty her coat more than she had to. Her sister howled and she joined her in a glorious chorus, her brother joining too as they declared their lordship over this warm forest, filled with doe eyed prey which did not know the hunger of winter.


    As the rest of her family kept tearing into their dead prey, she tilted her head in curiosity¡­ there was sound beyond, two legs talking¡­


    She prowled her way towards them, and found the two of them patrolling down a steady path, sharp looking spears held in their hands as they talked quietly. She made her way past them, sorting through other groups of two legs under the moonless night until she reached a great stinking reunion of them, drinking foul smelling drinks and rubbing against each other in lust. She kept going through the many big and small fabric houses, moving away from the harsh clanging of steel on steel as two of them fought like she often did with her sister, though they seemed to circle each other inside a big circle of wood instead of the freewheeling snow and dirt.


    She eyed the painted prey on fabric for a moment, remembering the sweet taste of blood she''d just feasted upon before continuing her exploration. She was drawn in by a familiar voice, and she made nary a sound as she neared the two men talking inside the biggest of the fabric houses.


    "You''re being paranoid," said the familiar voice of her stern Father as she came to a crouching stop between a fake tree filled with sickly sweet water and the fabric house''s flimsy wall.


    "And you are being blind. Do I have to spell it out for you Eddard?" said the other voice, angry.


    "You''ve already told me-" started her Father but he was interrupted by the shrilly voice, her hackles rising at the insult.


    "After Jon Arryn died during the most suspicious of circumstances, his position was almost taken by the Kingslayer! And it would have been so if Robert had not been assaulted by the sudden desire to see you back in the Capital!" the voice said forcefully.


    "The Lannisters angling for a vacant position is hardly something new¡­" His Father said gruffly.


    "Yes, hardly new!" the voice harrumphed, sounding very disturbed, as if he''d suddenly realized the beast he''d just eaten was rotten to the core. "Then, one day later, Stannis flees with his tail tucked in back to his beloved Dragonstone!" he continued.


    "I find it much more likely to believe that he was scorned by Robert''s decision to make me Hand instead of him, we both know he''s always resented the way Robert treated him," reasoned Father in the sure tone of a leader of the pack.


    The other voice did not sound convinced, taking a gulp of something before speaking again, "Yes, Stannis abandoning his blessed duty because this one, latest scorn by Robert finally broke him. Please," he said before drinking again. "And now the position of Master of Ships will soon be opened, once Robert can be arsed to rule again after the debacle with Joffrey¡­" he said.


    "Stannis may well come back before Robert strips him of his post¡­" said Father.


    "He''s not coming back Eddard, he''s planning something in Dragonstone, buying ships and men as he broods. For all I know he has already called his banners¡­ everyone is smelling war Lord Stark, everyone but you," the voice said bitterly.


    "Is that why you are hiding here with half the Stormlands, Lord Renly? Do you smell war or do you intend to start it?" Father said dangerously, stern as he should when faced with cowering whelps.


    "You''re blind if you think yourself safe, I''m merely making sure I don''t wake up with a dagger in my throat," said the whelp, his voice reeking of half-truths.


    "And I''m telling you again, you''re being paranoid. Send the men home Renly, and stop bringing half of them every time you visit the Red Keep¡­ you''ll make one of the Red Cloaks nervous again and I''ll have to clean up the mess," Father pleaded in futility. She had to restrain the urge to go in there and bite his ankle. Trying to reason with a scared whelp¡­ what was he thinking!


    The whelp ignored him as she knew he would, taking another deep drink of something, "And end up like Lord Baelish? With a hundred and one stab wounds in the chest, in the eyes?! I think not¡­" he trailed off after another drink, "Did you know Robert was thinking about making Tyrion Lannister the new Master of Coin? He thought it would make the greatest insult ever to Tywin¡­. He was pretty taken with the idea¡­ A great insult!!! To further lock your stranglehold over the Realm''s finances! Yes, I think Tywin Lannister shall be pretty fucking insulted!" he erupted, "Grandmaester, Master of Coin and soon to be Master of Ships, aren''t you seeing a pattern you honorable fool!?"


    "Lord Renly, the drink is clouding your judgment"- tried Father again.


    "My judgement is not the one clouded here! For the Seven''s sake Eddard, they even killed Slynt! I barely have control over the Goldcloaks right now!" he shouted, his anger building after each word. "No! You are being an obstinate imbecile, as usual! You ran back North after the Rebellion and left everything to the Lannisters, a whole realm ripe for the pickings¡­ No. I''m not going to trust you in this. They are only finishing what you started, Eddard. The Lannisters are cleaning up the Small Council and placing their own men in charge, readying themselves¡­ and I''ll be next!" he said as she heard something move and water splash against flesh.


    "I''m sorry Lord Stark, that was unbecoming of me," he said after a long silence, his voice sounding slightly less scared as the whelp splashed more water against himself.


    "Renly¡­ I understand your concerns, all too well. But I can''t find any signs of the Lannister''s being involved in Lord Baelish''s death, nor with Stannis'' flight from the Capital," Father explained patiently.


    "And Jon Arryn''s death?" asked the haggard voice of the whelp.


    "¡­That''s still unconfirmed," he said with a small, fatal tinge of uncertainty. Father still had a lot to learn it seemed.


    There was a long silence after that, and she could hear the slow breathing of the whelp as he spoke again, "I''m not staking my life on it. Eddard, please," he begged, "The Lannisters are planning their move¡­ soon. And when the time comes, there will only be two sides. Those with the Realm''s best interests at heart, and those who seek power for their own ends," he said, his voice acquiring a slow gravitas that she grudgingly approved of.


    There was a longer silence, and then Father''s voice, sharp as a fang, "I know which side I''ll be on, if that time ever comes," he declared.


    "I hope you do Lord Eddard, I hope you do¡­" said the whelp, reeking of disappointment and danger as Sansa woke up with a start, blinking slowly at the moonless night which barely illuminating her bed through the open window, her eyes heavy as she closed them again and slept.


    -.PD.-


    Both her dreams and waking life wore heavy upon her since Joffrey''s revelations, terrible nightmares and strange dreams of hunting through a great woods mixing with troubled thoughts and an all-encompassing disorientation. Father barely seemed to notice her state of mind, running haggard from crisis to crisis within the Red Keep and beyond. Neither Jeyne''s prodding nor Arya''s mocking could faze her, deep in her mind as days passed by and the door to Joffrey''s chambers were guarded by the Kingsguard and the Hound, letting no one in.


    Joffrey had told her she was the other part of a weapon¡­ that they were a weapon¡­ designed to destroy the Long Night somehow¡­ but what did that mean? Why then did she not remember her previous lives? Why did the prospect of it made Joffrey suffer so? All questions that consumed her waking life as the Red Keep further descended into foreboding. The King now seldom hosted feasts, in fact Sansa barely saw him leave Maegor''s Holdfast, holed up in his solar. The Queen was more present, but no amount of powder could hide the brutal bruises on her face that made Ser Jaime seethe in fury even in public.


    Sometimes she dreamt about holding Joffrey''s hand, her face as broken and haggard as his, her eyes empty as he suffered and she did nothing. Was that the fate Joffrey feared for her? She''d never fail him like that. Never. That she knew with a certainty she''d seldom felt before in life. She didn''t know her exact place in the cosmic Cyvasse game him and the¡­ White Walkers were playing, but she knew one thing¡­ She would not let him down. She''d promised him she''d help him if he opened up, and that was exactly what she''d do¡­ thought the nature of what exactly she should do was still an open question, what with him either unconscious or otherwise impossible to speak to.


    A curious thing had started to happen as the days came and went¡­ Lady had taken to raising her hackles at Lord Renly whenever she saw him, snarling at him if he got too close to her, no matter how many times she scolded her wayward direwolf. Father was busy with his Small Council meetings, which seemed to leave him more and more tired¡­ and more and more nervous¡­


    The longer she stayed, the more toxic the atmosphere within the Keep seemed. Her own inner troubles mixing with the strange tensions she kept discovering, following Joffrey''s advice to keep her eyes and ears open, and to doubt¡­


    -.PD.-


    It seemed Robert had finally started to overcome his black mood, likely helped along by Father''s constant visits. He had hosted a huge feast again, and if the sullen, brooding man was a far cry from the jovial, charming King Sansa had met in Winterfell, the other courtiers hadn''t noticed¡­ or shown they noticed.


    The Queen looked slightly less disheveled than of late, and the great hall was filled with people. Lord Renly looked glum enough, and only his steadfast friend Ser Loras could manage to get a smile out of him. He ate surrounded by dozens of knights and Lords from the Stormlands, all men who had already overstayed their welcome in King''s Landing. They glared and japed at the vastly smaller gaggle of cadet Lannister Houses which had been trickling into the Red Keep during the past weeks¡­ and in between them sat Crownlander nobles, foreign merchant princes, and even the colorful Jalahabar Xho in his exotic suit of dyed feathers. Even he seemed uneasy under the barrage of insults and japes that sailed back and forth.


    King Robert had invited as many people as he could, and the serving staff was stretched to the limit as Sansa shuffled uneasily in her seat, Arya impatiently tapping her fingers as Bran ate like a man thrice his size.


    "Bran, that''s just disgusting," Arya told him, stifling a giggle as Bran devoured a chicken whole.


    "I''ve got to get some weight, it''s the only way the Silver Knight himself will train me!" he said with a bright smile.


    "He told you he''d train you?!" Arya asked in shock, and vague envy¡­


    "He did!" Bran told her in between mouthfuls, the pride in his voice entirely unfeigned.


    "What? Bran, when did you speak with Joffrey?" Sansa asked him quickly.


    "Yesterday, they finally let him walk through the Keep again," he declared.


    Sansa frowned as she played with her food, thinking hard. Had he been avoiding her again, or was it just her distracted nature which had missed that little development? Either way, she was about to bolt from her seat when the King stood up.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Looping is ''optional''.


    ----


    "A moment, you beasts!" The King called as he stood up, and Father whispered into his ear urgently even as a meaty paw shoved him back, "I''m fine! Now let me speak," he growled as he raised a huge tankard into the air.


    "I''d like to make a toast! For my insolent brat Joffrey, the brave boy who didn''t deserve a Father as shitty as I," he declared before drinking the whole tankard, the Queen''s face slightly, slightly approving as the King stared at his guests. "Well what are you waiting for!" he snarled, and everybody promptly drank.


    He sat back down and tore into the big stag the hunters had prepared for him, single mindedly eating it down as Sansa stood up delicately and made her way to the doors.


    "Another! Shut up you scheming fucks!" the King proclaimed as he stood up again, a servant refilling his tankard as he faced his audience.


    Sansa scoffed in impatience as he waited for him to get on with it, but the King seemed to sway for a moment before leaning one of his huge paws on the table. "I''m fine Ned, damn you!" he swat aside Father as he tried to hold him. "Now listen! I''ve got a whole lot of things to say!" he roared with a chuckle, "People should hear their King talk heh?" he roared with another dry, ugly chuckle, "I''ve, hrmg," he winced slightly as the Queen looked at him in worry, "Robert, are you-" she tried but was soon swatted away as well.


    "Away with you, woman!" he snarled as he swayed, the tankard unsteady in his hands as he grunted and held his chest with the other. "I remember the Rebellion, Gods¡­ two deer''s and a barrel of ale wouldn''t have fazed me back then¡ªAAH!!!" he shouted in pain as Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime rushed to his side, Father trying and failing to hold him as he collapsed atop the main table, clutching his chest as he gave a strangled scream of pain.


    "Call the Grandmaester! The King! By the Seven! Guards!" everyone seemed to be shouting at the same time, but Sansa could only look in shock as the King struggled wildly atop the table, his great form barely constrained by Father, Ser Jaime, Ser Barristan, Lord Renly and Ser Boros.


    "He''s not choking, it''s the heart!" shouted Ser Barristan with authority.


    "Where''s the Grandmaester!?" shrieked the Queen, looking around in near panic as Robert gave another bellow, his great lungs wheezing one more time before he lay still and silent.


    Everyone seemed stunned as Father shook the King, "Robert! Gods don''t¡­ Robert!!!" he shouted at him as he shook his great weight. More and more people were standing up as Father kept shaking him, his eyes red, "He''s dead¡­ he''s dead¡­" he kept whispering in the midst of the sudden silence.


    Lord Renly''s face was morphing from horror to anger¡­ cool rage that immediately turned to a strange sort of neutral grimness that sent shivers down Sansa''s back.


    The King¡­ she thought in a daze, before shaking her head abruptly. She remembered Joffrey''s words¡­ she would be no pawn. She couldn''t afford to. So she steeled herself as she looked at the whole room, thinking as fast as she ever had.


    Think, think Sansa¡­ the King is dead, Joffrey should be the new King, she thought as she looked at the erupting pandemonium. She knew however that it was not going to be that simple. A terrible, ominous tingle ran through her body as she saw the outraged faces of the knights and lords which now surrounded Lord Renly, who''d retreated towards one of the room''s corners¡­ more than outraged, they looked grim.


    She ran towards her still stunned looking Farther as the Grandmaester finally reached the hall, moving towards the King and checking him quickly. "Father! Father!" she whispered fiercely into his ear, "Snap out of it!" she told him as she shook him roughly.


    Father blinked away from the still warm body of his best friend, dazed eyes focusing on her, "He, we have to get out of here, I think we need to move, now," she whispered urgently.


    Father looked at her for a second, the life returning to his cheeks along with a growing sort of despair as he beheld the hall and the way a dozen Stormlander knights had detached themselves from Renly''s group, almost running past the hall''s main doors.


    "Sansa listen to me," Father whispered urgently as he grabbed her shoulder roughly, his face locked in near panic as if he couldn''t believe his words, "Get Bran and Arya back to the Tower, and tell Jory to bring half the men and meet me outside the Royal Bedchambers," he said as Sansa saw the Queen and Ser Jaime quickly leaving the hall through a side door.


    "And do not under any circumstances unbar the doors unless I order it in person, can you do that Sansa?" he whispered fiercely as Sansa nodded back quickly.


    "Get the family back to the Tower, send Jory and half the men to the Royal Bedchambers, lock the doors for anyone but you," she recited quickly, "Father what will you-"


    "There''s no time Sansa, go!" he ordered, and she quickly obeyed as she dashed back to Bran and Arya.


    "Father said we have to go, now," she said sternly as she grabbed them, trying to mimic Mother''s tone when she was angry and would brook no dissent. Both of them were too stunned by what had happened to resist, and she guided them quickly towards the open doors of the feasting hall.


    The last thing Sansa saw inside the hall was Lord Renly, Ser Loras, and a dozen Stormlander knights and lords walking towards Father, Ser Barristan, Ser Boros, the Grandmaetser and the dead body of the King, all in grim solemnity, the still present merchants and the few Crownlander knights still in the room caught like startled deer in the midst of it all.


    "My Lords! Ser''s! Friends!" She heard him shout as she herded her brother and sister at a fast jog, guiding them down a set of stairs and shoving startled servants out of the way. "A terrible tragedy has befallen us this day¡­ no, not tragedy, treachery," she heard the echo as they ran. She dashed through a few shortcuts, quickly reaching the outer courtyard where the bodies of three Red Cloaks lay atop the cobblestones, the quarter moon above barely providing any illumination in the midst of the night.


    "Sansa, what''s happening?!" Arya asked in incomprehension and near panic.


    "Keep moving!" she shouted as she ran, pushing them in front of her and trying not to trip with her damned dress. They reached the Tower of the Hand''s opened heavy oak gate after a minute of running, the two Stark guards beside it seemingly puzzled as they saw her. Sansa could see Red Cloaks pouring out of the northern tower by the courtyard''s far side, strapping on bits and pieces of armor as they shouted.


    I have to reach Joffrey¡­ she thought as they reached the relative safety of the enormous ''Tower'' of the Hand, which was more like a smallish keep inside the Red Keep itself. "Lady Sansa, is everything-" started one of the guards only to be cut off as she dashed past. She thought she could hear faint sounds in the distance¡­ like some sort of vicious tourney.


    "Bar that gate!" she told him before she reached the smaller Hand''s courtyard. "Where''s Jory?!" she bellowed, trying to will her hands to stop trembling as she gestured at one of the startled half dozen guards carrying out their duties in the yard, one of the nearby servants giving out a startled yelp as he dropped a tray with food.


    "Jory! Alyn!" she called out, her voice hesitant as Septa Mordane walked towards her with a thunderous expression.


    "Sansa, what did I tell you about shouting-" she tried to scold her but was interrupted as Sansa all but threw Bran and Arya at her.


    "Take them to their rooms!" she told her quickly.


    "I can fight! I-I won''t leave Father alone!" shouted Bran as it finally dawned upon him, the startled Septa holding him tight.


    "Fight? What''s going on Sansa?" asked the Septa.


    This isn''t working, Sansa thought as she ran to the middle of the courtyard, "To arms! To arms men of Winterfell!" she screamed, and that was enough for the startled guards in the courtyard to burst into motion, shouting and dispersing to wake up the other shifts, one of them opening the nearby armory.


    "Lady Sansa, what''s the matter?" Jory asked as he jogged towards her, his hands moving in a calming manner as if she were hysterical or something.


    She tried to control the hitch in her voice as she turned to face him and spoke calmly, "The King is dead, Lord Renly may have just started a power struggle," she explained quickly as the color bleached from Jory''s face, "Father needs half the guard outside the Royal Bedchambers, right now!" she told him.


    "By the Old Gods¡­" he whispered before swiftly recomposing himself, "I need twenty men armed, armored and ready for battle in three minutes!" he bellowed as he turned back, bleary eyed armsmen emerging from the barracks and running for the armory as Alyn, Jory''s second in command, emerged from the main tower.


    Septa Mordane reached her then, and Sansa nodded at her, "Septa, I''ll go get the direwolves, you make sure Bran and Arya are away in their rooms!" she commanded her in the most curt tone she could manage, hopelessly trying to copy Joffrey. Miraculously, the Septa nodded as she carried her brother and sister upstairs despite Bran''s rebellious efforts. Sansa dashed to the kennels, where Lady, Summer and Nymeria where already howling in mourning, the hair at the nape of her neck tickling at the harrowing sound.


    The growing sound of¡­ battle in the distance had intensified as Sansa and the three ''wolves returned to the courtyard, where Jory was leading a score of men past the rapidly closing oak gate, Alyn shouting for bows and crossbows as two guards placed the bar behind it. "No, wait! I need to go out!" she called to Alyn, but the gate was already secured as he turned to her, with a puzzled expression.


    Joffrey will have to wait¡­ Gods, this is all happening so fast, she thought in a daze as he beheld the man.


    "Alyn, do not open that gate to anyone but Lord Stark, and watch out for Stormlanders," she told him quickly, trying to think what to do next when one of the guards grabbed her by the shoulder, "Thank you m''lady, Jollin here will take you to your bedchambers¡­" Alyn told her quickly before returning to the small gatehouse.


    There was nothing else she could do right now, she realized. She didn''t know how to fight nor how to lead men, the whole situation had moved beyond her ability to control¡­ and that fact filled her with anger as she let herself be carried away, shoving away the guard before making her own way to her chambers. She would only get in their way.


    She reached her room as the direwolves spread out to find their owners, Lady growling lightly as Sansa leaned on the window and saw a stumbling Red Cloak appear in the Outer Courtyard, blood leaking down his legs as a man in plate grabbed him from behind and brutally shoved a longsword through his armpit. She held a scream with her hands as the man crumbled and knights wearing all manner of Stormlands and even Reacher heraldry, as well as dozens of Goldcloaks, sprinted through the Outer Courtyard towards the Throne Room and Maegor''s Holdfast.


    She must have spent fifteen minutes staring from the window, the sound of steel on steel and steel on¡­ flesh alternating each other with screams of agony in between as if she were hearing a macabre mummer''s show, small groups of Stormlander house guards or Goldcloaks periodically appearing in the courtyard and sprinting in seemingly random directions, some of their blades dripping blood¡­


    Sansa held her breath when two scores of men poured into the Outer Courtyard from the direction of the Red Keep''s Gatehouse¡­ and didn''t continue. The mixed Goldcloak and household guard contingent in the livery of House Caron arrayed themselves around the Tower of the Hand and stayed there, eerily silent as one of the two knight which led them walked around his troops, impatient.


    A guard in Lord Renly''s Baratheon colors arrived a few minutes later. He whispered something to one of the knight in House Caron livery before dashing back towards the inner courtyard, and the knight shook his head as he advanced towards the Tower of the Hand''s gate, shield and sword in hand. "By order of the King all quarters within the Red Keep, including the Tower of the Hand, are to be opened to their leal servants!" the knight shouted at the closed doors.


    "I''m only openin'' the gates if I see Lord Stark in the flesh! Now keep going ''bout your way!" Sansa heard Alyn reply.


    "I won''t ask again! Open the gates in the name of King Renly!" roared the knight.


    "The only King I know of is King Robert! Now you either show me Lord Stark, unharmed and of his own will, or you''ll all get a bucketful of arrows for yer troubles!" Alyn shouted back.


    The knight said nothing as he swiftly walked back, past the Goldcloaks and into the ranks of a dozen guards in the same livery as his, shouting and gesturing with his sword. A few seconds later a dozen Goldcloaks entered the courtyard holding an enormous battering ram between them as they roared, running for the gate.


    "Archers!!!" roared Alyn, and Sansa strangled another scream as half a dozen arrows leapt from below her window, hitting the Goldlcoaks and felling two or three before they reached the gate and a tremendous crash resounded throughout the tower. Arrows kept raining from below as the Goldcloaks tried again, shuffling back a dozen steps and ramming the door once more as their casualties were replaced by the snarling soldiers from behind, their bodies painting the cobblestones red.


    We won''t hold out, Sansa thought in near panic as the door creaked ominously and the Goldcloaks prepared to try again. She dashed out of her room with Lady as she heard a terrible crack and a lot of people bellowed. She could hear the sounds of battle even as she desperately knocked Arya''s door.


    "W-Who is it?!" shouted her sister.


    "Arya, it''s Sansa! Let''s go!" she shouted at her, and after she unlocked the door the both of them were running up the hallway, Lady and Nymeria following them. When they reached Bran''s door however, they found it empty.


    "He must have hidden!" Arya said as she looked everywhere around her, aiming the strange and small, thin sword she''d gotten out of somewhere.


    "We should too, come on!" Sansa told her, running down towards Jeyne''s room before the sound of pounding, armored footsteps stopped her.


    Jeyne¡­ she thought in an eternal, agonizing second of indecision before turning around and running the other way. They were soon upon Father''s solar, and she locked the door as Arya franticly searched for a hideout. Sansa tried to help her, their panicked breaths interwoven as the sound of battle below started to loose intensity.


    Neither she nor Arya could restrain their screams as a great axe peeked through the middle of the door, swiftly retreating and striking again as it reduced the solar''s door to kindling. One of the guardsmen in House Caron livery entered the room with his axe, swiftly followed by four more. He barely had time to look at them before Nymeria jumped at his throat. The other guards shouted as they tried to help their brethren, Lady joining into the fray and bringing down another in a shower of blood, but there were too many of them¡­


    "LADY!!!" Screamed Sansa as one of the guards shoved a half spear through her mouth, the direwolf keening as it retreated back into Sansa''s arms, blood pouring out of her without end before she lay still.


    She cried as she held her lustrous grey-white fur in her trembling hands, Arya giving a wild screech as she tried to stab one of the guards. The armor stopped the blow entirely though, and the guard sent Arya tumbling back with a heavy, gauntleted slap.


    "No¡­ Lady¡­ no¡­" Sansa sobbed as rough arms grabbed her from behind. "Y-You killed Lady!" she screamed at the guard in full plate, fumbling with her hidden dagger and trying to stab him in the neck. The guard snarled as grabbed her hand, twisting it painfully and making her drop the dagger as the bones in her hand crunched.


    She blinked past the tears and the pain, sobbing as they roughly carried her past Nymeria''s brutally gutted corpse, the three remaining guards in House Caron livery joining another one which carried the lax form of Jeyne.


    "This''on'' broke ''er neck trying to run'' down the kitchen stairs," said the rough faced man.


    "Jeyne?" Sansa asked, dumbfounded.


    "Shit, she''s one of Lord Stark''s?" asked the guard holding Arya, who was still trying to stare back at Father''s solar and Nymera''s broken form.


    "Jeyne!!!" Sansa screamed.


    "Nah, she''s one of the lady''s handmaidens, we''re okay," said the guard holding her.


    "Skipped up'' a nasty turd there Ser¡­" said the man in relief, dropping Jeyne''s body like a sack of wheat before turning around, "Right ''nough, Lord Bryce is a''waiting downstairs, we should get'' moving¡­ though if you don''t mind me askin'' Ser Halton, where''s Gil and Tommel?" he asked as they carried her and Arya down the stairs, ignoring her incoherent sobs.


    "Wolves got them," said the man, no, the knight holding her.


    "Fuckin'' wolves'', one of em got two of the Goldcloaks downstairs, fuckin'' menace¡­" grumbled the newcomer as he guided them down the hallway towards the Hand''s courtyard.


    Sansa tried to find her voice, swallowing a sob as she tried to look at the man holding her, "R-r-release us at once! D-do you know what happened t-the last time Northern blood was s-spilled in the South?" Sansa tried to tell him before Ser Halton hit her painfully in the back of the head.


    "You shut your gob! We''re bringing you to King Renly nice and quiet!" he clipped.


    "King Joffrey is the rightful ruler of-" she started before she was turned around and slapped in the face.


    "I said nice and quiet!" he snarled at her face, the angry scar above his eyebrow throbbing as his eyes travelled downwards.


    "Ey'', gotta'' keep her pretty an unhurt so the King doesn''t ¨C" Their guide was cut off suddenly as he screamed, blood leaking out of the back of his knee as he fell, revealing the frantic form of Bran with a sword too big for him.


    "Gollard!" shouted the only guard without a hostage as he dashed forward, Bran already ramming his sword against the fallen guard''s throat before a half spear ruptured her little brother''s lungs, coming out the other side of his chest in a shower of blood.


    "BRAAAAAN!!!!" screeched Arya, emerging out of her stupor as Sansa screamed as well, the guard with the spear extracting it with a grunt of effort as Bran fell to the floor. He gazed at them in confusion for a few seconds, his eyes closing swiftly as he gave a small, quiet cough of blood before laying still.


    "Braaaan¡­" Sansa moaned, her legs giving out of her as she cried, the knight dropping her to the floor as he ran to Bran''s still bleeding body, flipping it over and feeling the wound with his hands.


    "Fuck¡­ FUCK!!!" the scarred knight snarled as he shoved the guard with the spear against the wall, "That was Lord Stark''s son you idiot!" he snarled.


    "What was I supposed to do, let him kill Gollard?!" the other guard snarled back as Arya tried to loosen her own captor''s grip, shaking wildly and earning a dagger''s pommel to the skull for her troubles.


    "Yes, if necessary! Fuck!" snarled Ser Halton.


    "He''s dead anyway," grunted the smallish guard which held Arya, kneeling next to Gollard and trying to feel a pulse. Arya still seemed stunned by the blow in the head, being held by the neck as if she were some sort of mummer''s doll.


    "You''ll pay for this," Sansa whispered hollowly, staring at Bran''s torn apart chest. "The North will fall upon you all like a winter blizzard amongst a field of flowers," she promised them as she couldn''t stop staring at Bran.


    "I SAID SILENCE!" the knight snarled, slapping her and sending her against the floor with the force of the gauntleted blow.


    "¡­ What do we do now?" asked the smallish guard, a bit of blood dripping from Arya''s head as she gazed at Bran''s corpse, her eyes lost.


    "I''ll tell you what Lord Bryce will do, give us to the King in a silver platter, and him to the North¡­" said the knight in mounting panic.


    "Lord Bryce wouldn''t do that, we''ve served his House for decades-" started the spearman, but Ser Halton almost struck him again when he grabbed him by the shoulder.


    "What''s worth more to Lord Bryce, Philip! Think! Two swords and a knight, or the prospect of his whole house being used as a bargaining chip by the King?! Think!" he snarled. The spearman, Philip, stayed quiet as Ser Halton shook his head, "The King might even sell out the whole of Nightsong regardless of what we do, if it means avoiding a war with the North¡­" he muttered, leaning on the window.


    "¡­ let me think¡­" he said, holding his head as the tower descended into silence, only broken by Arya''s meek sobs and the occasional scream of pain from the Hand''s courtyard, though those were abruptly silenced swiftly enough.


    "Right, this here never happened. We never found Lord Stark''s get, only their damned wolves. I''ll go down and make sure Lord Bryce or the fucking Goldcloaks don''t come up. You two carry the girls and the dead boy into one of the rooms and wait for me," he commanded, and Sansa, Arya and little Bran where all soon locked into one of the rooms.


    Sansa stared at Bran''s broken form right next to her, one of the guards keeping a watchful eye as the minutes went by, the blood still pooling around his new position, carelessly tossed atop a bed.


    She started when there was a knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Ser Halton. "Courtyard''s clear enough, only a few Goldcloaks looting here and there," he said.


    "What do we do with the girls?" asked the smallish guard as the knight grabbed Bran''s body.


    "I''ll show you soon enough, follow me," he commanded as he left the room.


    Sansa and Arya were carried swiftly, over the shoulders of the other guards as they descended the last of the stairs and emerged into the courtyard. "Like the good Ser said, nice and quiet," whispered the spearman as he placed a dagger against her ribs, and Sansa had to hold her breath so she didn''t scream at the sight of the Septa and then Alyn sprawled over the cobblestones. The few Goldcloaks present didn''t even bother looking up at them, sorting through the bodies of slain Stark guardsmen for anything of value.


    They were quickly carried out of the Tower and towards the south east, halting a couple of times to let a few Red Cloak stragglers limp by. Sansa tried to think of a way to get away, but her dagger had been stripped away, and Lady was dead. She bit her lip when they reached the Red Keep''s east wall, Blackwater Bay crashing against the jagged rocks far, far below, barely illuminated by the quarter moon high in the sky.


    The spearman slammed her against the stone crenellation, the other guard doing the same with Arya as another waved crashed down below. "Arya¡­" Sansa whispered as she looked at her, her head pinned against the hard stone, "Arya¡­ stay strong," she told her with a strangled voice.


    Arya looked back at her in panic, blinking every second as she cried. Abruptly, the knight tossed Bran''s body towards the sea, and Sansa sobbed again as his body disappeared within the waves.


    "We toss her too then?" asked the smallish guard as he lifted Arya over the crenellations, one of her shoes falling down as she renewed her struggle.


    "ARYA!!!" Sansa shouted, trying to get away from the spearman''s iron grasp.


    "Slit her throat first you idiot," Ser Halton commanded.


    "Sansa¡­" Arya sobbed before the guard drew a bloody smile on her neck with a dagger, blood running down her chest as she blinked in surprise. Sansa could see the life leaving her eyes as they drooped, her head hanging forwards before the guard tossed her towards the sea.


    Sansa found she couldn''t scream, it died in her throat as she kept looking at the waves and her sister''s disappearing body, her mouth moving slowly and not making a sound.


    "That''ll keep her mum enough," declared the guard as he stared down as well.


    "Quite," said Ser Halton as he grabbed the guard from behind and slit his throat in turn, slamming his head against the crenellations and letting the limp body sprawl backwards.


    "What the hells!? What are you doing!" roared the spearman as he turned and faced the knight, holding Sansa as a shield with a dagger on her throat.


    "Killing all the witnesses, what the bloody hells does it look like," said the knight with a snort as he brandished the dagger.


    "Stand back!" screamed the guard as he tightened his hold on Sansa and the dagger pierced her neck, a bit of blood running down her neck.


    I''m sorry Joffrey, I wasn''t strong enough¡­ I wasn''t smart enough¡­ Sansa thought as she closed her eyes. S?a?ch* Th? ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Or what? You''ll kill the other witness? You were never the smartest of lads," laughed the knight, and the guard shoved her towards him with a desperate roar. The knight batted her aside with one hand, making her slam against the crenellations as the guard jumped at him with the dagger. The Knight held the man''s arm in stalemate for a moment before he dropped his own dagger and grabbed the man''s legs with his now free hand. He gave a powerful bellow before he tossed the guard down the wall with his superior strength, the man''s scream growing distant as he tumbled a few times over the rocks before the sea claimed him.


    Sansa had barely stood up when the knight grasped her shoulders and slammed her once more against the crenellations, jolts of agony crawling up and down her back as he squeezed her shoulders painfully and his mouth forced its way into hers.


    "Nothing like a bit of killing to get the blood up, heh?" he told her as he broke the slobbering kiss. Sansa screamed in despair as his hands rummaged through her breasts, still with Bran''s blood on them.


    "I''ve never taken a Lord Paramount''s daughter before, shame it''ll have to be quick," he whispered into her ear as she screamed again, sobbing as she wished he just killed her already.


    "Open your legs you whor"- the knight stuttered as an arm coiled around his throat and a dagger slammed into his eye socket. The arm dragged him back as Sansa slid down the crenellations and she sat on the ground, holding her arms against her chest as she saw Joffrey cradling the knight''s head as if it were a baby, his dagger coming up and down over the man''s head almost mechanically as he snarled, concentrated as he stabbed it again and again and again.


    Joffrey tossed the man''s body against the floor with another snarl. He turned his head to look at her all of a sudden and Sansa winced in reflex, her hands tightening around her chest as she closed her eyes and kept crying. His face softened as he blinked, taking a careful step as he sheathed his dagger.


    "Sansa¡­" he whispered as he carefully helped her stand up and she grabbed his neck like a lifeline, crying into his shoulder desperately.


    "Breathe Sansa¡­ breathe¡­" he whispered hollowly as he tried to guide her somewhere, her lax legs making him stumble. "Remember what I told you back in the Red Fork? Sansa," he said as he sat her gently against the floor, "Sansa¡­ remember what I told you when we were floating down the river?" he asked her.


    "Ahg, uhg, youhg-" she sobbed incoherently, and Joffrey gently grabbed her cheeks as he aimed her eyes at his.


    "Breathe Sansa¡­ breathe and remember¡­" he told her as she lost herself in those steely green eyes, hiding raw despair as well as unstoppable rage¡­ and a gentle tenderness which made her laugh and smile, in a time which seemed long, long ago.


    "I¡­ yhou¡­" Sansa breathed as she gazed at his eyes, "Y-you t-t-told me¡­ to b-be b-b-b-brave," she said as she breathed deeply, as if she were a child just learning how to speak.


    "I did, I did Sansa," Joffrey told her, and she thought she could hear a distant, deep misery in his voice, perhaps harsher than ever.


    I¡­ I have to¡­ be brave for him¡­ I must keep up, she thought as she tried to stand up, Joffrey helping her.


    "W-we have to get out," she told him as she took a deep breath, smoothing her torn dress, "Renly f-flooded the Outer Courtyard with his men, he has the G-Goldcloaks Joffrey," she told him as they started to walk again, holding each other.


    Joffrey seemed startled, "Fuck, without Slynt¡­ it makes sense," he said as they walked, "Do you remember how many men were left around the Gatehouse?" he asked her urgently as they walked.


    "I didn''t see the Gatehouse, but the Outer Courtyard had a-at, at least two, no, three dozen men moving around it after they took me," she said.


    "Too many¡­ alright, we''ll have to go another way. Come, I know a secret passageway¡­ we''ll have to swim by the end of it though," Joffrey muttered as he looked back with a wince.


    "Joffrey, your wounds-"


    "I''ll be okay, we just need to keep going," he said with gritted teeth.


    "Wait, but Joffrey¡­ what about my Father?" she whispered as they jogged past an opened door to the deserted South Eastern tower.


    "He didn''t make it out of the Great Hall, I''m sorry Sansa," Joffrey told her as he winced again in pain, each step down the stairway taking a toll on him, avoiding the fallen helmets and pieces of discarded armor.


    Sansa leaned on the stone wall, feeling as if she''d just been punched in the gut. "How," she whispered, her voice hoarse.


    "I''m not sure, but something happened in the Great Hall and steel was drawn. The only thing I know for certain is that someone, I think Ser Barristan, slew Ser Loras in the melee, and Renly was enraged. I could hear his screams from floors away¡­" Joffrey said as he grabbed her shoulder gently and prodded her. Sansa shook her head as she kept moving downwards, listening to the words that sealed the fate of her Father. "By the time I got there only bodies could be found¡­ I''m sorry Sansa," he said again.


    "It''s not your fault," she whispered, her voice tired.


    "It is. I should have seen this coming. Killing Baelish and Slynt so overtly must have pushed Renly over the edge¡­" he muttered in frustration.


    "¡­ Y-you were the one who killed the Master of Coin?" she asked him, eyes wide.


    "Yes," he said after a moment''s hesitation.


    Sansa said nothing as they ran down the long corridor, Joffrey shouldering a half opened door to a medium sized cellar with a dozen Goldcloaks in it, looting caskets of wine.


    "Hold in the name of the K-!" one of them shouted before Joffrey threw his dagger and it impaled him in the eye.


    The rest of them were drawing swords or readying half spears as Joffrey extended his hand horizontally and Brightroar materialized in a swirl of Purple-Golden fractals. He leapt at another Goldcloak as they stumbled back, cutting his spear in two before he ripped the man''s jaw off with the backswing.


    "DIEEE!!!" He roared as the Silver Lion materialized right behind him and slammed into one of the Goldcloaks, crushing him underneath its huge paws as it bit into his neck.


    Some of the Goldcloaks stumbled back as others rushed Joffrey with screams of panic or fear, but Joffrey carved a bloody path amongst them with the golden sheen of Brightroar, Stars by his side and mauling any flankers to death. One particular flanker had not been killed though, merely smashed against one of the now ruptured barrels of wine. He stood up unsteadily as he gazed at his comrades being slaughtered and took a short sword out of his belt, giving an incoherent scream of fear as he rushed Joffrey''s back, the tip of the sword glinting malevolently under the light glare of the oil lamps.


    Sansa jumped at the man''s back before he could shank Joffrey and they tumbled on the stone floor, the man screaming as she shoved her fingers into his eyes, not knowing what else to do. The screams turned shrill as Sansa kept pushing and the sound of rending flesh filled her ears, like torn parchment and squished apples, her thumbs still moving forward as he screamed. A hand moved her aside before Brightroar slammed into the man''s skull, but somehow the screams didn''t stop.


    "Sansa! Sansa!!!" Joffrey roared at her ears, and she suddenly realized she was the one who had been screaming all the time. She leaned to the left of the corpse and vomited on the ground, dry heaving when there was nothing else left.


    "I''m here Sansa, I''m here," Joffrey whispered loudly into her ear, holding her as she rocked. She grabbed his arms tightly as her efforts failed and she started crying again.


    "Let''s go Joffrey¡­ let''s get away from here," she managed in between sobs, blinking away the tears and trying not to look at the blood on her hands as she stood up.


    I¡­ I''ve got¡­ to be strong¡­ she thought in a daze.


    "Just a little bit more Sansa, just a little bit more," Joffrey whispered fiercely as they walked between the corpses of the torn apart Goldlcoaks, though the Silver Lion was nowhere to be found.


    Joffrey did something to one of the barrels in the far back which looked too broken to be of use, and it opened as if it were a door. Soon they almost crawling along the small space, Joffrey leading the way with the small torch he''d looted from one of the dead Goldcloaks.


    The sudden silence beyond the screams of death and battle made both of their breaths incredibly audible, and Sansa had to take a few seconds to calm herself as she walked behind Joffrey, her hand held tightly in his. The silence also allowed her to notice the slight hitching of Joffrey''s breath every two steps, the way he swayed after each time he turned back to make sure she was okay, the way he painted a trail of blood through the corridor.


    "Joffrey¡­ stop¡­" she whispered.


    He looked at her in puzzlement as she felt his chest, wet with blood.


    "Stiches must have opened," he grimaced.


    "What would happen if you died right now?" Sansa asked him hollowly as she tore another piece of her dress and bandaged it around his chest, her long hours knitting and learning about fabric serving a new purpose in the bowels of the Red Keep.


    "¡­ From all signs, the Purple will reset the world. I''ll wake up in my room three days after Jon Arryn died¡­ and so would you," he told her, biting off a wince as Sansa slipped and tied the bandage too hard, always keeping her broken hand out of his sight.


    "But only you would remember¡­" She half asked.


    "Yes¡­ would¡­ would you like me to do it?" asked Joffrey, his voice unreadable.


    "No," came her fierce reply as she tied another bandage, making Joffrey wince. "You won''t make me forget this Joffrey, I won''t allow it¡­ I¡­ It can''t have been in vane¡­" she trailed off, her voice raw.


    "You''ll be safe and sound back in Winterfell, your family will"-


    "And then what Joffrey? How many times have you seen my family like this?! How many times¡­ How many times have you seen me like this?" she asked him as her eyes bored into his.


    Joffrey stared at her, his face pained as Sansa shook him.


    "Tell me," she commanded him.


    "¡­ too many¡­" Joffrey whispered, avoiding her sight.


    Sansa said nothing, turning back to the wound.


    Wordlessly, Joffrey tucked his shirt down and kept moving, though Sansa''s hand found his again in the darkness of the tunnel, the roaring of the sea growing steadily closer as they neared a source of slight moonlight.


    Joffrey opened the hidden trap door with a grunt, helping Sansa up as she beheld the cloudy night again, only the sound of the sea to keep them company. "Here, let me tie this," Joffrey muttered as he got a hold of a length of rope tied to a small wooden post near the beach.


    Sansa said nothing as she stared at the sea, imagining Bran or Arya''s corpse suddenly leaping from the foam and landing in the beach with a dull thud, empty eyes boring into her-


    "Sansa, come on," he said gently, and she followed him into the sea, wading against the dark waves. "We''ll be swimming for a small pier north of here, only a little distance away. It''s a small fisher''s village, practically a suburb of King''s Landing. If you get tired just focus on staying afloat, I''ll do the rest," Joffrey said as the waves splashed against her, washing her bloodied hands.


    "Joffrey, if I die here¡­ don''t close yourself off again. Tell me what happened the moment you see me back in Winterfell," she pleaded.


    Joffrey said nothing as he stared back at her, the waves splashing against his blood stained, blonde hair.


    "Joffrey promise me," she commanded, but her pleas went unanswered as Joffrey kept walking against the waves.


    "Come on Sansa!" he shouted as if he hadn''t heard her.


    The sea was cold, the salt coarse as it rubbed against the bruises and cuts that peppered her face, the hand the knight had crushed in his grip barely more than a dead weight as she struggled against the currents, the rope taught.


    I won''t die here. I can''t, she thought as she swam, her hand sending jolts of horrific pain after each brace.


    I won''t forget, she thought as her vision clouded, foggy release clamoring for oblivion as it surrounded her in a haze of wellbeing, the waves shaking her around as she tried to keep up with Joffrey.


    I won''t leave him¡­ she thought as she blinked and her hand stopped aching.


    -.PD.-


    She awoke to the feeling of harsh sand dragging against her chest, pieces of her tattered dress falling behind as she struggled against invisible chains. She raised her head to see a ragged looking Joffrey pulling the length of rope through a beach. He stumbled to the ground as she watched, biting off a scream of pain and perhaps angst.


    Sansa struggled against the sand as she crawled towards him, foamy waves buffeting her body painfully as she made her way atop the white sand and reached his prone form.


    "Come on Joffrey," she rasped, her voice spent as she shook his shoulders.


    "¡­Sansa¡­" he whispered, blinking slowly. He seemed exhausted, an emaciated figure of ragged clothes and bleeding wounds. She imagined she looked roughly the same. "The currents¡­ we overshot¡­" he tried to explain, and Sansa was horrified to find not a trace of civilization, a forest of trees and shrubbery ahead of them and only the sea at their back as the horizon steadily became more and more illuminated by the coming sun.


    "We have¡­ to get off¡­ beach¡­ Renly¡­" Joffrey stuttered, shivering as he desperately tried to talk coherently, his eyes wild.


    "He''ll send search parties," Sansa rasped in understanding. He could not let the heir apparent and rightful king slip through his grasp after a coup, he had to be found by any means necessary¡­ even if it meant scouring every piece of land, coast and sea within a hundred miles of King''s Landing, roads, villages, forests and coastline.


    "Come on," she whispered as she helped him up, wrapping her arm around his deceptively light weight and carrying him towards the forest. They must have made a pathetic image, two ragged, limping silhouettes against the dawn to come. Joffrey didn''t seem to be helping much, stumbling half blindly as Sansa huffed in effort, keeping a slow if steady pace towards the forest and lifting most of Joffrey''s weight with each step.


    "The maiden doesn''t save his knight, it''s usually the other way around you know?" she whispered as they kept limping together, passing by the first shrubs and small trees. She realized she was shivering just as hard as Joffrey, and she was mildly perplexed by the complete lack of control she had over the erratic movement.


    "Generic, dutiful maidens are boring," Joffrey whispered back with a half-smile, his eyes all but closed as he left all the steering to Sansa.


    "Back to the backhanded compliments, I think you''ll live Joffrey," she told him with a broken smile. The playful banter served to take her mind away from the wide eyed, surprised face of Arya as blood raced down her chest, as Bran coughed blood and closed his eyes. It helped her focus past the steadily agonizing throb of her other hand, swollen and angry looking as it hanged limply, past the swelling half of her face and the burning jolts that struck her body from every direction after each step.


    After limping for a while they reached a small clearing in the forest, and Sansa let their combined weights fall against a struck tree which formed an irregular triangle between its broken length, its stump and the ground. A few shrubs had grown against the fallen tree, converting it into a haphazard shelter.


    "Got to get back our body heat," Joffrey whispered as he took off the remains of his soaked shirt, only his ragged pants offering shelter against the elements as Sansa gave him a tired smile.


    "I''d like to see Septa Mordane''s face right now," she told him whimsically as she tore the remains of her dress, stripping until only her smallclothes remained. She suddenly remembered the broken, slashed form of the Septa, sprawling over the cobblestones as blood kept pooling around it, her perpetually stern face achieving an uncanny laxness in death.


    She took in a quick breath as she winced, her good hand trying to halt the sobs before they began, but she failed as they increased in volume and frequency, trying to hide her face in shame at the lack of self-control. Joffrey offered wordless comfort as he hugged her, both of them lying down on the ground, side by side under the broken tree and shivering together, their bodies interwoven as the sun slowly rose from the east, the harsh cold making Sansa blink slowly.


    -.PD.-


    Sansa awoke to the sight of Joffrey staring dejectedly at a pile of kindling, a stick in his scabbed, torn hands. The wounds on his chest were not bleeding any longer, but they seemed blackened, a vaguely yellow sheen covering them in wide, angry streaks. She shuffled closer, biting off a scream as she used her broken hand. It looked swollen and ugly, a lump of flesh somehow affixed to her arm. She shivered before looking away, the cold still omnipresent as Joffrey crawled to her side, "Sansa, your hand¡­" he trailed off as he stared at it.


    "Yours are hardly better," Sansa told him as she stared at the wooden splinters which peppered them.


    "Tried to start a fire¡­ couldn''t find the strength to keep a good cadence," he said after biting off a cough.


    "That''s unfortunate," she said as she stared at them. The sun seemed all the way to their backs, settling in the west as the cold turned more and more pervasive. "Slept through most of the sunlight¡­" she grumbled.


    "Hardly the sun''s fault," Joffrey said drily.


    "Yeah, it''s yours. Should have woken me up," she told him in mock outrage, scuttling closer and leaning on him, drawn by his body heat like a moth to candlelight.


    "How could I disturb such a sleeping beauty? It would have been a crime," he said matter-of-factly, somehow digging up a shred of mock enthusiasm from somewhere deep inside him.


    Sansa looked down at the sea of cuts and bruises that covered her, feeling her swollen, throbbing cheek as she looked at her hand which resembling an overripe fruit. She couldn''t suppress a vaguely hysterical giggle, a few tears streaming down her face as the giggle devolved into a harrowing, potent coughing fit. The coughs barely let her breath, so frequent they were. Joffrey palmed her back in concern as she kept at it, finally drawing in a quick, shallow breath as she got control of her lungs back.


    They stayed quiet as the sun disappeared and the moon came back, tiny pinpricks of stars slowly materializing over the sky, the silence only broken by a few lone coughs from Joffrey. "We''re not going to leave this forest alive, are we?" Sansa mused out loud.


    "No," Joffrey answered after a moment.


    "¡­ and all these moments, the pain, the despair, the loss¡­ they''ll be gone forever? Erased from existence?" she asked him.


    "¡­Yes Sansa, you will remember nothing of this," he said it as if it were a blessing.


    "And you''ll never again let me even talk to you, you''ll flee from my sight even harder than before¡­" she said.


    He did not deny it.


    "You''ll vow, in the name of your headstrong stupidity-" she snarled the last word as a slow fire was kindled to life deep within -"To never again make me go through this. To never again even contemplate the chance of it. You''ll lock yourself into your own mind like never before, isolating yourself from everyone until you are undistinguishable from a specter, raging against the end of the world until your broken mind is finally shattered for good, until you sink so much in the loneliness and the despair you''ll never get out again," the words poured out of her.


    She felt Joffrey tense against her, looking away, "Sansa-"


    "Tell me I''m wrong Joffrey," she said harshly.


    "¡­ you can be quite stubborn at times-" he tried to shift the conversation but Sansa grabbed his chin with her good hand and shoved it so he could say it to her eyes.


    "Tell me," she willed, staring at his pale green eyes.


    He sighed deeply, the rigid tension disappearing from his body, "I will, I''m sorry Sansa¡­ I got carried away with¡­ everything¡­" he apologized for¡­ everything about this life, she supposed.


    "And you''ll just look at me, a wide eyed, na?ve doe with not a clue in the world and just--¡­ you''ll just keep going along your lonely trail, flayed until you are no more¡­" she said in zeal.


    "I''m sorry Sansa, but there''s no other way," he said as he looked away.


    Sansa took in a big breath of air, her nails biting into Joffrey''s cheek as he turned his face again, "Except there is," she whispered fiercely.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Joffrey looked as if he''d been hit in the head, blinking repeatedly, "Look, Sansa, I know what I''m talking about," he said in a rush, the words tumbling out of his mouth quickly, "The Purple-"


    "You don''t remember do you?" she said as she stared at his eyes, "You told me, back in your room," she said.


    "I told you? Told you what?!" he asked, his breath accelerating as his eyes widened in panic and denial.


    "You told me, Joffrey," she said as she looked away, taking a breath of her own. "I still feel like a person, not a ''weapon part''¡­ but I suppose there will never be a way to find out how a supposedly real person should feel¡­" she trailed off with a sigh as she looked at the stars, "Philosophy was never Maester Luwin''s preferred subject¡­"


    Joffrey was opening and closing his mouth like a fish, slowly shaking his head, "Sansa, I¡­ I would never tell you-"


    "But you did, you did Joffrey," she hammered it in, back to his widened eyes. "You told me the truth. That I was but another part of the¡­ weapon created to stop the Long Night. That we were meant to live and die together so we could stop it. Like bow and arrow, wheel and axel¡­ you told me Joffrey," she said.


    "No¡­ No¡­" he repeated as if he were living a nightmare.


    "You muttered something about experimenting so you could use one part of the ''weapon'' and not two¡­ back in your tent during the tourney. Only later did I realize you were talking about yourself¡­ after your confession in Red Keep¡­ the weapon was not a spell but you. You were talking about trying to find a way to defeat the Long Night without the other part¡­ without me," she said.


    "The milk of the poppy¡­ no¡­" Joffrey trailed off as vague wisps of addled memories assaulted him, breathing hard as he tried and failed to say something, anything that would deflect the line of questions.


    "Yes¡­ I didn''t know what to think. To be told you are not a person but a thinking weapon of some sort¡­ and that we were all but soul mates¡­ It must have been the most romantic thing I''ve ever been told," she said with an exasperated half smile, "It finally buried the concerns I had about your feelings¡­" she trailed off with a self-conscious snort. "Seven help me¡­ it feels like years ago¡­" she whispered.


    He said nothing, looking at her in despair as if he''d been cornered.


    "There is a way Joffrey," she told him fiercely, the harrowing cold disappearing from her mind even as she shivered harder, "There is a way to make me remember¡­" she insisted.


    "¡­ I''ll make certain Robert never brings Ned and your family back to King''s Landing. Sansa, you won''t have to remember, I''ll make sure they stay safe! I promise I''ll make-" he tried desperately before Sansa felt her face throb in pain again.


    "THIS IS NOT ABOUT THEM!" she screamed, a colossal coughing fit following her outburst. "It would be awfully nice to forget Arya''s face as she looked at me in fear and, and and incomprehension, not quite believing the way her blood kept squirting from her neck!" she raged after the coughs passed, "You think I wouldn''t like forgetting about Lady''s torn apart head? You think it wouldn''t be nice to have a quiet life back in Winterfell with my family?! To be the doe eyed girl oblivious to this horrifying reality!?" she said as she started to cry again, gesturing at the clearing.


    "I can make it happen Sansa," Joffrey whispered.


    "You won''t," she whispered back as she stared, resolute even as the tears silently slid down her cheeks. "I swear by any Gods that might be watching us right this moment, I swear Joffrey I won''t let you go alone. I won''t allow you to make me forget. I won''t leave you alone against the end of the world," she said as if she were uttering a cosmic law, "If I am but a part of a weapon, then so be it¡­ but I''ll be where I belong. By your side¡­ and if the Long Night annihilates us together, as you whispered back in the Red Keep, then I''ll die knowing I did everything I could. Bran and Arya and Father and Jeyne and everyone''s deaths shall have meaning," she said, exalted in the righteousness of her words as her soul thrummed in agreement and adrenaline flooded her body.


    Joffrey looked desperate, shaking his head, "You don''t understand-" he tried.


    Sansa kissed him fiercely as she held his head with her good hand, the kiss almost brutal as the strain of the past few days came to a crescendo, the loss and the despair crystalizing into a heady, drunken determination. "I understand this," she whispered as her heart hammered and she broke the kiss, Joffrey looking at her in a daze.


    "It''s because we were made this way¡­" he whispered.


    "But does that make it any less true? Forget about the cause Joffrey, feel¡­" she whispered urgently as she placed her forehead against his, all inhibitions gone as she desperately tried to make him understand, her mouth moving by its own will as she followed what seemed to be a fundamental truth at the core of her being, "I don''t care who caused it. I don''t care if you call it love or indoctrination. It. Is. There," She willed him to understand, "I don''t know how we are supposed to stop the end of the world¡­ but we''ll do it together, I know this¡­ and you know it too," she said.


    Joffrey seemed almost lost, his forehead still against hers as his eyelids fluttered, eyes closed as he whispered unintelligible things, unable to deny the simple truth. Sansa had long since left familiar shores, ladylike restraint disappearing with the wind as she kept pushing against his forehead, as if she could enter the Purple spell by her own will, "Don''t fight them alone. Take me with you¡­" she pleaded as she closed her eyes too.


    There was a long silence as they stopped talking but somehow kept communicating, Sansa''s good hand finding Joffrey''s.


    "As it was meant to be¡­" he whispered.


    "As it is meant to be," she whispered back.


    "It will be beyond horrible, beyond despair¡­ beyond what you can comprehend¡­ the pain you have suffered here will be nothing compared to what is to come Sansa, nothing compared to the wrath of the Purple, nothing compared to the torment that will await you after each death, like clockwork, an eldritch thing staring from on high daring you to look back and lose your sanity as it crushes you through the eons of time," he pleaded.


    "You told me to be brave," she said as she imagining her face screaming under a great, monstrous purple eye looking from on high, the winds and the waves crawling back unnaturally as the sun rose from the west and settled in the east in the midst of agony, Joffrey''s words painting a the shape of things to come.


    "And the people¡­ your friends, your family, everyone¡­ after years, decades¡­ they will always be the same, they will always look at you as you were, nobody will understand you, every single interaction will make you remember what you''ve lost, every single word they speak will flay your soul as the people you knew reset back to standard, laughter and sorrow and companionship lost to the mists of time never to be seen again, so many times you''ll start to forget what each version knew and what part of their personality was with them in the times before you woke up¡­ time and again and again and again and again¡­" Joffrey said the words like terrible prophecy, almost in a trance.


    Sansa sobbed silently as the raw angst in Joffrey''s voice hit her like a physical force. She couldn''t begin to imagine that particular curse, but her face tightened and she breathed.


    "I''ll have you¡­ and you''ll have me¡­" she whispered.


    "Sansa¡­" her stern protector despaired as she would not desist, her stubbornness making tears well up in his eyes when the rending savagery of steel on flesh had not. "Sansa¡­" he pleaded.


    "Whatever comes, we''ll face it together," she whispered.


    Joffrey said nothing, only the distant roaring of the sea and the occasional chirping of wild birds punctuated the silence as the sun hid completely and Joffrey took a deep breath.


    "I''ll need a clear area," he whispered, so low Sansa had to strain to hear it.


    "Will the middle of the clearing work?" she asked him as something roared deep within her and she heard a torrent of blood pumping through her whole body.


    Joffrey opened his eyes and stared at the clearing, his face slowly hardening to what was to come. "It''ll do," he said with a nod.


    Sansa gave a muffled wince as she followed him, holding her broken hand with the other as Joffrey limped towards the center of the small clearing, his stride slowly becoming more and more confident as he breathed.


    "Our creation was flawed, the original ''part'' that was to connect our ''essence''¡­ our souls, did not achieve creation in the first place¡­ in time, I managed to fashion a substitute of sorts," he explained as he turned to look at her, his face locked in the same certainty, the same ascendant determination Sansa felt within herself. He kneeled with a wince, clearing leaves and branches from the center of the clearing.


    "What should I do?" Sansa asked him as she helped him clear the area, her heart going out of control as she breathed harshly, her skin prickling as Joffrey stood up and closed his eyes.


    Brightroar materialized in a twirl of golden-purple fractals, steady in his hands as he let a long, exhausted breath, opening his eyes to look at her. "Kneel in front of me, hands by your sides¡­ Brightroar shall serve as an impromptu soul bridge so to speak¡­ it will hurt, Sansa," he said as he looked at her in faint hope.


    She didn''t give in to her fear and Joffrey''s hope, walking in front of him and taking another deep breath. She kneeled after a moment, the pain fading into a distant memory as her whole body tensed in anxiety. "Is this¡­ is this alright?" she asked as she looked up to him, the golden sheen of Brightroar giving the clearing a slightly yellow tinge, the silver pommel staring at her from above.


    "It is¡­" Joffrey whispered, still looking at her.


    "Will I have to do something during¡­ the ritual?" she asked him.


    "¡­ I don''t know, maybe¡­" he said, his expression troubled, "We''re missing bits and pieces of our original, designed forms, so that could complicate things¡­ ultimately though, we were deigned to achieve this," he explained.


    "It was meant to be¡­" Sansa whispered as she blinked.


    "¡­ It was meant to be, yes," Joffrey said with a sorrowful wince, looking up to the heavens.


    "¡­ do it Joffrey," she whispered, staring at the sword which still rested its tip on the ground.


    "Sansa¡­ there can be no turning back from this, we will be bound-"


    "Until the Long Night destroys us. Not the wedding vow I expected to utter," she said with an amused smile that hid the dawning terror that was slowly taking ahold of her now that she stared at her death. A cold, numb thing worse than any physical cold, a dark pit that accelerated her breath and brought her to near panic as she gazed at the sharp blade.


    If something went wrong, everything would just turn black¡­ and Joffrey would soldier on through his lives, never even risking this chain of events ever again¡­ that was what most scared her right this moment.


    Joffrey smiled in bitter defeat, nodding slightly. He closed his eyes, concentrating on something as Sansa''s breath hitched, trying not to make a sound so he was not distracted. She thought the wind picked up as Joffrey took in deep, slow breaths, the sword slowly rising over her chest as his arms passed his head and he held the pommel aloft.


    "I''ll find you back in Winterfell," he said in a monotone of supreme concentration, not a trace of doubt left in his voice as he kept his eyes closed, his face slack as was Joffrey''s wont when he meditated.


    "I''ll wait for you," she whispered, staring at the golden blade.


    She kept staring at it for what felt like an eternity, the dark skies almost oppressing the glow of Brightroar, a thousand memories flashing past her eyes in a second before Joffrey suddenly descended and the Valyrian Steel tore into her heart, his eyes still closed as Sansa took in a small, sharp breath of air¡­ before slowly letting it go.


    The horrible pain swiftly gave way to numbness, and the world lost definition as she blinked slowly and Joffrey opened his eyes in surprised horror.


    No¡­


    No¡­¡­


    She tried to speak but found she couldn''t, and her mind became hazy as she closed her eyes and the silent night turned completely dark and she was lost to oblivion.


    -.PD.-


    --------------


    --------


    AND SHE TOOK IN A HARROWING BREATH OF AIR AS SHE SCREAMED AND BRIGHTROAR SHINED LIKE A NEWBORN SUN- SHE DESPERATELY GRASPED FOR THE PURPLE LIGHT OF JOFFREY''S SOUL AS LIGHTNING ERUPTED FROM THEIR LEAKING CONNECTION LIKE COLOSSAL SPIDERS WHICH CRAWLED UPON THE EARTH, THEIR SCREAMS OF AGONY INTERWOVEN AS SHE STRAINED TO GRASP HIM THROUGH THE GRAVE DRONING OF THE TUNNEL''S LENGTH- THE SEARING BOLTS OF LIGHTNING TRAVERSED THROUGH THE ENTIRE FOREST AND BEYOND SETTING THE VERY AIR ABLAZE AS THE SWIRLING INFERNO CONSUMED THEM AND SHE SCREAMED IN AGONY AS SHE HELD ON TO HIM AND A VAST INFINITY LAY UPON THEM AND THEIR THOUGHTS BECAME ONE AS A GREAT LANCE OF GOLDEN PURPLE LIGHT PIERCED HER VERY BEING AND TWISTED.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 41: Stronger.

    Arc 5: Partners.-: PD :-


    Chapter 41: Stronger.


    Joffrey awoke with a scream.


    He lay there on the floor, panting as Sandor carefully helped him up and he took a deep breath of fresh air.


    "It was only a nightmare, my prince," the Hound said with a slight huff.


    Joffrey ignored him as he shook his head, stopping only to massage his throbbing temples. He sneaked a look at his bed, half expecting to find Sansa blinking blearily at the morning light.


    That would have been awkward to explain, he thought ruefully as he saw only messy sheets.


    ¡­


    Sansa¡­


    By the Gods¡­ he thought in a daze.


    "Prince Joffrey?" Sandor asked, puzzled as the prince''s hands trembled lightly.


    It''s done¡­


    "Sandor, prepare two horses," he ordered him as he kneeled beside his bed and half crawled under it, emerging with Brightroar, hidden within its runed, dragonbone sheath.


    "We depart for Winterfell in twenty minutes," he said gravelly as he centered himself, doubts and hope warring within his stomach as he hid an uneasy grimace.


    -: PD :-


    Through the Crownlands and the Riverlands they rode, so fast they had to procure new horses every three days. Sandor looked honestly bewildered, and Joffrey couldn''t blame him for that. He dimly recalled being very wary regarding Robert''s little trip north, back during his first life¡­ his abrupt change of mind must have left the hound befuddled, especially the intensity of it. He had trouble remembering why he had been so sickened by the prospect of visiting Winterfell¡­ nowadays breathing in some fresh air away from the smell of King''s Landing was a favored treat.


    He reached Winterfell in less than two weeks, butterflies assaulting his belly as the great, grey form of the ancient fortress suddenly emerged in the distance after he passed a particularly forested hill. He had to keep his breathing in check as he rode past the opened doors of the Outer Wall, Stark guardsmen eyeing him in curiosity and dawning realization¡­


    The Capital must have sent a raven, he thought as the guards let him ride to the stables with only a few cursory looks and a few rusty bows. They had been expecting him, it seemed.


    Or maybe it was just the Crannogmen, they always like to skulk around when Robert crosses the Neck¡­ they must have been watching me too.


    "Prince Joffrey!" shouted Rodrik Cassel as he quickly walked the last of the stairs that led to the South Tower, "Welcome to Winterfell¡­ We weren''t expecting the King''s caravan so early," he said with a faint trace of disapproval as he walked towards them and bowed.


    I''m sure you weren''t¡­ Joffrey thought as Ser Rodrik gave the Hound a respectful nod. Sandor returned it gruffly, as if it were a waste of time.


    "Ser Rodrik, I''m sorry for the inconvenience¡­ I got too impatient with the eternal delays, thought I''d just ride ahead of my Father," Joffrey told him with a nod before dismounting. He took a moment to observe Winterfell without the furor of the King''s arrival, and found it seemed a much more quiet, still place. Servants cleaned the stables by his side as a couple of others tended to his exhausted horse, carrying out a task that would have taken ten men back in the Red Keep. Guardsmen carried out their duties with almost bored familiarity as the hunting master fed the hounds of Winterfell.


    Joffrey had to contain himself from breaking into a sprint towards the Main Keep.


    "Impatient enough to leave your horse half dead, my prince?" Rodrik asked with a jaundiced eye which nevertheless never crossed into disrespect. Ser Rodrik Cassel was not a man unaccustomed with the ''sophisticated'' ways of the South¡­ it was a shame Ned always left him up North, too far away to help him.


    "Ah, well, I seldom have a chance nowadays to ride as fast as I can," he said. The excuse was so lame he could feel Sandor''s eyes rolling from his position at his back.


    ¡­ I shouldn''t have known he was Ser Rodrik, did I?


    "Princely duties keep you busy enough, my prince?" Ser Rodrik asked with a slight rise of his eyebrow as Joffrey walked towards him and grimaced slightly.


    ¡­Perhaps it was a good idea if he got this over quickly.


    "Indeed. Would the great hall lie that way?" he half asked as he pointed. The rushed, clumsy question served well enough to remind Ser Rodrik of his courtesies, and the man nodded decisively with a half apologetic smile.


    "Right you are, my prince. Forgive me my manners, you must be starving after such a hard ride," he amended as he bid the pair to follow him towards the Main Keep.


    Sandor received Joffrey''s dismissal with a thankful nod, glad to finally rest after the mad dash north. Another servant guided him towards the room he''d be staying at, not too far from Joffrey''s own.


    Ser Rodrik''s voice became half muted as Joffrey concentrated on his breathing, trying to instill upon himself a sense of calm, like a rock sinking in the depths. The anxiety was still strong enough he had trouble focusing on the man''s words as he guided him through the Keep''s lobby, and he almost bumped against Lady Catelyn as Ser Rodrik came to a halt.


    "Lady Catelyn Stark, my prince," said the Master-at-Arms, and Joffrey bowed lightly to the Stark matriarch, who appeared to have rushed through her ointments and powders to give herself a southern touch.


    "We are honored to receive you my prince," she said with a charming smile,


    "The honor is mine, Lady Catelyn," he said with mixed feelings. "Lord Eddard is out, I presume?" he ventured.


    "He is, had a few matters to attend in one of the outlying villages. Would you like to join us for dinner?" she asked him.


    "I''d be glad to, my Lady," he said with a thankful nod.


    The impromptu dinner with the Starks was an irritating experience, this time. Robb, Bran and Arya had joined Lady Catelyn in the ankward game of ''trying to get the hold of the precocious young prince'', but Joffrey had been far too addled to play his part.


    Sansa had not joined them. Lady Catelyn had apologized for her daughter, claiming she had been feeling indisposed these last few days¡­ which only served to fuel Joffrey''s impatience and wariness.


    Finally, when he thought he was going to burst, the meal was ground a close. Night had befallen Winterfell when he was finally given leave to wander, and his feet quickly carried him to Sansa''s bedchambers.


    He hesitated for an eternal second before banging on the door, not as gently as he would have liked.


    "Yes?" came the voice from the other side.


    Did it work? By the Gods did it work?! He asked himself in frenzy, unsure of what answer he would like to hear.


    "It''s Joffrey," he said, his voice vaguely strangled.


    There was the sound of movement, and the door was suddenly opened to reveal a surprised Sansa, looking at him in shock.


    "Joffrey?!" she stammered, and if he had any doubts after that they were dispelled by the urgency and the knowing in her eyes.


    "Sansa," Joffrey whispered before she suddenly hugged him, shivering wildly.


    "By the Seven¡­ Joffrey¡­" she whispered as she shook, "For a moment I thought it had all been a nightmare, but deep down¡­"


    "Deep down you knew," he said, some of the stiffness leaving his body as he hugged her gently in return, managing to clamp down on his feelings. "We should talk inside," he added as the enormity of what he''d done settled on to him, permanently.


    Sansa took a step back, getting a hold on herself as she nodded quickly.


    -: PD :-


    "I thought it took a month," Sansa said as they walked through the Godswood, "To get here, I mean," she added belatedly.


    "It usually does¡­ but I couldn''t wait for Robert, much less that damned wheelhouse¡­" Joffrey said as he shook his head with a snort, his mind heavy.


    They were now truly interlocked, their fates bound for good or ill. He now had a companion in the endless struggle against the Cycle, through the machinations of the Purple. He was still somewhat stunned by the implications, too many to really process.


    "What happened¡­ after we were separated," he finally voice the question which had been eating inside of him, watching her carefully as they sat on a branch near the Godswood.


    Sansa winced as she looked away, and Joffrey felt a pit opening up in his belly. "It hurt a bit," she said, tapping her knees, "It was as if Brightroar kept piercing my body, the storm of flames consuming me even as I¡­" she stuttered to a halt, looking at him for a second before shaking his her head. "I''ll be fine," she tried to forestall him.


    His horrified face must have shown.


    "Sansa I-"


    "Don''t even start!" she interrupted him, showing that steel which he had glimpsed before, the steel which had dominated the last hours of her life. "I meant what I said Joffrey, and it''s done. The only way now is forward," she said imperiously.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, leaning his chin downwards as he thought. "How was it? Seeing your family again?" he asked her.


    Sansa swallowed audibly as she blinked. "Hard," she said simply. She elaborated after a few minutes under the Heart tree, the red leaves fluttering around her hair. "I cried¡­ a lot¡­ I couldn''t contain myself¡­ I¡­" she broke off with a huff, closing her eyes.


    It was a monumental effort, Joffrey realized. For Sansa to show herself vulnerable after all she''d done to make sure he thought of her as an asset and not a burden, someone not to coddle but to rely on. A show of trust.


    And so he said nothing, letting her go through the silent pain and resisting the urge to hold her close.


    "I managed after I saw Bran, but Arya¡­ I couldn''t stop remembering the way her throat just¡­" she broke off with a sniffle, taking a deep breath before shaking her head. "I managed," she finished, blinking away the tears.


    Joffrey grabbed her hand gently, looking at the fresh summer snow as they lapsed into silent companionship.


    He could have remarked on how they were in this together now, on how he''d be there for her, on how the course they''d have to chart would be dark and full of perils¡­ but all those things went by unsaid. She knew, as she knew he knew. There was no need for words as they sat there and braced themselves against what was to come.


    "What''s the plan, then?" Sansa asked with a slight smile, breaking the silence.


    It really is happening¡­ Joffrey mused, feeling slightly dazed.


    "Back to the Capital, as usual. I already killed Baelish but not Slynt, so that should keep Renly from jumping us like last time¡­ hopefully¡­" he said before trailing off, the familiar feeling of weariness tying him down.


    "Is it always like that?" Sansa asked him.


    "Like what?" he said, nonplussed.


    "Like trial and error," she said.


    Joffrey tilted his head left and right before shrugging, "Yeah¡­ pretty much. Nothing to it but to keep going forward," he told her as much as he told himself, echoing her words from before.


    "But is there just one way forward?" she asked with a strange sort of intensity.


    Joffrey just looked at her, puzzled.


    "I told you back during¡­ my first life¡­" she said the last words as if she were invocating a spell, before quickly shaking her head, "I told you back then, that you couldn''t keep going on like this¡­"


    "It''s the only way," he said forcefully, but she cut him off again.


    "Is it? Joffrey, you¡­ we are immortal now¡­ we don''t need to clash blindly against King''s Landing, against the¡­ the Cycle. We can bide our time, watch from afar¡­" she trailed of meaningfully.


    "And leave everyone to their deaths? Leave your father and your brothers to the machinations of the capital? To give them all up to the Walkers?" Joffrey asked her, his voice slightly raw.


    Sansa looked away as she blinked once more, "They''ll be here when we die, Joffrey¡­ you need this," she said.


    "Need what?" he asked her, trying to understand.


    "You need to rest. Take a break from all¡­ everything," she said as she gestured with her arms at the clearing, huffing. "You''ve told me the sanitized third, perhaps fourth of what you''ve been through. I''ve seen but the latest of your lives¡­ and I don''t need that to see just how broken you are right now," she begged him.


    Joffrey''s face contorted in anger, and Sansa knew that had been the wrong thing to say. True, but unhelpful. "I don''t need to rest. I''ll rest Sansa when the Cycle''s gone. I''ll rest when I''m dead for good," he said cuttingly.


    They were quiet after the outburst, and Sansa decided to take different route. "So you''ll just throw me at the Capital then? With not a wisp of preparation?" She told him, feeling dirty with herself at the blatant manipulation.


    Joffrey knew exactly what she was doing, given the way he looked at her. He didn''t deny her words though.


    "Take a break from the madness Joffrey. Take us to¡­ I don''t know, one of the Free Cities, take a life not trying to save the world," she told him. As much as it pained her to leave her family behind to the South and the Cold North, they''d be right by her side the moment she died, their memories blessedly clear of the atrocities that would have happened to them¡­ something Joffrey had seemingly forgotten after lifetimes of struggle.


    Sansa tapped her knees nervously as she thought, trying to convince him to take a bit of time so he could build himself back into wholeness. "Don''t think of it as a waste of time, think of it as a way to instruct me in all I need to know¡­ think of it as a way to make me ready for the trials to come," she said.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, not looking at her.


    "Besides, you told me your knowledge of the West was still spotty two years after wake up¡­ how can we plan accordingly if we don''t know what''s to come before the Walkers?" she reasoned, and she could see the gears clicking inside his head as Joffrey looked at her with interest now that the argument had gone from the personal to the strategic.


    "That¡­ well¡­" he struggled, his hand grasping air as blinked repeatedly, "¡­ Take a life to scout the shape of the world if we did nothing¡­ I''d planned on doing it the other way around, with my changes as the control¡­ a more comprehensive, but not as broad gain of knowledge¡­" he trailed off with a frown, "But all the people-"


    "Will be right here when you wake up, Joffrey. You didn''t try to help them after Renly''s coup in the Red Keep, in fact you said you would take your own life if I wanted all of this to go away, to wake up and remember nothing. This is not all that different from that, if on a much broader scale," she said in a reasonable tone of voice.


    Joffrey stayed silent for a moment, staring hard at the ground before nodding decisively, "Okay, let''s do it," he said suddenly. He tried not to think about the chief driver of that decision, only half supported by Sansa''s arguments. The prospect of just letting it all go, if only for a little while. To live a life devoid of the weight of the world.


    Sansa looked as if she were steeling herself before she asked, matching his eyes.


    "Where do we go, then?" she asked him.


    Joffrey just smiled slightly.


    -: PD :-


    There was something oddly poetic about the occasion, as if the eddies of fate were unable to completely forget the grooves that had been chiseled and forgotten eons ago. It was fitting, Joffrey thought, that Sansa''s request had been voiced by ship and sea, the lull of the waves and the distant squealing of seagulls in his ears.


    "I want to learn how to defend myself," she suddenly broke the silence as they stared at the narrow sea from the bow of the Wispcatcher.


    Joffrey said nothing as he remembered the distant times when a little, scared man-boy had pleaded to a hound for instruction, for the knowledge of steel and death, raw angst in his voice and nightmares in his dreams. He remembered eras long past gone when the boy had boarded a ship and started his journey towards manhood.


    He swiftly snuffed the pang of guilt at the thought of leaving Sandor in King''s Landing. The sworn shield and whatever men the Small Council sent to back him up would waste years of their lives chasing the carefully crafted lie Joffrey had prepared. By all reasonable evidence, shipping logs and eyewitness accounts, Joffrey Baratheon and Sansa Stark had escaped from King''s Landing to Lys, and then to Myr, Pentos, Tyrosh, back to Myr and then finally to Volantis, where they''d lose themselves up the Rhoyne.


    "What happened to the sworn swords and the knights?" he asked idly as he kept looking at the sea.


    "A knight tried to rape me, and my sworn swords were dead or dying," Sansa said in a monotone so harsh that Joffrey felt as if he''d been slapped.


    "Sansa, I''m sorry. That was uncalled for," he apologized quickly as he turned, only to find her staring at the sea as well. She stayed silent as the ship rocked about, sailors cleaning the lower deck behind them as the watchmen called out his readings from an instrument nailed to the main mast.


    "I felt so powerless," she finally whispered, her grip on the wooden railing whitening her knuckles. "No matter what I thought about, no matter how wrong life had suddenly turned, no matter my strength nor my will nor my words¡­ all I could do was be carried about like a sack of wheat," she muttered, her eyes almost lost.


    Joffrey felt his stomach clench as wisps of red stalked the edge of his vision, "I should have been there, I should have-"


    "No," Sansa cut him off abruptly, "You shouldn''t have," she continued as she turned and faced him in full, her red eyes at odds with the stern fa?ade of her face. "I will not be the maiden in distress, waiting for the shining prince," she declared.


    Joffrey stayed silent as the ship rocked about, thinking.


    "Hey, maybe ''shining'' is too strong a word but I can manage a ''steely grey'' I think," he offered with an awkward smile, but Sansa didn''t even react to the joke. She took a step closer to Joffrey, her eyes boring into his, "I won''t be the burden, I won''t stand for it Joffrey. I won''t be the maiden you have to rescue time and again... I told you before I died, that we''d be in this together," she finished with such clarity that Joffrey could only nod slightly.


    "I''ll be the partner, not the maiden," she said before taking a deep breath and letting it out, as if she''d been exhausted by the sheer outpouring of intent.


    "¡­I won''t go easy on you," Joffrey finally said after a long time, probing the steel behind her eyes.


    Sansa huffed as she shook her head, "I used to make fun of Arya all the time, her games with swords and bows¡­ when the time came, at least she managed to slow one of them down¡­ all I could manage was a broken hand," she said bitterly.


    "No one could have expected you to fare better," Joffrey tried consoling her as he placed a hand on her shoulder, only for it to be roughly rebuked.


    "But that''s just it, isn''t it?" she shot back, "I want to be better than what they expect, in every way. Their expectations aren''t going to cut it, not against what you say is to come, not against what I saw, not if we are to win," she said fervently. "So when you say you won''t take it easy on me¡­ I say good riddance!" she spat, "I want better than easy. I want better than good, I want to be-"


    "My partner," Joffrey ended the sentence.


    Sansa nodded silently, and Joffrey let out a breath he hadn''t known he''d been holding.


    Partners, he thought in mixed dread and awe.


    When he spoke he found his voice slightly raw. From fear or excitement, he could not tell.


    "What you first need to understand, is footwork," he said.


    -: PD :-


    The City on the Lagoon seemed strangely uncanny, compared to the last time he''d been here. When he''d visited as part of Captain Nakaro''s crew he''d been taken in by the ancient if vibrant grandeur of the city, its prosperous markets and wide waterways filled to bursting with gondolas and small boats. Now, after decades of travelling the world, his experienced eyes caught the shadowed contours which surrounded the city, the dark mirror which lay beneath first glance, the wisps of something more hidden in plain sight. Braavos had been a city of secrets long before it was a city of trade, and Joffrey was intrigued to find that smell of dealings in the dark in here of all places, with a sophistication that even at a distance he could already tell was to King''s Landing''s what a lion was to mice.


    "It''s so¡­ alive," Sansa said simply, her eyes trawling through the five story buildings surrounding Ragman''s Harbor. Braavos'' open port to the rest of the world, Ragman''s harbor boasted a wild riot of color and sound, thousands of sailmenders, brewers, prostitutes, bakers, ropemakers and more walking about and shouting about their wares at the top of their lungs as stiff necked sailors and porters hauled a seemingly unending supply of goods to and from the armada of eclectic ships which sprawled through the west of the City on the Lagoon. From Swan ships to Pentoshi galleys to Ibbenese whalers and beyond, the cavalcade of ships was as diverse as the people of Ragman''s Harbor.


    "It is, isn''t it?" Joffrey said with a slight smile, their medium sized gondola swaying against gentle waves as they passed under another bridge, making their way deeper into the city. The gondolier didn''t seem to be in a hurry, and the two Westerosi fugitives made use of the time to soak in the atmosphere of the vibrant, if slightly damp city.


    "Mind telling me now where we''re going, Master Jonnel?" Sansa asked him, her face locked in long sufferance.


    "Selya dear, I assure you it shall be splendid!" Joffrey told her, his face threatening to split into an almighty guffaw.


    "You''re enjoying this," Sansa realized with a reprobate smile, and Joffrey had to huff and look away so he could contain his mirth.


    Playing the role of Jonnel Stars, modest merchant of dubious chivalric descent and a man with a lot to prove to the world¡­ well, Sansa was right. He was enjoying it already.


    Sansa for her own part seemed the canvass perfect picture of a landed knight''s daughter bartered off to an iffy ''noble'' merchant with more gold than prestige, her cheeks splashed with cheap powder and her beautiful red hair contained by a modest brooch dotted with a few semi-precious stones.


    She looked older, more weathered somehow¡­ and Joffrey doubted it was all because of the clever disguise.


    The gondolier kept pushing gently with his pole, carrying the gondola deeper into the city, north past Nabbo''s Bridge and into a modestly wealthy neighborhood of two and three story houses which boasted small, interior patios of grey stone.


    "We''re here Master Jonnel," the gondolier told Joffrey in a heavily accented Westerosi. The gondola came to a stop and the man quickly started to tie the boat to the small dock below their new home.


    "Thank you kindly," Joffrey told him in the patois of the Free Cities, stressing a slight Tyroshi accent. He walked out of the gondola before offering a hand to his ''young wife'', gently helping her set her feet on solid ground¡­ or wood at least. He tried not to say anything as Sansa winced after her arm bumped one of the pier''s wooden pillars. He had seen the long stretches of purple color which now ran through her sleeve covered arms, back and chest, and he knew how much they must have hurt her¡­ their month long training regime had been brutal, as Joffrey had promised¡­ and it was quickly becoming apparent Sansa was no natural with a sword.


    She hadn''t said a word of it of course, and Joffrey knew bringing attention to it would just make her angry, so he said nothing as they walked sedately up the wooden stairs, hand in hand as they reached the top of the channel and the small gate to their new property, flanked by other houses similar in height and width. Lady had disembarked last, strutting about as a true noble lady and sniffing the air delicately before sitting attentively by Sansa side as they looked upwards.


    "Behold the Dure House," Joffrey proclaimed proudly as he swept the two storied house, made out of great grey bricks and adorned by modest masonry in the form of small balconies and triton shaped frills.


    Sansa gave him a tentative smile, eyeing their new home with a critical eye, "It looks a bit run down," she noted idly.


    "You don''t like it?" Joffrey asked her with a frown. It did look slightly dilapidated but-


    "Joffrey, its perfect," she said with a snort. "As long as there''s some peace and quiet you could stash us in Wintertown''s flea bitten tavern for all I care," she told him with a fond smile that hid painful memories.


    She missed her family dearly, even the thought of Wintertown making her sigh in a weird mixture of pain and longing. She breathed it in, and then out, just as Joffrey had been teaching her. She would see them again, and they would be all the safer after the knowledge she and Joffrey could extract from this¡­ life.


    The House''s three servants were already waiting for them, the bare minimum of service a modestly successful merchant house could boast of while still being seen as worthy of attention (however slight it may be) inside the City on the Lagoon.


    "Master Jonnel, lady Selya," said the one which stood a step in front of the other two, "My name''s Adaro, head of the Dure House staff," he said with an elegant bow in the Braavosi style. He was an older man of fifty or so namedays, his graying hair still growing strong and framing a small goatee. "To my right is Footman Inneo," he said as he signaled the huge man in a scruffy footman''s garb, who bowed as well, "And to my left, Miss Ferola, our Housemaid," he continued as the plain looking woman by his side curtsied in the Braavosi style as well.


    "A pleasure to meet you all," Joffrey said as he nodded at each member of the staff in turn, "I know of the hard times which have befallen Dure House, and I''m certain that by our combined efforts this house will rise again in splendor and in the esteem of all Braavosi," he said delicately, noting the shadow that briefly passed through Adaro''s eyes. The last tenants of Dure House had been driven to ruin by their loses in the Shivering Sea trade routes, and the Iron Bank had impounded the house and fired most of the staff, leaving only a small skeleton household to keep it from falling into disrepair.


    "You have my assurance and that of the entire household, small as it may currently be, to aid you in your endeavors to the best of our ability," Adaro said formally, with a firm nod.


    "Shall we then?" Sansa asked with an inviting smile. Master Adaro turned about swiftly with another nod, giving orders to the small staff before guiding the pair to the property itself, walking past the small iron gates and the modest patio before reaching the house proper.


    -: PD :-


    "That would be the last of it," said his accountant as the man flipped the last bit of parchment and scribbled a few notes beneath it.


    "Excellent, Vargano," Joffrey told the wiry man before the distant horn of the Titan of Braavos sounded in the distance. "And that''s my signal. Please give my compliments to Captain Thorraro and make sure to buy him and his crew a keg of fine cider," he said as he took his black and grey cloak from the big oak chair and fastened it around his back.


    "I will see to it. Good evening Master Jonnel," Vargano told him with a small bow, one Joffrey returned before making his way downstairs and through the gaggle of scribes and accountants which dotted the building, all either bowing or nodding at his sight, showing their respects to their boss.


    Joffrey snorted quietly after he left through the front door, the immense noise of Ragman''s harbor hitting him like a physical force as hundreds of dockworkers carried out their tasks, punctuated by the cries of fish and oyster merchants plying their trade. The City on the Lagoon never slept, and neither did its merchants and inn keeps.


    Joffrey took the scenic route back to Dure House, taking his time and observing the great manor houses which got bigger and more imposing the more one walked towards the Purple Harbor. Dure House was not quite as distinguished however, and soon the grand sights in the distance were replaced by ''modest'' two and three story houses with wide inner patios and dull grey iron gates, gondolas traversing the lengths of the inner canals without end as the economic powerhouse of Western Essos lived and breathed.


    He arrived at Dure House to an unexpected sight, that of Footman Inneo rushing out of the house with a bucket full of water.


    "What is it Inneo?" Joffrey called out as he tensed, his hand idly touching the long stiletto hidden within the folds of his merchant''s robes.


    The big man barely gave him a look before dumping the water and rushing back inside, "It''s the basement Master Jonnel! It''s flooding heavily!" he called out as he entered the house again.


    Joffrey muttered a curse as he rushed after him, following the dirty footprints that lead to the basement''s staircase. He dashed down to the sight of Adaro and Sansa trying to stack big sacks filled with sand against a long crack in the wall that ran horizontally by a few meters from left to right.


    "Gods, what happened? Sa- Selya! Are you alright?!" Joffrey called out as he took the last step and waded into the flooded room.


    "North wall gave up on us, and don''t you ''alright'' me!" Sansa said with a hint of irritation as she left the sack and looked at him.


    She was getting steadily pricklier about ''being treated like a glass doll'' lately, and Joffrey was at a bit of a loss about that. "North wall¡­ we must be draining water from the channel," he said quickly, avoiding that particular pitfall. Now was not the time.


    "What gave it away? The rancid smell or the waist high water?" Sansa bit back as she heaved another sack and tried placing it over the crack in the wall.


    "Not the smell, can''t scent it over your foul mood," Joffrey said with a small smirk as he rushed the last few meters and grabbed the other end of the sack. They placed it against the wall together, finally stopping the worst of the flow.


    "I think I know now why the price was so good," Joffrey muttered as he beheld the sickly looking wall and the sack covered gash along it.


    "My deepest apologies Master Jonnel, but the architect from the Iron Bank said the structure was sound¡­" Adaro said with all the grace and calm of a man delivered breakfast. "It was on me not to warn you they might have been incorrect in that assessment, or outright dishonest. I will be leaving as soon as this emergency is over," he said with all the aplomb of a knight renouncing his title for a failed oath.


    "Don''t be ridiculous," Sansa told him before he could get a word in edgewise, "We still have use for your service, don''t think you''ll get off the easy way!" she said sharply, her small smile taking the edge off it.


    -.PD.-


    "Poor Inneo is going to keep using that bucket through the whole night," Joffrey mused as the sound of the hard at work footman drew his head towards the door. "I should go help him," he added as he made to stand up, but Sansa''s hand preempted that motion as she grabbed his arm and yanked him back down.


    "Don''t be ridiculous," she echoed her thoughts from back when in the basement, "He''ll be fine," she added. They were both sitting in a long couch, facing the warm fireplace at the center of the small living room, flanked by the ever growing form of sleeping Lady.


    "But he''ll be working right next to us all night while we sit here all nice and warm," he protested. Something was deeply wrong with that notion, he just knew.


    "Yes, and he''s being paid for it. Quite generously I might add, if those books on the Braavosi market conditions have anything to say about it," she shot back as her hand stopped grabbing his arm, hesitantly retreating back to her lap.


    Joffrey said nothing, his face betraying his sullenness¡­ but neither did he stand back up.


    "Servants are not a personal insult to your being, Joffrey," Sansa said after a moment, going to the heart of the matter as was her wont. Joffrey didn''t deign that with an answer, and instead shuffled a bit under the big blanket they were sharing between them, the moonlight outside barely phased by the light rain now pattering against the windows.


    The silence turned more and more awkward as they whiled away their time, and Joffrey found himself assaulted by the urge to say something, anything. It was moments like these that made him supremely uncomfortable, as if the whole room was tilted slightly sideways¡­ the combination of silence and Sansa''s presence always left him nervous. What was she to him? A partner against the apocalypse surely, but¡­ what else? They were masquerading as husband and wife, but he hadn''t even kissed her since that fateful moment in the Crownlands, and he wasn''t sure he''d want to do that again¡­ the mere thought of Nalia swiftly put paid to that notion.


    They''d been betrothed, just one step behind a real marriage in the eyes of the world, but fortunately, there hadn''t been a ceremony nor a bedding¡­ though they had arguably shared a much closer experience during the endless eternity of the Purple, their thoughts briefly one before the world crawled back in time¡­ He''d told her dribs and drabs of his previous lives, and she''d told him stories about Winterfell, but it all felt strange still, like he couldn''t find his footing. And thinking about it made him feel like an idiot and even more uneasy.


    "It would have been a killing offense," he blurted suddenly.


    Sansa had been watching the fire, entranced, before blinking repeatedly and looking at him with a sort of awkward thankfulness. It seemed he hadn''t been the only one ill at ease.


    Of course, his damned mouth had just exchanged one problem for another.


    "What do you mean?" Sansa asked, curious.


    "¡­ Back at the Dawn Fort. Wasting this much wood on a personal fire would have gotten the offending soldier killed. Wood was just too precious," he said idly, looking away as if that was the end of the matter.


    The silence returned once more, but it was Sansa who broke it this time. "Your time with the¡­ the Dawn Legion¡­ you hardly ever speak about it," she observed, not even asking for details.


    "Its¡­ it''s not something I enjoy talking about," he said, his voice clipped as he stared at the fire. "I always get cold just by thinking about it," he said after another long silence.


    He felt Sansa''s hand gently grabbing his under the blanket. He didn''t dare look at her, trying to take his mind off the pervasive cold. "We''d erect great big bonfires during the assaults when the Walkers tried to break the siege¡­ It always felt so unnatural, to see such a blazing fire and barely feel the warmth of it from a few paces away," he said, his mouth moving by its own will.


    He was starting to breath harshly, blinking slowly, "We used them not only for warmth, but to toss in the bodies of the slain as well. Dead comrades giving their living brothers a bit of warmth before they met the same end¡­ perhaps that''s was why the fires felt so cold, no Walker magic needed," he trailed off when he realized he was shaking, the cold burrowing deeply into his bones despite the sturdy couch at his back and the blanket atop.


    He was startled when he felt a core of warmth by his side, and turned his head to find Sansa leaning on him, still holding his hand. She seemed to be looking at his face, indecision warring in her eyes before she leaned closer, hugging him with both arms and snuggling against his chest, her red mane spilling all over his chest.


    "Sansa-"


    "Shush. We can take turns being stronger," she whispered, and Joffrey felt the unease melting away almost against his will. He feared what he''d find underneath it.


    In the end, whatever the thing was, it was warm and quite nice he decided, some indescribable stiffness leaving his body as he relaxed slightly, minutely, against the weight of Sansa. She shuffled lightly as he embraced her in turn, pulling their blanket up and covering them both.


    -: PD :-


    Their life on Braavos quickly turned routine as the months came and went. Joffrey left every other day for work at his small shipping business, using the dragons he had stolen from the Red Keep to exercise some of his rusty trader skills. He was modestly successful in his endeavor, and his success was in no small part due to Sansa herself. She played her part perfectly, organizing small dinners or balls at the Dure House, expanding their paltry influence and establishing a few modest contacts of her own amongst the wives of other merchants similar in prestige as ''Jonnel Stars'', grandson of a merchant who had been allegedly knighted by one of the Blackfyres. Perhaps her success at playing the role was due to how similar it was to that of a Westerosi Lady, when you replaced the trappings of nobility for that of wealth and standing, a task which had been expected of her since her birth¡­


    Or perhaps it was due to her frankly zealous appetite for books.


    Unlike Joffrey, Sansa took a special joy in reading all manner of things for a long, long time. Where Joffrey got impatient and his mind forcibly took him out of the text, Sansa was able to keep on going for hours and hours without end.


    "I have to catch up," she''d simply told him when he''d asked about it, one early morning when he''d left his room to find her in their small library, leafing through a tome on the lives and intrigues of several notorious Braavosi Sealords now long since dead.


    "Catch up? Sansa there''s nothing to catch up," he''d told her, but she''d just frowned as she looked up to him.


    "There''s everything to catch up Joffrey. I told you we''d be partners¡­ how can I be¡­ how can I be your Queen-" she''d said with a hint of steel in her voice, steel and trepidation and a glimmer of proud half understood ambition, "-if I don''t understand half your plans? New tax laws and trade routes, great works of engineering somehow powered by the Blackwater, armies and roads and granaries and the dangers of court," she''d said in a rush, "You tell me of these things but I don''t understand them."


    "Each of us has strengths and weaknesses Sansa, we''ll make it work," he''d told her, but that had clearly been the wrong thing to say, her stare piercing him like a sharp rapier.


    "Yes Joffrey, and my strength is clearly not to be found in arms and armor," she''d told him with a pained wince. By then Joffrey had given up on the sword and had started teaching her the basics of daggers and crossbows, hoping to find better luck there. "Not a doll Joffrey, partners," she''d repeated forcefully, the phrase becoming some sort of mantra that propelled her through both sleepless nights illuminated by candlelight or long bouts of training in the inner patio, away from prying eyes.


    What could he have possibly said to that?


    And so the months passed, a whole year even and more as the news coming from Westeros became more and more contradictory and the War of the Four Kings took off. Joffrey held her tight when Sansa heard about Ned, about the way he had boldly declared his allegiance for King Stannis in front of Baelor''s Sept and half of King''s Landing¡­ and gotten his head lopped off for his troubles. She''d cried for a whole day, the words to sooth her dissipating like wind every time Joffrey tried to say them, and so he could only hold her and try to be as strong for her as she''d been for him.


    The next day he found her in the inner patio, her training armor strapped on tight and her form moving through the stamina exercises he''d taught her with a will.


    "Teach me something new Joffrey, anything," she practically begged him in a tone he knew all too well. He''d heard it within himself when he''d begged the Hound to beat him to a pulp, take his mind elsewhere from a particularly horrible life.


    "Okay," he told her simply, knowing that engaging her in further conversation would just make her even sadder. The inner patio was ten meters wide from side to side, surrounded by the walls of Dure House and its many unused servant and guest quarters, providing a safe harbor for their regular exercises which would have surely aroused the interest (and disrespect) of the Braavosi elite, if they had known. Fortunately enough, the walls were thick and the servants tight lipped.


    Joffrey walked to the makeshift armory he''d been assembling over the year and picked a pair of heavy Ibbenese spears with blunted tips. He decided he''d give Sansa exactly what she wanted, and outright needed. "Alright ''Selys''!" he called out as he threw the spear at her from one moment to the next. He was surprised though when she grabbed it perfectly, feeling it in her hands for bit and testing its weight and reached.


    Joffrey shook his head before he twirled his own spear lightly, showing Sansa a few basic moves. "Reach is a fundamental aspect of spear fighting, both its use for attack and defense. You should always dictate the range of the engagement. Spears shine at long range, but this does not mean that a competent spearman cannot forego said advantage if the situation demands it. In fact, the masters of the craft regularly like to narrow down the range where daggers would be more effective, to surprise their opponents or lock them in a variety of grapples which make use of the spear''s shaft and two handed grip," he explained as he demonstrated, slamming into as training dummy with a flurry of precise stabs before spinning and grappling it from behind, using the shaft as a bar to lock the cloth arms of the dummy and leaving it pinned, ready for a trip down or a toss and a follow up finisher. Sansa''s eyes followed him avidly, taking in every single movement.


    "Now, this here is the Ibbigen: the basic, powerful stab upon which a great many movements of this particular fighting style are built upon," he said, demonstrating repeatedly. "Try in on me first, I''ll parry the blo-ought--" he stuttered when Sansa braced the spear in her hands and delivered a perfect, forceful thrust right into his belly without a word of warning.


    "Joffrey!" she screeched as she dropped the spear and kneeled by his side, not quite knowing what to do as Joffrey held his belly with both hands, trying to breathe. "Thaht¡­ that was pretty good actually," he managed in between gasps, a small smile forming on his lips as he sat up with her help.


    "You¡­ you really think so?" she asked quickly as she made sure he was not hurt, dusting a bit of dirt out of his shirt.


    "Yeah, you should try it again," he said with a wide smile. He was never going to bring Sansa anywhere close to a battlefield, but her getting better at some sort of weapon, any weapon, would surely help bridge that gap she felt all too keenly between themselves. For all that Sansa talked about his own lack of self-esteem, she seemed all to blind to the way she kept thinking herself the lesser just because he''d spent lifetimes perfecting a great many deal of different skills.


    "Better do it with the dummy this time though," he added quickly as she grabbed the spear from the ground with a determined glint in her eyes and a budding smile in her face.


    ¡­ He briefly wondered if he was going to regret this.


    -: PD :-


    The soiree at the Hollwyn''s manor made Joffrey feel vaguely inadequate, as if he were play acting instead of¡­ well, he was actually play acting wasn''t he?


    "What''s so funny?" Sansa asked with a lopsided smile as she led him to the upper courtyard, their arms held firmly as they nodded courteously at the other couples in the ballroom, either heading deeper inside for a dance or retreating to discuss business¡­ or pleasure. Master Hollwyn''s soirees were famous, or rather infamous, for the deeds one could witness in the many private chambers that filled the manor.


    Joffrey''s mind drifted to what he''d do if Sansa turned right towards the private chambers instead of left towards the terrace, then swiftly shook his head as feelings better kept buried tried to claw out of his belly. S?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "I feel like a child play acting," he said when he realized he''d drifted off, still being guided by Sansa''s confident but sedate stride. She''d been gaining greater confidence in these types of events throughout the year and a half of their stay in Braavos.


    "Well, technically you are a merchant, no acting there," she said as they reached the opened air terrace. They walked through the moonlit cobblestones towards the nearby railing, their elbows locked together as they ascended through periodical groups of steps.


    "¡­ You forgot the child part," Joffrey observed as they reached the railing and leaned on it, the sight of Braavos in all its glory bare for the eyes to see. Velyio Hollwyn had constructed his manor in a little island almost in the middle of Braavos'' inner lake, between the Long Canal and the Canal of Heroes. You could reach the Palace of Truth by gondola in less than five minutes from here, and the many street lanterns and house lights of the inner districts surrounded the lake, reflecting their light upon it.


    Sansa said nothing, an impish smile slowly overtaking her features.


    "Selys?" Joffrey asked in mock hurt.


    "Well Jonnel, you can be a tad childish at times," she said airily as she broke off from his grasp and turned to look back to the terrace.


    "Me? Childish? I''ll have you know that I am the most un-childish man to ever walk amongst man or child, be ready or not, tis'' me you won''t expect!" he delivered with a grave voice and a theatrical flourish.


    "Will you ever stop reciting that line?" Sansa scolded him with a smile of fond irritation.


    "''For ''tis I, Vellamo! The Man! The Legend! The Myth himself!" Joffrey spoke in a crescendo, ignoring the looks being sent his way and enjoying the red in Sansa''s cheeks.


    "Of all the plays we''ve seen that''s the one that stuck to you the most?" she asked with a disbelieving tilt of her head.


    "You simply lack an appreciation for fine art dear," Joffrey told her as she looked at her lips, Sansa tilting her head a bit more and making his neck tickle as the tips of her hair prickled it¡­ trying to make him do something foolish.


    Maybe we''ve been hitting the wine too hard, Joffrey thought as Sansa giggled slightly. The damned Braavosi drank it like fruit juice. It tasted like fruit juice as well, making accurate measurement of ones consumption¡­ irregular.


    Highly irregular, he thought happily as he leaned forward before a deep voice startled him out of the haze.


    "Is that ''Vellamo and the Three Swords'' I hear?!" boomed the voice as a short man of great weight and girth almost crashed against them. The man had a great beard which seemed to make up for the bald spot at the top of his head, and his magnificently dyed, lustrous brown robes seemed to almost glow against the moonlight. The two obvious courtesans by each arm giggled genuinely enough to Joffrey''s ear, but that was hardly unexpected after all¡­ the bastard was too damned likeable by half.


    "Ah, I see you are a man of taste and culture," Joffrey said with a deeply exaggerated bow that managed to hide his mixed relief and rage at the interruption.


    "It takes one to know one, eh?" the man said as he bowed too. Unfortunately for him, he seemed to be even more inebriated than Joffrey, given the way his balance deserted him and he ended up stuck against the railing, between him and Sansa. His pudgy hands tried for a grip so he could lift himself up, but they proved inadequate for the task at hand.


    "Ladies, a little help here yes?" he called out, and the two courtesans pulled him back upright with a fond smile, where he swayed for a moment before planting a surprisingly delicate kiss on each of them. "What would I be without you?" he asked them gratefully.


    "Richer," the two of them deadpanned at the same time, causing the man to laugh uproariously.


    Joffrey couldn''t help but laugh as well, "Lazono you old goat, I thought a whale had finally eaten you and your ship," he told the man. Sansa was smiling fondly as Lazono looked outright affronted, "Me? Done in by a whale?! I''d accept nothing less than a leviathan, and a fat one at that!" he declared for all to hear.


    Lazono Parhaan was a glob of spit in the face of every Lorathi stereotype ever. Loud spoken, genial, gregarious, and surprisingly gentle in private. One thing he shared with his fellow countrymen however was the fact that he made a great friend¡­ and a terrible enemy. Few could hold a grudge like a Lorathi, and Lazono had been sharpening his for well over a decade.


    "What news from White Harbor, master Lazono?" Sansa asked him, leaning avidly and hoping for news from the homeland. The pudgy Lorathi frequently visited the city, plying the Shivering Sea trade routes. That in fact had been the initial reason Joffrey had approached him: as a regular source of information about the North.


    "A lot of waffling and quite a bit of inane panic," he said. "The Ironborn are scouring the North''s western shores, and half the dimwits that pass as merchants in Westeros are convinced the Maderlys are going to draft the lot of them and sail around the continent to face reavers around Ironman''s Bay," he added as he shook his head slightly, drifting towards the neck of one of the two courtesans which seemed to always follow him whenever he was in Braavos.


    "What has Lord Stark done?" Joffrey asked him.


    "He sent a force back North to retake the fallen castles of the western shores, but everybody agrees his position is tenuous. They were badly bloodied after the Battle of the Blackwater, and it is said King Stannis is holding court at Riverrun and needing every single warm body to hold off the combined forces of the Lannisters and the Tyrells," he said as he tilted his head left and right. "There''s another matter I wanted to discuss with you though," he added after a moment.


    Joffrey looked at Sansa, and at her slight nod he turned back to Lazono. Further news from Westeros would have to wait.


    "Lead the way, please," Joffrey told him as the two courtesans left without a word and Lazono walked by the edge of the terrace, leaning with one hand on the railing, his equilibrium modestly improved as he turned to business. Sudden important news had a way of draining one''s tipsiness.


    This is the true heart of the Braavosi ''court''. Soirees and dealings in the dark, for good or ill, he thought as he followed by his side, holding Sansa again by their elbows as they sedately made their way from the bustle¡­ and ears, of the other guests.


    "That dog Marelos is on the move again," Lazono told them both with a scowl of barely restrained anger, his features darkening instantly.


    "He''s active again? I thought he''d burned his bridges after what happened to the Dure''s and the Faeoris''?" asked Joffrey, slightly alarmed. That had been before his time, but he knew about the infamous Merchant Prince all the same.


    "He''s been rebuilding," Lazono said curtly, his gimlet eye looking down the railing for any sign of a hanging spy.


    "Oh no¡­" Sansa whispered as she looked down, "I''ve been hearing rumors of a ''secret'' patron gifting fine Yi-Tish art and porcelain to certain parts of the upper aristocracy for weeks now¡­ Oniras, Mophira, Sorreris¡­ all families that were either neutral during his attempted takeover of the Shivering Sea trade routes, or at least uninterested about it¡­ and the man does have a penchant for fine Yi-Tish art. It must be him," Sansa said with growing certainty.


    Lazono turned to Sansa with a respectful expression on his face before nodding curtly in acknowledgment, "Hadn''t heard about that. It does confirm my hypothesis though, Marelos Hartios is back in on his old ambition, and he won''t rest until he has a stranglehold on the Shivering Sea so hard as to make a Kraken green with envy¡­" he trailed off darkly.


    Marelos Hartios was a pretty hated, if influential, merchant prince of Braavos. He was infamous for trying to lock the Shivering Sea trade routes under his thumb not once, but two times in the last ten years. His first failure had been due primarily to a lack of ships and gold, but even that had been enough to drive many of his competitors to ruin, and sometimes even suicide. One such man had been Lazono Parhaan''s cousin.


    "This bodes ill, if he''s buttering up those three families then he''ll have the Sealord checked and unable to move against him, not without hard evidence of wrong doing," said Joffrey. The only reason Marelos failed in his second bid, four years later, was because of his success. He''d overextended himself when he''d basically dismantled the Faeoris family''s entire enterprise by bribing the Dyemaker''s guild to stop production for a full week, inserting a fatal delay into their desperate efforts to stave off bankruptcy by carrying out a dangerously risky (if lucrative) contract with Ibb. When they could not deliver the order, they''d had no choice but to sell to Marelos. Something similar happened to the Dure''s, the previous occupants of the very same house he now inhabited with Sansa¡­


    But that had been a step too far, even for him. Marelos had been forced to sell parts of his ill-gotten gains back to the Braavosi elite or the open market, to stave off the wrath of the Sealord. The elected leader of Braavos frowned on the trivial destruction of Braavosi Merchant Houses, especially ones which had also been Keyholders, like the Faeoris''¡­ and especially if the one doing the destroying kept bloating in power. This was no Pentos, where one supremely powerful Magister could force the entire city to follow his whims, and in trying to emulate that Marelos had summoned the unrestrained attentions of the Sealord himself.


    Sansa turned to look at Joffrey with a troubled expression as all three of them kept walking and their tones descended into whispers, "It''s only a matter of time until he moves against the smaller houses plying the route. With the Sealord held in check he''ll be able to pick off the small fish one by one¡­ starting by the bigger of them, Master Lazono," she murmured as she looked back to the Lorathi.


    "And when I''m gone, the dog will surely come after the both of you. The Stars Trading House has achieved surprising success in the year and a half it''s been here, he won''t ignore you after he''s achieved a dominant position," Lazono told them, grim.


    Joffrey''s mind was already whirling. Marelos could not be allowed to succeed, lest he drive all he and Sansa had sought to achieve in this life to dust. Their contacts and relations were centered on Westerosi trade, not a spy network per se but an informational one nonetheless¡­ one who was already proving its worth by providing accurate details on troop movements, actual mobilization rates, and economical information about all of Westeros'' five big cities and their surroundings¡­ information that would be vital when the time came to wield the Seven Kingdoms like a fine rapier against the darkness. Almost all of it though was paid through the Stars Trading House''s profitable exploitation of the Shivering Seas trade route, exchanging iron, furs, bones, gemstones, and dyes along the Ibb-Morosh-Lorath-Braavos-White Harbor axis.


    "If you didn''t know about Marelos'' bribing of the important families around the Sealord, how did you know he was active again?" Sansa asked him suddenly.


    "Because he''s already struck. Tregidos Sanatis has been all but been driven to ruin. The news from Lorath reached me yesterday," said Lazono with a clipped tone.


    "The Sanatis?" Joffrey asked, agape.


    "The very same. He''s bound to return to Braavos in the coming weeks and sell whatever remains of his ventures to Marelos himself¡­ and then his rate of growth will be almost exponential," Lazono said as he scowled.


    "Fuck¡­" Joffrey whispered with feeling, feeling as if news about the loss of a full Patrol to the Beyond had just reached him.


    "What will you do?" Sansa asked the man as they stopped by the railing again, this time facing a different part of Braavos and its sea of tiny lights.


    "Batten down the hatches, secure my suppliers as ably as I can¡­ I recommend you to do the same," he said ominously.


    Joffrey was frowning though. He was sick of sieges and last stands, and he was damned if a self-important merchant was going to ruin all his carefully prepared work.


    Besides, I like it here, he thought as his eyes drifted to Sansa''s.


    -: PD :-


    They returned quickly back to Dure House after that, and spend most of the rest of the night discussing what to do.


    "You can''t just murder him Joffrey," Sansa said for the fifth time, exasperated.


    "It does have a way of making things less complicated," Joffrey protested, but his soul was not into it.


    "And making a lot of other things infinitely more so," she said with a great shrug. "Killing him would just leave his wealth and influence with his son, who''s cut from the same piece of fabric if what Lewylla told me is true, which I believe to be."


    "Then we kill him too!" Joffrey said brightly, half joking, half serious.


    "And then the Braavosi aristocracy devours itself in a war of hired killers. At least it''ll make the Faceless Men happy," she said with a pout.


    Joffrey laughed lightly, he did adore those pouts¡­ though the mood soon turned serious again as the silence reigned. They were back in the small living room, which had turned into a war room of sorts as it quickly became filled with records, nautical charts, and names connected by pieces of wool.


    "What do you propose then?" he asked her, feeling a bit out of sorts with the whole intrigue this was developing into.


    Sansa walked thoughtfully from one end of the room to the other, frowning. "What if we made a united front with the other, smaller merchant houses of the Shivering Sea routes? Acting as a block we''d be a force much better able to resist Marelos, right?" she asked him.


    "Wouldn''t work, there''s too much enmity between them all," Joffrey said as he shook his head, his back relaxed against the big oaken chair.


    "There was a lot of enmity between the Oniras'', the Mophira''s and the Sorreris'' too, and Marelos managed to bind them to his cause. Compared to them our little squabbles seem as over breadcrumbs instead of Iron Marks," she reasoned.


    "And all the more petty for it," Joffrey sighed as he shook his head. "I suppose we could do it, especially as we''re relatively new and therefor a clean break from the old enmities¡­ but we''d be entering his playground. Bribes, flattery, veiled threats. We don''t mix well with intrigue," he said with a lopsided smile.


    "¡­ You don''t mix well with intrigue, I on the other hand¡­" Sansa trailed off with a raised eyebrow.


    "I''ll admit, you''re already better at this than I am¡­ but Sansa, this is in a whole different league of trouble," said Joffrey, his voice turning more vehement by the word. "This won''t be the circles of petty merchant family heads and wifely gossip. We''ll- you''ll be going against people who have been doing this their whole lives and whose resources dwarf our own. Soirees and masquerades where a single wrong word could spell doom on our efforts," he told her.


    Sansa stayed silent for a moment, stopping her constant walking to stare at the fireplace.


    "What of King''s Landing Joffrey?" she almost whispered. "What of what you called ''The Game of Thrones''?" she asked.


    Joffrey said nothing as she turned to look at him, "How can I help you win the Seven Kingdoms if I don''t even dare to step into the intrigues of a single city?" her question pierced him, her eyes boring into his. "Do you trust me?" she suddenly asked.


    "Yes," Joffrey said immediately.


    "Then help me put an end to the bastard," Sansa said as she walked to him and sat on the chair opposite to him, her hands holding his.


    She wants to prove herself, he suddenly realized.


    "This¡­ It''s training for you. You want to spar with Marelos¡­" he said, not a question but a statement.


    Sansa looked at him seriously, her eyes hard. "By all accounts, my Father has had his head c-chopped off quite a few times now," she blurted, her eyes shining unexpectedly under the light of the fireplace as she looked away.


    She blinked off the tears before looking back to Joffrey, "I''d like for that to stop," she said.


    "I want to stop it," she said defiantly.


    They kept staring at each other after that, as if the weight behind the simple words was still settling within.


    Partners, thought Joffrey, before nodding slightly.


    -: PD :-


    Afterwards, when the last of the crazed brainstorming was over and the night turned heavy, Joffrey hesitated at the door to his room.


    "Sansa," he said suddenly, turning around. She seemed almost startled, all the way across the corridor and already inside her room, her face visible through her half closed door.


    "Yes, Joffrey?" she asked with a tentative voice, her eyes searching and nervous.


    Joffrey looked at her, framed by the long braid of red hair that peeked between the door and the wall, her vivid blue eyes holding his.


    He breathed deeply before smiling painfully, "Good night, Sansa," he told her.


    "Good night, Joffrey," she said, her voice indecipherable as she slowly closed the door to her room.


    -: PD :-


    ---------


    ----


    Spoiler: AN


    AN: Fought a war against Author Burnout for this one. After quite a bit of literal introspection, trying to find out why I kept getting bored looking at my monitor and why writing about this fic seemed to make me drowsy, I realized I didn''t want to write about yet another King''s Landing loop. Sure, the narrative kind of demanded it, going elsewhere means opening the dreaded Original Character Toybox, and people have repeatedly asked for more Westeros... but it felt so boring. A slow crawl as Sansa slowly tests her mettle in the regurgitated pit of the First and Second Year of King''s Landing... bleaargh. I wanted something different for the next loop, and why not a Trader-Intrigue loop in Braavos? I don''t think my intrigue will match up to my combat in writing terms, but at least it''s given me a boost in motivation, so that''s something right?


    I hope the chapter was more or less worth the wait, between the burnout and the damned chore that is university finding the time to write has been difficult.

 Art Omake: Jonnel & Selya.

    aurus said:Snip


    Click to expand...


    Click to shrink...


    You have no idea how much I loved this chapter!


    Shit I have no idea either! Since I can not explain with words, I''ll draw:


    ´óº½º£•r´ú - Purple edition!


    Spoiler: Click here to see something . . . FUCKYEAH!


    suggested track:


    It''s sooo cool! I mean, Swords and magic are ok BUT DAMN MAN Trading Guild Stuff! Oh boy! Administration! Accounts! Cash Flow! Trading Rights! Statistics! Mercantilism!! Tally HO! So epic!


    Ah, and also the occasional Pirates, saboteurs and arsonists as expected of baurus sama!


    I love the fact that you too is saturated of Kings Landing! Braavos is so better to train Sansa into the path of awesomeness.


    Guess my favorite book? The Prince, from Niccolo Fucking Machiavelli


    Shit! i even once tried to code a retro game In the "merchant prince" genre. With trading game/base building/Hammurabi


    Spoiler: "The prince of Kaliport"


    This was the opening scene with the dancing flag


    Kalisport after unlocking all buildings.


    Winter is coming! (Autum)


    Chilly town S~?a??h the N?velF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Spring Break Thank you sim city for the color trick!


    Plenty of Characters to interact!!


    Uh. Sofie kind of reminds me Sansa...


    Battleshield said:


    Ancient Squid People: The call was answer by Spacebattles Creative Writing Fourm... What is Spacebattles?


    Click to expand...


    Click to shrink...


    Uh. Now I want a Thread dedicated to the Spacebattles ASoIaF Expanded Universe!

 Chapter 42: Masks, part one.

    Chapter 42: Masks, part one.Convincing the other petty merchant houses to unite against Marelos would be a task in and of itself. The question was not whether an organized resistance movement was a good idea, everyone could see the writing on the wall. The question was whether such a front could be strong enough to resist him. Many houses would prefer to prematurely sell him their ventures over the Shivering Sea before being forced to hand them over anyway, only at a sixth of their real value and with a ton of debt besides. Others were evaluating the possibility of moving to greener pastures, or less freezing seas as the case may be. Why die in the Shivering Sea when one could make a decent living in the safer, although more crowded, routes of the Narrow Sea?


    If the Stars Merchant House was to lead a coalition against Marelos, then it would have to be the strongest House of all participants¡­ in other words, they had to show themselves strong, strong and committed.


    Their close ties to Lazono Parhaan''s trading ventures in Lorath and White Harbor were thus deepened¡­ the man had been all too enthusiastic about the possibility of finally avenging his dead cousin, driven to ruin and suicide ten years ago when Marelos first tried to take over.


    Joffrey had run the numbers though, and it would still not be enough. They needed more assets, and more importantly, they needed to appear completely committed to the cause. They needed to be completely committed to the Shivering Sea, so as to make it impossible for them to survive a Marelos victory as a merchant house.


    To that end, Sansa had the brilliant idea to get to Tregidos Sanatis before Marelos could finish him off. Tregidos had been a relatively big player in the northern routes, but the man had seemed more ghost than mortal when they''d met him. Driven off by a combination of hostile takeovers, supplier acquisitions, and bribes, Marelos had ripped the heart out of Tregidos'' trading concern. He was the man whose fall had tipped off Lazono about the return of Marelos Hartios and his old ambitions in the first place, and he''d reached Braavos a week after the soiree at the Hollwyn''s. Everyone had expected him to just sell what was left of his ships and holdings to Marelos¡­ after all, the Iron Bank was calling its debts and the only one buying anything even related to the northern routes at the moment was Marelos himself.


    Which was why the bastard had been so surprised to find out Tregidos'' debt had been paid off, his holdings incorporated into House Stars. Once Sansa had carefully and quietly broached the matter, first through a ''chance'' meeting with the man''s wife at the Purple Harbor, and then through his son, Master Tregidos had been all too willing to sell them everything in exchange for a steady, expensive salary and the promise of seeing Malerios'' face when it all finally fell on him.


    House Stars'' fate was now directly interwoven to the Shivering Sea trade routes, its separation certain annihilation instead of the mere catastrophe it would have been before the merger. With Tregidos'' advise, contacts and the dregs of his former trading empire, plus the their strong ties with House Parhaan, House Stars began to be courted by all the smaller merchant houses with substantial interests in the Shivering Sea.


    Sansa had forced Joffrey to temporarily expand the house staff considerably, to his dismay. It left a slight, bad taste in his mouth to see the freewheeling maids and footmen, the rows of servants shuffling about and serving the many guests of tonight''s soiree¡­


    "That''s Tycho Innarinos and his wife," Sansa whispered in his ear, drawing him out of his thoughts and bringing him back to the veritable event that had seen Dure House transformed into one big dancing and feasting hall.


    "Innarinos¡­ They hold about a fifth of the Clammer''s camps in the north eastern peninsula," Joffrey recited as he frowned. He was familiar with a lot of Braavos'' productive industries, even enjoying good relations with a few of them, but he was still a bit confused by Tycho''s presence here.


    "What are they doing here though?" he asked Sansa. They didn''t have any ships at all, and their main costumer was Gulltown, quite aways from the Shivering Sea.


    "I told Master Tycho that with complete control of the Northern routes, Marelos would have a near monopoly on Ibbenese clams. What would stop him from, say, dumping the price of his pearls until Tycho wouldn''t be able to compete?" she said sweetly.


    "Ah," Joffrey said approvingly, "So that''s the reason you absconded with the man for a full half hour back in Lazono''s feast last week," Joffrey commented airily, "I admit I was getting a bit worried about what you two had been up to," he teased her with an expression of mocking credulity.


    Master Tycho had more than seventy years to his name, after all.


    "Worried? Or jealous?" she whispered as she leaned her head sideways, exposing her long, white neck. The move wouldn''t have been out of place if she were a confident courtesan, but the blush in her cheeks and the quick blinking betrayed Sansa''s nervousness.


    "Definitively jealous," Joffrey said as he closed the quarter step that separated them and he leaned on her.


    Thinks she''s the only one that can play that game eh? Joffrey thought as Sansa closed her eyes slightly.


    "Very jealous," he whispered in her ear, savoring the way she slowly let the air out of her lungs, as if she were out of breath.


    "We should focus," she said, looking away.


    "¡­Yeah, we should," Joffrey responded, suddenly feeling vaguely nauseous with himself.


    "Th-that''s Draqyrio Vynerys and his wife, Teyia. They own a dozen cogs and primarily trade iron for furs in Morosh," Sansa told him as she aimed her head towards the man that was walking towards them, a superbly dressed woman by his side. "We need to be careful with him, he''s been meeting Marelos'' representatives all week. He''s proud and quite prickly from what I''ve heard, so handle him with care," she added quickly as the man and his companion reached them.


    "Master Jonnel, lady Selya," nodded the stern faced, slightly overweight man.


    "Thank you for the invitation," added Teyia Vynerys, her fine dress of white furs clashing with the sapphires and jades of her husband''s grey attire.


    "The pleasure is ours," Joffrey said with a nod. "How fares your luck in the high seas, Master Draqyrio?" he asked the man.


    "No such thing as luck, merely skill and opposition," he said cuttingly, his severe eyes narrowing.


    "Of course," Joffrey agreed with an annoyed smile, "Has the skill of your clients made your ventures difficult, then?" he asked him.


    "Yes," said Draqyrio, shaking his head very slowly, "The war in Westeros has left the smiths and iron miners of White Harbor permanently employed to House Manderly for the foreseeable future. My Moroshi clients are starting to look for other sources of weaponry," he said sourly.


    Joffrey tilted his head, sensing opportunity, "House Stars would of course be more than happy to temporarily make our stocks of steel ingots available-"


    "I do not need nor did I ask for your steel stores, Master Jonnel," the man cut him off.


    Joffrey took a breath of fresh air as he looked at the man, "Apologies, I merely thought-"


    "That we were in need of charity? You thought wrongly, Master Jonnel," the man cut him off again as his wife looked on in hidden exasperation.


    What is wrong with this man?! Joffrey thought as he raised his chin, "Dire must be your straits if you thought me a purveyor of charity Master Draqyrio. It would seem your situation betrays you," Joffrey told him with a small, lopsided smile, enjoying the flinch in his eyes.


    "And I think your manners-" Draqyrio''s voice was starting to rise in intensity when Sansa suddenly cut him off before things could escalate further.


    "Please forgive my husband, he''s just envious of your wares. He doesn''t quite know how to get you to part from them," Sansa interjected quickly as she placed a hand on Draqyrio''s arm. "Your lady wife looks splendid in them, after all," she added, guiding Draqyrio''s eyes with her own towards his wife.


    "Thank you dear Selya," said Tayia with a grateful smile, moving her shoulder slightly and showing off the beautiful, pristine white furs occasionally interposed by smallish black spots.


    "Jonnel has been trying to get me one of those for quite a while," Sansa said as she looked at Joffrey meaningfully.


    "Indeed I have," said Joffrey, following Sansa''s lead but hesitating when she kept looking at him. It was clear she''d deigned his answer insufficient for the situation at hand.


    He struggled for something else to say during a half second before nodding again, "The thought of my lady wife in such pelts does sometimes keep me awake at night," he said seriously.


    There was an eerie silence for a full two seconds before lady Teyia erupted in laughter, giggling like a little girl as Sansa turned red from chin to forehead. Even Draqyrio seemed amused, the corner of his mouth rising slightly.


    It was Joffrey''s turn to feel his face throbbing red as he realized what he''d said and Sansa laughed slightly. "Ah, to be so young again," said lady Tayia with a nostalgic smile, holding on to Draqyrio''s arm.


    "So you see, Master Draqyrio? My husband was only trying to get ahold of a few of those," Sansa improvised, somehow keeping the flush out of her voice as the man nodded in understanding.


    "A delicate matter," Joffrey added, still serious.


    "So I see," said Draqyrio, still slightly off balance. His wife was holding his arm a bit more tightly now, her smile altogether mischievous, and he could see from the corner of his eye how Sansa gestured at a nearby servant. "I would of course be willing to provide a few specimens for your lady wife''s perusal," finally added Draqyrio.


    "I would be most grateful," Joffrey told him with a nod.


    "Wine? I badgered my husband for this vintage day and night," Sansa said as the servant carrying a tray with filled cups reached them.


    "Saathian grapefruits?" Draqyrio asked after he took a sip from one, surprised.


    "Indeed! Do you like them?" Sansa asked, surprised.


    Joffrey at least would have been completely fooled by her surprise, if he did not know Sansa had researched the Vynerys'' thoroughly for the past week.


    "I''ll admit to acquiring the taste in my youth, mostly because there was a lack of anything else to drink in Morosh," said Draqyrio, his smile a little bigger now. Tayia also tasted the vintage, smiling to herself as if it were a private joke.


    Joffrey sipped the wine gently. It had a strong aftertaste and a fruity aroma, and he found he rather liked it, to his surprise.


    "I must thank you again for those pelts," Joffrey told the prickly man as he sipped the wine that Sansa had supposedly been ''badgering'' him about. "Please allow me to return the favor. I know a man in White Harbor who represents the interests of the more outlaying mines," he added tentatively. He''d been struggling to find common ground, and the man detested what he saw as ''charity'' even if it would keep him out of the claws of Marelos¡­. But perhaps favor trading was a different matter?


    Draqyrio looked on the verge of interrupting, but Joffrey ploughed on, "I can''t promise anything but a good word you understand, but he may be able to help with your supply woes for a modest markup," he said as if it were nothing too onerous.


    "Markup or not, finding another honest source of iron nearby would be appreciated," Draqyrio said politely, a glint in his eyes.


    "Ah, and there are the Gowyns," Sansa said suddenly, "A thousand apologies Master Draqyrio, lady Teyia," she said regretfully, to the nod of Draqyrio and the brilliant smile of Teyia.


    Sansa guided him away from the couple, and she couldn''t withhold herself for long.


    "Pelts Joffrey? Seriously?" she said from the corner of her mouth, exasperated.


    "Hey, it did work," Joffrey told her with a brilliant smile. "Besides, they''d suit you," he added glibly.


    "Thank you," she told him as they sorted through the soiree, greeting couples and directing the odd servant. "Must you be so impatient though? The way you handled Draqyrio at first was just sad," she scolded him.


    "I lost my patience to stupidity a long time ago Sansa. Being prickly and rejecting a helping hand was not going to help him survive Marelos," he said with a shrug.


    "That''s your problem with these things, you lack patience," she told him as she guided him towards their next target.


    "Worried they might think of us barbarians?" he asked her.


    "We''re Westerosi. We''re already barbarians, my dear husband," she corrected.


    "Glad you''re understanding the Braavosi mindset," Joffrey told her with a snort.


    They made their pleasantries with a few of the others guests, probing and forming the beginnings of a group capable of standing up to Marelos. S?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "It did work in the end, didn''t it?" Joffrey said as they cleared another group, shrugging with his eyebrows.


    Sansa laughed before shaking her head, "Yes, yes it did. We make a good team," she said.


    "We do," he said with a fond smile.


    -: PD :-


    And so from soiree to soiree, from feast to feast and from meeting to meeting, what some had already began to call the ''Shivering Sea Consortium'' was formed. Sansa had been right about one thing, he didn''t have the patience to deal with many of what he thought of as fools and idiots.


    She did, though. Her budding skill in the arts of the courtier came as a blessing to Joffrey, who could strike after she''d charmed them with ten times more effectiveness. Once she roped them in, he dazzled them with his detailed charts and reports, showing off his not inconsiderable skill at mercantilism, as Sansa whispered about the evils of Marelos to their ears.


    They spent the rest of the year like that, building the coalition to stand up to the huge trading concern Marelos had spent is his entire life building to dominate the northern trade routes, when he was not busy funding expeditions to Yi-Ti.


    Their contacts in Westeros kept feeding them vital information, not only of current events but of other things as well. Fluctuations in the price of grain, rumors of discontent in the Vale, the numbers of mobilized men¡­ Sansa had determined to be as informed as they could be, when they finally decided to rule Westeros, and Joffrey had agreed. Foreknowledge would be an invaluable tool when that time came, a vital one to balance the great odds stacked against them.


    It seemed that the Tyrell''s had allied with the Lannisters as they had done so many times before, though thankfully not by the hands of Littlefinger. He had received his customary stab in the chest early in this life anyway¡­ Joffrey had taken to stabbing the man in a different quarter of his heart every time, seeing how precise he could get with a single mortal wound.


    He hadn''t told Sansa about that last one.


    The superior tactical leadership of the Young Wolf and King Stannis had seen them win some stunning victories against their foes, but the Lannister''s manpower advantage had seen them gradually retaking the Riverlands under a mountain of bodies, its vulnerable geography a boon to the attackers as long as the crossings were bypassed or otherwise avoided. The seats of houses Darry and Mooton had already been sacked, and the Bay of Crabs had been completely sealed off from the Stark-Baratheon alliance. It was rumored Tywin was buying any sellsword company he could get his hands on, and that King Stannis himself had been sighted in the Vale.


    It had been a bit more than two years since they''d reached the City-on-the-Lagoon, and Joffrey was not as surprised as Sansa was when they received an invitation to the Oniras family manor. Their budding power block had allowed the smaller merchant houses to punch far above of their weight¡­ and Marelos Hartios had taken notice.


    "It''s a trap, not worth it," Joffrey dismissed it after he read the immaculately scribed letter.


    "But Joffrey, we could get to the heart of the Marelos'' power! The Oniras are one of the three families keeping the Sealord in check for him. With only one of them breaking ranks Marelos will fall, sooner or later," she reasoned.


    "You think the Oniras'' would break ranks so openly? It''s a trap Sansa, thought for what I don''t know," Joffrey told her, nodding in thanks at Adaro after the old head of household left the rest of their letters in their desk.


    He made a point of ignoring the paw prints on the man''s trousers. Lady had taken an unhealthy liking to chewing on the poor man''s clothes... though at least it hadn''t been a shoe this time.


    "We''ve never been able to even speak with any of the three houses. Now could be the chance to end him for good¡­ if the Oniras'' are smelling blood and we provide the right push¡­" Sansa trailed off as Joffrey shook his head slightly.


    "Joffrey please¡­ just, trust me on this," she pleaded.


    -: PD :-


    The Oniras'' manor was located only a few blocks away from the Purple Harbor, the port where only Braavosi ships could dock. The Sealord''s Palace was clearly visible atop its small hill, and The Moon Pool was but a five minute walk away.


    The manor was in the style of Old Braavos, possessing a somewhat squat architecture which seemed all the more prestigious by the lack of exterior ornamentation. Inside however, the grey walls were tastefully decorated with Lyseni velvet encased in frames of semi-precious stones, which were liberally peppered throughout the rooms. Fine wares from every corner of the earth were present, including a suspiciously large amount of precious Yi-Tish porcelain worth their weight in gold.


    They spent most of the evening socializing with the other guests, the high and mighty of Braavos and even more distant cities such as Lorath and Pentos, but as midnight neared Sansa saw her chance.


    "There, Master Belano Oniras¡­" Sansa whispered to Joffrey as they refilled their cups. Their host was alone at the moment, contemplating a big vase completely covered in beautiful Yi-Tish calligraphy in a room carefully hidden from most of the guest-filled areas.


    "I don''t like this¡­ I may be completely hopeless at manipulation, but I''ve learned to smell this stuff," he told her as Sansa started to walk towards the man.


    "We won''t know until we try," Sansa whispered back, and Joffrey knew denying this would be a blow to the budding, true trust that had been growing between them recently, independent of the insidious influence of the Purple.


    They reached Belano just as he turned, a polite expression at the ready as he nodded courteously. "Master Jonnel, lady Selya, I hope the food has been to your liking?" he asked.


    Master Belano is a master of the understatement, Sansa thought as she beheld the tall, thinly built man. Not even the Red Keep''s kitchen had been able to provide dishes so exotic and tasteful at the same time, and they haven''t even reached dinner.


    "It was truly splendid Master Belano, you must give my compliments to your staff," she said, demure.


    "Glad to please," he said courteously as he turned towards the vase slightly, as if he was back at appreciating its beauty.


    Sansa swallowed silently as she took a half step, looking at the vase as well. Joffrey tensed, but followed all the same.


    Sometimes he can be too paranoid, Sansa thought. They had to regain the initiative against Marelos somehow. Joffrey himself admitted to that.


    "A fine piece," she commented idly.


    Belano nodded slightly, but didn''t say anything else.


    "Peace and prosperity, a dream any man could get behind of," Joffrey suddenly spoke, looking at the calligraphy.


    "You know Yi-Tish?" Belano asked, impressed.


    "''May your home know peace-within, may your family know plenty and never need. May your hearth never freeze, may the winds never blow within," he translated roughly.


    An apt blessing, in the years to come, Joffrey thought as he saw the tigers and twisting dragons decoratively coiled below the scripture.


    "You seem well travelled despite your age, Master Jonnel," said Belano.


    "Appearances can be deceiving," Joffrey told him.


    "Aesthetically beautiful and a vessel of wisdom. Does it mayhaps carry something physical as well?" Sansa quipped.


    "Nothing at the moment. I did search it," he said with a slight smile.


    "Such a fine gift would only be worthy of the closest of friends," Sansa probed carefully.


    "Or those wishing to be so," complemented Belano just as carefully.


    "To give such a beauty for the mere hope of friendship¡­ then your friendship must be truly sought after, Master Belano," she said.


    Belano walked around the vase slowly, not taking his gaze from it as he answered, "It can seem that way, when some other, vastly greater wish depends upon such friendship," he said with a verbal flourish.


    Sansa let the silence last for just an extra second before nodding, gazing at the snarling tigers, "Such a thing seems a poor base indeed for a friendship. Brittle even. What would happen once that greater wish were achieved, I wonder?" Sansa mused out loud.


    Belano paused for a second as well, seemingly thoroughly interested by the calligraphy, "Such are the risks of life. To spurn such friendship would pose even greater risk," he murmured. Sansa could just see the truth behind the man''s mask¡­


    He''s hesitating, she thought quickly, her eyes widening slightly.


    "Would it really?" she asked as if she were talking about the weather, "Many new developments have occurred lately, developments which might shake that assessment," she said very, very carefully.


    She felt Joffrey squeeze her hand as Belano showed interest for the first time. "Indeed?" he probed.


    It''s now or never, Sansa thought, Joffrey tensing by his side.


    ¡­ He didn''t stop her though.


    "Certain contacts in Lorath seem to think so at least," she said cryptically.


    "Not enough to faze my dear friend," said Belano as he shook his head.


    He wants more, Sansa thought as she nodded, "Our dear friend''s greater wish has left a lot of people annoyed, back in Lorath. Certain warehouse owners especially," she conceded.


    Belano looked considering, for the first time lifting his gaze from the vase, "If that is so, then the risks involved in this entire venture do indeed change," he said as he tilted his head minutely, and despite his outwardly calm demeanor Sansa could see the tension and indecision within. She had tried to reveal as little as possible but it was clear Belano was understanding her. Through their contacts, the Shivering Sea Consortium had convinced a sizeable block of Lorathi warehouse owners (and through them, a not inconsiderable part of the city''s porters in turn) to ready a surprise boycott on Marelos'' goods, just when a considerable part of his trading fleet arrived at the city. It would not be a mortal blow, but one serious enough that Sansa and Joffrey hoped would crack the fa?ade of invulnerability the up jumped thug had enjoyed this past year¡­ furthering splintering his allies.


    "Such a thing would have to be carefully timed," said Belano.


    "It would," Sansa said carefully.


    "Ah, the trading fleet," Belano deduced, "I would need assurance that you''re not bluffing of course¡­ a name," he said. Sansa stood still, shocked at the sudden departure from the almost painful double speak.


    That had been brutally direct.


    It''s almost as if he doesn''t care anymore, about¡­ not only about the matter at hand but about us as well¡­


    "I¡ªplease excuse us Master Belano," she said with a quick, apologetic half curtsy.


    "Of course, of course," muttered their host, a small, knowing smile on his lips.


    "I don''t like him, but you did seem to be making a dent there¡­ surprisingly," Joffrey muttered as they walked away, but he became steadily more alarmed at the way Sansa''s face kept draining of color.


    "We''ve been played," She whispered urgently.


    "How," Joffrey asked immediately as he put a hand on the pommel of his hidden dagger.


    "Belano, he never-" she never finished the sentence before they bumped against something, or rather someone.


    "I told you, not here!" Marelos Hartos whispered urgently at them both, his tone of voice just high enough to be carried to the nearby guests and no more.


    Sansa seemed like a startled doe as her face slowly turned from shock to anger. Joffrey''s grip on his pommel also increased in tension as he slowly realized what had just happened. Marelos looked resplendent in his fine pelts interwoven with Yi-Tish silk, the whole ensemble threaded with gold and silver.


    "Dear, I''ve been doing this for a long while. Your efforts amuse me," said the Merchant Prince, this time whispered truly and only for them to hear. Before either of them could respond Marelos was gone, his quick but sedate walking pace carrying him into a crowd of guests.


    "That fucker¡­" Joffrey whispered.


    "We have to get out of here," Sansa whispered urgently as they quickly walked by the reception hall and out through the great stairs that lined the outer patio of the manor.


    "Belano was fishing for information, he never intended to turn his cloak," Joffrey muttered angrily, "I knew there was something rotten about this."


    "Joffrey, it''s worse than that. He wanted for us to seem to be meeting him," she said urgently.


    "The rumors will spread, but it''ll only be rumors Sansa," he tried to calm her as they reached the canals.


    Sansa shook her head, "By their own they would be damaging enough, but when paired with-"


    "Lorath. Fuck," Joffrey muttered with feeling, "We''re seen talking with Marelos and a week later he thwarts our trap in Lorath," he said as they reached their gondola, Inneo tensing at their demeanor.


    "He played us," Joffrey muttered angrily.


    "He played me," Sansa whispered as she shook her head.


    -: PD :-


    They tried to warn their allies, but there was not much to be done... Belano and his master were intelligent people. Paltry as it had been, Sansa had given them all the information they needed to infer the rest. Within a week the plan had been shattered, several warehouses in Lorath bought out and quite a few others closed due to a mixture of fires, corrupt guardsmen and other general chicanery.


    The rest fell in line.


    Lazono lost considerable influence in his homeland, and the short lived Shivering Sea Consortium hanged upon a thread as several members added one plus one and got five, Many concluded the whole thing had been a scheme to befuddle Marelos'' opposition, as rumors of secret meetings in the Oniras estate eroded both Joffrey and Sansa''s authority. A month later two different families had sold out their concerns to Marelos, preferring outrageously low prices than certain bankruptcy to his schemes.


    Sansa let out a loud groan when she read the letter detailing the third family to drop out of their little conspiracy.


    "Another one?" Joffrey asked her from the fireplace. He was standing right next to it as he lazily tilted a cup of wine, trying to get his warmth back after the walk from his office near Ragman''s Harbor. Braavos'' climate had been turning colder and colder these past few months.


    "I was so sure¡­ Belano¡­ he was triple acting, using what I thought as his fa?ade as a third deception," Sansa whispered in mixed awe and anger. "I thought I had managed a read on him, just barely but a read nonetheless. I thought I''d pierced his unconcerned, stoic fa?ade and reached the truth behind it¡­ but that was behind yet another falsehood. The slightly uncertain, cautious but opportunistic family head behind the fa?ade was but another mask," she repeated.


    "Braavosi like that kind of stuff. They''re all into masks," Joffrey said with a quiet snort.


    "And the whole scheme¡­ it was triple layered too! Lazono had a man in Belano''s staff, and from what he told me there''d been another plot to make us spill a whole jug of wine over the main table¡­" She muttered.


    "And hopefully atop Marelos'' head," Joffrey added.


    Sansa shot him an irritated and slightly nonplussed look before continuing, "Don''t you see Joffrey? I fell right into their trap from the moment I pressured you to go. Any of the outcomes there would have been a win for Marelos¡­ If I hadn''t approached Belano like a damned open book, then Marelos would have made his little move near the reception anyway, and if we''d somehow avoided him and made it to the meal then we''d still have appeared like a pair of witless Westerosi barbaroi by spilling half a jug of priceless wine atop the other guests," she said vehemently, "Sure, the last one would have just been a small if shameful prestige hit, bit still¡­ every outcome was in Marelos'' favor!" she ended in a huff, her irritation on the rise at Joffrey''s slight smile. He was still slowly swirling the wine on his cup as he looked at her.


    A short silence followed before Sansa shook her head, "Why are so nonchalant about the whole damn thing?!" she finally asked him.


    "You''re cute when you get mad. The red suits your hair," he said glibly.


    Sansa crossed her arms in a huff, trying to ignore how surprisingly pleasant the small, backhanded compliment felt, "Aren''t you getting any of this Joffrey?" she asked again.


    Joffrey kept smiling as he returned his gaze to the cup, looking at it for a second before taking a drink. "How many times do you think I''ve lain in the mud, broken and defeated?" he asked her, the mood in the room suddenly turning grey, strange. "How many lives do you think I spent training and screaming, trying to learn as my enemies danced circles, no, spheres around me?" he asked once more before he drained the rest of the cup and went to sit by her side in the long couch.


    "Many times¡­" Sansa answered, the irritation giving way to that odd feeling that arose when they talked about Joffrey''s past. They''d spent nights just talking about it, Joffrey weaving tales both grand and small, happy and harrowing.


    "This won''t be the first time you''re outsmarted, nor the last. If I''ve learned anything about life during my torment, Sansa, is that this world lives and breathes. Ships sail, men plot, mountains fall where there are none to see nor hear, great avalanches which consume entire forests with no one else in this world the wiser," he said as he stared at something beyond the fireplace and the small crossbow atop it. "This world is in constant movement¡­ men and women hold their own desires, always, always striving to achieve them, whether we care to stand in their way or not. I''ve been snared in so many plots I''ve honestly lost count of them, and there''s no way to simply survive them all, all the time," he told her quietly.


    Sansa was staring at him, eyes hazy with thoughts unspoken, "So how can you succeed then? How can you live?" she asked him, feeling a bit lost.


    "You pick yourself up, and try again," Joffrey said simply, his hand holding hers.


    It was Sandor, fittingly enough, the man that taught him that lesson.


    Sansa relaxed a bit as she laid back, holding Joffrey''s hand tightly as she thought.


    Pick yourself up again, she mused as she stared at the fire.


    -: PD :-


    ----------


    -----


    Spoiler: AN


    Don''t worry if it felt a bit short, part two (which will be a lot longer than this) will be going up tomorrow night after I proof read it again (too tired to do it now). So roughly 19 hours from now.

 Chapter 42: Masks, part two.

    -: PD :-Chapter 42: Masks, part two.


    "I think I''ve got a plan," Sansa told him as he guided her through a quick, flurry like storm of movements with her daggers. The move itself was nothing fancy, just a quick double stab with each arm centered on a single point in the training dummy, designed to take out lightly armored opponents when weak spots were not visible or within the reach of the wielder. Joffrey was guiding her hands firmly, her own muscles resisting the strain under the almost brutal body training regime he had devised after a hundred lifetimes of getting back into shape. He''d told her that by now he knew how much each and every muscle of his body should hurt after each ''first'' wake up. He''d even figured out how much he should increase the workout after each progressive day in a new life, and they''d both been working on adapting it for her own benefit.


    "Oh?" he asked from behind, his hands now barely following hers as he deemed her speed appropriate. While swords had been proving an abject failure, and the spear an interesting if slow crawl, Sansa had found in her twin daggers a style that didn''t seem as ''nonsensical'' as the others, somehow. Just finding the relevant point and apply sudden pressure¡­ of course the style Joffrey was teaching her was much more complicated than that, but she found it strangely intuitive all the same.


    "We''ve got to retake the initiative against Marelos, and I think I know how," she told him.


    That brought about a swift ending of their training session, Inneo quickly striding forward and giving them both a set of towels, as well as cups of cool water.


    "I''m all ears," Joffrey told her with that insufferably proud smile of his.


    "You haven''t even heard it," she protested mildly.


    "I already know it''ll be a good one. You''ve got that look," he said, amused.


    She just shook her head before taking a long drink from one of the cups, Joffrey wiping the sweat off his forehead. "So, what''s the plan?" he asked her.


    "It''s rather simple. We trick the bastard," she said as she left the long daggers on the nearby bench.


    "How?" Joffrey asked.


    "We''ll have to stake the whole Consortium on this, if it fails¡­ well, there won''t be enough families left to make a stand," she warned him.


    "All in," Joffrey murmured, "Already like it," he added with a dangerous smirk.


    The Shivering Sea Consortium had been weakened by Marelios'' ploy, but they had still quite a bit of collective weight. It was not pure recklessness though, Sansa knew they had to move quickly and in force, for the longer they waited the weaker they became, Marelios slowly bleeding the smaller merchant houses in a war of leveraged economic attrition.


    "We move the entire Consortium towards Morosh in force. A grand trade expedition with a majority of our ships. It''s just the kind of move Marelos would expect from a group of desperate merchants: a grand gesture to rally the houses, and quite a bit of gold if it goes off without a hitch. With so many ships we could leverage our advantage in tonnage to offer the Moroshi a bulk deal they can''t resist," said Sansa, concentrating on the small map of the Shivering Sea they had carted out to the inner patio in the morning.


    "Such an expedition would need some work done beforehand in Morosh if it''s to turn a profit. Marelos would be well aware of the expedition¡­" Joffrey trailed off, "He won''t be able to resist such a tempting opportunity," he realized, "He''d move a great part of his assets to lock Morosh like a penitent turtle. Warehouses, docks, guardsmen bribes, Magister bribes¡­ he''ll buy the whole city. And when our fleet gets there Morosh will just stay still and buy nothing at all as our debts and logistics catch up to us¡­ He could take out the whole Consortium with this, as weak as it is right now,"


    Sansa regaled him with a feral smile, "Exactly, which is why we''ll make certain every single property, ship and corrupt guardsmen he buys there dies or is set on fire by the time the fleet gets there," she told him with uncharacteristic ruthlessness, "Then, the fleet goes on to Ibb and unloads there."


    Joffrey was nodding in approval, his own smile growing slowly, "I like it¡­ but we''ll barely make any profit from it. Without groundwork nor previous communications, selling in the Port of Ibben will barely keep us above water," he said thoughtfully, "And if we do set up the work beforehand on Ibb, Marelos will sniff the trap and stay away from the whole scheme¡­" he said, thoughtful.


    "It doesn''t matter if we don''t turn a profit. What matters will be the blow to Marelos," said Sansa.


    "It won''t be fatal though," Joffrey pointed out.


    Now Sansa''s enthusiasm could not be contained, and she laughed lightly as her voice descended to whispers, "It will be, when we move on the Sorreris''. After the debacle with Belano, I''ve been digging into the other two houses keeping the Sealord in check for Marelos. Nilona is the head of House Sorreris after her husband died last year, and she''s definitively the most opportunistic of the group. If we offer her a substantial cut of Marelos'' empire, and pressure the right spots, she could flip. If she sells out Marelos right after the news of his failure at Morosh reach Braavos¡­" Sansa trailed off ominously.


    "People would think whatever happened in Morosh would be worse than what is publicly known. With one great house deserting him, and with all that uncertainty flying around, the Sealord could take him before the Oniras and the Mophira''s could react," Joffrey finished. "Risky, but if it works we''d be rid of him for good. The Sealord would tear him to pieces after all that Marelos has done, if he were free to do so¡­ There''s one problem though, we can''t be in two places at the same time," he said with a shake of his head.


    "No, but there''s two of us," Sansa added meaningfully.


    Joffrey frowned, and his budding denial died inside his throat as he gazed at Sansa''s eyes.


    Partners, said that ethereal voice inside his head again.


    He took a deep breath¡­ before he nodded slightly.


    "Go to Morosh, wait for Marelos to get wind of it all and to stake a considerable part of his wealth on stopping us¡­" Sansa said before trailing off, her eyes growing hard, "And then do to him what you did to Petyr Baelish''s empire in King''s Landing," she told him.


    "He won''t know what hit him," Joffrey added with a rakish smirk that soon disappeared as he kept looking at her, "You''ll have a brief window to convince the Sorreris'' to switch sides, and once Marelos returns to Braavos he''ll be out for blood, he won''t go down quietly¡­ "


    "I''ll be ready for her, and for him," she told him defiantly.


    Joffrey''s hands moved up of their own accord to hug her, only for them to drop back down, "Just¡­ be careful, okay?" he told her.


    "I will," she said simply, and she could feel Lady''s presence by her side as her determination roused the sleeping Direwolf.


    -: PD :-


    Getting their partners to go along with their plan was the hardest task Sansa had ever undertaken. Fears had to be toned down or racked up, deals and favorable trades had to be compromised upon, and she''d never had managed it if it were not for Joffrey. His considerable knowledge and practical experience in trade gave her the much needed backing she needed to push through, and his regular ''excursions'' into the Braavosi night had seen him playing a game much more dangerous than any Bravos. Whereas they twirled in their colorful robes, fighting for the honor of their courtesans, Joffrey leapt like a cat from roof to roof, breaking into secured manses and buildings and copying down priceless information that saw them move as if possessed by preternatural sight.


    By using economies of scale, and the aggregate political weight of them all, the great trading fleet had set off to Morosh searching for the promise of good fortune. Marelos had left weeks before, taking the bait whole thanks to a few, very careful leaks to the right ears at the right time¡­ but it would all be for naught if she failed here, today.


    Lady Nilona showed herself as a pious woman, going every evening to the Temple of the Moonsingers to pray for the soul of her departed dear husband. Sansa would have been a bit less cynical if the woman didn''t immediately abscond with one of her three paramours every night after it, but as it was the whole situation gave her an opportunity.


    The temple was a great mass of white marble, crowned by a massive silvered dome dotted with milky windows which depicted the phases of the moon. Sansa walked down the edge of the great temple, angling herself so as to casually reach the small shrine dedicated to the Aspect of the Full Moon, where lady Nilona Sorreris was kneeling. She was the canvass perfect picture of the dutiful Braavosi wife, staring severely at nothing as she contemplated the mortality of man and the ignoble death of her husband.


    Sansa kneeled only a few meters away from her, her own face locked in stern concentration. Nilona didn''t even bat an eye her way, and neither did she.


    They both knew what was going on though, carefully observing each other out of the corner of their eyes.


    Careful Sansa, careful¡­


    They spent almost forty minutes in silent contemplation, a silent battle of wills as acolytes came and went, refilling the censers around the shrine and the temple at large. Sansa felt she was being studied from head to toes without a word being spoken, but then again she was doing the same to Nilona. Her back was straight, her hands clasped tightly, but her half lidded eyes spoke of a liveliness far away indeed from piety. Her conservative dress had a few key linchpins that, once removed, would be enough to turn the severe black gown into a free flowing, revealing dress fit for a night of free spirited carousing.


    She suppressed an irrational bout of envy at the superb design and craftsmanship of the dress, before noting the sharp hair pin that held her comparatively simple ponytail. A weapon of last resort, and a statement to other players in the game all in one¡­ Taken together, Nilona seemed like a woman now used to carrying her own way, joyfully free of the bounds that tied her¡­


    The rumors about her role regarding her husband''s sudden fall through a staircase suddenly make much more sense¡­ Sansa thought as she recalculated her approach slightly. She suspected this was going to be a bit more straightforward than she''d prepared herself for¡­


    Finally, Nilona stood up and walked outside at a sedate pace. Sansa waited two minutes before following, and when she was outside the sun was already starting to fade beneath the craggy hills of Braavos, hidden behind the tall pines that protected the Secret City from the severe winds of the Shivering Sea.


    "Lady Selya," greeted Nilona as she approached her. She was sitting on a simple bench beneath a pergola, watching the waves made by the inner lake as they gently lapped against the island where the temple stood. A few bodyguards stood a dozen meters away, vaguely surrounding the pergola but making it seem as if they were merely patrolling guards, taking some time to rest before the night shift.


    "Lady Nilona," Sansa greeted courteously as she sat by her side at the bench, her hands carefully intertwined.


    Nilona seemed content enough to leave the leap to her, and Sansa thought hard as the Braavosi aristocrat kept watching the gentle waves with a slightly whimsical smile. She knew exactly why Sansa was here, and she was content enough to let her dig her own grave.


    "Marelos'' ships is about to sink with all hands," Sansa said clearly.


    "A very surprising contrast to the little chat you had with Master Belano. Bold, direct. Nothing at all like the long song and dance by which you emptied everything right into the laps of him and Maleros," said Lady Nilona, as if she were commenting about the weather. "I wonder, did the way he gutted you like a fish leave you without further appetite for soft words?" she asked regretfully.


    Sansa bit down her tongue before she could say something unwise, and merely smiled as she looked at the tall aristocrat.


    Her smile might have been a tad feral though.


    "Not at all. It was a valuable lesson though," she responded.


    "Oh?" Nilona asked with a smile which held a whiff of condescension.


    "To strive to see beyond the act, or through it I suppose¡­ " Sansa mused, "To see beyond the mask that is behind the mask¡­ and to tailor your approach to the truth behind it. That and a bit of humility of course," she said with a self-depreciating snort.


    Lady Nilona gave a snort of her own as she kept looking at the sea, as if Sansa were nothing but a peddler of moldy oysters. "That is good. A bit of humility goes a long way to ensuring your survival when the stakes are this high¡­ though I dare say, dear Selya, that the humbling did not go far enough," she commented idly.


    Sansa ignored the jab as she repositioned, "Maybe, I''m but a young girl new to this world of yours. Still, I thought you''d like the more direct approach¡­" she said.


    "So you''ve been watching me," Nilona acknowledge the small dent before pressing on, ignoring Sansa''s rearguard, "I congratulate you on that precaution. Playing the dutiful Braavosi wife does get rather tiring, especially when discussing business. Of course, anyone who''s someone in this damp mire of a city knows it''s a ruse, so you''re hardly unique there darling," she said, pounding on Sansa with a smile on her face that betrayed a hint of boredom.


    Sansa took the hits with barely a blink, looking at the same far distant spot that seemed so mesmerizing to Lady Nilona. "It''s been a learning experience," she conceded the strong blow in their little verbal spar, before leaning back slightly on the bench, her back against the railing. "Of course, there''s always a bit of truth behind each mask, enough to lead one to the next," said Sansa as she finished repositioning, "A strong, independent woman behind the mask of the dutiful widow. Living her life as she sees fit, uncaring of anyone else and freed from all ties of deeper love beyond the thrill of her paramours. A stern mask, beautiful in its own way¡­" Sansa said thoughtfully, trailing off.


    "I think I liked your more direct approach, tangling yourself up does you no good dear," Nilona said as she shook her head slightly, conveying disdain¡­ a disdain which held but the tiniest speck of apprehension, her eyes giving away her racing thoughts.


    Sansa smiled widely and all too truthfully, her position perfect as she continued with the same tone of voice, "I was surprised you really did care, but when I saw him I understood you all too well," she said before leaning slightly towards the other woman''s ear. "He''s a really nice boy, he reminds me of my little brother," she whispered in the tone of a complement, "A lot of energy and a smile always at the ready¡­ I think he''ll make you proud," she told her, piercing past the mask and drawing blood.


    Nilona actually flinched, her hands fisting as her back straightened, the blow to her composure almost too much. "It started as a promise to a dying friend, but I''ll admit I''ve developed a bit of a weak spot for the little rascal after taking care of him all these years¡­" she said with the same measured tone of voice she''d been using before, only the slight tension in her shoulders and her fists betraying her as she hurriedly dropped the second mask and tried to desperately secure the third.


    "Oh, you don''t have to pretend with me dear Nilona," Sansa said as she gently grabbed Nilona''s arm, as if trying to soothe an old friend. The woman''s eyes widened at the breach of personal space, but Sansa kept talking, relentless, joyfully stripping the third mask, "I know you didn''t promise anything to Robat, he was just another paramour of yours from all accounts, indistinguishable from the rest and probably soon forgotten after the storm that claimed his life¡­ what he left in you though¡­" she trailed off as she gazed meaningfully at Nilona''s womb, the woman unable to retort as her voice caught in her throat.


    "My husband left him a few toys when he visited the little house where you keep him," Sansa twisted with understated relish as Nilona''s hands kept fisting, her nails drawing blood, "He says he has strong arms, a warrior''s frame even. He''ll make you proud when he grows up," she told her sweetly.


    Lady Nilona Sorreris snarled as she turned and finally looked at Sansa''s eyes for the first time, "If you so much as look at him wrong I''ll end you Selya Stars!" she shouted as she painfully twisted Sansa''s arm, the bodyguards around the pergola tensing and placing hands over pommels as they sensed their employer''s state of mind.


    Sansa was undaunted, and smiled as if nothing had happened at all. She ignored the pain in her arm, letting it flow away as Joffrey had taught her after each training session. After months of the brutal, relentless training regime he''d put her through, Sansa found Nilona''s strength lacking. Violence was thick in the air as one of Nilona''s guards went as far as to take out his rapier, taking a small step towards the pergola and implicitly offering his liege the possibility of murder right here. They could even dump her on the lake, this section of the island was almost deserted anyway.


    Sansa''s smile grew in triumph as Nilona''s frown deepened, and the tall aristocrat let her arm go before slumping back on the bench, the earlier poise gone. Her composure had been shattered, and for the purposes of the battlefield that was Braavosi intrigue, that shattering was as lethal a blow for her as the surrender of an army''s center was for a general.


    Joffrey''s understanding of intrigue had advanced by leaps and bounds once she''d started to compare it to matters of war, a field of expertise where Joffrey had no equal. It had been a two way street though, and she''d learned of war as much as he''d learned of spies and plots as they bounced ideas deep into the night and built an allegory of both worlds which in the end, seemed to be not so different from each other at all.


    Sansa stood up and walked to the pergola''s railing, using the movement to hide the nausea which permeated her belly. Even if she''d not said the words, even if the meaning of the unspoken threat could be twisted a hundred different ways, she''d still played with the woman''s most precious other like he were a knitting needle or a lute. And worse of all was the vicious satisfaction beneath the nausea as her plot neared its conclusion. She wondered if Marelos had felt the same when he''d trapped her at the Oniras'' manor, and swiftly crushed the thought for fear of throwing up.


    As Marelos had done to her, so Sansa had delivered multiple messages and attacks of her own with a single action. Lady Nilona now knew she was no small fry to be dismissed from the game, more than making up for the loss of prestige at the Oniras'' manor. Sansa had also shown that her information gathering apparatus was able to pierce deep into secrets untold and the masks which hid them, even though the dizzying arrays of shell holders and fake documents that hid the existence of one Aresso of Braavos, a happy and unassuming child of ten namedays living in a modest house in the Southern District, and secret heir to the Sorreris name and fortune. Visited every two weeks by a supposedly childless, doting ''aunty'' who''d been a ''friend'' of Aresso''s mother¡­ when in fact friend and mother were one and the same, the child a product of an affair that had seen Nilona''s first and only child born into this world. Sansa had also shown both her willingness to take the game to the next level, and the reach of her grasp, when she''d idly commented about Joffrey leaving the child with a toy.


    And last but not least, she''d shattered Nilona''s composure, leaving her ripe for her offer.


    Lady Nilona closed her eyes as she breathed deeply before looking at Sansa with tired eyes, "Eleven years I kept that secret, and now a couple of brats two years fresh off the boat tear it asunder," she whispered bitterly. "I thought I was barren," she said after a moment of silence, "After more than two decades of that imbecile of a husband plowing me into bed, and countless lovers each more idiotic than the last¡­ I''d really given up hope¡­" she whispered before trailing off.


    "Forgive me if I don''t buy the act, seeing as you left the boy to be raised motherless," Sansa told her as she turned to look at the seated aristocrat.


    "Yes, you definitively need more humility hammered in," Nilona snarled as she stood up and walked towards Sansa. "Do you know what they''d do if they found out that he was my illegitimate son?" She asked harshly, "They''d rip him apart and leave him a pauper in less than a week, all my fortune gone to my dead, fat oaf of a husband''s extended family," she said before Sansa could respond.


    Nilona was breathing heavily, an inch from Sansa''s face. "It''s one thing for an old widow to bequeath her name and fortune to a young man who caught her eye, it has happened before, there''s their blessed precedent¡­ but to leave her name and fortune to a bastard son? A name that was not even hers in the first place!? Perish the thought!" She snarled once more as her composure kept disintegrating.


    Sansa was taken aback by the sheer vehemence of the woman, she had never expected her to react quite so strongly. Something about her surprise must have shown because Nilona smiled disdainfully. "You''ve never had a child, have you?" she asked lightly, "No, didn''t think so," she kept going before Sansa could answer. "If you''d had, you''d understand¡­" She seemed on the verge of explaining what exactly was Sansa supposed to understand, but she shook her head instead.


    "No masks left you tiny little thing, not exactly the truth you were seeking? Seems you''ve got a lot to learn yet," Nilona said with a twisted smile, "State your terms," she said as she collected the shattered remains of her composure, rebuilding them into a sad facsimile of what it once was.


    Sansa nodded lightly, "You will receive a full fourth of Marelos'' assets once the Sealord-"


    "Oh keep your poisoned gifts to yourself, state your demands and let''s be over with this," she cut her off, sternly.


    Sansa blinked, looking at Nilona as the woman tapped her fingers impatiently. Have it your way, Sansa thought as she studied the woman.


    "Marelos will return to the city during the next few weeks. You will denounce him publicly as a monopolist and a living stain on Braavosi tradition¡­ before the news of his ill fortune in the east become public knowledge," said Sansa, keeping the details sparse.


    She''d spent a while thinking about her lessons learned under Belano and Marelos himself.


    "Very clever," Nilona said the complement as if it were an insult. "The rest of the families supporting Marelos will assume I had insider knowledge, and that whatever disgrace befell Marelos was either toned down or merely the public part of some grand strategy so effective as to make me jump ship¡­ some will jump, the more skittish of his supporters at the very least, but that will be enough to make the rest of them jump as well like so many dominoes, one after the other," She deduced Sansa''s plan in an instant, just as quickly as Belano had done¡­ truly, the players of the Braavosi game were not to be underestimated.


    Of course, by the nature of their plan''s timetable and the sailing delay to Morosh, there was nothing Nilona could do to warn Marelos, assuming she was the best actress in the world and all of this had been an act as well.


    "I''ve spent some time in this game," Nilona said before Sansa could get a word edgewise, "I accept your terms," she said as she walked away from the railing and the darkening horizon, shuffling the top of her severe gown and taking one of her strategically placed pins, revealing her ample cleavage.


    Before she left the pergola though, she directing an ice cold glare directly at Sansa''s eyes.


    "If something happens to my son, I will acquire the services of the House of Black and White to seek redress. You have been warned," she said as if she were reading the clause of an insurance contract, "Good evening, lady Selya," she said before walking away, her armed guards surrounding her swiftly and seemingly reading her mind in regards to her next destination.


    Sansa spent the rest of the evening in the same pergola, quietly shuffling her hands as the temperature dropped and darkness enveloped the Secret City, her mind uneasy and turbulent.


    It was all up to Joffrey now.


    -: PD :-


    Their small ''war room'' had acquired a decisively festive air as Sansa crossed the name of Belano Oniras off their small map of the city, a slight smirk overtaking her features as she reflected on the events of the last few weeks.


    It seemed Joffrey had taken their joint plan a bit too¡­ enthusiastically. As much as her supposed husband had come to love their usually tranquil life on Braavos, filled with quiet work, raucous plays and warm evenings snuggling by the fireplace, Joffrey still had a bit of a daredevil streak that needed satiation from time to time¡­ one that had been unleashed on the poor city of Morosh with almost joyful purpose. Warehouses burnt to so much ash, bought officials re-bought or otherwise ''disappeared'', ships floundering and sinking still tied to their piers, all that and more had befallen Marelos'' assets in the city as he moved to counter their trade fleet. Forced to reveal hidden assets which were then swiftly struck down by Joffrey, Marelos had apparently decided to throw good money after bad to the point of taking several desperate debts from local Moroshi banks, which had also slipped his fingers like sand as Joffrey kept wrecking every single thing Marelos touched as if he were the victim of an eastern course, by means legal, corrupt, and outright murderous.


    Sansa felt strange from the amount of satisfaction she was deriving from the doom of one man. A substantial part of Marelos'' enterprise had been lost as he kept trying to turn things around very much like a gambler who thought he needed justone win. She supposed part of that satisfaction was due to the fact that she''d as much as told Joffrey this was the way he''d react. Marelos seemed like a man incapable of losing, she''d gotten that much from the man''s previous history and the way he could not stop pushing for greater and greater gains. With the Sealord held in check this had proved an incredible virtue for the man, as his relentless drive kept accruing greater and greater wealth and influence. In Morosh however, that very same virtue had seen him unable to walk away with a moderate loss and it had, in turn, turned into a greater one.


    Marelos had returned to Braavos two weeks ago and his fortune had done nothing but evaporate in that time. Nilona had denounced him the moment the man had stepped off the boat, and as the news of the ''Shadow War'' in Morosh spread around the city the lesser families had started abandoning him in droves¡­ What does the Sorreris family know? People asked themselves.


    And promptly decided that whatever it was, it must have been worse than the considerable amounts of gold, prestige and assets that Maleros had lost in Morosh¡­ And that now might be a prudent time to retire.


    When the Sealord used the panic and Nilonas'' abrupt treason to in turn pressure the Mophira''s, Marelos'' fate had already been sealed. The Mophira''s subsequent declaration of the virtues of Braavos and its proud tradition, and especially the virtues of their illustrious Sealord, had merely been the last nail in the coffin. The assets and estates of both Marelos and the Oniras'', who had not jumped ship fast enough, were even now being forfeited by the Iron Bank to pay for debts, or requisitioned by the Sealord''s Guard to be held ''in trust'' until the veritable flood of legal actions coming out of the Palace were carried out to their conclusion.


    In Braavos there was no such thing as Treason. Merely the logical carrying out of contracts and taxes, which when creatively applied by the Sealord could leave a man a beggar, if he did not have enough influential friends¡­ or if said friends were all too busy shoving him off the proverbial cliff.


    "What do you think Lady?" Sansa asked her snoring Direwolf. She had grown by leaps and bounds these last few months, to the point that she was starting to feel restless cooped up in their inner patio. It may have been big, but Sansa felt Lady still needed a bit of greenery to stave off what Joffrey called ''Cabin Fever''. Still, she bore it with quiet dignity, her demeanor almost an exaggeration of Sansa''s ideal. Proper and composed, the white-grey Direwolf barely smaller than her desk raised her head and sniffed almost delicately at Sansa, as if considering the whole thing beyond her rightful preview¡­ before settling back down with a yawn.


    "Okay, I''ll take you to the marshes tomorrow," she promised her companion as she rolled her eyes, and Lady let out a tiny, pleased purr.


    Are you a cat or a wolf? She asked in silent, fond exasperation as she opened Joffrey''s latest letter.


    --profits were almost nonexistent by the end of it, the Port of Ibben was simply uninterested about roughly a quarter our cargo¡­ but given the way the trade fleet''s captains have been partying around here you wouldn''t be surprised if they''d just made out like bandits, or heck, like Kings! Your news'' about Marelos incipient downfall has sparked the whole fleet into a frenzy of taverns, alcohol and women, It feels as if we''d just won a major war.


    Anyway, I should be setting sail during the next few days, so this letter should reach you just a bit before I do.


    Sansa gazed thoughtfully at the slight splotch of ink at the start of the last statement, as if Joffrey''s quill had spent an inordinate amount of time standing still over it.


    I''ve missed you, it read, swiftly followed by a rushed signature as if he''d suddenly decided to just end the letter.


    Something warm spread from Sansa''s belly as she read those last words, feeling a bittersweet pang as she tried to imagine what Joffrey would have written if he''d not finished the letter so abruptly.


    She leaned back on her chair, ill at ease as she shuffled this way and that, trying to make a sense of her swirling thoughts.


    Her introspection was interrupted when Lady''s head suddenly swiveled to the door, the hair at the back on her neck standing on edge as she growled lightly.


    "Lady?" Sansa asked as she stood up, somehow sensing the Direwolf''s tension as her companion arose from her small nest and her growl turned louder.


    Lady was somehow screaming danger as Sansa stumbled back, her back shivering as she saw two doors for a second, as if viewed by two pairs of eyes instead of just one. She shook her head harshly as she stumbled to the small chest by the side, hurried by some wordless haste as her movements becoming surer and swifter as she opened it and strapped a belt to her waist, the pommels of two daggers gleaming under the lamp light, hurried on by some unspeakable urge.


    The sudden knock at her door nearly made her jump, and she struggled to keep her voice level as she spoke out loud, "Who is it?"


    "It''s Adaro, Selya. Could you come for a moment if you please?" said the voice of the Head of the Dure Household, impeccable as always.


    Sansa hesitated, gazing at the unloaded light crossbow in the chest before she gazed at the door, "Is everything alright Master Adaro?" she asked. His tone of voice was relaxed, but he always called her Lady Selya, no matter the amount of times he''d told him to stop.


    "Of course, just something that needs your attention," came the sure voice from the door.


    Sansa was lowering the chest''s lid when Lady snarled lowly, and she breathed in the fear and the falsehood in the man''s voice. Sansa blinked rapidly as she shook her head, one hand holding her nose in confusion as she almost stumbled to the ground and every hair on Lady''s body stood on edge.


    She used the chest as support as she stood back upright, quickly grabbing the crossbow and twisting the little turn crank by its side. She cranked it tight and loaded it with a bolt from the chest, her numb hands following the pattern seared into her head after months of repetition at the inner patio.


    Sansa swallowed as she walked to the other side of the room, eyes fixed on the door as she held the crossbow at the ready, her heart hammering in her chest as she called out again, "Adaro, are you sure everything is okay?" she called out.


    There was a silence only slightly longer than what would have been normal, before the clear voice of Adaro responded, "Of course my lady. Three assassins, daggers, maybe moohrrr¡­" he trailed off as if out of breath, and something slumped against the floor almost as quickly as the door started to shake wildly, muffled curses flying from the other side.


    Sansa almost hyperventilated at the sound, gasping as the world tried to shrink around her vision. "I hold the blood of the Kings in the North," she stammered to herself as something slammed against the locked door and she took deep breaths, trying to steady her runaway fear.


    "I was created to stop the coming of the Long Night," she whispered again as something crashed against the thin door again, the little lock almost broken by the force behind the blow. Slowly, her hands steadied, the crossbow''s sight''s blurring as she gazed at the door and her grip on it relaxed somewhat.


    The door bulged for half a second before bursting open and revealing three hooded men brandishing stilettos, two in front and one behind. One of them screamed as a bolt took him in the chest, falling to the ground.


    I am she who stalks through blizzards, she thought as she snarled, or had that been Lady?


    The other two men rushed her. Their stilettos did not gleam, shrouded as they were in brown oils which absorbed the light. Sansa dropped her crossbow as she drew her daggers, both broad hilted as was the Westerosi way.


    "Lady, kill," she said, though the words had been unnecessary as Lady jumped as soon as Sansa thought of it, tearing into the man to the left and leaving her with the third, already upon her and trying to stab her in the belly.


    She stepped sideways as Joffrey had taught her during their two and a half years of constant training, deflecting the blow with one dagger and slamming the other one into the man''s windpipe in reflex. The man looked surprised as he stumbled back, almost as surprised as Sansa was as she took her dagger back with the horrible sound of rending flesh.


    And just like that, she''d killed her first man.


    The assassin kneeled on the floor, both hands trying and failing to stem the flow of blood from his neck, and Sansa could only watch in stunned horror as he bled to death. A sharp pain startled her though, and she turned her head to find another assassin jamming a stiletto into her side. She gave him a half snarl, half cry as she slashed his hand, making him drop the knife and stumble back. Sansa almost lost herself again as she gazed at the knife that was still piercing her torso just below the elbow, but she managed to keep enough lucidity to step back as the assassin tried for his stiletto, her own daggers coming up in an automatic response that slashed the man''s hand again, spraying blood over the Myrish carpet.


    Sansa stumbled back, breathing heavily and concentrating on her foe, I won''t die here, I won''t, she thought once and again as she examined the swaying man, the crossbow bolt still in his shoulder as he held one hand close to his chest, bleeding red. His other hand was already emerging from his back with another dagger, and he seemed on the verge of jumping her when Sansa reacted.


    "Surrender and you''ll have your life," she said quickly, and the man hesitated for a few seconds as he swayed, his hand shaking. He seemed ready to try and kill her once more, but his hesitation bought Lady the time she needed to finally close her jaws on the third man''s neck and twist. A brutal snap resounded throughout the room, and the man flinched as he saw Lady calmly slink her way towards him, sitting and regarding him with cold eyes and a red snout.


    "Of course, you can always feed Lady," Sansa told the man sweetly, keeping her poise even as she felt her blood spreading throughout her night gown, "The price of good meat in Braavos is just scandalous," she added, gazing at the man thoughtfully.


    The man dropped his dagger, and Sansa gave a breathless sight of relief, turning to her bed and ripping off a piece of quality velvet from Tyrosh. She gasped as she bandaged the wound, making sure it was firm before carefully extracting the long, thin dagger that Braavos seemed so fond of.


    She screamed as she took it out, clamping down on the wound and finishing the field dressing. Joffrey had been adamant that she''d master the art of First Aid, and she promised herself to never again tease him about discount Maesters and self-righteous acolytes.


    "Hired killers, how many more?" she gasped at the man, blinking heavily.


    The man hesitated for a second before nodding, gazing nervously at Lady, "T''was just us three milady, I swear it'' by''all the''moons," he said quickly. Sansa frowned, smelling something rotten about it before she shook her head in disappointment.


    She looked on coldly as Lady jumped him, tearing into his hand with a loud, wild snarl as the man screamed. Lady trotted away a few seconds later, two fingers in her mouth before they swiftly disappeared down her gullet.


    "How many more?" she asked him again, fighting down the nausea.


    He tasted good.


    "One more! One more milady!!!" he screamed as he clutched both hands close to his chest, still lying on the floor. She thought he was being sincere, or Lady thought? All she wanted was to lie down for a moment¡­


    "Yell at him to come. Betray me and the next body part to go will be your balls," she told him.


    The man nodded quickly, on the verge of crying before he shouted for ''Feoro''. Another hooded killer entered the room, looking around bewildered before a bolt took him in the gut. He crumbled against the wall, his eyes wide as Sansa lowered the crossbow with a satisfied nod.


    Only when she''d been sure there was no danger left, she had rushed to the door. There she found Adaro, a stab wound piercing cleanly into his lung. He was barely breathing when she propped him up against the wall.


    Sansa struggled to hold back a sob as her chief servant looked her in the eyes, "Adaro you old fool, why?" she asked him.


    "Nevher¡­ aghain¡­" he rattled, breathing heavily.


    Footman Inneo, as it later turned out, had been silently barricaded inside his own room with Miss Ferola. He''d spent most of the time trying to batter down his own door and the furniture that had been stacked behind it. When he rushed to Lady Selya''s chambers, he found her keeping guard on two cloaked men who seemed scarcely worse off than her, Adaro''s body still warm beside the bed. The lady''s strange wolf pet sniffed at him in approval before lady Selya smiled, and pointed at the two captives¡­ one of which seemed to be on the verge of bleeding to death himself.


    "I want them alive," she declared, before blinking heavily and vomiting a bit of bile upon the floor. She collapsed before Inneo could reach her.


    -: PD :-


    "I''ll kill him myself," Joffrey said for the sixth time.


    "You''re so boring when you turn repetitive," Sansa sighed, tired of arguing with logic. She was still bedridden, and her lack of strength for even the most basic of tasks, like walking, had been driving her mad.


    Of course, it also had a few benefits.


    Joffrey had decided to never let her out of sight again, and it seemed her complexion had been so terrible to behold that he had deigned to very carefully keep her company in her own bedchamber, day and night. All very proper of course, and more because of keeping an eye on her than any other aspirations he could have... of which Sansa still didn''t know what to think about, besides tossing the conflicting feelings and musings inside a locked box in her head and ignoring it.


    "You know the Braavosi better than I do Joffrey, do you think the Sealord will let Marelos get away with an assassination attempt?" she asked blithely.


    Joffrey didn''t deign to answer, leaning back on the small couch he had dragged to her side of the bed. "Besides, he was already sinking before he did that. Few allies left, half his remaining fortune held up in court, and then he does this¡­ I dare say he might end up worse off than a mere beggar," she told him. The First Sword of Braavos himself had come to collect the two would be assassins, and Sansa had no doubt that the man would follow the trail right back to one Marelos Hartios.


    "I should have seen it coming," Joffry told her, "For all of his sophisticated plans, Marelos has a certain impulsive streak. That was one of the reasons he kept hitting Morosh no matter how many of his funds I destroyed, stole or subverted¡­ still, he would have survived that if not for Nilona''s betrayal. Nice work on that, by the way," he told her with a fond look.


    "Thank you," Sansa beamed despite the pain, "Nilona must have thought we had the biggest, most competent spy network in Braavos," she said with a snort.


    "Instead of a lot of mediocre informants and one very good specialist?" Joffrey asked smugly.


    "Indeed," she agreed. They stayed quiet for a while before Joffrey cleared his throat.


    "Adaro''s funeral¡­ it''ll be tomorrow," He finally spoke.


    "I''ll go," Sansa declared, daring him to contradict her.


    She was surprised when he said nothing, merely nodding at her. "The dead deserve closure," he said somberly.


    Sansa stayed quiet for another moment before speaking that which had been burning her from the inside. "Why did he do it? If he''d not tipped me off then maybe the killers would have let him live," she said quietly.


    Joffrey gazed at her with a sad smile, "The Dure''s, remember? Adaro was their head servant as well," he explained.


    "''Never again'', those were the last words he uttered before his lungs couldn''t- the air--" Sansa broke off with a wounded huff, feeling cold.


    Joffrey took a deep breath of his own before talking, "He''d seen Marelos wreck one family under his watch. He wouldn''t stand for it a second time," he reasoned.


    "It''s unfair," Sansa whispered.


    They stayed quiet for another while yet, until Sansa winced as she shuffled inside her bed, her right side burning as she tried to cuddle deeper into her blankets. Braavos kept getting colder and colder with each passing day¡­


    Joffrey frowned as he looked at her, as if he were chewing something distasteful, "I''ll-"


    "Kill him yourself, I know!" Sansa said with a huff, "You''ve got this habit of fixing in on stuff Joffrey, it''s just not healthy," she told him, secretly glad for the slight change of topic.


    "And you''ve got a habit of scolding me whenever things don''t go your way," he said with that insufferable smirk of his.


    Sansa would have shot right back, but she found she was too tired to bother. "I''m too cold to argue," she grumbled as she turned around.


    She gasped when she felt a weight in her bed, and turned her head back to find Joffrey right by her side, his comforting warmth enveloping her even as his arms hesitantly embraced her. Despite his rakish grin, Sansa thought she could see something deeply brittle hiding behind it.


    Instead of saying anything, she turned around within his grip and cuddled against his chest, shamelessly stealing his warmth.


    -: PD :-


    Sansa had been tentatively playing with Lady in the inner patio, relishing in her returning strength when Joffrey arrived with the good news. She had a newfound appreciation for athletic ability, and she''d been hard at work returning her body to its normal, peak condition that Joffrey had deemed appropriate after months of hard work.


    "Sansa, it''s over," he said, a wild smirk on his face.


    It ended abruptly. The schemes and plots, the frights and surprises, the intrigues which consumed much of the year. Anticlimactically and unexpectedly.


    Joffrey considered it fitting, and in line with the general process of such things, though he suspected Sansa would find it rather disappointing.


    "What? How?" she asked quickly.


    "They found Marelos floating upside down in the Canal of Heroes with a dozen stab wounds in the back," Joffrey told her, not bothering to hide the mirth in his voice.


    "Ironic," Sansa said idly, still processing the sudden news before Joffrey grabbed her and swung her around like a doll. She laughed despite herself, and she looked at Joffrey with a suspicious glint in her eyes once he deigned to land her back on the ground. His hands retreated quickly, as if ashamed of what he''d done, and Sansa looked away. She didn''t know why she''d started to keep her distance from him since he''d returned, but she found herself unable to do anything about it.


    "And you had nothing at all to do with this?" she asked him with a frown.


    "Nothing at all! I would have just made him disappear," he said as he raised his hands in defense, painfully, painfully honest.


    "And that just makes it better?" She asked him, though unable to contain a smile of her own.


    "Yes?" Joffrey asked back.


    Sansa just snorted, turning around to lift a small object which had been wrapped around a piece of white cloth. "I think this may make a bit more sense now," she said as she gave it to Joffrey.


    "Oh?" Joffrey asked as he unwrapped the thing.


    "The First Sword left it here in the morning, said it was a gift from the Sealord," she said as Joffrey examined the strange, curved dagger. She looked bewildered when Joffrey started to laugh out loud.


    "It''s a tanto," he said in between bouts of laughter, as if that explained it all.


    Joffrey must have seen her expression, because he elaborated as he held the long dagger like a precious heirloom, "It''s a Yi-Tish¡­ short sword I suppose is the right word. Yi-Tish. Get it?" He asked her, delighted.


    Sansa looked at the weapon for a few seconds before she raised an eyebrow, "They killed him with his own collection?" she finally asked.


    "No one can say Braavosi lack a sense of humor," Joffrey said admiringly.


    "Charming," Sansa huffed.


    -: PD :-


    Marelos'' death did not unleash a shadow war within the city, as Sansa had feared. Though Joffrey supposed that was in part due to the events following up on the unlamented monopolist''s demise. The way the normally stoic First Sword of Braavos strutted around the city had been a clear enough indicator of who exactly had signed the man''s death warrant. The First Sword had sported a grin fit for a smug cat for weeks, and if anyone had any doubts after that then they had been swiftly dispelled when the very same man made a point of gifting Yi-Tish weaponry to any family interested in Marelos'' fate.


    Weaponry lifted straight from his private collection.


    A line had been crossed, and without the political pressure of the Sorreris (and later the Mophira) families it seemed the Sealord had unleashed fifteen years of pent up frustration on the man, using his attempted murder of Sansa to finally give him what he deserved. Marelos the second and his few remaining allies were keeping their heads down and acting as meekly as possible, but it was doubtful even that would save them as Marelos the father''s debts and dealings caught up with his son and heir¡­ and Moroshi merchants had been calling for his head for weeks now. Joffrey doubted the man would be left with a single bent Iron Mark in the end.


    Life had thus returned to¡­ not exactly as it had been before. For once, the Shivering Sea Consortium had emerged as the premier player in the northern routes, usurping Marelos'' position, ironically enough. And as the foremost family within that group, both him and Sansa had been hounded by the sudden interest of over half of the cities worthies¡­ and flooded in so many Iron Marks Joffrey honestly didn''t know what to do with them, besides dreaming up wild schemes of somehow imprinting all that money into his soul and carrying it to his next life.


    There was also something¡­ awkward about his relationship with Sansa since the death of Marelos and his return from Morosh, whatever that may be. Silences extended unnaturally, and they avoided each other''s eyes as often as not¡­ even as they sometimes caught each other staring when they''d thought the other one wouldn''t notice¡­ it was honestly stressful, and Joffrey didn''t know what to do about it.


    News from Westeros had kept trickling in, and Joffrey had been surprised to find out that the ''Lords Declarant of the Vale'', a coalition of the region''s most powerful Arryn bannermen, had declared in favor of King Stannis. The King had emerged from the Vale with an army in tow and several thousand knights at his command, which he''d lead to their full effect as he slammed into the Crownlands and laid siege to King''s Landing itself. There was no word on the situation of Lysa Arryn, though if rumors were to be believed Lord Royce had taken Robin Arryn as his ward¡­ the implications of that were ominous indeed.


    The siege had been short lived, as Stannis assaulted the walls almost as soon as he''d gotten there. The Riverlands were a wasteland by now, famine gripped the land and Riverrun had fallen. Robb Stark had been in command, and had led his men in a fighting retreat to the northern Riverlands¡­


    Joffrey had to admire the sheer balls of steel Stannis possessed, going for the kill instead of wasting the might of the Vale in the muddy killing field that had become the Riverlands. By all accounts, villages lay burnt and empty, holdfasts ruined or ransacked, and the rivers festered with blight and filth¡­ there was not much of that vibrant place left it seemed, or at least nothing worth fighting over.


    In any case, the assault on the Capital had been successful, and with Stannis leaning on the Crownlords, they''d had little choice but to add their strength to his. The taking of King''s Landing had been a masterstroke even if it had left Stannis'' forces divided, as he now had in his possession both Arya and Bran Stark, the latter of which had been betrothed to Lady Shereen Baratheon, forever cementing the loyalty of the North, the only region which had put its weight behind him completely from the beginning.


    Fate had not been so kind to King Tommen and his sister however¡­ rumors were¡­ scattered. The only thing Joffrey was sure of was that they were dead. Some said Cersei had poured poison down their throats rather than let Stannis have them, others that Stannis had his red witch burn them inside the Sept of Baelor¡­


    Joffrey ¡­ doubted Stannis had done the latter. With more lords under his banner, it seemed that Melisandre of Asshai did not hold so much sway over the King¡­ but anything was possible with magic. For all he knew there was a spell to mind control the future King of Westeros, though he tried not to think too much about that.


    Regardless, without a clear King to rally around, it seemed the Lannister cause was verging on collapse. The Westerlands still seemed unshakable under Tywin''s iron fist, but Joffrey suspected that would last as long as his grandfather drew breath¡­ one stray arrow in the battlefield and the Westerlands would tumble like a castle of wooden blocks. The Tyrells certainly were, bannermen abandoning camp and returning to their keeps in the middle of the night. With Maergery Tyrell and the Queen of Thorns both in Stannis'' hands it seemed the Tyrells were powerless to stop their panicking vassals short of unleashing Lord Randyll Tarly on them, which was a short term solution if Joffrey had ever heard one. The Tyrell''s authority also seemed shaky in that, with Tommen dead and Maergery a widow, they were no longer dynastically tied to the Lannisters¡­ and given their reputation, the possibility of them making a deal with Stannis was a drain on their power even if they did not do it¡­ of course, almost as lethal to their authority was the sheer possibility that the Queen of Thorns had already made a deal with Stannis. Olenna Tyrell would certainly negotiate for her son even without his consent, and Stannis had her right there¡­


    The outcome of the war of the Four Kings seemed settled, if not for the specifics. Nobody had told that to Balon Greyjoy though, as he seemed content enough to keep raiding the western coast of Westeros until the surviving houses banded together and razed the Iron Islands to the bedrock¡­


    Joffrey shook his head as he entered the tailor''s shop. He felt as if he were entering the Dawn Fort''s armory on the eve of battle¡­


    -: PD :-


    He steadied himself as he looked at the mirror, running a hand by the black jacket he wore over the fine doublet. The silver buttons had been a nice touch, though the whole ensemble seemed altogether too festive for his taste, despite the fact that it primarily sported blacks and blues... Braavosi seamstresses had a knack for making even black too gaudy for his tastes. Still, festive was the whole point of the entire attire, and he resolutely grabbed the mask from the table before strapping it over his face.


    He took one more breath before walking to Sansa''s chambers, hesitating for a second before knocking politely. The door had been reinforced, so nobody would be getting in without her permission.


    "Come in, it''s unlocked," she said from beyond the door, and Joffrey opened it to find Sansa gazing at her own mirror, quickly smoothing out an undetectable flaw on her dress'' smooth lines.


    "How do I look?" she asked as she turned, hiding a nervous smile.


    "Beautiful," breathed Joffrey. Her dress seemed like a mixture of Westerosi and Braavosi styles, black and green playing with the lines of silver thread which held the dress together. Her red hair seemed to glow by contrast, left to sway freely around her head, and her neck was framed by-


    "Daqyrio really outdid himself with the pelts," Joffrey muttered with a half-smile, looking at the lustrous white scarf around Sansa''s neck, small black spots dotting the pelt.


    "I had a long chat with Teyia," Sansa said with a smirk, her eyes avoiding his as she put on her own mask.


    "Snowfox, it suits you," Joffrey said idly, playing with his hands.


    "Thank you," she said demurely, "Yours too¡­ hardly a surprise there," she added with a small giggle.


    "I can summon a spirit lion with my mind Sansa, if there''s any animal that suits me, that''s it," he said dryly.


    She raised her hands in deference, "Fair enough, but isn''t whole point of the mask to go by unnoticed? Hardly possible with you wearing the heraldry of House Stars," she said.


    "Everyone will know who we are anyway," he told her a wryly.


    Sansa looked at him for a moment, and as usual these days an air of uneasy tension started to envelop the room before Joffrey walked out of it. Sansa followed soon after, meeting up with him by the main door.


    Joffrey shuffled slightly, looking at the floor before he suddenly blurted it out. "Sansa I¡­ There''s one thing I¡­" he stammered, thanking and cursing the masks. He couldn''t see Sansa''s face, and he supposed that was part of the reason he just needed to blurt this out now, and spare himself the physical sight of Sansa''s shock and horror.


    "Deep breaths Joffrey, just let it out," she said with a tinge of humor, only her eyes visible behind the mask.


    He shook his head once more, walking away from her and staring up at the ceiling. In retrospect, he didn''t know why he hadn''t told Sansa back in that clearing, before she joined the Purple. It might have served as a shock to her system, a way to startle her into letting him kill himself there and make her forget¡­ though he was guiltily glad he hadn''t. After that, he''d never found quite the right moment to confess¡­


    Or he had just kept delaying the inevitable.


    Delaying as he was doing so right now.


    No. No more lies, this¡­ all of this¡­ he thought incoherently as he took another deep breath. It was good while it lasted, he whispered painfully.


    "I''m a bastard," he said in a dry monotone, not looking back.


    "I''m sure Marelos thought the same," she quipped.


    "No Sansa. I mean I''m not King Robert''s son. Littlefinger may be the lowest scum of the earth, but his schemes were true. I''m¡­ I''m the son of Jaime and Cercei Lannister," he told her, every word tearing a gaping hole in his chest.


    Sansa gasped, and Joffrey couldn''t contain himself as he twisted back to look at her. She was holding her chest with one hand, staring at him silently before she coughed one time, loudly.


    "I think Miss Ferola may have dumped a bit too much spice on our lunch," she said as she massaged her neck.


    "¡­ You''re teasing me," Joffrey said, dumbfounded.


    "Really Joffrey? With all that you''ve told me? You practically spelled it out when you told me about Baelish''s machinations and how my Father always fell for them¡­ honestly I was expecting you to blurt it out sooner than you did," she said, exasperated.


    Joffrey stood very still, and was very glad the mask hid the way his mouth kept opening, realizing he had nothing to say, and closing. Over and over.


    He finally found his voice, "And it doesn''t bother you?" he asked in disbelief.


    "Really?" she said with a tinge of real anger, "We''re some sort of living war constructs designed to stop the end of all life, immortals reviving after every death to carry out an almost certainly doomed war against beings from beyond our comprehension¡­" she recited before coming to an abrupt stop. "Oh, your father is Jaime Lannister, that changes everything!" she said as she slapped her forehead, the Snowfox mask tilting slightly sideways, the sarcasm so thick Joffrey could almost touch it.


    He stared at her for what seemed an eternity before he spoke. "You really don''t care?" he asked again, his voice tight.


    Sansa seemed to gaze at him again for a long while, considering something as she straightened her mask. She nodded to herself almost imperceptibly before walking up to him. "Forget the Purple and the White Walkers for a second. Forget your damned mission and your titles and your father and everything else," she said as she gazed at his eyes through both masks. "I like you Joffrey, Joff, Jonnel, Baratheon, Lannister, Stars"- she said, becoming breathless as she kept going -"Silver Knight, Shadow, General, King, Bastard, Dawn Commander, Famed Vellamo. I. Don''t. Really. Care," she punctuated each word with a slam of her hand, pounding Joffrey''s chest. "So get that fact, into that thick skull of yours, grab my arm and take me to the Festival before we''re late," she declared imperiously, holding her elbow and almost jutting it into Joffrey''s belly.


    Joffrey stared at her.


    "Well?" she insisted, her elbow starting to dig painfully into his stomach.


    Joffrey locked his arm with hers.


    -: PD :-


    The Long Canal was filled with gondolas and small vessels, each more exotic than the last as whole families adorned their ships to sometimes obnoxious degrees, golden frills and even gemstones peppering the larger pleasure barges even as people danced atop them, the tunes of on board bards and minstrels filling the air with merriment. Inneo sailed their gondola like it were the queen of the waters though, despite its comparatively modest decoration. The doughty Footman had taken Adaro''s death like a dereliction of his duty, and had been striving to up the level of his service ever since. Sansa had kept quiet since her speech back in Dure House, out of regret or something else, Joffrey did not know. He only knew that whenever he now looked at her he felt as if someone were pouring lava down his throat, and Sansa seemed reluctant to meet his gaze now more than ever.


    Joffrey waved back as they sailed past an almost floundering pleasure barge, its clearly drunk occupants waving at their own gondola as the minstrel onboard sang a happy tune in Low Valyrian. Sansa waved as well, laughing when one of their well-wishers was suddenly grabbed from behind and dragged below deck for what would most likely be a pleasurable night.


    The night was young yet, barely beginning as the sun hid beneath the wind swept hills that surrounded Braavos. "They better make port soon or the guard will be fishing drunk revelers from the canal the entire night," said Joffrey.


    "I think it may be too late for that," Sansa said with a snort as the ship grounded over some low sandbars. They were a common hazard around the oldest of the channels¡­


    "Doesn''t look like it''s stopping them," Joffrey laughed as he spotted a few land bound revelers carrying out a boarding action from the nearby pier, armed with bottles and wineskins and sporting a wild variety of masks from lions to birds to even ships. Their quality seemed variable, but for once in Braavos nobody cared. Rich or poor, noble or baseborn all were equal under their masks until the Titan''s roar at midnight.


    "Maybe we should join them?" Joffrey asked suggestively, only for Sansa to tilt her head in thought.


    "I''m pretty sure the Sealord''s winery is better stocked," she said after a moment, as if she were considering a matter of utmost important.


    "¡­ I knew I''d brought you here for a reason," Joffrey said like a man gripped in the throes of revelation.


    They chuckled as Inneo kept punting from the back, though soon the dreaded, alien silence seemed to capture them in its claws again.


    Joffrey bit his tongue as the fiery butterflies in his belly managed to invade the rest of his body, clamping his muscles as the silence kept getting deeper. He was staring at the other ships as they reached the inner lake, but he just knew Sansa was doing the same by her side, gripped just as tightly by the thing.


    His mouth moved before he could react, "If I had told you¡­ Back in the clearing, if I had told you of my birth, would you have still gone with it all?" he suddenly asked.


    He kept looking at the ships bedecked in oil lamps and wildly colored strips of cloth, the silence suddenly gripping his heart before being banished by Sansa''s voice.


    "I don''t know¡­ I''d like to think so," her tone was wistful, and Joffrey turned to look at her.


    Sansa was still gazing at the ships in the inner lake, the sounds of their revelry carrying over the still waters and rebounding on the walls of the great houses which surrounded Braavos'' heart. "Truth be told, I have a hard time trying to think like¡­ like I was before I met you," she said.


    "How so?" Joffrey asked her.


    "So much has happened¡­ and it''s been only a few years since we arrive at Braavos, just shy of three actually¡­ I ruined old families, webbed schemes to twist and break, ran from my own Father¡­ I killed a man¡­ and yet¡­" she trailed off, her voice barely more than a whisper, "There was a change, before we even set foot on that ship in King''s Landing," she added.


    "The Purple? When Brightroar¡­" Joffrey trailed off with a slight wince.


    "No, before," she said as she turned to look at him, her eyes clouded within the Snowfox mask. "I think that maybe¡­ I think the real Sansa Stark may have had her throat slit amongst the Red Keep''s battlements, her body tossed to the depths of Blackwater Bay with her brother and sister¡­" she said haltingly, her eyes blinking repeatedly. "Does that make any sense?" she asked him, her voice lost.


    "Yes. Yes it does," said Joffrey, his throat tight.


    By all the Gods and those Beyond, I understand, he thought.


    He grabbed her hand, their fingers interwoven as the gondola turned north, past the canals that led to the Purple Harbor and east towards the sight that dominated northern Braavos.


    Joffrey realized, to his mounting horror, that the silence was now worse. He couldn''t stop looking at Sansa out of the corner of his eye, and it seemed neither could she¡­ But neither of them could say anything about it! Her nails were digging into his hand, and Joffrey shuffled slightly as a heat wave of some sort struck the Secret City.


    "Look, the Sealord''s Palace!" he declared like some sort of hedge knight''s third son, signaling at the great, enormous block of marble and basalt that stood atop the city''s highest hill, peppered by curving windows in the shape of galleys. Grand, sweeping balconies surrounded the outer fa?ade, and a hundred whale oil lamps hanged from them.


    "It- is?" Sansa asked painfully, realizing the stupidity of the question halfway through it. Her nails dug further into his hand as the gondola thankfully reached the pier, one amongst many as either the Sealord had a private armada of small boats at his beck and call or half of Braavos had come here tonight for the festivities.


    "Shall we?" Asked Joffrey as he stood up, realizing they were still holding hands and that his offered elbow was quite superfluous.


    "Let''s," Sansa answered tightly.


    What the bloody hells is wrong with the world?! Joffrey thought as they stepped out of the gondola.


    "I could take the ship for a little spin Master Jonnel, Lady Selya," Inneo offered courteously. "We can take the scenic route around the palace, arrive a little late¡­ with this moon visibility will be¡­ low¡­" he added, the corner of his mouth rising in good mannered mirth.


    "No!" They shouted at the man, only to shut their mouths immediately after and stare at each other.


    Inneo looked nonplussed, "... Of course, of course. The palace boasts numerous rooms as well--"


    "Inneo-" Joffrey shouted.


    "-Just go!" ended Sansa.


    "Of course! Of course!" he said with an elaborate bow, punting away from the pier like the merriest man on Braavos.


    "Such insolence," Sansa said lowly.


    "The gall," Joffrey agreed.


    The silence laughed at their efforts and squeezed.


    Maybe it''s not too late to call him back? Whispered a traitorous voice inside Joffrey''s head.


    They walked towards the sound of music with not another word.


    -: PD :-


    "Jonnel! Selya! I could kiss you right now!" declared a fat man with an enormous, slightly tilted, upside down mask of a leviathan. His two companions were dressed in free flowing gowns that left Joffrey wondering how in the hells they weren''t freezing.


    The answer to that question became obvious as the two of them snuggled closer to the man after a chilly gust of wind buffeted their gathering.


    "That obvious Lazono?" he asked good naturedly, and the pudgy Lorathi laughed with a booming voice. The Sea Gardens were technically a private property of the ruling Sealord, though in practice it was the place where he could host visitors of state or otherwise important guests. It was also, of course, the venue where the city''s worthies gathered to celebrate the Unmasking Festival. The Sea Gardens were snugged close to the bulk of the Sealord''s Palace, but they were only connected by a single stone bridge, and boasted a pier of its own. It was filled with all manners of strange and exotic plants and trees, gathered from all around the northern trade routes so they could survive Braavos'' weather.


    "You do know that leviathan is upside down?" Sansa asked him, and Lazono looked from one courtesan to the next, both of them giggling behind their falcon masks.


    "They told me it was fine! Treason!" Bellowed Lazono as he held his courtesans even closer, both of them giggling harder as Joffrey shook his head.


    It seems the party has been going rather splendidly, Joffrey thought as he gazed at the men and women reveling in the midst of the Gardens, veritable squads of servants coming from across the bridge every minute to serve drinks and all manner of sundry dishes meant to be eaten with only one hand.


    Sansa seemed intrigued as she leaned forward, "I''ve got to ask, are you really using that curved sword-"


    "Tanto," corrected Joffrey.


    -"as cutlery?" She asked he man, ignoring him. She could understand Lazono''s satisfaction with Marelos'' death, but eating with what may have been the man''s murder weapon was too morbid even for her admittedly ever stretching standards.


    "I don''t eat with it," Lazono told her, offended. "I do use it to cut up the meats though," he corrected.


    Sansa snorted hard as Joffrey shook his head fondly, "Lazono you barbarian, I know men who''d have a heart attack if they saw you using a tanto as a butchering implement," he said, trying to hide the mirth in his voice.


    Lazono shrugged innocently before leaning forward and whispering, "Jokes aside, you have my heartfelt gratitude for the handling of that scum. The House of Stars will never be shunned from my hearth," he said the last as if he were reciting an oath, and from what Joffrey knew of the Lorathi, it may as well have been one.


    Joffrey and Sansa nodded respectfully, and Lazono was back to his usual, cheerful self as he guided his courtesans away, "Now I was told the Sealord had an ample number of rooms somewhere¡­" he muttered as he walked towards the bridge.


    "Now there''s one happy man," Sansa whispered in mirth as they walked back towards the main gathering, elbows locked.


    "I don''t blame him," said Joffrey as they walked, and with Lazono gone the bloody tension started to assault his senses once again. Sansa was breathing deeply by the time they reached another blessedly known guest they could make small talk with.


    They met Daqyrio and Teyia Vynerys by a side hedge, the latter clearly identifiable by the great and lustrous snowfox pelts that accented her dress. Daqyrio seemed suspiciously merry, and Joffrey guessed the reason why when he detected the slight slurring of his speech. The usually stern man seemed very pleased to see him, and he regaled him with all manner of anecdotes regarding his successful dealings with White Harbor. Sansa was nearby, fidgeting more so than usual as Tayia kept whispering in her ear.


    "-of course, with a bloody army of wildlings swarming the Wall, it seems as good a time as any to move towards better ports. With Marelos gone, suppliers in Lorath should now be accessible," he commented idly. S?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Wait, what?" Joffrey interrupted him.


    Draqyrio looked nonplussed, "Lorath. The island may be poor on iron but the hinterlands-"


    "No no, wildlings are invading the North?" he asked, alarmed.


    Daqyrio shrugged, "That does seem to be the case. Several raiding parties have penetrated deep into the Kingdom, and it''s said a great host of thousands smashed into Castle Black like an avalanche weeks ago¡­ or the news were weeks old when it reached the city at least," Draqyrio recounted, "Last Hearth was preparing for a siege and everyone in White Harbor with two silver stags to rub together was trying to find a ship to flee," he said.


    Joffrey was speechless as Sansa returned with Teyia, both of them giggling like little girls at some sort of joke. Sansa somehow read his state of mind beyond his mask, and quickly came to his side.


    "What''s the matter?" she asked him.


    "More war in Westeros, the wildlings took the Wall and who knows what else," he said with a sigh.


    Sansa blinked, looking down to the ground before taking in a breath of fresh air. "I suppose we''ll know more details in time¡­ more work for the future," she said knowingly.


    "Yes," said Joffrey, grimacing. They''d known something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. With the Walkers pushing from the North, the wildlings had precious few options if they hoped to survive. Between facing either the hazy memories he had of the Night''s Watch, or the Walkers and their minions¡­ Joffrey knew which enemy he''d choose. At least now they had a rough timetable for it: roughly three and a half years after ''wake up''.


    They soon moved on, meeting up with the friends and business associates they had cultivated throughout the almost three years that had been their stay in Braavos¡­ and being an object of interest as the foremost family within the Shivering Sea Consortium. Joffrey felt vaguely uncomfortable, reminded of the hazy days of his past self and the way he''d indulged himself with feasts and pointless (and often sadistic) spectacles, courtiers hanging on his every word. Sansa seemed more at ease, separating the wheat from the chaff without seeming curt or insulting. Despite the masks everyone seemed to know who was who, as at this level of Braavosi society it was hard not to.


    "I must offer my apologies for the way the city has treated you, Master Jonnel, lady Selya," said a man with a mask depicting the stern face of the Titan of Braavos. Only a few steps behind stood an armed Bravo with an opera mask.


    "Your Excellency," Joffrey bowed at the Sealord of Braavos.


    "Please, none of that. Tonight I am just a friend," the man said courteously, gazing at Sansa knowingly, who had not bowed.


    "Just another guest at the soiree," she agreed, and the Sealord nodded approvingly.


    "Braavos does not usually tolerate the likes of our departed mutual acquaintance, and your help in bringing about his exit from the great stage is appreciated, and shall not be lightly forgotten," said Ferrago as the First Sword behind him nodded slightly.


    Were that I could bank in favors from previous lives, Joffrey grumbled inside the privacy of his own mind.


    "It was the least we could do for a city that has been so good to us," said Sansa.


    "You''re too humble," said Ferrego, before tilting his head slightly, "I confiscated some delightful toys from Marelos'' personal warehouse, be sure to check on them just before midnight, in the upper balconies. The servants will show you the way," he said before nodding at them both, making his apologies before moving on. It seemed the Sealord was strapped for time even during the last day of the Unmasking Festival.


    "A shame he''ll forget everything come our next life," commented Sansa.


    "I was thinking the same thing¡­" Joffrey sighed.


    "That''s been happening a lot lately," she said with a snort, her voice already tensing at the gradually encroaching awkwardness.


    "It is said the Sealord has a menagerie with beasts from every corner of the world, would you care to look at it?" Joffrey asked quickly.


    Sansa nodded in unspoken thanks, and they spent a while gazing at the stripe painted horses and the oversized tigers, a hundred and one different animals from the four corners of the world. The guests of the soiree had invaded even this place though, always followed by the servants carrying cups and drinks. They''d stopped talking after a while, silently observing the animals as Sansa tried to control her breathing. She looked at the servant carrying cups like a drowning sailor eyes some flotsam, insistently calling for him.


    "What''s this?" She asked Joffrey as the servant gave them each a cup with long, thin wooden tubes.


    "A straw made of reeds, the Summer Islanders like them in their beverages¡­ they''re also quite useful when you''re thirsty and wearing a mask," Joffrey told her before taking a sip.


    This is quite good!- I don''t like it much- I''ve actually never been to the Summer Islands, curious- He cycled through something to say desperately as Sansa stared at him, sipping from her own straw. Her eyes quickly diverted away when she noticed he knew, and his mind blanked and he said nothing at all.


    They spent five painful minutes only sipping from their straws, the dreadful silence making Joffrey''s heartbeat sound horribly loud. He noticed most of the people were leaving the place though, heading for the bridge and the Sealord''s Palace.


    "What''s going on?" Sansa asked him, breaking the silence as she blinked rapidly.


    "The Sealord said he had something special planned for this Unmasking, we must be nearing midnight," said Joffrey, gazing at the quarter moon.


    "Should we follow them?" asked Sansa, looking at her hand as if it were suddenly the most important thing in the world.


    Joffrey stood still, watching the rest of the guests as they left the Sea Gardens. Conflicted feelings warred inside his belly as he gazed at his partner.


    Should they?


    The Garden seemed suddenly still, as if time were slowing down.


    Spoiler: Music


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    Joffrey''s breath hitched¡­ and then slowly came out when he saw the way Sansa kept playing with her fingers, her anxiety clear¡­ perhaps even fear. She expected this, he realized. Likely thought it an obligation to be fulfilled. Perhaps a way to help him out of his former misery. He could image her face, her dutiful reaction when he took her¡ªShe said she''d do anything to help him ease his burden, but surely she hadn''t meant¡ª


    Joffrey looked away, nauseous with himself.


    Gods, I haven''t changed at all, he thought bitterly, outraged at himself. The moment passed, and he drained the cup before setting it aside. Sansa may have had the strength and conviction to do this for him, but Joffrey didn''t have the heart to see her do it.


    "We should go," he said finally, ignoring the stab of bitter regret in his belly. I''m better than him, he thought, remembering the mewling of a cruel boy who wanted nothing but to impose his sick will on those he cared about¡­


    "Okay," said Sansa, her voice shaky. Joffrey could imagine the relief writ clear in her face as they walked to the Palace with the other guests. The silence curdled, dissipating as if by magic as the tension which had been plaguing them slowly disappeared. She drained her cup as well, leaving it atop a servant''s tray before they ascended the stairs to the palace''s wide balconies. They walked to a corner of the great basalt construction, almost reaching the ceiling of the palace as the guests murmured, looking beyond. Joffrey sighed as he gazed at the Braavosi night from the great balcony, feeling wretched. Sansa stood by the opposite pillar, a few meters away and looking at the bay as well, her arms crossed in front of her.


    Suddenly, a great explosion thundered in the distance, and the crowd gasped as projectiles erupted from the Titan''s head and lifted themselves up the night sky, exploding raucously and startling the seagulls which nested all over the city. They leapt to the air in a storm of feathers as more and more projectiles launched themselves from the head of the Titan, exploding in magnificent patterns of indigo, red, green and purple, creating a spectacle of light high atop the city.


    The explosions thundered with the beat of his heart, each blast of noise almost synchronized with his heartbeat as they left streaks of blind color in his retina. The tension returned to his muscles as if he''d been suddenly cursed, the silence so strong it seemed stronger than the fireworks themselves. Joffrey realized he and Sansa were staring at each other, the fireworks a mere distraction as he gazed at the far more mesmerizing sight of her vivid blue eyes. Explosions kept thundering in the distance, each more powerful than the last as the sky flared and everything was bathed in white, everything but Sansa as the pillar beside her shielded her silhouette.


    The horn of the Titan roared clear across the bay, signaling midnight as hundreds of sea birds added their cries to the noise. Seemingly every voice in Braavos roared with the Titan as Joffrey took off his mask and Sansa let hers slip to the floor.


    They slammed into each other, Sansa struggling to deepen their frenzied kiss as Joffrey pushed her against the pillar, using it to steady them as he grabbed her head with both hands and his mouth travelled the length of her neck, kissing and sucking. Sansa moaned as she arched back, grabbing Joffrey''s hands and locking them behind his neck forcefully as she caught his questing tongue with her mouth and returned it where it belonged.


    The cheering and whooping of the crowds increased in intensity as more and more fireworks erupted against the night sky in dazzling displays of gold and silver, and Joffrey broke the kiss as he slammed Sansa against the wall opposite to the balcony, his hands fumbling with the dress before he ripped the upper pelts open.


    "Draqyrio is going to kill you for that," Sansa moaned as Joffrey''s hands felt her breasts.


    "He can get in line," he grunted before she slammed her mouth against his again. He felt Sansa''s long legs wrapping around his waist, her hands grabbing his doublet as she lifted herself up and used her now superior height to mercilessly deepen the kiss. Her weight was nothing to Joffrey as he walked back a few steps, searching half blindly for a door as his hands enjoyed the taut muscles around her belly.


    Sansa''s mouth slid down Joffrey''s neck, delivering a rain of burning kisses as he gasped for air. "Inneo said the Sealord had rooms," she said curtly, not having time to speak.


    "I''m trying to find them," Joffrey grunted as he managed to get the side door open. He half walked, half stumbled down the deserted corridor, Sansa doing her best to make him lose his footing as she ripped the top of his doublet and her long hair tickled his chest, the buttons flying away.


    "What manner of knight are you? Useless," she scolded him, snaking her hands beneath his shirt and embracing him fiercely. Joffrey grunted almost painfully as her breasts pressed against his bare skin, the explosion of pleasure leaving him breathless.


    "You''re not exactly making it easy," he snarled as he stopped and pressed her against the wall. "You''re a lousy maid, no sense of shame," he whispered as his questing hands kept exploring her belly, going downwards and downwards until Sansa gasped loudly. Her face turned beet red as she let out a colossal breath of hot air that tickled Joffrey''s ear.


    "You''ll pay for that," she half moaned as she rode out the heavenly bliss.


    "Snowfoxes have no bite anyway," Joffrey whispered huskily as his hands came back up and massaged her firm breasts, leaving her without enough air to respond.


    He kept walking, searching for more doors. Where the fuck are those damned beds?! He thought as Sansa leaned back and stared at his eyes.


    Her breathing was harsh, her face flushed and her hair seemed slightly messy, but she seemed more determined than ever as she leaned forward, "Direwolf Joffrey, not a Snowfox," she reminded him, her voice tinged in retribution as her nails dug into his back and she redoubled her assault on his neck. Joffrey moaned as her legs somehow clamped even tighter around his waist, her ravenous mouth reaching his ear and biting hard.


    Joffrey grunted, shoulder smashing a random door aside and closing it with his leg. He let Sansa''s weight fall, following her and pressing her against the long table that stood at the center of the abandoned dining room. Silver candelabrums and grand cabinets filled with wine bottles surrounded the periphery of his vision as he tore Sansa''s annoyingly complicated dress apart.


    "What about the bedroom?" She asked as her deft hands opened his trousers.


    "Fuck the bedroom," Joffrey told her as he climbed the table and lost himself tasting her from top to bottom.


    Sansa moaned, her eyelashes fluttering as she stretched her neck sideways and gazed around her with unfocused eyes, looking at the private dining hall of one Ferrego Antaryon. "Oh¡­ The Sealord is going to kill us," she murmured before grabbing Joffrey''s head by the hair and bringing him back towards her.


    "He can get in line," Joffrey grunted, thoroughly undeterred as he kissed her fiercely.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 43: Masks, part Three.

    Chapter 43: Masks, part Three.Sansa let out a monstrous yawn as she stretched, blinking slowly as she tried to clear the cobwebs off her eyes. She gave up with a sigh, turning around and snuggling closer to Joffrey''s chest. She blinked again when she saw he was already awake, a gentle smile on his lips as he stroked her back lightly. "You should sleep more, it''s good for you," she whispered, enjoying the caress of his calloused hand.


    "It''s the damned bed, too soft for my tastes," he whispered back, his eyes devouring her curves.


    "Been sleeping on the floor again? That explains why this bed is so stiff," she complained as she snuggled even closer, her legs tangling with his and forcing Joffrey on his back, using his chest as a pillow. "It''s barely been used," she said, looking around at Joffrey''s room and the suspiciously nest-like cluster of sheets in one corner.


    "Next time we can use your room then," Joffrey offered, now massaging her back with both hands.


    Sansa let out a long breath as she looked at the other side, gazing at the closed door. "But it''s so far away," she complained, her hand sneaking down Joffrey''s thigh.


    "Better than-" Joffrey gasped, -"the Sealord''s dining room," he said very quickly as he expelled all the air in his lungs.


    Sansa suddenly froze, her mouth opening slowly. "The Sealord¡­ Oh Seven¡­" she whispered in shock as she remembered the later events of the previous night.


    "The Sealord, yes," he said, trying not to laugh.


    "We have to leave Braavos Joffrey, like, right now," she said in dawning horror.


    "That would imply leaving this bed," Joffrey mused thoughtfully, his massaging hands travelling down Sansa''s back.


    She sighed in grudging resignation, hugging Joffrey''s neck as she gave him a small peck, then two. "I can''t believe we just ran," She said in between pecks, only to freeze again. "Oh, the gondola¡­" she remembered, her face turning beet red. "How much are we paying Inneo again?" she asked him urgently.


    "Clearly not enough," Joffrey sniggered, unable to contain himself.


    "Joffrey, why haven''t we been doing this? Every day?" She asked him, suddenly flabbergasted.


    Joffrey hummed as he lifted her and turned, lying side by side as he gazed at her eyes, "I don''t rightly know, I could spend the rest of this life staring at those lovely blue eyes of yours and I''d count it a life well spent," he said before kissing her.


    Sometimes, he could think himself into knots. He realized that Sansa''s tongue was much more effective than a scissor at cutting said knots, though.


    "And now the poet comes out," Sansa complained after she broke the kiss, "You''ve got the order all wrong Joffrey," she complained as she snaked her hands down his back. "First comes the poems, then the awkward looks, after that the declaration of love and then the ravaging," she explained as she grabbed that tight buttocks of his. She''d been wanting to do that for a while now, even if she''d had trouble admitting it to herself in the past, the ghostly voice of her mother whispering shame every time her yes drifted from what was ''proper''.


    "Hm," Joffrey grunted, "I think you got the last part wrong, shouldn''t that be ''and then they gently kiss''?" He whispered as his hands returned the favor and rounded Sansa''s thighs.


    Sansa yelped, glaring at him as she climbed his chest and grabbed his hands. She slammed them against the matress as she lowered her head. "The pure maidens can keep their gentle," she said forcefully before kissing him as if they''re lives depended on it.


    They spent most of the day in Joffrey''s room, and Inneo shook his head in mirth when he realized the meal he''d left by the door had been ignored.


    He chuckled lowly when dinner was similarly left untouched, the door locked tight.


    That certainly took a while, he thought as he returned to the kitchens. He''d have to leave a couple of Iron Scepters by Adaro''s grave tomorrow, the old man had certainly won that bet.


    -: PD :-


    The next six months were an odd experience for Joffrey. No enemies threatened their position in Braavos, beyond the usual jockeying and petty intrigue that characterized the normal politics of the city. Flushed with coin, Joffrey practically turned the best scholarly minds of Braavos into his private retinue, using them as a sounding board for the myriad plans he had in mind for when he finally ruled Westeros as he meant it. He debated with military historians about the effectiveness of Old Ghis'' legions, he spent mornings speaking with master engineers over sketches and plans, creating theoretical siege engines as he put to use what he''d learned in the Five Forts, modifying them in favor of simplicity and ease of manufacture. He leaned on the Iron Bank to explore and understand the state of Westeros'' debt, and the mood of the important keyholders and bureaucrats regarding it. He dreamed up fleets and watermills, roads and storehouses as his beloved gave him a fresh perspective on the dusty plans that had formed up inside his head during the course of a hundred lifetimes.


    "King''s Landing will be the key," he told Sansa as they stared at the map of Westeros and rain pattered against Dure House''s high windows. "Often denigrated for its slums and the smell, ignored by Royalty in favor of petty politics abroad¡­" he muttered.


    "Half a million souls at our beck and call," mused Sansa. The intense concentration and focus in her eyes would have scared the young girl that had once existed, years ago.


    "Tanners, cobblers, weavers, smiths, bakers, fishermen, many of them genuine masters of their craft, all historically neglected and ripe for expansion by a clever hand¡­" he whispered with closed eyes, tracking production values and investment returns in the back of his mind.


    "Their efforts will power our rule, give us the coin to turn it into the engine of prosperity, as it should be," Sansa agreed, their conversation a familiar one as she studied its roadside connections to the rest of the Crownlands.


    "The coin to build an army worth the name¡­" Joffrey added ominously. Sansa looked at him curiously, tilting her head.


    "Speaking of which, have you decided yet on your little pet legion?" She asked him.


    "Pet Legion?" he asked her, affronted. "Sansa, the ''Guard will be the most lethal fighting force in Westeros. It''ll revolutionize warfare in the continent¡­ if we live to tell the tale at least," he added.


    Sansa raised an eyebrow as she looked at him, "So you''re done?" she asked him.


    Joffrey nodded, confident, "Only three tools: halberd, crossbow, and shovel. It''ll simplify logistics at least," he said.


    "I thought you said pikes were a better idea?" She asked, puzzled.


    A lone lightning was heard in the distance as Joffrey stood up and walked to the wooden cabinet, searching for something, "Kind of. The halberd adds some much needed versatility though, and can be almost as effective as a pike block if you make good use of terrain," he said in a lecturing tone, "I''d go for them if it weren''t for the bloody walkers. Wights don''t give a damn about getting impaled in a pike wall, they''d just swarm them and turn it into a close quarters fight¡­ and any notion of winning an urban skirmish with pikes is a fantasy as well, especially against the Walkers themselves," he grumbled as he poured two cups of wine.


    Sansa nodded slightly, looking at the window as she thought, "Won''t they be too vulnerable to missile troops? As they have no shields, I mean," she asked him.


    Joffrey smiled as she approached her, giving her one of the cups. He loved it when they bounced ideas like that, because even if Sansa''s knowledge of warfare was not enough to meaningfully change his mind, she still served as an excellent sounding board, just as he did with matters of intrigue.


    "Hence the crossbows and the cover they will provide. Assuming excellent drill, massed fire tactics, and intelligent formations, my armies would be like fast hedgehogs, dictating the rhythm of the engagement by threatening quick charges or sitting back and pelting the enemy with crossbow bolts, minimizing weaknesses ¡­" he trailed off, his smile growing a tad bit feral in slight anticipation, "With a force like that, with runners and signalmen worth the name¡­ the initiative would be like clay in my hands," he said almost dreamily. Sansa had to hide a smile as she looked at him¡­ Joffrey spoke of ''The Initiative'' like Westerosi lords spoke of the Kingsguard.


    "I think I could combine the advantages of Old Ghis'' legions, the superior missile volume of Dawn troops, and the charging tactics of Westeros to create an army capable of shattering a variety of enemies, from breaking rebellious hosts to pinning wights in place either in the field or in the cities¡­ Of course, for the latter I think I''ll switch half the crossbowmen for shield bearers as bolts will do little to-" he trailed off again once he saw Sansa, twinkling her nose fondly as she slowly swirled her cup of wine.


    "What?" he asked her.


    "Too much strategy Joffrey. What about the men? You''ll need loyal and trustworthy officers if it is all to work," she explained.


    Joffrey huffed, "Now that''s more of a rarity than trust in the Lannisters," he said as he shook his head.


    "Old hands will not be so lightly swayed to your new ways," she said, ignoring the huff. "You''ll have to work on the younger nobles, the younger the better actually," she said thoughtfully.


    "So they can be taken in by my glorious persona?" he asked mockingly.


    "Yes," she said seriously.


    Joffrey chuckled, but Sansa was still looking at him quite seriously, leaning forward as she spoke, "I''m not joking Joffrey. I saw you fight back in the Red Keep, I''ve seen you here in the yard when you cut loose against the dummies¡­ Westerosi boys worship war. You''ll be a god to them," she said forcefully.


    Joffrey scoffed, grudgingly tilting his head, "There are better warriors than me Sansa, my real father for instance, or Ser Barristan," he told her.


    "Maybe," she said, not quite convinced as she kept looking at his eyes, "But better soldiers?" she asked him, and there was a small silence as she stood up and grasped his shoulders. "You''ve told me what you did in the Dawn Fort, in the Riverlands, I''ve seen you when you were jousting the Mountain that Rides," she said slowly, trying to get into that thick skull of his. "You have this burning conviction when you think the cause is righteous, almost something physical that clogs the air and make men stop and pay attention¡­" she said, her hands gently massaging his neck, "Let it out. Let it all out. Find young scions who have lost themselves within the system, adrift in the order they were raised to maintain but feeling hollow all the same. Do to them what you did to your legions, make them yours," she told him.


    "Manipulate them," Joffrey said in grudging assent, seeing the necessity behind it even if he hated it.


    "No Joffrey," Sansa cut him off, "Help them. Give them what all men crave for. A family to call their own. Brotherhood. Greatness."


    "Purpose," Joffrey muttered, gazing at her vivid blue eyes.


    -: PD :-


    He and Sansa spent whole nights thinking and brainstorming about the Seven Kingdom''s trade routes and the comparative advantages they held against the Free Cities, the inflexible politics that stifled ports and ships, the notable personalities and nobles of the Crownlands and their strengths and weaknesses¡­ when they were not too busying enjoying each other.


    All their planning and preparations seemed like a side show to Joffrey though, a mere blip of their existence as they spent nights carousing and enjoying all that the Secret City had to offer. They laughed and cried at the grand theater halls which dotted the Purple Harbor, they danced and smiled in the raucous soirees at Lazono''s, they laughed as they sang, or rather mangled, famous opera duets in the privacy of Dure House when the snows made for a slow day. They talked and kissed under the trees of the Braavosi hinterlands, Lady chasing the green, wide winged woodpeckers that soared dangerously closed to the ground.


    Most of all, Joffrey enjoyed the loose feeling of peace deep inside him that swelled when he opened his eyes in the morning, the core of warmth that was Sansa held tightly against his chest, his hands holding her securely as she slept.


    He always woke up first, the awkward feeling of their bed drawing him out of the nightmares that still haunted him after all these years. They were always dissipated when he gazed at Sansa''s sleeping form, and though he couldn''t sleep again after waking up, he liked to spend the early hours of the morning just breathing slowly, his eyes closed as he left his mind drift.


    Sansa seemed of a similar mind, though rather than the soirees and the feasts, she seemed the most content when they spent their afternoons snuggling on the long couch by the hearth, a heavy blanket over them as she read an interesting book and Joffrey took dreamless, pleasant naps.


    It was during one of those peaceful afternoons, when Joffrey woke up from the gentle nap to the sight of Sansa reading a light story, laying on her side and facing the lit hearth, that he realized he''d never felt happier in his life.


    "Hm?" she asked wordlessly as she felt him shuffling against her back, not taking her eyes away from the gripping story.


    "I love you," Joffrey whispered as he finished the slight repositioning, his hands now holding her belly from behind as he closed his eyes once more. He realized he''d never said that before¡­ Sansa was right, he did have the order all messed up.


    She smiled gently as she shuffled within his grip, giving her back to the hearth and the gently falling snow beyond the window, the book forgotten. "I love you too," she whispered back with a content sigh, her forehead touching Joffrey''s. Lady gave her mistress a monstrous yawn from her nest of blankets by the fireplace, her head emerging from the bulk of her white-grey fur to stare at the sofa before she coiled on herself again, back to resembling a sleepy grey rock.


    Sansa yawned before she blinked slowly, drowsiness practically poured from Joffrey when he was like this. She was debating whether or not to continue reading about Vellamo and the Laughing Nightingale when she yawned again, and eventually decided to rest her eyes, just for a few minutes¡­


    -: PD :-


    Joffrey smirked as he perused the letter from his informant in the Iron Bank. It seemed Baelish had accrued quite the little nest egg here in Braavos, mostly in the form of property and actual gold dragons in the Bank''s vaults.


    Though it does open up possibilities for our next life, Joffrey mused as he found a considerable part of the funds which had been unaccounted for after he''d tore Littlefinger''s empire to pieces. The fact that they were stashed all the way in Braavos and not King''s Landing or even Gulltown did complicate things, but it deed seem that something could be worked out¡­


    He was startled out of his paperwork when Sansa closed the door behind her, and he worried when he saw her face. The last time he''d seen her like that had been when they had spoken about the possibility of having¡­ children, a few days after their encounter in the Sealord''s Palace.


    It had been a heavy conversation, filled with the creeping doubts of the Purple and the ominous strength gathering to the Northwest, a reminder that their life here would not last forever. Sansa had decided to start drinking Moontea permanently, and Joffrey had agreed immediately, drawing on his memories of the Citadel to make a blend of the tea which minimized side effects and maximized effectiveness. The thought of having a child, a small, defenseless being of their flesh and blood, only to be eventually left behind in a dying world never to be seen again had been enough to give Joffrey more than a few sleepless nights. Sansa still awoke in a cold sweat sometimes, after they''d spoken about the horrible implications.


    "What''s the matter?" he asked as he stopped writing and left the quill by the inkwell.


    "News from Westeros," she said seriously.


    Joffrey took the letter, and frowned as he read it.


    "Who thefuck is John Connington?" he asked in shocked anger as he gazed back at Sansa.


    -: PD :-


    "Just what we fucking needed, ten thousand veterans and a bunch of elephants joining the fray," Joffrey cursed, the Braavosi morning chilling his bones as he paced around the inner courtyard, absently twirling his spear.


    "Assuming we can stave off the war of the Five Kings, ten thousand veterans shouldn''t be too much to handle for you," Sansa pointed out as she feinted, her spear low before delivering a quick flurry of blows which Joffrey parried almost effortlessly with his own spear, tapping her in the arm strongly with the blunted steel.


    "Point," she grumbled as she took a few steps back.


    "War is chaos personified," Joffrey said as he went on the offensive, working a bit of his frustration as he kept her on her toes, spinning and delivering ''slow'' but strong blows which she parried with a huff or barely avoided altogether, "Ten thousand veterans could quickly snowball into a greater rebellion if it''s not nipped in the bud, especially if they''re competently led. Every second that army draws breathe is another second legitimacy drains from King''s Landing¡­" he pointed out as he overextended and Sansa used the opportunity to shove him back and earn some time to breathe.


    "And are they? Competently led?" Sansa asked him, flicking a lock of red hair away from her eye as she studied his guard.


    "They took Storm''s End, so they probably are¡­ though there''s no way to be sure without more information. The Golden Company is known for both its tactical and strategic acumen, that you can count on¡­ they''ll make themselves a bloody plague before they''re stamped out¡­ assuming no more of our future vassals turn their cloaks to this supposed ''Aegon''," he scoffed before trying for a fancy jumping strike at Sansa.


    Sansa parried the heavy blow, tapping him in the knee as she twisted away and avoided Joffrey''s backblow with his spear''s butt. Their conversation lapsed into huffs and grunts as they kept striking and parrying, feinting and side stepping with only the sound of the spears clashing to mark the time. She had been almost as surprised as Joffrey when she''d read the letter their spies in the capital had sent her. The Golden Company was an order of sellswords descended from Westerosi who had been exiled after the Blackfyre Rebellions, prized for never breaking their contracts and being the most deadly sellsword company in Western Essos. The fact that they''d abandoned their previous Blackfyre loyalties in favor of this ''Aegon Targeryean'', himself of dubious lineage as he''d been supposedly dead for more than a decade at this point¡­ it all reeked of something more to Sansa.


    She grimaced as she took a breath, planting her spear on the floor as she wiped the sweat off her forehead. "This is exactly what Doran Martell had been waiting for, isn''t it?" she asked Joffrey.


    "Most likely. I used to think he was waiting for Daenerys Targeryean, but it seems she''s staying in Mereen for the long haul, possibly forever¡­ rumors from the east are always garbled," he grumbled, taking a small towel from the nearby table and wiping the sweat off his head.


    "And for that we can be thankful," said Sansa. The fact that Daenerys and her three living, breathing Dragons seemed content on staying as far away from Westeros as possible was a blessing as far as she was concerned.


    "You can say that again¡­" said Joffrey as he resumed their sparring session, putting her in on the back foot as he opened up with a quick sequence of thrusts and feints, "We need more information. How did they get to the Stormlands? On what ships? Who is backing them in Westeros?" he questioned quickly as Sansa retreated, parrying wildly.


    The conversation devolved once more into grunts and pained huffs as Sansa managed to get a few strong blows on Joffrey''s torso and the melee turned into a frenzied close quarters match. Joffrey lost his spear but managed an arm lock as he positioned himself behind Sansa, grabbing both her arms in a hold as he kissed her in the neck. Seeing Sansa flushed and sweaty always seemed to leave him¡­ hot headed.


    He couldn''t resist.


    "I don''t think that''s part of the spear drill¡­" Sansa huffed, her cheeks turning red. She stomped on Joffrey''s toe and slipped from his grip. She tried to strike him with the butt of the spear, but failed as Joffrey sidestepped the blow and closed in with another delightful kiss, this one on the other side of her neck.


    "The Summer Islanders use it to great effect," he told her glibly, dodging a few halfhearted spear thrusts from Sansa before once more locking her in his grasp.


    "Liar. You''ve never been to the Summer Islands," Sansa huffed in annoyance before twisting within his hold and planting a strong, proper kiss on the damned tease, her sudden weight making him fall on the smooth stone floor with her on top, the spear discarded.


    "We can''t -end every -practice session -like this-," Sansa complained in between kisses, Joffrey''s hands opening up her padded armor. "We still have two hours to go," she huffed as she did the same to Joffrey''s slim armor.


    "Sorry," he said before kissing her again, and it was the most insincere apology Sansa had ever heard¡­ Not that she cared.


    -: PD :-


    They spent the next three months amassing as much useful information as they could from the happenings in Westeros, which seemed to have reached some sort of critical mass of destruction. The Tyrells'' powerful marriage block had finally broken apart under the strain, and the Reach had devolved into its own petty civil war, of which the strongest factions were the Stannis-backed Florents and the Tyrell-Hightower remnants, with the Greyjoys adding fuel to the fire and raiding everywhere. The arrival of Aegon Targeryean in the Stormlands had given fresh hopes to the Tyrells, who had been hoping for a marriage with the young king to stave off the hopeless situation they had found themselves in¡­ until they learned that Dorne had stolen a march from them. Arianne Martell married Aegon Targeryean in Storm''s End''s Sept to the clamor of golden veterans and the trumpeting of elephants, at the same time as ten thousand Dornish spears marched out of the Prince''s Pass, setting the southern Reach on fire and aiding in the slaughter of the Seven Kingdom''s bread basket.


    Stannis had been forced to turn south east back to regain his ancient seat before more Stormlanders turned their cloaks, abandoning the siege of Casterly Rock and leaving Tywin and the last dregs of the Westerlands alone save for a comparatively small blocking force. In a curiously convenient twist of fate, Tywin was found in his bedchambers with a smile on his neck, just when Stannis was too far away to do anything about it and just before Tywin could make use of the reprieve to get some sort of plan going again beyond ''If the Rock falls, Stannis will have all our heads''.


    With Tywin''s iron fist gone, the swiftly disintegrating Westermen who had not yet sworn to Stannis had taken to Aegon''s more comparatively magnanimous terms with relief. Many keeps in the Westerlands suddenly flew the Dragon''s banner almost overnight, as ravens came and went.


    Information on the North had all but broken down as reports grew more and more contradictory until the more meaningful ones simply stopped reaching Braavos at all. What they did know was that Robb Stark had returned to the North with less than half the men who had followed him south, but the Muddy Wolf and his compact army of veterans had fallen on the Wildlings like a pack of ravenous direwolves on a herd of goats. He''d slaughtered his way up to sacked Winterfell, executing every single Iron Born raider or Wildling he could get his hands on, and resistance to his advance was scattered. It seemed the great Wildling army had splintered after taking the Wall, with various bands and clans independently making their way southwards¡­ And though it seemed that a northmen victory seemed assured on any battlefield, it was becoming apparent that the task of securing the North itself from the tens of thousands of scattering wildlings would take many years¡­ many more than they could afford, even if they did not know it.


    As for the Golden Company itself, many questions had answered themselves when Varys, missing and presumed dead since Stannis had taken King''s Landing, had appeared in Storm''s End and personally penned a letter to all lords high and low, declaring ''to his utmost recollection'' his actions during the days before the Sack of King''s Landing, years ago. The way he''d smuggled one Aegon Targeryean and replaced him with a silver haired lookalike days after learning of the Battle of the Trident¡­


    Groomed since birth to reclaim his rightful throne, the Spider had painted a pretty picture around his favored pawn, calling him a King of rightful Targeryean blood who would bring back the order of the days of old to the continent. A just and chivalric knight, friend of lords and commoners alike.


    It seemed the Spider was not so lacking in ambitions as the rest of the nobility had thought¡­


    -: PD :-


    They sailed to Lys, eager to learn more about yet another enemy which had emerged from the shadows. The rightful son and heir of Rhaegar Targeryean, and now harbinger of further war and devastation to southern Westeros, the young king returning from anonymity after a life of exile amongst the common folk, surrounded by a loyalist cadre of Westerosi nobles to shape the King Westeros deserves¡­


    Joffrey was not buying it. Romantic tales like that did not happen in this planet.


    "We knew the ships were from Volantis, twelve galleons in all, but the Gewyns were adamant that the Golden Company''s longest stay was in Lys," said Sansa as their ship tumbled over the waves, a furious late autumn storm shaking it about like a dog with a rat.


    Joffrey grimaced as he held on to the bulkhead. Their room was the best he could get without sacrificing the Fast Trader''s speed, though he was starting to regret that choice. "Makes sense, they must have been awaiting news from Varys so they didn''t land in front of an enemy army by accident. A contested landing is no joke, and would have probably seen them slaughtered to a man if something went wrong," Joffrey told her as the ship creaked ominously and he heard shouts coming from above.


    "So that is where -or rather when- we should face the Golden Company? As they disembark?" Sansa asked out loud, holding on for dear life as the ship tilted left.


    "Yeah, though forcing a sea battle would be much more effective¡­ if we can find them en route that is, which is harder than it sounds. Galleons loaded with armored men, horses and elephants¡­" Joffrey trailed off as he shook his head. He blinked at the minute amount of seawater pooling at his feet, sloshing around their small room. "They would struggle against proper warships. I much prefer the Golden Company drowning at sea than dying on land, where their heavy plate and horse are an advantage rather than a detriment. Soldiers that die against them will be soldiers that can''t face the Walkers¡­ at least not on our side¡­" He trailed off once more when the amount of water kept increasing and the ship kept tilting left.


    "Something''s wrong," Sansa told him before some sort of colossal wave crashed against the ship, tilting it all the way sideways as water flooded their room from one second from the next.


    Fucking autumn storms, Joffrey thought as he grabbed Sansa''s hand. "We have to get-" he couldn''t finish the sentence as the ice cold seawater flooded the room completely in seconds and submerged them both. He could see Sansa spinning, or was that the room?


    He tried to lead her towards the door, but the air in his lungs was already starting to burn when he lost sight of it, darkness descending on them as the oil lamps were snuffed out and the ship sunk, darkness replaced by twisting Purple. He held on to her hand as the pillars beckoned, and she squeezed back in silent companionship as they were levitated upwards and upwards and upwards in agony¡­


    -: PD :-


    S~?a??h the ??v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


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    AN: More a mini arc epilogue than a proper chapter, but it is what it is. I hope you guys are excited for a proper Westeros run.


    I know I am.

 Chapter 44: Queens and Crowns.

    Chapter 44: Queens and Crowns.The feast in Winterfell''s main hall was in full swing when Sansa stood up, not even halfway through when she approached the main table.


    "I don''t feel very well mother, I think I''ll retire for the night," she told Catleyn, an apologetic smile on her lips.


    Not reaching over and squeezing her daughter''s arm was all Catelyn Stark could do as she gazed at Sansa.


    From one night to the next, her daughter had suddenly turned¡­ different. First had been the fiercely strong hug she''d given her, Ned, Bran, Robb, Rickon and even Arya that morning, the last of which was still convinced it was all some sort of cruel prank Sansa had dreamed up with Jeyne. And then she''d gone around the keep during the following days obviously trying to carry out her usual duties with an unfamiliar, anxious attitude. Septa Mordane had reported a sudden, worrying disinterest in the lessons that had so often captured her imagination before, and Robb had supposedly found her playing some sort of game of endurance that had left her completely exhausted a few days ago, hanging upside down from a cupboard¡­ though Catelyn seriously doubted that.


    "Should I tell the Septa-" Catelyn asked halfheartedly when before she would have merely commanded it so, but Sansa shook her head slightly before she could finish the sentence, as if thankful for the favor but not really seeing the need for it.


    More worrying than that was the fact that her tender daughter was¡­ gone. No, that wasn''t right. Sansa was still there, but the carefree, childlike attitude she had so loved in her now seemed locked behind a wall of¡­ courtesy and thoughtfulness. No longer could she spy her running and laughing along the corridors, or gossiping with Jeyne about one of the boys in Wintertown after the Septa''s lessons.


    "Very well then, remember to tell me or Maester Luwin if something hurts, don''t worry about the hour," she stressed out loud, somehow still expecting a moan and a scoff at her worry. Instead, Sansa simply nodded in thanks.


    Another bellow from Robert distracted her, the King laughing out loud as Ned smiled in shared mirth, and when she turned to look at her side once more she realized Sansa was gone.


    She sighed, trying to understand how her daughter had suddenly grown up.


    -: PD :-


    The Winterfell night did not seem as cold after spending months in Braavos, chilling under the steadily worsening snowstorms of late autumn and early winter. Sansa was leaning on the balcony, her overstretched arms supporting her weight as she studied the revelry below and to her right as a few feast goers left the main hall and sang in the middle of the courtyard.


    She sighed as she felt a pair of familiar hands embracing her from behind, and she let herself lean backwards as she closed her eyes and smiled, feeling whole again.


    "I missed you," she muttered after Joffrey kissed her gently.


    "Me too," he said, content to let her lean on him as he gazed not at the courtyard but at the starry night, holding her tight.


    "Did it hurt?" he asked after a moment of peaceful silence, only interrupted by the happy singing from below.


    "It was more than worth it," she answered the question in her own way, her eyes still closed as she savored the gentle reunion.


    Joffrey quirked an eyebrow as his hands felt the taut muscles around her belly, smiling as Sansa sighed again. "You''ve been training?" he asked her.


    "I''ve got more to catch up than you," she said before twisting within his grasp to stare at his eyes, "Joffrey¡­" she trailed off, blinking for a few seconds before grey steel filled her eyes, "Westeros¡­" she whispered, doubt and exaltation warring in her voice as the whisper seemed to ask a thousand questions.


    "Westeros," Joffrey nodded after an eternal silence, answering all of them with one word.


    A shiver of momentary awe passed through Sansa, who breathed in deeply as the colossal implications multiplied by the second, dreams and memories of a thousand plans and conversations flashing through her mind.


    "They won''t know what hit them, will they?" she asked him with a tense smile, her mind already drafting the letters that would fly tomorrow.


    "It''s time the Seven Kingdoms move," Joffrey answered the question with burning passion, a slow joy simmering inside him when before there would have been only dark despair.


    "We''ll have to start working on Father, he needs to see you as Robert''s son if-" She spoke quickly before Joffrey cut her off with another kiss.


    "Later. Stay with me," he whispered after he broke it, and Sansa smiled lightly before leaning on his chest, embracing him as well.


    The prospect of trying to save Westeros from itself and the end of the world had once filled him with despair, a black void that had crushed him from within, a dead weight that had held him in place, pinned to his bed long after the sun had already risen.


    Now though, as he held his partner tightly in his arms, those feelings were but a dim echo throughout the depths of his soul... Now, as they stood on the precipice of the chaos that would soon engulf their homeland, Joffrey could only feel a growing sense of exaltation, a heady clarity of purpose that filled him as the time to enact their shared vision of the future approached. A Westeros as it should be. A tool to stop the apocalypse. An extension of their wills. A project he and his beloved could be proud of.


    They stayed there for a while, enjoying each other''s presence as the feast below continued and the stars kept circling above, a starry vault of white and dark blue.


    -: PD :-


    "So you''re Jon Snow, right?" Lancel asked the black haired boy with the grey complexion, who was playing with a gangly white wolf.


    They were in a little clearing within the small woods almost half a day away from King''s Landing, the other boys standing around awkwardly and trying not to shiver as they waited for the sun to come out. Only the light of the circle of torches surrounding the clearing gave them any illumination.


    The boy stopped to look at him with veiled wariness and a sort of honest defiance Lancel seldom saw in the cesspit that was King''s Landing¡­ and hence ripe for the picking.


    "So what if I am?" he asked curtly.


    Lancel waved his hands in a sort of apology, "Nothing at all," he said, seemingly confused. "It''s just that I thought this was a gathering of noble sons, not-"


    "Bastards?" Jon interrupted him seriously, quick to assume the title.


    Lancel nodded gently, as if Snow was a simpleton, "I thought you might have been mistaken, but then I thought about¡­ well," he trailed off meaningfully, shrugging the matter away.


    "Thought about what?" the Bastard asked him, not sure if he was being played or not.


    He''s going to be eaten alive in court, thought Lancel with a disguised snort.


    "Oh it''s nothing you should worry about¡­" he said, then relented when Snow frowned, "Well, you see, the Prince has been pretty selective with this little gathering¡­ but as a favor, you being here does make a lot of sense," he explained seriously.


    "A favor?" Snow asked, tilting his head in confusion.


    "You haven''t heard? Strange, what with you accompanying the couple from Winterfell¡­" said Lancel, seemingly genuinely surprised. He gave his cousin Tyrek a surprised look, but the even younger boy was busy kicking stones to his right. The little baby was never there when he needed him¡­


    "Heard what?" asked the Bastard, irritated as he started to suspect he was being played with.


    That took a while, Lancel thought as he nodded to himself. "Rumor has it the good Lady Sansa has fallen quite thoroughly for the Prince¡­ and if she''d pleaded for a position for her bastard half-brother¡­ well, she seems quite endowed to give a lot of favors to the Prince¡­" he trailed off with a smirk.


    The simpleton tilted his head once more before his face twisted, "My sister- favor-!" he snarled as the white wolf by his side did the same. Lancel took a step back, more concerned by the wolves'' sharp teeth than the way Snow was gripping his bastard sword''s pommel.


    "Careful there, wouldn''t want to cut yourself," he said, and almost laughed out loud when the Bastard unsheathed his sword slightly. This was too easy.


    "Both of you, calm down!" the Mooton boy called out skittishly from the tree trunk he had been leaning against.


    "Afraid of a little scuffle, Willard? We are kitted with blunted swords," he told the boy with the almost excessively large red salmon sewn atop his tabard.


    "Of course not!" he shouted immediately, straightening and grasping the two hander that was almost longer than him, the one he had left leaning on the tree trunk as if he were some sort of warrior of legend.


    Lancel had to suppress an amused sigh. It seemed those chosen were exactly the worst sort of people you''d task to build any sort of ''guard''. Hardly surprising he supposed, given it was Joffrey the one who had set up the whole thing¡­ not exactly a military mastermind, or possessing much of a mind at all really.


    "You should both stop taking his baits, it''ll just encourage him," called out the Frey boy from the ground, munching on a piece of bread. Lancel couldn''t for the life of him remember the young man''s name.


    "Sound advice," muttered Snow, "Olyvar was it?" he asked him.


    "Yeah," said the Frey, "I''ve got some experience on that front," he said with a slightly bitter smile.


    An awkward silence descended upon the clearing as they kept waiting, yawning or sighing at the sudden boredom. "Did the Prince send you a letter as well?" Finally spoke the burly heir to Duskendale, Renfred Rykker.


    Olyvar shook his head, drumming cold fingers against his thigh, "He came to the Twins when the King''s Caravan returned from the North. Him and," he hesitated for a half second, trying not to look at Jon, "His betrothed," he ended lamely. Lancel smirked as Jon turned around and went back to playing with Ghost, his movements harsh, angry. "They spoke with Lord Walder for a while, and then they had the leave of the castle for a few days¡­" added Olyvar.


    "They didn''t go straight to you?" asked Willard, intrigued.


    "Not at first, but they spoke with pretty damn everyone in the Twins during the first two days. I bumped into them while cleaning the stables with Jinglebells- Aegon, my half-brother," he explained when he saw the incomprehension in their faces, "We were refilling the hay when the Prince suddenly appeared by my side, helping me with one of the bundles. We talked for a few minutes, and then he was gone," he said with a snort. "I didn''t even realize it was him until later, when both him and lady Sansa approached me again, that very same evening¡­" he trailed off as his small audience nodded, not needing to ask what they''d told him.


    "Why did you say yes?" Rykker asked him.


    Olyvar shrugged, "It was a lot of gold. Two years of service? I was already a servant in the Twins, better two years learning how to fight with the best warriors of the Seven kingdoms than moving hay," he reasoned.


    "Always about the gold with you Freys," Willard chuckled.


    Olyvar gave him the stink eye, looking angry as he spoke, "Easy for you to say Mooton. You don''t have twenty-two brothers competing for arms and horses, nor seven sisters clamoring for dowry''s," he said bitterly.


    Willard shrugged before making as if he hadn''t heard him, "Best warriors of the Seven Kingdoms¡­" said the Mooton boy as he trailed off expectantly, a tinge of doubt in his voice as he turned to Lancel, "Have you seen Ser Jaime or maybe¡­ Ser Barristan? Preparing I mean," he asked.


    Lancel tilted his head from side to side as he tried to come up with an answer that was not exactly false, and that also didn''t sully the Lannister name. He couldn''t exactly tell them this was all but the latest, petty whimsy of the Crown Prince. A way for him to feel mighty with a few swords at his beck and call, at least until he got bored again¡­ There would be no great warriors to teach them, only the mewling commands of his cousin.


    "They seemed to be carrying out their duties as normal, but I haven''t seen them much these past few days anyway¡­" he answered, all truths at least.


    "And the Prince? Has anyone seen him yet?" asked Olyvar, looking at the night sky which was barely now starting to retreat from the grasping light of the sun, "You were the first one here right?" he asked Renfred.


    "Aye, I saw him when I got here, a couple of hours ago. You could tell it was the Prince by the way the Hound hovered around him," rumbled Renfred.


    "And?" asked Olyvar.


    "He seemed to be¡­ resting, or maybe thinking," he said slowly. He continued as the boys kept looking at him, "I don''t know, he was just sort of¡­. Kneeling in front of a tree," he ended doubtfully.


    "It can''t be, I got here fifteen minutes ago and I saw him in exactly the same position," Lancel dismissed the claim.


    That seemed to leave them thinking, and the awkward silence extended for a while, only punctuated by the pounding of Tyrek''s boot against the odd stone.


    "Would you stop that?" Lancel asked his cousin as he moved to his side, his voice as low as it was resigned.


    "No," he muttered as he kicked another stone.


    Lancel let out a long breath as he gazed at his little cousin, "Spit it out Tyrek, what''s the damned problem?"


    "We could be sleeping right now, waking up late like the King," Tyrek told him as he kicked another stone.


    "Yeah, and getting mocked and yelled at as if we were our bloody Grandfather," Lancel said lowly.


    "Better serving wine than stomping off to the middle of nowhere!" Tyrek spat before Lancel grabbed him from the back of his neck.


    "Listen Tyrek, when the Prince finally deigns to order us about you will comply," he snarled quietly, "I suspect our presence here was the way Joffrey sold the whole scheme to Robert, as a way to get us out of his hair. But if all of - when all of this falls apart, Lord Tywin will see that we return just where Joffrey found us. And I for once want a couple of quiet months where I can breathe without that fat drunk bellowing like a pig for ''lumpy'' the court fool!" he snarled, surprised by the amount of anger that seemed to be pouring out of him as he released his cousin.


    "Are we clear?" he asked Tyrek, more calmly this time.


    "Yes," said his cousin, rubbing his neck as he sat down with a surly look.


    Lancel shook his head as he sat as well, eyeing Snow and his direwolf and the way he seemed to be staring daggers at his back. They were all startled by a steady, confident stride that carried itself ever closer, the clinking of armor and mail unmistakable.


    Here we go, Lancel thought as he stood up, rolling his eyes when he saw Joffrey emerge from the other side of the clearing clad in plate and carrying a halberd of all things, the sun just now creeping from the east. Dawn.


    There was something¡­ off about him though. Instead of the usual peacock strut that expected the world to bend over, his cousin seemed to be walking as if he already knew the earth world would bend over. It was a subtle difference, but immediately noteworthy all the same. His back seemed as straight as a steel beam, his right hand leaning between his hip and his sword''s pommel in an oddly snug, casual way. His eyes were what caught him though, twin bottomless pits of steely green, seemingly analyzing every inch of his being.


    The other boys stood up as well, dusting off their breastplates and sheathing their tourney swords, the gear the Prince had asked them to bring today. They started to bow when the Prince waved the formalities away with a negligent hand.


    "Prince Joffrey-" Lancel started, but quickly stopped when Joffrey pierced him with a stare. He swallowed, vaguely angry with himself over the way he had been instantly intimidated, the way Robert liked to do.


    What was wrong with his cousin?!


    There was a strange silence as they all stood up and stared at the man that had just entered the clearing, shuffling nervously under the hair rising stare that Joffrey seemed to regale to each and every one of them.


    "Thank you for coming," he said respectfully, nodding at each in turn. "You may have heard a few rumors regarding the formation of this Royal Guard," he said as he planted the halberd on the ground, walking from side to side in front of the impromptu line the boys had formed up.


    "Mostly how it''s Prince Joffrey''s latest fancy. A game of sorts," he mused. "A way to feel powerful! Respected! "he said with a slight smile as he walked, left hand at his back and right hand between hip and pommel.


    There it is, Lancel thought in a strange sort of relief when he saw the smile, not too different from the one the Prince had sported as he all but tortured everything from cats to the serving staff¡­ but-


    "So give him a few men to play with! We''ve made Crown Prince''s into Commanders of the City Watch before, how is this any different?" he asked no one in particular as he walked along the length of the line, two meters away from it. "They say a lot of things, the lords and the knights," he said before trailing off.


    "''We''ve had peace for years, and just as many are upon the horizon''," he said, the smile slowly leaving his face as he stopped his pacing. "''The realm is stable, perhaps more than ever before''," Joffrey mused, his eyes heavy. "''This Summer may last decades more''," he declared with a bit of whimsy, stopping for a moment to turn and gaze at the rising sun. Lancel moved his shoulder a little, trying to take the tension out of it. He sounded as if he wanted to believe it. Desperately¡­ and failing.


    Something''s not right, he thought as he looked at Tyrek, standing by his side. His cousin looked back, nervous or confused, he could not tell. The abrupt silence was short and brittle, and Joffrey seemed to take his time as he let the sun bathe his half plate.


    "They''re wrong," he said suddenly, still looking at the sun.


    Lancel swallowed, uncomfortable with the pure conviction in his cousin''s voice. He''d never seen him like this.


    "Blind. Ignorant," he said as he turned back towards them, gazing at them all as his voice rose. "Rumors of Dothraki Savages moving west fill the Free Cities. Rumblings come from the North, of great hosts of Wildlings abandoning entire villages and moving south, escaping from something," he said slowly. "Lords scheme and plot, whispers and rumors of mercenaries bought and sold fill the taverns and the alleyways of cities from Pentos to Lys¡­" he trailed off, taking a step closer to them.


    "The Maesters are still trying to calculate the severity of the Winter that is to come. Some hypothesize it could have a duration similar to this long summer... others think it could last more than a decade and a half," he said, his voice calm. Lancel could feel the stares from the other boys as they looked at each other in confusion.


    "None of them know for sure," he said as he shrugged, walking back to the halberd. "What I do know for certain is that War will come," he said as if he''d seen it himself.


    "War always comes to Westeros," he whispered as he grabbed the halberd, feeling its weight with both hands.


    A small silence followed, and Willard couldn''t hold under the strain as he took a step forward, "Excuse me my Prince," he spoke hurriedly, "I know that you want a standing force to secure the Crownlands, but I was given to understand that we''d train under the best-" he stuttered to a halt, realizing the implied insult. "I mean, under knights such as¡­ maybe Ser Jaime, or Ser Barristan?" he added doubtfully.


    "No, you''ll train under me," Joffrey corrected him, "I will teach you the way of the halberd, the crossbow and the shovel. I will teach you how to march, how to fortify a location, how to gauge the winds of battle, and how to command effectively," he said it as if it were a promise.


    Willard looked to his sides, seeing the mirror of his expression on the rest of the assembled boys. Disbelief, confusion, perhaps even mirth.


    "You? My Prince?" said Willard painfully.


    "Me," Joffrey nodded.


    "Halberds," Jon said to himself, frowning hard.


    Lancel for one was still expecting for Joffrey to burst out into laughter¡­ but with every second he did not the uncanny feeling in his gut stretched.


    Joffrey just looked at them, his face considering. "A wager then?" he asked.


    "A wager?" asked Olyvar.


    "If you can make me yield, then I''ll give you, all of you, all the gold I promised for the entirety of your two year service, and you can go on your way," he said simply.


    Tyrek looked troubled, expecting the trap to fall any moment now. The Prince was not known as a good fighter¡­ far less than that indeed. And Olyvar frequently sparred in the Red Keep''s courtyard since he''d arrived to the Capital¡­ he''d break the prince''s teeth.


    Olyvar blinked, "I''m not sure if I-"


    "Not just you. All of you," said the Prince, signaling with his hand at the other five boys.


    "At the same time?!" Jon blurted, his sense of honor outraged even as Renfred and Willard laughed out loud. They swiftly became quiet when they realized the Prince was being serious.


    "And what do you ask for if you win?" Lancel finally asked his cousin, tired of the strange joke and only wishing it to end. In retrospect, giving wine to Robert was a better idea than entertaining his pointlessly cruel simpleton of a cousin.


    "Yourselves," he said simply.


    "What do you mean?" asked Renfred, looking at him keenly.


    "Your body, mind and soul. You will be my officers, the embodiment of my will on the battlefield. We''ll bleed and cry and kill together, die too if the gods are unkind. You will be my advisors, my inner circle, you will be those that will revolutionize warfare on this continent. You will be the ones to restore the King''s Peace, with cold steel," he said as if he were speaking about the arrangements of a simple hunt.


    The disbelieving stares were not even camouflaged now. Jon was shaking his head, gazing back north in regret as Olyvar and Renfred looked at each other in confusion.


    "Told you," Tyrek muttered angrily, elbowing Lancel.


    Lancel just took a deep breath, "Very well, we accept, let''s get this over with," he said quickly, looking at the other boys. They all nodded grudgingly in the end, still shaking their heads at the unreality of the situation.


    "Stand back Ghost," Jon called out, and Willard snorted as he unsheathed his greatsword.


    "Let''s begin then. Fall here, and rise as my officers," said Joffrey as he bent his knees slightly, still looking at them.


    The boys were staring at Joffrey as if he had gone insane, and Lancel swore could see a tiny bit of irritation in his cousin''s eyes before he spoke again.


    "Now," he repeated as his eyes narrowed, the halberd light in his hands, not even in a guard position.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    AN: Recommend setting it to loop, just remember to shut it down when the scene ends.


    "I said NOW!" roared Joffrey as he twirled the halberd in a blur of speed and ended the roar with a low, diagonal guard, both hands tightly grasping the shaft as his right foot extended backwards by a step, the gleaming tip of the weapon held up and forwards, "Or are you a bloody coward you Mooton scum!" he shouted at Willard''s face.


    Willard was the first to move, shouting as he swung high with a two hander. Joffrey parried the blow with the space between the spearhead and the axe, twisting the halberd along its axis and locking Willard''s sword in its steel grip. He lowered the tangled mass of steel and pressed it against the ground, taking a step forward and delivering a ringing blow against Willard''s helmet with the haft. He stumbled backwards, and Joffrey disengaged the blades before spinning in a half circle and hammering the man''s arm, making him drop the sword.


    "COME ON!" he roared, taking two steps back and lowering his knees slightly.


    The nobles looked at each other in vague shock for a second before springing at him, shouting and roaring all manner of House battle cries that sounded vaguely anemic to Joffrey''s ears. He retreated steadily, swinging the halberd not in a whirling frenzy as a master of the spear would, but calmly and methodically even if the speed of said movement never seemed to abate, the head catching blows from one side even as the haft intercepted swings from the other, stopping them before they could gather speed. He interrupted the predictable moves before they could be completed as he kept stepping backwards, spinning along his own axis as they attacked from both sides of the following semi-circle, parrying a blow with each second even as he stepped precisely from side to side and dodged other, clumsily announced attacks, the ringing of steel on steel so continuous it seemed like heavy rain pattering against the glass windows of Dure House. He flowed through their uncoordinated attacks, riposting brutally and leaving a sea of bruises and small cuts in his wake, the melee already more brutal than any training bout these scions of nobility had ever experienced.


    "Faster!" Joffrey roared, a slow sheen of sweat starting to cover his head as crouched and let Jon''s bastard sword sail above him. He pivoted sideways, unleashing a cloud of dry dust as Lancel''s arming sword almost clipped his shoulder. He kept retreating, parrying and dodging and guiding the fight back to the middle of the clearing, delivering painful ripostes that sought to wound and hurt them, but not to take them out of the fight, not yet.


    He had to break them first if he was to turn them into something greater.


    The scions were breathing harshly as they followed Joffrey slowly, occasionally gazing at each other in shock. Willard had recovered his sword, and he was holding his arm in pain as he returned to the semi-circle which now surrounded Joffrey once again.


    He surveyed the boys as they quickly shuffled back and forwards, each unwilling to be the first to strike again, holding limbs and bruises in pain. "You fight like warriors," Joffrey declared as he went suddenly still, the nobles sensing the danger as they took a step back, "But you will be Soldiers," he said as he moved.


    He attacked Lancel with a roar and a heavy lunge, only for the boy to fall for the feint and be caught off guard as the blunted spearhead retreated half a step and lunged higher up instead, quick as a snake. Lancel squealed in pain as the blow caught his armored shoulder, sending him reeling back as Joffrey delivered a follow up hit on his leg. He redirected a swift blow from Renfred''s sword with the haft, pivoting and slamming aside the burly heir''s shield with the hammer head. "When you march with me, you will be changed," Joffrey intoned as if he were speaking prophesy, slamming the upper part of the haft against Renfred''s neck and leaving him a sputtering wreck on the floor.


    "Your House words will be ''Yes, Commander''," said Joffrey as he turned, twisting minutely and avoiding Jon''s sword, letting the halberd extend and catch Olyvar, who had been trying to attack him from behind.


    Clever lad, thought Joffrey, but that didn''t stop him as the hammer head licked Olyvar''s thigh below his guard and made him shout in pain, limping backwards. Joffrey made use of the hole in the middle of the semicircle to disrupt their haphazard formation, attacking Jon. He kept the pressure on the Bastard of Winterfell, attacking relentlessly in a rain of thrusts which made him stumble back quickly and leave the protection of his fellows. "You will fall here, and rise as Soldiers!" he roared as he lunged three times, and Jon only barely parried the blows, breathing harshly and not having time to even think about countering before Joffrey spun in a somewhat elaborate swing, spinning the halberd above his head and adding the centrifugal force of the spin to the hammer head. He brought it down sideways and tore Jon''s bastard sword from his grip. The halberd''s head kept going due to the force behind the blow, but instead of repositioning Joffrey reversed the grip and took a step forward, slamming the butt of the weapon against Jon''s forehead. The Bastard of Winterfell fell backwards in a daze, and the hair at the back of Joffrey''s neck tingled as he saw a shadow against the ground.


    "Fall now! Fall now as Warriors!" He roared as he turned and charged into Willard''s overhead swing, deciding to turn the range into close quarters and making the handling of both their weapons difficult. Joffrey slammed the haft of the halberd horizontally against Willard''s arms before he could lower his greatsword, pinning them against the boy''s back as he pulled and their breastplates collided. Joffrey could see the fear in his eyes as Willard breathed heavily, his face an inch away from Joffrey''s as he desperately tried to tear his arms from the lock. "Your sigil will be the white Hand of the King, locked in fist," he told Willard before he slammed his helmet against his. He twisted left, rotating them both and avoiding Olyvar''s thrust. He head butted Willard again before he released the lock and the boy stumbled to the ground, holding his face with both hands. Joffrey spun the halberd back to a low guard, ignoring the rivulet of blood flowing from his nose.


    "You will not be Knights! Polished breastplates and chivalry!" He roared as Lancel and Tyrek attacked him from left and right. They lacked coordination however, and Joffrey ducked below Lancel''s thrust as he slammed the halberd against the floor, the haft stopping Tyrek''s swing. "You will be Officers! Blood and Mud will coat your armor!" he said as he spun once more and extended the halberd forward in a one handed grip, catching Lancel''s ankle with the axe and pulling. "Fall! Fall now!!!" he roared at them as Lancel fell on the ground harshly, dust exploding from underneath him as Joffrey caught Tyrek''s half hysterical swing with his vambrace, grimacing at the blow that made his ears ring and his forearm to burn before shoving the sword aside and slamming his gauntleted fist into his smaller cousin''s face. The young boy fell back on the floor, and Joffrey could hear faint sobs coming from his prone form before he turned to the downed Lancel and slammed the hammer head on his breastplate, leaving his face locked in agony as he struggled to breathe through the pain.


    He walked towards Olyvar Frey, the last boy standing amidst a sea of moaning, shifting figures on the ground.


    "Your brothers will be legion!" he said as he approached Olyvar, the boy''s guard steady even as his frenzied eyes cycled between Joffrey''s arms, halberd and helmet. He lunged at Joffrey with a roar, the Prince deflecting two blows before sweeping Olyvar''s feet. He finished him by delivering a measured, two handed blow on the downed boy''s breastplate, making him cough and moan in pain.


    Joffrey was breathing harshly, his eyes vaguely unfocused as he gazed at the half dozen moaning nobles on the ground.


    "Stand up," he told them, walking around the fallen.


    "This will not be your last time in the mud. When the Lords march and the savages invade, you''ll be pummeled down again and again," he recited the prophecy.


    "What will make you different will be one thing. Your ability to stand!" he said as fallen faces turned to look at him, blinking through the pain and gazing at him in fear or awe.


    "Rise! Rise up as Guardsmen!" he shouted as he kept walking between the fallen, stopping in front of Jon who was holding his head with one hand, trying to get his knees under him. "Come on Jon. Stand with me and let''s show this world what you are, beyond name and birth," he said quietly now, Jon''s breath hitching as he stared up.


    "Come on Jon! Stand up! Stand up!!!" Joffrey roared at Jon''s face as he managed to put a wobbly feet under him. The boy groaned harshly as he managed to stand and almost fall to the ground again, Joffrey holding him by the shoulder.


    "Welcome to the Royal Guard," Joffrey told him as he gazed at his eyes. He moved on, the rest of the boys halfheartedly trying to stand up, their faces bruised under the pounding they had taken in the less than five minutes that the terrifying bout had lasted.


    "Rise! Rise Willard Mooton!" he shouted at the young boy, who lay squirming in the ground as he held his arm in pain. "Bravery and cowardice are meaningless here!" he shouted as the boy looked up at him, strangely still. "Order and Discipline will be our virtues! The sniveling and the rumormongering stamped out by the marching boots of our men!" he promised him, spittle flying from his mouth as Joffrey tried to make them understand.


    That they could be something greater than themselves.


    "Welcome to the Royal Guardsmen," he told him as the boy stood up slowly, ignoring the pain in his arm as he gazed at Joffrey in mixed awe and incomprehension, knowing something beyond was happening but not exactly sure about what that was.


    He turned towards Renfred, but was surprised to find him already standing, his back straight as he spat a bit of blood on the floor, an odd look in his eyes that brought painful memories to Joffrey''s mind.


    "I''m your man," he said simply as he massaged his neck, and Joffrey clasped him in the shoulder fiercely, as he had once done over the muddy, blood soaked plains of the Riverlands.


    "Welcome to the Royal Guard," he told the heir, and he was a Guardsmen.


    Olyvar was struggling to stand up, his left leg wobbling wildly as he huffed in effort, his face twisted in pain. "Our brothers will be legion?" grunted Olyvar as he tried to stand up, "I''m not sure¡­ I''d like that," he said in between breaths.


    "These brothers will stand by your side come hell or Great Other. This I promise you by all that lives and breathes on this earth," Joffrey intoned as he gazed at him.


    "I¡­ I''d like that¡­ but I-" Olyvar grunted as he fell back down, holding his chest in pain.


    "Rise Olyvar, rise a Guardsmen," he ordered him, and the boy''s face locked under the strain, a slight, high pitched squeak escaping his mouth as he stumbled upright, his body aching like never before as he found, somehow, the strength to stand.


    "Welcome to the Royal Guard," Joffrey told him as he clasped his shoulders.


    He turned to the fallen cousins, but was surprised to find Tyrek already franticly trying to stand up, the mixed tears and blood clogging his vision and making him stumble drunkenly.


    "I can stand, I can stand!" he called out desperately, as if he was about to miss his ship.


    Joffrey smiled lightly, holding him steady with the haft of the halberd as he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket. He cleaned the grime, blood and tears off Tyrek''s eyes, and was not surprised when he found a look of adoration in there.


    "Please, please teach me how to fight like that," he mumbled, awe written clear in his voice.


    "No Tyrek, I will not turn you into great knights. You shall be Officers, destroyers of armies," he promised him, and his little cousin nodded in awe at the words. Joffrey thought he might have said anything in that moment and the little Lannister would have believed it¡­ but he had often thought that guiding men with the truth gave one an almost undeniable aura. "Welcome to the Royal Guard," he told him, and Tyrek nodded in solemnity as if he''d just been knighted.


    He walked to Lancel, but the boy was still belly down on the ground, both hands covering his face and his sword discarded nearby.


    "Come on Lancel," said Joffrey, gently.


    He could hear faint sobs coming from his prone form, the odd sniffle accompanying the way he shuffled lightly, still struggling with the pain in his chest.


    "Stand up," Joffrey said once more.


    "No," came the weak reply, the long golden Lannister hair hiding most of his head.


    "Lancel look at me," said Joffrey, though the boy was unmoved. "LANCEL! LOOK AT ME!!!" he roared suddenly, and the boy turned slowly, back against the ground as he gazed up at Joffrey. He was crying against his will, his face red in shame as that fact became apparent to all.


    "I''m sorry- I don''t-" he babbled incoherently as he tried to shuffle backwards, trying to escape their presence.


    "Do you want to go and serve wine to Robert again?" Joffrey asked almost quietly, and the question seemed to leave Lancel petrified.


    "Yes- yes please-" he said in between sobs before Joffrey leaned slightly forward and roared at his face.


    "YOU CAN''T!" he thundered, and Lancel''s hands slipped as his backwards crawl gave out, "LUMPY IS DEAD! I smashed his ribcage with the hammer head!" He roared as he showed him the halberd''s head.


    "His ribs punctured his lungs," Joffrey continued, taking another step until he was towering over him, "He choked on his own blood right there, two minutes ago," he almost whispered, pointing at the spot where his cousin had fallen.


    Lancel was almost hyperventilating, breathing harshly as frenzied eyes gazed at the spot where he''d fallen, replaying the moment a thousand times inside his mind. The hard fall as his leg was pulled out from him somehow, the otherworldly voice roaring ''FALL'' again and again, his frantic shuffling before he saw Joffrey''s stern, calm face as he brought the halberd down on his chest, a concentrated artisan working with his clay. The harrowing pain, leaving him literally breathless and choking to death, squirming in the ground as he couldn''t think of anything else but the agony.


    A thunderous atmosphere seemed to have descended upon the clearing, dawn and night battling over the sky as stars faded and the light of the torches diminished. Lancel blinked again when he saw that the other boys had clustered around him, seemingly by their own unspoken volition. Their stares were a strange mix of vacant and introspective, pained and exalted, confused and understanding. What most surprised him though was the fact that they were so similar to each other.


    "Stand in shared purpose Lancel. Stand with me and let''s give the Seven Kingdoms the order it deserves," Joffrey told his cousin.


    Lancel seemed startled, looking up at him past the tears.


    "Come on Lancel! Stand!" he shouted, and Lancel tried to lift himself up only to mewl in pain and fall back on the ground, holding his chest in pain.


    "I can''t," he sobbed, but Joffrey would not relent.


    "Leave lumpy behind. Stand with me and never again feel unworthy," he promised with a stare that seemed to pierce his soul. Lancel believed him, Seven damn him, somehow he believed him. His world had been reduced to pain and raw uncertainty, shame and hope. He wanted to stand there, surrounded by the others, something shared and formless hovering above them all, he wanted to partake in that shared revelation.


    He wanted it more than everything else in his entire life.


    He screamed in pain as he tried to stand up, but his weak chest throbbed again and he fell backwards.


    "Stand up! Stand up Lancel!" roared Joffrey, and Lancel grunted as he turned on his belly, trying to kneel before rising. His left leg twitched painfully and he fell forwards, at Joffrey''s feet.


    No, no, he despaired as his leg burned. Never in his life had he felt such pain. He didn''t know how the others had done it, but he couldn''t.


    "Rise Lancel Lannister! Rise a Guardsmen!" Joffrey roared again, and Lancel snarled as he refused to be lumpy again, no, not now that he''d seen what he could be.


    He half moaned, half screamed as he tried to stand up again, using Joffrey''s own armor as some sort of ladder to pull himself up. The Prince was still, not moving to help or hinder him. He roared once more in exertion as spittle flew from his face and he breathed harshly, his voice a mixture of triumph and relief as he reached Joffrey''s face, feeling like he''d been scaling a mountain for all that Joffrey was actually shorter than him.


    He stared at his face, waiting, demanding it¡­ and Joffrey nodded, his hand finally grasping Lancel''s shoulder as the other one gave him the halberd.


    "Welcome to the Royal Guard," he said.


    He understood now, that shared emotion which had seemed to connect the other boys just a moment ago.


    They grabbed the halberds Joffrey had left a bit beyond the clearing, and they followed him in a sort of daze throughout the branches and the gnarled roots of the forest; a strange, opaque journey through rocks and small streams. Lancel felt almost drunk, but with none of the sluggishness of thought that usually accompanied said state.


    When they stumbled out of the forest he was blinded, the dark journey giving way to breathtaking light as he covered his eyes with one hand. He felt like a newborn babe as they emerged right into the full glory of dawn, clear skies extinguishing the last of the stars as they blinked slowly.


    "What now?" he asked Joffrey, eyes slowly acclimatizing to the light.


    "Now¡­ now we can begin," said the Prince as he beheld the sloppily assembled smallfolk, milling around a few tents and a large clearing, eyeing warily the racks of halberds, shortswords, shovels and crossbows stacked around them. The Hound was fruitlessly trying to order them into some semblance of a line, and Joffrey smiled lightly as he strode towards him, his officers following him closely.


    -: PD :-


    "My Prince?" asked the man again, clearly nervous.


    Joffrey blinked, staring at the assembled workers and the nervous crew chief.


    "The beams are too far out, it''ll reduce the saw''s intake capacity. Space them out two steps from each other and it should work perfectly," he rattled off as he looked at the innards of the half constructed building. "Send my compliments to the smiths, they outdid themselves with the blade," he added as he gazed at the finely built saw blade, still being carefully positioned by the work crews.


    The nervous boss of the mixed team of lumberjacks and construction workers nodded in slight relief, messily annotating the instructions in a scrap of parchment over a small, handheld wooden writing support, following the Prince as Joffrey walked amongst huffing laborers once more, taking a second now and then to talk to them before moving off.


    "Grasp those tightly, and use the long wheelbarrows next time," Joffrey told a trio of workers as they struggled to carry a log towards the back wall. They huffed something that may have been agreement as they kept carrying the log towards the other side of the small complex. The midday sun made them sweat profusely, further adding to the acrid smell of mud and sawdust that permeated the emerging lumber mill and the work grounds around it.


    "But¡­" muttered one of the workers by a nearby wood stockpile, only to be silenced by an alarmed look from his partner.


    "Shush and help with ''dis one," he growled at the man as he tried to lift the log with a huff of strength.


    "Stop, put that down," Joffrey said as he approached the stockpile, the man that had spoken up paling at the slight to his prince. His father had always told him he had a mouth too big for his breeches¡­


    "A hundred apologies m''lord!" the other man almost bellowed, "He misspoke-" he was interrupted when Joffrey waved the excuse away and rushed the last few steps, helping them lower the log back atop the stockpile.


    "You had something to say, and I''m interested in hearing it," Joffrey told the other man gently.


    He looked wary, but there was no denying a princely command and so spoke he did. "It''s just the wheelbarrows¡­ well ser, they didn''t get here at all."


    Joffrey frowned, if they had somehow gotten lost then he was going to be pissed. He had seemingly every woodworker in the city working on his simplified spinning loom design, and stacking another order of long wheelbarrows would introduce unacceptable delays¡­


    "Unacceptable, we need those for the increased safety," he muttered. The long wheelbarrows made the people''s jobs here a lot safer, and that was something everyone could get behind¡­ Of course, they also increased the productivity of the log haulers by quite the margin, but he was not going to tell them that. For the smallfolk, more efficient ways meant fewer jobs available¡­


    He snorted. As if he weren''t going to use every warm body he could get his hands on¡­


    "I''m sorry ser! We couldn''t stop them!" the man struggled to explain himself.


    "Stop who?" he asked, his voice dangerous.


    There was brief silence as the two haulers looked at each other. "Twas'' them'' Goldcloaks milord," said the second one, looking at his feet to avoid the punishment.


    Joffrey sighed, "Thank you," he told them before walking away.


    "Now I''m going to be late again," he grumbled as he made for his horse, ignoring the shouting of other nearby work crews which were setting up the other buildings next to the Blackwater, smithies and mills and looms and even more lumber mills¡­ fortunately, Janos Slynt would serve as an excellent stress reliever.


    -: PD :-


    He could hear the gentle tolling of bells in the distance as his stride echoed through the Red Keep''s main hall, walking quickly as he spotted Sansa. She looked beautiful in that blue southern dress of hers. Her hair was tied in long braids of a decidedly northern style, adding an exotic touch to the whole ensemble. She seemed to be talking with a few laughing maidens, shaking her head at something before she spotted him.


    "I''m afraid I''ll have to leave you for now, but remember what I said! A week from now by the Prince''s House," She said as she made to leave them.


    "Of course Lady Sansa, we''ll be there!" said one of them, a tall one which Joffrey vaguely remembered as one of Lord Cressy''s daughters. Sansa waved goodbye before walking towards him, and he gave her a rakish smile as they neared.


    "Hey there," said Joffrey as he reached her, leaning in for a kiss as Sansa dodged his head and turned it instead into a very inappropriate embrace.


    "Joffrey. Westeros," she whispered urgently.


    Joffrey grumbled as he let her go, "Sorry, old habits," he excused himself as Sansa shook her head in fond exasperation. The four maidens she''d just left had not even moved, staring at them as they giggled and whispered furiously so fast Joffrey thought their tongues would come off and fly away.


    "Now you see what you''ve done?" Sansa huffed as she grabbed Joffrey''s arm, pulling him away towards a side corridor.


    "Done what?" He asked before planting a quick, full kiss on her lips, the frenzied whispering from the maidens becoming almost hysterical.


    "Joffrey!" Sansa whispered urgently as she broke the kiss and twisted away, not as fast as she could have, "You''re a lost cause," she scolded him again as she physically carried him towards the corridor.


    Joffrey chuckled lowly, trying to hide his mirth as they walked away. "That should give them something altogether more real to gossip about," he said, pleased with himself.


    "Yes, and make my work harder," Sansa said as she rolled her eyes, "Do you know how hard it was to get out of Septa Mordane''s shadow? Lollys Stokeworth alone will spill like Dure House''s basement. If Father hears about this¡­" she trailed off with a huff, incapable of staying mad at Joffrey when he smiled like that. "You''re late. What happened?" she asked him as they reached the corridor and turned towards a large staircase.


    "Busywork. Janos Slynt had neglected telling the Goldcloaks of the Gate of the Gods about the terms of our agreement. I had to go and make him remember who exactly he''s working for," he said with a snort.


    "He does seem the forgetful type," Sansa agreed as they ascended the staircase.


    "Not anymore¡­ or at least I hope so, for his own wellbeing," Joffrey added with a feral smile.


    "No wonder everyone''s looking at you strangely, that grisly satisfaction would be out of place in anyone, much less the ''old Joffrey'' as you''ve described him," Sansa reasoned.


    "You''d be surprised," Joffrey snorted, "I think what most shocks everyone is the fact that I seem to vaguely know what I''m doing. Well, that and wondering where the hell I''d kept the seemingly endless stack of gold dragons," he added.


    "Hm. About that, Baelish''s former coffers will run dangerously low if you keep spending gold like that. Are you sure every single one of your recruits needs chainmail and half plate? The cost is ruinous," she said as they walked past a few servants who bowed or smiled gently¡­ mostly at Sansa truth be told.


    "Hey, the cost will go down once the river powered hammers can get to work¡­ besides, I didn''t question the very questionable order of Myrish silks and dresses you slammed over last week," he shot back.


    "You need your armor as much as I need mine Joff, besides, it was such a bargain," she said almost dreamily.


    Joffrey stayed quiet for a few seconds before nodding grudgingly, "Yeah, I suppose... I mean one gold dragon the stone?!" he whispered in ludicrous awe.


    "He must have been crazy," agreed Sansa.


    "Maybe he was not expecting such a skillful negotiator here in Westeros?" Joffrey asked himself with a smile, leering at Sansa, "So skillful," he added innocently.


    "Tease," she said in annoyed exasperation as she slapped his shoulder. Well, more like punched. It didn''t matter that her partner was built out of pure coiled muscle, she knew exactly where to hit.


    "Ow, you wound me fair maiden!" he said theatrically as Sansa grinned.


    "I''m serious Joffrey. You need to top hemorrhaging gold or the whole Blackworks will grind to a halt without us ever seeing a single bent copper in investment returns," she said as Joffrey held up his hands in peace.


    "Don''t worry," I''ve got a plan for a sudden gold infusion the likes of which even the Iron Bank would gape over.


    "Do you?" she asked in suspicion as they reached the upper sections where the Small Council chambers had been built.


    "Ser Barristan, Ser Boros," he nodded at the Kingsguards, standing guard by the doors.


    "Not so fast," Sansa huffed as she pulled him back, "You''re a mess Joffrey," she huffed as she cleaned a bit of dirt from his black doublet, buttoning a few stragglers as well as brushing his hair backwards.


    "Of course, I must look respectable for these august meetings," Joffrey nodded as he inflated his chest, "You know, I''d much rather those hands went the other way around," he added lowly as she buttoned up the last one.


    Sansa''s cheeks flushed as she re arranged Joffrey''s black cloak, "Don''t tempt me," she whispered, her nails digging discreetly into his neck as she straightened the cloak. It was more a cape than a cloak really, and it had a tendency to whirl freely behind him when he walked. Joffrey said it made him looked dignified¡­


    Sansa just thought it made him look like a depressed, blond Bravo.


    Joffrey sighed as looked at her, "You''re so cruel," he whispered in longing.


    "Let''s go, we''re already late," she said loudly as she pushed him towards the door, Ser Barristan smiling wistfully as the couple passed by.


    "Sorry I''m late, we really should redraw the city''s street plan," Joffrey said as the members of the small council nodded at him.


    "Of course Prince Joffrey, perhaps you shall magic the coin needed for that as well?" Renly asked him grandly. "Maybe I will!" Joffrey agreed with an easy smile, and Sansa pinched his hand as she curtsied lightly.


    "Please accept our apologies Your Grace, the Prince can be quite scatterbrained at times," she said, shooting Joffrey a warning glare.


    "You don''t have to apologize to me girl!" Robert bellowed, waving the excuse away as he smiled happily, "Gods only know why you both insist in attending these meetings," he said in genuine confusion before looking at Ned. "Now Ned, about the tourney," he asked his Hand as Joffrey and Sansa sat.


    Ned took a second to respond, still holding the vaguely confused stare that took over him when he saw Joffrey and Sansa. As usual though, it returned to his habitual introspective grey as he answered the King, "More knights keep coming by the day, and the city''s infrastructure is barely keeping pace¡­ Robert¡­ please think about the prizes again. The first place in the Joust alone is-"


    The King frowned, "We''ve talked about this Ned, just get it done and let the people have some fun, Seven knows we need it," he said as he stared at him.


    "At least all those knights and lords in the city are spending, we''re getting a lot of gold back through taxes already even before the tourney starts," said Tyrion.


    "Not as much as we could¡­" whispered Sansa, too low for the rest of the table to hear as Joffrey nodded halfheartedly.


    "Taverns and brothels especially are making a killing right now, and that should only improve in a few days," Tyrion added.


    "You''d know about that, eh Imp?" Robert asked him with a smirk.


    "As Master of Coin it is my duty to oversee all economic activity within the city," said Tyron, serious as a butler in a Braavosi tragic opera, only to repeat himself, "All activity," he added, still serious.


    Robert guffawed, and Joffrey smiled to himself in satisfactions at one of their first schemes. It had taken some team work on both Ned and Robert, but between him and Sansa they''d managed to convince both about instating Tyrion as the new Master of Coin, after Lord Baelish had gone ''missing'' one day.


    In truth, Robert hadn''t needed much convincing. He and Tyrion shared an appreciation for many of the finer things in life, like whores, wine, and hating Cercei.


    Sansa looked at him strangely when he didn''t back up Ned on the issue of the prizes, but he shook his head discreetly. They whispered back and forth some suggestions on how they could fleece the knights and the nobles during the three day tourney as the meeting continued, and they sometimes spoke up with suggestions at some of the problems Tyrion and Ned had encountered.


    Renly seemed bored, eyeing them once in a while. Pycell seemed about to doze off, though they both knew better. And Varys still seemed to somehow study them constantly without even gazing their way, sending chills down Sansa''s spine.


    They had been playing a deadly game after all, in dark alleyways and secret passages, a game which Varys often won three out of four times. Sansa''s spies had a habit of turning up in the Blackwater with their throats slit¡­ though at least she was learning¡­


    Slowly...


    -: PD :-


    The Councilors quickly left after the meeting was over, but Robert held Ned''s arm before he could stand up.


    Joffrey and Sansa made their way outside quickly. He laughed at something Sansa told him before he leaning over and whispering in her ear. "You think? You think?" she said loudly, shaking her head, "You wouldn''t know good taste if it hit in you in the head Joff," she said in mock despair as they left the room and their voices grew indistinct. They had locked their elbows together tightly and in unison without even a glance, as if guided by an old instinct.


    Only Ned and Robert remained in the room, both still seated as Robert smiled wistfully. "I had a few doubts at first but damn me to the Seven Hells Ned if that wasn''t the best idea I''ve had since you lot slammed the crown on my head," he said intensely.


    Ned sighed.


    "Come on you old grump, spit it out," Robert said good naturedly.


    "¡­ She''s just changed so much," he finally admitted, his voice weary as he looked away, "She used to fight Arya for the most inconsequential of things, and there was not a day when I couldn''t find her gossiping with Jeyne or asking the Septa for old maiden''s tales¡­" he stopped, but kept talking as Robert kept gazing at him, a usual occurrence since they''d first met. He was one of the few people undeterred by his stoic mannerisms, "Now she''s organizing small feasts and going over Joffrey''s accounting ledgers, getting a feel for the court here¡­ she even made her own retinue out of whole cloth with only a few letters¡­ they seem¡­" he trailed off as he shook his head in a strange mixture of pride and regret.


    "They seem like a married couple already," Robert completed the sentence, his own voice strangely similar to Ned''s except for the nostalgia that laced it tight. "You don''t think Joffrey''s changed as well?" he asked his best friend with a piercing look, "Before he met your daughter he was a spoiled child still sucking from his mother''s tits. A wimp of a boy, more Lannister than Baratheon¡­" he trailed off, the pride sparking brighter inside of him and smothering another tiny bit of the bitter regret which had inhabited his soul for so long. S?a??h th? N?v?lFir?(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Now," he said wistfully as he stared at the ceiling, "Now he wakes up before dawn to ride off to his little training grounds to the north," he whispered before looking back at Ned, "Have you seen what he does there?" he asked him.


    Ned shook his head.


    "I saw him a week ago. I''d spent two whole days without finding a single boar in the Kingswood before I decided to ride north and try my luck in the smaller woods he seems so fond of. We were walking quietly, searching for the wild beasts when I heard the sound¡­" he explained.


    Ned stayed quiet, curious as Robert shook his head with a half-smile.


    "He was marching in some sort of strange quick walk, same as the mass of men which followed him. He was clad in plate and filled with sweat, his gear probably even heavier than the one his men carried. They must have been marching for hours, but it was in that moment that he suddenly stopped and turned back, hollering something about squares and ambushes," he said, his eyes thick in recollection, "Quick as lightning, his troops formed a square of halberds as he somehow appeared in the middle of it, bellowing like a master-at-arms at green recruits as crossbows were loaded and the men struggled to complete the formation¡­ he then congratulated them for being such a slow group of wretches, and told them they''d keep marching through the whole afternoon until they had it right, him included¡­ and then they were off again, marching down the road in that strange quick step," he said with a smile.


    "Joffrey seems pretty responsible, dutiful even," said Ned, a bit confused. "He''s helped me a lot since I took the Hand."


    Robert gave out a powerful guffaw, "Now he is. Ned, I''m not joking when I tell you he used to be little more than a wimpy coward more interested in frilly dresses than war," he said with a bewildered chuckle, "Now he''s beating the shit out of his multiple squires with a hammer tipped spear all at the same time, running around the Blackwater setting up lumber mills and smithies and who knows what else, racing horses down the Kingsroad with a group of friendly smallfolk he conjured out of thin air¡­ all while your daughter covers for him, meeting interesting people and sending them his way, whispering in his ear during the feasts and guiding him towards clusters of lords and squires..." he said, growing happier by the minute.


    "That is, when they''re not staring at each other like one of your direwolves eyeing a meal!" he added with a monstrous laugh.


    "Robert!" Ned yelled as he shook his head compulsively.


    "It''s true! Don''t you deny it!" he roared as he poured himself some wine, and some for Ned too. The effort of getting up and walking to the cabinet at the back for his own wine almost made him regret getting rid of Lumpy¡­ almost. He was finding out he rather liked putting the effort for it.


    Damn he was feeling good.


    He was vaguely surprised when Ned accepted the cup with a heartfelt nod, drinking a considerable gulp before setting it down on the table.


    "She''s made a man out of him, your daughter," said Robert after he''d drank his fill as well, his voice a bit more quiet.


    "They''ve both grown up it seems," Ned agreed as he took another sip.


    "They draw strength from each other. As it was meant to be," Robert added quietly. "I feel it was fate Ned," he said after a moment of silence thick with meaning. "When they saw each other in Winterfell''s courtyard¡­ they just gazed at each other playfully, as if everything had already been spoken about and settled to their satisfaction. When I told Joffrey about the betrothal he just smiled knowingly and thanked me before rapidly going away to ''better know his wife to be''," he said, shaking his head gently.


    "Sansa''s reaction was oddly similar¡­" Ned said in turn, gazing at his cup.


    "Our houses were meant to be together, it was written," said Robert, his voice laced with uncharacteristic conviction, swallowing something bitter and happy that had stuck in his throat, helped along with a bit of wine. "Not even the Targaryens could hold off what was meant to be, not indefinitely," he said in vicious satisfaction and maybe relief, as if an ancient duty had been finally set to rights.


    They spent a quiet moment thinking about that, before Robert raised his cup, "For our children, may they prosper beyond our shadows and our regrets," he said, the turn of phrase oddly poetic coming from him. Somehow, he felt he''d finally done something right in his life.


    Ned''s cup clashed with his, and they both drank deeply as old and new memories faded and the two old friends decided to stay there a while longer in companionable silence.


    -: PD :-


    ''The Northern Princess'' the smallfolk have taken to calling her, thought Cercei as she gazed at her discreetly from the royal box, trying to suppress a bout of raw envy.


    At first she''d thought Sansa Stark to be the perfect match for her Joffrey, an adequate, pretty, dutiful thing to serve as his son''s Queen. As the weeks had passed though she''d started questioning that assumption more and more frequently.


    Far from the placid, moldable personality she had expected to introduce to the Capital, Sansa Stark had introduced herself to the court like a princess in her own right. The girl seemed to have a knack for attracting the right sort of attention, and using it to her benefit even if she was still an amateur when compared with Cercei herself. She was traditionally beautiful, but her dresses and hairstyle were a mixture of northern and southern styles which made her approachable while giving her a touch of the exotic, far indeed from the southron worshiper her mother had all but described her to be.


    She had arrived to the capital with a small court of her own, surrounded by northern maidens who only added to her mystique and which conformed a surprisingly loyal block¡­ she didn''t have even one informant amongst them. Their own aides alones; servants and guards and other assorted followers, had bolstered Lord Stark''s garrison within the Red Keep by almost thirty souls.


    She frowned when she saw her talk to one of the smallfolk laborers, the others around him nodding along to her words as a few others stared at the eclectic ensemble which surrounded her. Pretty young things and fiercely armed maidens who were plain and unremarkable but whose martial demeanor added to their charm and that of Sansa in turn.


    She let out a breath as she suppressed something bitter in her belly, leaning back and frowning when Robert made his way to the seat by her side. He''d been strangely jolly for quite some time now¡­ it probably meant he''d found another semi regular wench to fuck with. She''d have to take care of that before turning her attention back to Sansa, no sense in letting the disrespect stand for too long.


    -: PD :-


    Sansa thanked the smallfolk peddler as she sampled the smoked salmon which had been completely wrapped up in rolls of fresh bread. She sighed contently as she munched down the salted fish, the Cernbirch leaves gave it a decidedly fresh, minty after taste.


    "As good as yesterday''s, perhaps even better. Thank you Fryll," she said warmly, the smallfolk gushing at the praise as nearby workers and squires neared closer, drawn in by the smell and the high compliments of the ''Northern Princess''.


    "You really laid it thick back there," said Lyra Mormont. She was rather plain, but her fierce looking spiked hammer, a favorite of Mormont ladies, and her chainmail, gave her a wild air that had a charm all of its own. She took more after her sister Alysane than Dacey, short of stature and possessing big thighs which only seemed to grow week after week.


    "She was not exaggerating, they''re really good," said Talia in between bites of her own ''smoked roll''. Even with her mouth full the Forrester girl''s voice sounded like a call from the heavens. Sansa had been pestering her for singing lessons forever after hearing her one night by the Maidenvault.


    "I don''t know how you can eat that while breathing in the stench," said Lyra, her nose twitching as they all kept walking and Fryll was swamped by new orders. Lady trotted behind them, occasionally trying to steal one of the girls rolls and lowering her ears when Sansa glared at her.


    She always tried again when she wasn''t looking¡­.


    "Point there Lyra, and people badmouth White Harbor¡­" said Wylla as she shook her head, though Sansa noted the girl was munching her own roll with vigor. She seemed to have inherited the Manderly appetite even if her complexion was rather slender. She made a study in contrast when compared to Lyra, all supple dresses worked by White Harbor''s seamstresses using wool and imported cloth.


    "I suppose your sudden love for exotic dishes has nothing to do with the fact that you and the prince own all of these ''meal carts''?" Meera asked slyly.


    "I don''t know what you''re talking about," Sansa replied airily, nodding at another worker as he walked quickly past them, guiding a donkey which in turn pulled a red and green cart which held racks of food and a small, simple wooden stove. It was a logical development from the oyster carts the Braavosi loved so much, only bigger, with an actual stove, a unified paint job and serving a very practical dish Joffrey had adapted from Yi-Ti. He said the actual Go-hong was spicier than setting your tongue on fire though¡­ and as much as he missed some fire in his food, he much preferred the minty version he''d come up with.


    "Sure you do," said the little Reed girl, accommodating the small trident which never left her back. Sansa had been honestly surprised when the Reed''s had answered her letter. She''d just included her in her short list because Lord Howland was such a friend of Father''s, she''d never actually thought one of the reclusive marshmen -or marshgirls she supposed- would answer her call. She had a cheerful disposition which would have almost made Sansa ignore the careful, intent way she observed everything¡­ particularly herself and Lady.


    The last member of their little party was perhaps the most unsteady. Jeyne Poole smiled lightly at the jests, though she stayed quiet afterwards, slowly and daintily eating her own roll. Sansa was ashamed to admit she hadn''t been a really good friend to her these past few months. In Jeyne''s eyes she had passed from her chief (and only) confidant to just one more in a group of girls, all of which hailed from more powerful houses. She still hadn''t quite found her footing.


    Still, she''d found some much needed female companionship after Joffrey had voiced that idea, dimly remembering the way Maergery Tyrell used her own handmaidens as covers, alibies, confidants and messengers.


    Of course, northern handmaidens could serve as bodyguards in a pinch, a win over Maergery''s own retinue which made Sansa feel inordinately happy with herself, despite the fact she''d never actually seen her before¡­ Joffrey had just laughed at her when she''d told him that.


    Joffrey¡­


    She sighed as they passed through a small maze of tents clustered together, "I''m going to remind him not to break his neck, run cover for me?" she half asked, half ordered the girls which were all more or less near in age.


    Jeyne sighed romantically, Lyra snorted, Talia smiled, Wylla nodded in understanding while Meera just gazed at her in thought. All assents in their own ways.


    Lyra was quick to take charge, "Right girls, quick walk to the left and then to the right, and keep the roll stealer close or she''ll give up the game!" she added as she gazed accusingly at Lady, only for the direwolf to sit and tilt her head, as if asking ''Who? Me?''.


    "Good luck!" Talia whispered with her sweet voice as Sansa separated from the group.


    "We''ll meet by the other side Sansa. Careful now, or Lord Stark will have the Septa on our backs again," Lyra warned, and just like that they split ways.


    Sansa made her way through the maze of tents until they started becoming more and more run down, flirting squires giving way to small boys frowning as they polished hard used plate, Arbor Gold giving way to Backalley Swill and smiling almost-courtesans to harried looking wenches from Flea Bottom.


    She finally slipped past a closed tent flap to find Joffrey hammering at a thigh plate, the rhythmic clangs shadowing her steps until she was behind him.


    Joffrey smiled as he felt her at his back, her arms holding him tightly and just a tad bit anxiously. He left the hammer over the small anvil, turning around to see her blue eyes swarmed with doubt.


    "Joffrey," she muttered, looking at his face for a moment before leaning on his chest, breathing slowly.


    "I''ll be fine," he admonished her as he rolled his eyes, massaging her back as one would a startled pet.


    "Don''t patronize me!" she scolded him as she leveled an icy glare, "That''s what you said last time, and you almost drowned in your own blood," she shot back as she stepped away.


    Joffrey sighed as he watched her pace around the tent, fiddling with her fingers, "That was different," he said.


    "Yes, so different you''re going up against the same contender. If anyone had a knack for fighting exactly the same time every different life then it would be the Mountain," she said forcefully.


    "Sansa, I was vaguely suicidal and wearing half dented plate. This time it''ll be different," he tried to reason with her.


    She shook her head, "Can''t you just take second place? Twenty thousand gold dragons would still fund most of the Blackworks'' second phase¡­ and you''ve already won both the archery and the melee," she told him.


    "Sansa, I''ll be fine," he said.


    "I just don''t want to see you there on the ground again, spluttering blood as you babble incoherently about flowers and queens of beauty," she said quietly, "I don''t care if we revive again, I don''t want to see you like that again. Never," she whispered.


    Joffrey embraced her quietly, and Sansa took a deep breath before looking at his eyes. "No show offs, you go in there, unseat Ser Gregor, and ride back to my side where you belong. Are we clear?" she said seriously.


    Joffrey nodded once, slowly¡­ before a smirk overtook his features and he ruined the seriousness of the moment. "I shall be a knight straight from legend, my fair maiden," he said in mock courtesy, and Sansa slapped him lightly, unable to repress a chuckle.


    She sighed again before gently grabbing his cheeks and kissing him. "Good luck," she whispered after breaking it.


    Joffrey gazed at her for a second before he kissed her forcefully; the imminent prospect of battle, the genuine worry behind her eyes, and the minty taste of her lips getting the better of him.


    Sansa seemed vaguely stunned when he ended it, grabbing him by the cuff of his simple leather shirt and slamming him against the wooden cabinet next to the anvil.


    He was about to apologize when she planted her mouth over his, her tongue questing deep before she leaned back and stared at him, breathing harshly.


    Joffrey stared back for a few seconds as they breathed slowly, trying to get ahold of themselves even as they gripped each other firmly. Sansa''s breaths seemed stronger each time, each one calmer than the last as she blinked slowly. He balled his fists after he released her, barely controlling himself¡­


    Sansa finally got ahold of herself completely, breathing deeply one last time as she took a step back, unleashing a colossal, minty breath of hot air that smelled of Dure House and blissful nights by the hearth.


    Joffrey blinked when he realized he was kissing her fiercely again, her nails trying their best to tear his shirt open.


    "Wait. We''ll be heard," he managed in between kisses, his hands now beyond his conscious control as they roamed over her belly. It seemed her training with the Mormont and Reed girls hadn''t let up. He very much liked that.


    "Every single hedge knight in this area is, was, or will fuck a wench today. Surely Ser Stars is but another of that worthy company," she replied huskily as she explored the side of his neck, nibbling on his ear.


    Joffrey grunted as she lifted her and slammed them both against the bedroll by the side of the tent wall, unable to speak as Sansa held the back of his neck with an elbow lock, preventing any retreat from her onslaught of burning kisses.


    "Suicidal," she said in disdain as she broke the last kiss and he gazed at her, fire in his eyes, "I''ll make sure to remind you all of the reasons you have to live," she whispered as she started to unlace her dress, Joffrey''s ever helpful hands aiding in the endeavor even if they had a tendency to get sidetracked.


    -: PD :-


    Sansa leaned back on her seat right in front of the guard rail, trying to massage the persistent blush out of her cheeks as Bran and Arya chatted by her side.


    "The Silver Knight will beat him for sure!" Bran muttered excitedly, even as Father shook his head fondly and leaned back on his seat as well, a few rows back.


    "I don''t know, what if the Mountain cheats or something?" Arya whispered back, gazing at the still empty tilting grounds. All around it were masses of knights and smallfolk, speaking loudly and perhaps half of them eating the delicious ''Smoked Rolls'' which had sold like hot bread during the whole three days of the tourney.


    "Just what exactly did you two do?" Wylla asked shrewdly from Sansa''s side.


    "We just talked," Sansa lied in what must have been the most unconvincing deception in the history of Westeros.


    "Right," Lyra muttered from behind them as Jeyne and Talia whispered franticly in between giggles.


    Sansa didn''t dignify that with a response, shuffling in her dress a little before Meera leaned from her seat behind her and laced the last of it.


    "Thank you," she whispered, the red in her cheeks growing ever stronger.


    "You''re welcome," replied the cheeky brat.


    "For the Final Round! Ser Gregor of House Clegane! And, Ser Jonnel of House Stars!" shouted the crier, and the smallfolk were already cheering in anticipation as King Robert waved with his hand.


    The Mountain''s horse stopped just a bit to Sansa''s right, the huge man bowing at the King lightly.


    "¡­ Ser Jonnel of House Stars!" the crier shouted again, looking everywhere around him.


    Sansa shuffled awkwardly as she felt the gaze of her handmaidens upon her. "Not a word," she said between her teeth.


    Arya turned to look at her with an impish smile, thoroughly confusing what was going on, "Sansa! I know the Silver Knight defeated your braaaave Ser Loras," she said the last words gleefully, "But that''s no reason to wish him ill," she told her, vaguely affronted.


    Sansa said nothing as she scratched her neck and leaned forward, tilting her head and scanning the far end of the yard as she tried not to bite her lip.


    "Well I don''t blame Ser Stars," Robert said with a small laugh as he shook his head. He stood up to proclaim the victor before Sansa''s voice stopped him.


    "Wait! There he is!" she said quickly, and two seconds later Joffrey galloped into view, clad in silver colored plate and wearing a helmet which covered his face. He rode his horse with an easy, fluid grace that seemed almost boneless, every single muscle in his body relaxed and attuned to the gait of the black horse as he effortlessly reined it in right next to the Mountain, going from gallop to standstill in a second.


    He seemed cheerful enough, relaxed and confident¡­


    Sansa breathed lightly, trying to douse the damnable blush-


    The Mountain''s horse shuffled backwards as Joffrey gave the King a florid, exaggerated bow, though she knew the bow was really directed at her¡­ she knew he was staring at her with those eyes.


    Cheeky idiot, she thought with a huff as the King nodded at the newcomer.


    "Got your manhood back at the last minute eh? Well what are you waiting for!" he bellowed. The Silver Knight laughed in good humor at the jest before shuffling his shoulders and gazing upwards as he stretched his neck, completely at ease.


    Sansa frowned as she looked at Joffrey, and coughed loudly as she squeezed her right shoulder.


    He looked at her, then at himself before accommodating a pauldron which had slid out of place. He nodded graciously back at her like a knight from a tale before riding off, galloping back to his end of the tilting grounds like he owned the place, winking at her through his visor when he passed her by.


    Is he teasing me here?! She thought in outrage, the flush in her cheeks returning with a vengeance as Joffrey whirled his horse in circles by the end of tilting grounds, putting up a brief spectacle of superb horsemanship before grabbing a lance from a helper, the smallfolk cheering as Father frowned and the King laughed. Even Lady seemed entranced by the show, sitting daintily by her side.


    The Mountain was already roaring with impatience as the horns thundered, racing his horse down the tilting grounds like a runaway cog ahead of stiff winds, and Joffrey¡­


    Worry fought exasperation as her beloved positively swaggered down the lane, his gallop oozing confidence as he hunched lightly like some sort of crossbow bolt, his lance leaning from side to side until suddenly it pounced downwards just as the Mountain reached him. Sansa''s heart hammered in panic as a cloud of splinters surrounded them, both her hands flying to her mouth against her will as the explosion of sound washed over her and Ser Gregor roared. The Mountain fell to the side, slamming his head against the opposite guard rail as his horse raced on, Joffrey tossing aside his broken lance and saluting the public in triumph. He seemed to be shuffling his shoulder slightly, but Sansa could see no blood for now¡­


    She let out an explosive breath of relief as she leaned back, the clapping and cheering public still celebrating the victory.


    It seemed everyone was cheering loudly, and Sansa rolled her eyes as Joffrey''s horse cantered towards the Royal Box. Robert was already calling for the prize money to be brought forward when Joffrey bowed, his horse carrying him towards the lovely looking crown of roses and violets which was perched next to the shields of the defeated.


    "Oh Seven," Sansa muttered in preemptive shame as Arya giggled.


    "Wanted it for your own, didn''t you?" her sister needled her as Joffrey cantered back towards the Royal Box, the crown light in his hands.


    "Please don''t," she half muttered, half shouted¡­ but Joffrey seemed to ignore her as he stood upon his stirrups, holding the crown aloft like some sort of knight from an Essosi play.


    He''s really going to do it, Sansa despaired as she repressed a chagrined smile.


    "And now, by the ancient traditions of our fine Kingdoms, I shall proclaim my undying love for the most beautiful maiden of them all!" he proclaimed grandly, the smallfolk going wild even as the Queen shook her head.


    "Oh, he''s one of those," Robert muttered to Father, still smiling.


    Joffrey cantered ever closer, and Sansa grit her teeth as he stopped in front of her, the horse leaving him level with her face. She gave up on her fate as she gazed at his twinkling eyes through the visor, a fond smile taking over her features as he pitched his voice to carry. "I proclaim Lady Sansa Stark as my Queen of Love and Beauty, the most beautiful maiden in all of creation!" he shouted as he gently placed the crown on her head, red and violet petals swirling down her face as she gazed at him fondly, unable to stay mad when he looked at her with those eyes.


    Again.


    There was a lot of cheering from most of the smallfolk, but from the noble stands there was a deathly silence. She could hear startled gasps and whispers from all around her as Joffrey kept talking, pitching his voice to carry.


    "Her azure gaze calls to me like the Sunset Sea itself, calm and serene even as it hides grand storms of great power and strength!" he called out as he gazed at her, bold as brass.


    "This- this is an outrage!" screamed Cercei, "Robert! Will you do no-"


    "I bid you silence, graceful Queen!" shouted ''Ser Jonnel'' as he interrupted her, "For not even royalty can stop the blazing strength of true love!" he proclaimed with a flourish of his hand, "Verily! Not even in my dreams can Lady Sansa''s true beauty be held! Why, were I a pious man I would take her for the Maiden herself come to redeem my wretched existence!" he said the stream of bad poetry without even a hint of slowing down.


    "Joffrey- stop!" Sansa managed in between unstoppable giggles, the grumbling and whispering coming from all around her and increasing in volume as the smallfolk quieted down.


    "Robert! Jaime! This hedge knight dares-!" Cercei screeched apoplectically even as Father stood up with a look of outraged in his face. Robert was bellowing for the Kingsguard to seize ''the bastard'' as he turned red and stumbled out of his seat.


    "I-I-I- will not accept-" Bran called out as he stood up from Arya''s side before Lyra leaned over and pushed him back down.


    "Don''t be silly," she whispered at the brother of her lady.


    "Lord Stark!!! Allow me the satisfaction!!!" roared an enraged Jory as he made his way towards Sansa''s seat, shoving away guests and servants even as Ser Barristan reached the guard rail from the other end of the stand and jumped to the mud, his sword coming out in one smooth notion.


    "Dismount and step away from Lady Sansa Ser Jonnel!" Ser Barristan called out as he strode towards them, his sword flashing under the midday sun, "Preserve what honor you have left!" he said dangerously.


    "Never!" proclaimed Joffrey like one of the martyrs in ''A Braavosi''s Duty'', turning his head to look at Ser Barristan as he puffed his chest. Sansa came to the horrifying conclusion that he was not going to stop until she made him stop.


    "Never- I say again, Just Kingsguard! If I am to die for my love then so be it, for gladly I would-" she interrupted him as she leaned forward and ripped the helmet out of his head, scoffing loudly.


    "Hey!" Joffrey said as he turned towards her, sporting a monstrous, mirthful grin as he tried to keep proclaiming his ''undying love'' before Sansa managed to silence him with a deep kiss. She didn''t know if she did it because it would really shut him up, or because she needed some damned release after almost watching her beloved die to a stupid tourney. She really didn''t care at this point.


    Everyone seemed to stop and stare, silence reigning once more as enraged roars for ''Ser Jonnel''s'' head died in most of the various lord''s throats¡­ well, everyone except for Arya.


    "Ewww!" shouted her sister in a pique of eloquence.


    She broke the kiss reluctantly, Joffrey smiling at her as he leaned back. "You know there''s going to be hell to pay for that," he pointed out.


    "Yeah. Enjoy it while they''re still in shock?" She asked him.


    "Alright," he said as he shuffled closer to his horse''s head, leaving enough space for Sansa to jump over from the stand and ride sidesaddle behind him.


    "All hail the winner of the Joust, Melee, and Archery contests!" Sansa proclaimed boldly as she raised Joffrey''s hand, the horse cantering slowly past a slack jawed Ser Barristan and angling for a victory lap around the titling area, "My betrothed, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon!" she roared proudly.


    The smallfolk went insane. They whooped and hollered in cheer as they stood up and stamped their feet, clapping and calling out to them. The Royal Box and its surroundings seemed less enthusiastic, a few of the spectators clapping in shock while others were still in the grips of confusion.


    "bhw... bw¡­ BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Roared King Robert, holding his belly with one hand as the other slammed his armrest, laughing like a man possessed. The Queen looked at the cantering couple and back to Robert a few times before her enraged expression slowly morphed into irritation, shaking her head. Robert kept laughing as tears leapt out of his eyes, and Cercei found herself chuckling lowly at the sheer unreality of the situation.


    Has my son just won every single competition in this blasted tourney? She thought as she worked through the shock and the implications.


    "Prince Joffrey is the Silver Knight!?" Bran finally got a hold of his voice, "Prince Joffrey told me- teach me how to fight- the Silver Knight-!" he babbled in awed incoherence as Jeyne sighed and almost melted beside Talia.


    "They''re so romantic," she sighed as Sansa''s crown left a trail of petals behind the horse, a few of them tangling in her hair. Talia giggled as she patted Jeyne''s back, sneaking a glance to a grim faced Lyra.


    "What?" she asked her.


    "We''re stuck with the Septa again," she said, exasperated.


    "Nothing we can do about that," Meera said sagely.


    A bit behind them and to the left stood Jory Cassel, his hand leaving the pommel of his sword. "My Lord?" he asked, not sure about how he should feel.


    "Let them ride Jory, let them ride," Said Lord Eddard as he gazed at the happy couple, "Then we''ll talk," he added in a tone of voice that left Sansa''s handmaidens wincing.


    -: PD :-

 Interlude: The Messenger.

    -: PD :-Interlude: The Messenger.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Gorryl quickly assessed his surroundings as he''d been taught to, finding a few small indentations on the left wall just a few meters towards the first watchman. "Hold ''n neel!" shouted the watchman as Gorryl dashed towards him, faking a head on confrontation. Taking on a Watchman was not recommended; they were armored, had a superior strength regime than the Messengers were, and Gorryl had been stripped of his blunt shortsword during the morning anyway. Four out of five beat up and swollen Messengers agreed: Taking on a Watchman inside the Maze was a bad idea.


    It was fortunate for Gorryl then that the Watchman took him for an idiot, stopping and bracing as he kept up his mad dash. The watchman grinned, ready to deliver a beating for his boldness when Gorryl turned and climbed up the indentations on the wall instead, vaulting over the end of the wall and jumping down in a roll. He ran towards the general direction of the exit, making use of his ears to avoid the other pursuers. He only resorted to violence when he delivered a surprise uppercut on a watchman when they bumped after a corner. The veterans of the course were right; it was the corners that most often got you.


    He slammed against one of the numerous exit doors which spanned the entire far wall, taking in a breath of fresh air as he rung the small bell hanging from a pole.


    "Number?" asked the bored looking man sitting in a field chair beyond the pole. He scribbled over a piece of wood-backed parchment quickly as he waited, the small bronze token which hanged from his doublet glinting in the afternoon sun.


    "One-One-Three," Gorryl said out loud.


    "Message?" droned out the man. One could be forgiven for thinking him inattentive, but the men and women of the Logistics Arm took their jobs pretty damned seriously, jotting down every single word to come out of a Messenger''s mouth and comparing them meticulously to the records of the actual orders that had been given to them that morning.


    "For the Commander''s Eyes only," Gorryl announced.


    "Ah... One of the elite eh?" the man mused out loud as he finally lifted his gaze from the parchment, gazing at him in appreciation.


    Gorryl grunted as he walked to the other table, taking a long sip from one of the waterskins and biting a huge chunk out of the beef jerky which had been waiting for him¡­


    Hm, looks pretty stocked. I must be one of the first ones today¡­ he thought as he ate, gazing at the supplies on the table which were reserved for starving and thirsting Messengers fresh out of the hell that was ''The Run''.


    Either that or all the ones before him had fallen¡­ and personally, he was leaning on the latter. Their trainers had really gone overboard today, he''d known that since they were ambushed in the Thicket. When the screaming Raiders emerged from the trees and the leaves, their horses galloping wildly over uneven terrain as they swung long wooden rods to strike at backs and heads¡­ well, Gorryl had almost pissed himself. The Raiders were crazy, almost as crazy as the Commander, everyone knew that! Well¡­ everyone not a fool. There were rumors that back in King''s Landing people thought the Raiders were a gaggle of smallfolk friends ''the Prince'' liked to race horses with¡­ Gorryl had laughed for a straight minute when Jepp had told him that.


    He stretched his neck slowly as he breathed, catching up his breath. He had to get going soon, or else he might miss the Commander. Finding him was half of the difficult task he''d been entrusted with, as he liked to traverse the camp almost randomly, supervising whatever caught his fancy. Now began what the Commander had called ''Advanced Training'' when he''d personally briefed him and two score other candidates a month ago. The Serjeants had pulled them from their regular training to serve as ''the elite of the Messenger Arm'', and Gorryl had never looked back since then.


    More than the extra food and pay, Gorryl had come to love the feeling of pushing his body to the limit; not in the wasting attrition that had been life in Fleabottom, but in the exalting way that had been his training in the Messenger Arm and then in the elite of it. They were worked to the bone every day, even harder than the Battle Arm. He was fed a hearty meal two times a day, and collapsed in exhaustion the following night¡­ but after the grueling first few months, now every time he woke up he did so stronger and faster than the day before, his mind sharpened under the lighting sessions of the morning classes before they were released for ''Skill and Endurance Training''¡­ Which was most often The Run.


    The Messenger Arm was widely believed to be the Commander''s favored component of the Royal Guard, mostly because of the amount of time he''d spent perfecting its training methods¡­ which was bound to make Gorryl''s task even more difficult than it already was.


    Gorryl stretched his legs as he''d been taught, preparing for the real run when the Bronze spoke up again, "The Commander has been supervising Shock & Charge since midmorning, you might want to check the Drill yard," he said.


    Gorryl looked at the man in surprise before nodding. He didn''t have to tell him that. "Thank you," he said gratefully.


    "Don''t thank me yet, combat maneuvers for the Third Cohort were cancelled today... The Camp''s full of milling Line Infantry," he said with an apologetic smile.


    "Aw shit¡­" Gorryl muttered, "Thanks for the tip anyway, you Bronzes aren''t that bad," he told him.


    "Despite the Commander''s efforts, people who can read and write keep being in short supply¡­ or at least for the amounts he needs. The resulting overwork tends to make us grumpy as a general rule," he explained with a small chuckle.


    "I''ll keep that in mind," said Gorryl with a smile, before jogging down the road towards the Camp. It was more than twenty minutes later when he reached the outer perimeter, patrolled by squads of line infantry. Gorryl waited as they marched in lockstep past his position, dashed from the bit of shrubbery he''d been hiding in, and made for the wooden palisade. He jumped past the stakes and climbed up, avoiding the sharpened top before carefully climbing down. He made his way past tents and warehouses, ditches and cleared out roads, sneaking through the veritable small town which hosted more than two thousand souls... and climbing.


    He made as if he was busy moving a crate when a couple of watchmen passed by his side, patrolling the inside of the Camp itself. These one carried steel maces and iron cudgels instead of wooden batons, and were not afraid to crack bones if whoever disrupted the peace did not stop the moment they called out ''stop and kneel''.


    He was almost to the Drill Yard when a group of halberdiers from the Third Cohort, which had been laughing at something near a supply tent, stopped and turned to look at him.


    "Oi! There he is! Hey Ferd!" shouted one of them.


    "Who the fuck is Ferl?!" Gorryl shouted back as he quickly strode past them, trying not to break out into a sprint. His arm itched where the blue ribbon of the Messengers''s elite had been tied. S~?a??h the N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Oh, sorry about that," said the man as he shook his head and the group returned to their business¡­ only for one of them to keep staring at him.


    "Isn''t that one of ''em blue runners?" he asked one of his friends.


    "He is!" shouted another one, "Get him!"


    Fuck, cursed Gorryl as he broke into a sprint, turning towards an alleyway created by a couple of tents. He could hear a ruckus behind him as the halberdiers sprinted behind him, splitting off into several directions.


    "Go ''round the big tent! Stop him!" shouted someone, and Gorryl turned to find one of the halberdiers blocking his path. "Give it up blue boy! I fuckin'' need that extra day!" shouted the soldier, but Gorryl ignored him as he climbed up the tent, almost bringing it down as he reached the top of the surprisingly durable fabric.


    The Commander had decreed that anyone who caught a blue messenger inside the Camp (though more or less unharmed) would be rewarded with an extra day in Reston. A hefty prize to make the ''Advanced Training'' even more interesting.


    Fuckin'' Commander, thought Gorryl as he jumped from the tent to another next to it. He screamed when the tent''s ceiling ripped open as he landed, making him fall atop a small wooden table.


    "What the-" Gorryl cut off the startled Serjeant when he pushed him away and leapt up from the table, running for the tent flap and shoulder smashing aside the halberdier which had been opening it.


    He lost his pursuers when he sneaked below a cart carrying foodstuffs, crawling beneath another one as he rounded towards the north of the camp and entered the Drill Yard, a large clearing which faced a great wall of piled up logs, filled with bolts.


    The light rain had turned into a steady drizzle, but he could see whole centuries marching in lockstep towards clusters of wooden targets, complete with fake swords nailed to ''arms'' and wooden shields, getting hollered at by serjeants and centurions. Gorryl spied for the Commander, but only found one of the Legates.


    "Formation! Shock Charge!" shouted Legate Snow from the side of the troops, his accompanying horn blower repeating the order musically.


    "Centuryyy, halt! Crossbows, quick arrows!" shouted their centurion. The standard century of line infantry slammed to a halt with a collective, guttural grunt, halberds held at the ready as crossbows emerged from the gaps and loosed against the wooden targets. They quickly disappeared into the formation, only for another, fresh set of crossbows to emerge and shoot the targets once more.


    "Halberds! Double Charge!" roared the centurion, and the halberdiers roared after him as they charged, weapons held aloft over their heads with the tips pointing towards the enemy. The second rank of halberdiers in the charge ran behind their comrades, their own halberds held low and forwards, protruding from the gaps in between the first line. They slammed against the wooden targets in a burst of controlled violence, stabbing and using hammer or axe heads to mangle the training dummies.


    Gorryl made use of the ruckus to dash past them, finally spotting the Commander. He was walking slowly, hands held behind his back as he watched the halberdiers which were drilling all around him in single combat. They were currently practicing trips, and Gorryl winced when one of the soldiers pulled too hard and his partner landed harshly on his back.


    "Good technique, too much strength," the Commander observed as he gazed at the suddenly uneasy soldier. "Be careful with the pull or you might injure the man behind you when in battle," he lectured the soldier gently before turning and holding a hand towards the downed one. "Up and at ''em Guardsman, no rest for the Fists," he said with a slight, approving smile.


    Gorryl unconsciously straightened as he approached the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. He was decked in armor, wearing an ensemble similar to the chainmail and halfplate the line infantry used. However, while the regular white tabard that went over the plate depicted the silver Fist of the King, the Commander''s was also framed by a rising sun, and his pauldrons were enameled with crisscrossing lines of green, unprocessed copper.


    The Commander turned to look at him before he was fully there, turning in an eerily smooth half step to look at him. He seemed larger than life as he gazed at him, his eyes oddly still even as Gorryl felt them analyzing every inch of his body despite the fact that he was actually taller. He swallowed dryly as he kept jogging until he was in front of him, standing at attention. He''d once thought the effect would eventually go away, when he''d spoken with him for the first time a month ago.


    He was beginning to reconsider that notion.


    "Commander!" Gorryl saluted as he slammed his right fist over his gambeson, straight as a beam of steel, "One-One-Three with Message," he said. Calling the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms ''Commander'' was both an obligation and the exclusive privilege of the Royal Guard.


    "Proceed," said the Commander, his steely green eyes still boring into him.


    "From Legate Tyrek to Commander Joffrey, verbal, with written decoy," he recited as he gave him the small scroll case.


    The Commander skimmed through the small document before nodding, "What''s the real message?" he asked.


    "''He who only reacts courts the death of a hundred blades, he who only acts courts the death of the single spear. Keep to the balance and flow like water between the stones, die the death of old age''," Gorryl recited.


    The Commander nodded, a glimmer of pride in his eyes, "Excellent work¡­ Gorryl right?" he asked him, continuing after the messenger nodded, "Anything else?"


    Gorryl shuffled, remembering the exact wording. He had to say it all and perfectly at that, else the test would be void, "Yes Commander, Legate Tyrek also said: ''Cousin, when did you find the time to think up a book on warcraft again? And more importantly, why did you have to lace it with bad poetry?''" he said dutifully.


    The Commander smirked, chuckling lowly for a second before nodding at him. "You even got the intonation right. Tell me Gorryl, what do you think about that quote?" he asked him unexpectedly.


    Gorryl blinked, startled as he rushed to come up with a response that would see him out of this one with his rank and privilege intact.


    "No, no, what do you really think?" he asked before Gorryl even finished opening his mouth.


    He shuffled nervously, "Ah, ehm, I mean, Commander-" he stammered.


    "Breathe, take your time," he said as he turned and gazed at another couple of practicing halberdiers, "You''re taking too long on the hook! In, turn, out! Less than two seconds at a minimum or your opponent will react!" he called out to one of them.


    Gorryl spent the next longest minutes of his life thinking frenziedly as the Commander called out corrections, before he gathered his courage and spoke. "By only reacting to an enemy army you open yourself up to defeat because they can dictate the battles, many times, hence the death of a hundred blades¡­ And, well¡­ on the other hand, if you only act then you leave yourself at the mercy of the enemy''s plan," he said.


    "Interesting. And if you could only choose one, which would it be?" asked the Commander, still looking at the sparring halberdiers, not giving a hint about what he thought of the answer.


    "Act," Gorryl said instantly. It had been one of the most painful, early lessons Fleabottom had taught him.


    The Commander said nothing, still gazing at the sparring men as he tapped his chin in thought¡­ before he suddenly turned, "What happened?" he asked as his hand went to his hammer, his voice dangerous.


    Gorryl took a step back reflexively, bumping against someone. He turned and saw Legate Rykker, the burly chief of the Logistics Arm shoving him aside lightly before leaning on the Prince''s shoulder.


    "What?" said the Commander slowly, a budding, raw anger lacing his voice tight.


    Legate Rykker whispered some more, his own expression thunderous¡­ which was ominous in and of itself. He was not known for being easy to rouse.


    "Messenger!" snapped the Commander.


    "Ser!" shouted Gorryl as he saluted reflexively.


    "Message to the Camp Prefect: End all activities for the day. Full Regiment recalled to the Marching Grounds. And take off that blue ribbon, no one is to stop you," he said, a staccato of orders which Gorryl took a second to process.


    "Aye Ser!" He saluted again before dashing off, feeling the burning gaze of the Commander on his back as he ran.


    What the hells is going on?


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    Set to loop.


    The whole (currently) understrength First Regiment of the Royal Guard, which at the moment composed the entirety of said Guard, stood in formation on the Marching Ground. The ''Grounds'' as they were often called, were a stretch of fallow land ten minutes away from the Camp, where the Regiment''s greenest recruits practiced marching for hours on end. There was no one marching now though¡­


    As the sun set and the full moon arose, Gorryl concentrated on the five roughed up men that had been tied to a set of wooden posts directly ahead. They were all guardsmen who''ve had their armor and weapons removed, as soaked as the rest of the assembled soldiers under the pouring rain.


    The Commander was the only other man near the posts. He''d been there since Gorryl had arrived with the rest of his squad, half an hour ago, their Serjeant cajoling them into formation with the rest of their nominal century. The Guardsman immediately to his right was Hyte, a halberdier from First Cohort, Second Century, and they''d taken to conversing quietly a while ago. According to him, the Commander had stomped off from the medical tent in the Camp an hour ago, and had just stared at the five tied up men until now, slowly fisting and relaxing his hands as if he were debating with himself whether to personally strangle them or not, water pouring down his chest and arms.


    The entirety of the Regiment had been assembled; all but the most essential guards. Gorryl could see lines upon lines of halberds held uneasily, crossbowmen shuffling sore muscles after a grinding day at the Gauntlet or the Drill Yard, Messengers looking at each other nervously and whispering. The men and women of the Logistics Arm stood grimly to the right of the Grounds, grim faced and fingering the shortswords strapped to their belts. They knew how to use those just as well as the messengers, maybe even better, and they did not look happy.


    The six legates were just to Gorryl''s right, standing in silence as they waited for the last of the Regiment to assemble. The Hound was there as well, making sure the last of the troops were in place.


    He was about to ask Hyte if he knew what this was all about when the Commander suddenly turned and walked towards the assembled soldiers. "Stand!" roared Legate Snow, and the whole Regiment stamped their right foot as they straightened, the Drill Yard descending into silence in an instant. Even the greenest of recruits, those who had been inducted a mere two weeks ago, knew that much at least.


    The Commander walked along the length of the assembled soldiers, his hands still locked in fists even as he hid them behind his back. He strode all the way to the end of the line as the rain kept falling from above, before returning to the other end, almost as if he was daring someone to talk.


    Gorryl held a snort, there was no one that stupid.


    When the Commander returned to the center, night had fallen completely, the glare of the full moon sketching strange shadows over his face.


    "Guardsmen," he addressed them somberly, "When I called you by that name, I used to feel nothing but pride," he said almost thoughtfully, pacing once more. "A group of people joined in arms and purpose, for the greater good of us all," he enunciated clearly and slowly.


    "When you accepted my coin, you did so out of necessity or pride, out of ambition or honor¡­ but those were not the only things that pushed you into accepting, weren''t they?" he asked almost quietly, the men straining to hear him.


    "You all know what is at stake, even if you can''t put a name on it. That feeling, that itch between the shoulder blades¡­" he said as he walked, seemingly looking at every Guardsmen in the eye.


    "The way old crones gaze at their grandchildren¡­ those sudden moments of stillness in the city inns that almost everyone rushes to fill¡­ the rumors of peasant folk harvesting early¡­ they know what is coming," he said as he paused, the rain pattering against his plate.


    "War," he said abruptly, strongly.


    His voice rose in intensity as he kept walking, boots sinking lightly in the mud as he strode, "I called you up, armed and armored you, fed and cared for you, made you Guardsmen," he said the last word as if it pained him. Gorryl could only look on, entranced as the Commander kept talking, "So that when the timecomes and the next King-to-be dreams of glory¡­ when the next proud lord thinks the time is right¡­ when the next pretender from across the sea puts forth his righteous claim," he said fiercely, "When the time comes and they rise up in banners-and-chivalry-and-honor-and-courage"- he roared as he paced faster, the rain plastering his long hair to his scalp ¨C"When they come with blade in hand to cut down our people, when they come to burnour barns and our harvests, when they come to rape our wives and our daughters, when they come to burn down this continent in the name of their ambition..!" he spat the last words in near rage, spittle flying from his mouth and meeting the steady downpour of water raining from the heavens. The commander took a moment to breathe, nodding slowly to himself.


    "I made you Guardsmen so that when that when the time came and the scourge of war were released, a legion of cold steel would be there to bring back the peace. Onegravestone at a time if necessary," he said lowly, the sound still carrying itself over even though he was currently at the other end of the formation.


    Silence. Then¡­


    "Today, that purpose was sullied," said the Commander, and Gorryl could hear the disdain and disappointment in his voice.


    No Guardsman dared move, not a single breath could be heard as the Commander resumed his pacing, back towards the center, "Johana was a Guardsmen in the service of the Logistics Arm. She joined up in part to escape the misery of Fleabottom, like many of you," he said grimly, "Unlike many of you however, her father had been a merchant before the loss of his last ship brought him to suicide, and before his death he''d taught her how to read and write," said the Commander as he stopped in front of the five men, still looking at the assembled Guardsmen. "And so she was inducted into the Bronze, to make sure your food rations and your pay and your weapons reached your hands the moment there was a need for them," he said.


    He isn''t¡­ surely they¡­ Gorryl thought in dawning comprehension before the Commander spoke again, "Johana trained with shortsword and quill, Johanna helped organize the bucket chain that saved a quarter of the Camp during the ''big fire''. Today, Johana of Fleabottom was repeatedly raped and then murdered by this bunch of animals who call themselves Guardsmen!" He snarled as he aimed a careless wave of his hand at the tied up men. "Scum who could not hold it in their breeches before the end of the month," he said almost quietly, breathing slowly, "They broke the sacred trust that will be the difference between life and death on the battlefield, they murdered a fellow soldier, they-"


    "Baah! Fuckin'' wench should have known not to ''strut like that. Moving her ass all over the fuckin'' place," sneered one of the accused tied to the posts, a tall one with a scar running from lip to chin.


    The silence was painful, almost too much to bear. Gorryl could not endure the temptation and he looked. Hyte too. It seemed everyone had turned their heads to look at the man.


    The Commander seemed to be breathing deeply, still not responding as he blinked-


    "Come on pretty boy! Your act don''t impress me!" shouted the man.


    The Commander''s hands, which had been fisted in tension since he''d started talking, suddenly seemed to relax. He tilted his head backwards, slowly, "Excuse me, am I boring you?" he asked causally.


    "Just get this over with, we all know how it''s gonna'' end!" said the man.


    "I know you are no noble, but would you perhaps prefer a Trial-By-Combat instead of judgment?" he asked the man as he turned completely and walked towards him.


    "A combat trial?" mused the man, who had clearly been drinking, "Why not? Better than listening to this shite eh Darlan?" he asked one of the other prisoners. Darlan seemed to ignore him though, doing his best to look away.


    "Fuckin'' cowards," spat the man, blinking quickly when the Commander drew his sword and cut his bindings. He threw the sword at the man''s feet before taking a few steps back, waiting.


    The man took up the sword gingerly, looking at him with a smirk, "Me against you? The Prince?!" he said, his smile growing shaky when the Commander didn''t answer.


    "Fuckin'' hell, wait till the boys at Gorthos'' hear ''bout this one," he mumbled as he looked backwards before suddenly springing at the Commander with a precise stab Gorryl had seen a hundred times before back in Fleabottom.


    The Commander stepped lightly to the right, dodging the stab and slamming a one handed mace against the man''s sword hand. He grunted in pain as he dropped it and stumbled back, but the Commander closed the distance in a second and delivered a brutal uppercut with the mace right through his jaw, smashing it asunder in a fountain of blood.


    The man collapsed on the floor, screaming. He crawled towards the line of Guardsmen, gurgling for help, but the Commander''s quick strides caught up to him in seconds. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, turning him belly up before crouching and smashing the hammer against his chest.


    Gorryl felt like he was in some sort of dream or nightmare, unable to react as the Commander kept slamming the mace against the man''s chest with almost mechanical efficiency again and again as the screams gradually became quieter. The rain somehow made the sound of the mace striking flesh worse, dampening the noise from beyond and leaving Gorryl no choice but to focus on the horrifying squelch that resounded through the Marching Grounds every time the mace connected and retreated, drawing squirts of blood and gore.


    The man was not even moaning now, but the Commander kept hammering, eventually turning his head into red mush. When he stood up, Gorrly was unsurprised to find him covered in blood from the chest up. He seemed to breathe then for a moment, absentmindedly sheathing the hammer as he looked up at the sky, letting the rain clean him.


    "Does anyone else want a Trial-By-Combat?" he asked quietly after a long moment, still gazing at the clouds and the moon.


    The four remaining prisoners shook their heads wildly, and one of them pissed himself.


    "Does anyone have anything else they want to say?" he asked in the same tone.


    The men shook their heads once more.


    "Good," said the Commander, walking once more as if nothing had happened, "We have been betrayed," he intoned as if he were reading prophecy, "To murder a comrade in arms is the greatest sin beyond hells and heavens. It is an act that goes against everything we now stand for¡­" he said, sounding disappointed with himself, with them.


    Gorryl fought the anger and the sudden uncertainty in his belly, slowly shaking his head.


    "Your purpose has been sullied. Your achievements have been sullied," he hammered it in, and Gorryl could see Hyte tapping his hands furiously, moving his jaw slowly.


    "The blood of Johana stains us all. A monument giving lie to all we''ve tried to accomplish here," he intoned, and Gorryl felt as if his father had slapped him, his face burning hot as he shook his head in denial. Surely not, surely not¡­


    The six Legates were as still as statues, but the rest of the men were shuffling greatly, looking down in shame when the Commander fixed his pale gaze on them.


    Gorryl tried not to move, but his hands were shaking all the same. The early mornings running until he was on the verge of puking, the furious training with the shortsword, the endless runs through the Thicket and the Gauntlet, the hours upon hours he''d spent marching around the Crownlands with the rest of the halberdiers¡­ dread uncertainty concentrated in his stomach like a loadstone. What was happening? Was the great project he''d let himself be swept up tittering on the edge of collapse? Would he have to return to Fleabottom?!Because of these animals?!


    The Commander stopped walking, gazing at them all with his burning gaze¡­ before tilting his head lightly in grudging acknowledgment.


    "Though¡­ there is a way," he said almost doubtfully, and Gorryl hanged on to that thread of hope like a blind man lost in the forest, following the sound of a human voice in the distance.


    "There is a way to wipe the shame," said the Commander, more certain this time.


    "There is a way not to forget, but to acknowledge," he said as he raised an arm and signaled.


    Several Watchmen entered the Marching Grounds then, pushing wheelbarrows and dispersing all over the front of the formation.


    "There is a way to wipe the stain off our purpose, a way to acknowledge not to King and Lord, but to ourselves, that our cause is still righteous," said the booming voice of the Commander, the heavy rain buffeting them around as the Watchmen tilted their wheelbarrows and emptied their loads all over the front of the formation.


    Gorryl gazed at the sprawling stones in a daze¡­ most of them could fit in his hand.


    "You all know the punishment for slaying a fellow Guardsmen," said the Commander as he returned to the front row of soldiers, spinning and gazing at the accused, his back ramrod straight. "We are not Southern Lords, to hand the task to the paid executioner. We are no Northern Lords, to give the task to the head of us all. WE. ARE. GUARDSMEN!" He roared suddenly, "Dantis! Harald! Niclas of Duskendale! Darlan of Fleabottom! You are accused of the rape and murder of a fellow soldier. The Royal Guard will now deliver its judgment," he proclaimed.


    Gorryl couldn''t move, the freezing rain and the otherworldly paleness of the moon holding him in trance, strange and brutal shadows hiding the faces of his fellow Guardsmen. The Marching Grounds were silent, not a soul moving from its position. The silence was deafening, nauseating. He could barely hear the pulsing of his blood and water drops slammed against his face.


    His body would not move, and to his horror, neither would his comrades. Gorryl would no longer be a member of the Messenger Elite, a soldier in the service of the Commander ready to bring Cold Steel to those who would burn his city in the name of ambition. He would be Gorryl, petty thief and starving wretch, scum of Fleabottom.


    He blinked away a bit of water that had snaked down from his forehead into his eye, and followed the discarded water drops as he gazed down. He realized he was holding a stone in his hand.


    He felt hypnotized as he took a step forward and coiled his arm, releasing the stone with a grunt of effort which seemed to stab the silence like Valyrian Steel. The stone flew high in a long arc, slowly, rising and then falling swiftly as if the world regained its rhythm, slamming into the nose of one of the accused.


    The man moaned in pain, blood flowing freely from his mouth, and Gorryl nodded.


    Their blood would cleanse Johanas''.


    Hyte roared in pure rage as he dashed three steps ahead of him, throwing a stone and hitting one of the men in the cheek. It was like a floodgate had been opened, Guardsmen grabbing stones and throwing them with roars of anger and fury, the rain turning red as a tide of stones smashed against the accused, against the those who would seek to undo everything they now lived for.


    He grabbed another rock and threw, missing the man he had attacked first. Hundreds more missed, but just as many struck true as the accused screamed and pleaded, their cries for mercy drowned under the hail of rocks that did not stop, could not stop.


    Gorryl felt like he''d spent days there, grabbing and throwing stones, each hit a denial of the Commander''s words, each scream another step in their long climb back to the purpose that ebbed and flowed through the Camp each night and morning, each roar of anger a pledge to never accept their dissolution.


    Gradually, the rain of stone began to ebb. Gorryl was breathing harshly, exhausted like never before. He felt purged. Purified.


    But a lone moan threatened to undo it all, as one of the animals, for they were no Guardsmen, spat a glob of blood to the ground. He raised his head shakily, his swollen and broken face almost hiding his eyes.


    "Legate Rykker," the Commander said, turning precisely to his left, still as straight as steel as he gazed at the leader of the Bronze.


    The Legate looked at him, before his gaze went downwards, considering the big stone in the Commander''s hand.


    The Legate seemed to gaze at it for a long moment, or perhaps just a second, before grabbing it. He strode towards the last living animal, his gaze fixed as the bloodied man looked up.


    "Please¡­ mercy¡­" moaned Darlan of Fleabottom.


    Legate Rykker held his hand high, and then smashed the rock against the man''s head. Twice. Three times as the rain cleaned the blood pouring from his skull. Four times until a crunch resounded throughout the clearing. When it had once sounded sickening, to Gorryl it now felt as if the world had clicked back to its rightful place.


    The Legate walked, no, marched back to the line, different from the man that had walked in the opposite direction but thirty seconds ago. He returned to his place by the Commander''s side, placing his hands at his back and standing still.


    "Guardsmen of the First Regiment!" suddenly roared the Commander, "Marching Formation! Back to Camp!" he ordered, the command carried down by Centurions with burning eyes and Serjeants with sure motions.


    "11th Auxiliary! Marching Formation!" roared Gorryl''s Serjeant. He didn''t look back when the Regiment marched away, his motions sure and his steps synchronized with that of his comrades, the crows already circling overhead despite the rain as they closed in on the now abandoned bodies.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 45: Sons and Fathers.

    Surprise! Let''s get this back on track shall we?-: PD :-


    Chapter 45: Sons and Fathers.


    Sansa had discovered that there were simply not enough hours in the day to do everything she needed to do, and had come to the horrifying conclusion that waking up before the sun was the least bad option¡­ even if it tended to leave her quite irritated.


    She was reading the latest reports from their trading expedition to Braavos by the candlelight when a sudden noise made her freeze. She silently drew her dagger from her hidden sleeve, standing up so as to not make a sound as she approached the window and raised her arm-


    And saw Joffrey slowly vaulting the last of the window.


    What is he thinking?! If Jory heard the noise-


    She shook her head when he saw his state; soaked to the bones and with bits of blood peppered around his cloak.


    "Joffrey¡­ what happened?" She asked him as he gazed at her with a look she knew all too well.


    "It''s okay¡­ It''s okay¡­" she whispered when he silently embraced him. He must have been riding through the night¡­ must have been something over at the Camp.


    He just hugged her tightly, offering no explanation other than a deep sigh. Sansa slowly removed the soaked cloak as they sat on the couch, grabbing a towel she''d kept on the cabinet to at least dry his head.


    He tried to stand up, "I should go, Jory could hear us and I doubt Ned will be lenient again if-"


    "Joffrey, quiet," she said as she pushed him down. Dealing with him when he was like this was much like dealing with a startled, nervous kitten¡­ or lion, she supposed.


    "What happened?" she asked him gently.


    "Caved a Guardsmen''s chest with my hammer, in front of the entire Regiment¡­ then smashed his head open¡­" he said, his eyes heavy.


    "Did you want to do it?" She asked him.


    "Yes. No. I-" Joffrey stopped, taking another big breath, "I wanted him to be stoned with the rest of his accomplices, but when the piece of shit opened his mouth¡­ the red¡­" he trailed off, shame in his eyes at what Sansa could already guess. He''d enjoyed it. He still enjoyed the memory of it.


    "What did he do?" She said.


    "Raped another Guardsmen, a woman with the Logistics Arm," he explained.


    Sansa narrowed her eyes, "You should have started between his legs," she said harshly.


    Joffrey seemed startled. Sansa suspected he''d come to her for forgiveness¡­ He had a long history with his rages, he''d explained to her throughout their last life. A piece of himself that he''d never truly be free of, a memento of his past self he loathed¡­ and loved, when in the throes of it.


    She knew no argument would truly make him easy with that part of himself, and so she stayed quiet. She scratched his head slowly as his breathing became regular, her silent companionship slowly easing Joffrey into peace¡­ Tonight, it was her turn to be strong.


    She hoped he left their bodies to the crows.


    -: PD :-


    The ''Prince''s House'', as it had come to be called, was one of Baelish''s former unofficial safe houses. A sort of manse on Rhaenys'' Hill with wide gardens and private walls that blocked onlookers. It had been the perfect location for their center of operations inside the city, away from the tunnels of the Red Keep and the suspicious eyes of Cercei and Ned.


    The feast itself was in full swing, young crownlander heirs, squires, knights and maidens laughing and talking alongside the long tables of the main dining room. It had an altogether cozy feel with its colorful hunting tapestries and pretty bookcases, and Sansa was proud of the effort she''d put in to make the place more informal and intimate than the Red Keep.


    The atmosphere around her was merry and relaxed, and Sansa smiled before she was engaged in conversation by Letya Mallery. The knights at the table raised their tankards high as they toasted for the King and the Prince, praising each other again for their actions during the previous hunt. Gossiping maidens eyed knights and squires across the dancing floor, nodding swiftly between themselves before going out in groups of two or three towards their targets and dragging them to a dance as the bards played.


    Sansa had started that particular trend when she and her handmaidens had assaulted Joffrey and his stern faced band of Legates during one of the early feasts. Joffrey had taken it cheerfully enough, leading the way into a slightly inappropriate dance that would have seen them back under the oversight of the Septa if Father had heard about it. The others had dutifully followed through, and poor Jon had been nearly tongue tied as Meera giggled and pulled him towards the dance floor. After that the practice had been set, and the obstacle of propriety had been neatly removed¡­ making her job in stitching this disparate realm just a tiny bit easier.


    One dance at a time.


    "You really think so?" asked Letya as she eyed the smiling boy chatting with a couple of friends by the corner.


    "Of course I do, he was so drunk half the servants heard it," Sansa confirmed.


    "Oh¡­" Letya murmured as she blushed lightly, "Did he really say that about me?" she asked Sansa with wide, hopeful eyes.


    Sansa nodded confidently, angling their walk so Letya could have a clear line of sight in between the dancers and the band of bards. "He did, he''s just too timid to take the first step," she said with complete security.


    Letya seemed nervous, "But Lady Sansa, what if he-"


    "But nothing," she cut her off gently, "Go in there and be confident! Stand your ground. Look him in the eyes like you really mean it, and extend your hand. You don''t even have to talk if you don''t want to. Offer him a dance and he''ll take it and never let go," she whispered confidently.


    Letya took a long breathe, steeled herself as if to face execution, and marched off towards the boy. The conversation between them stopped abruptly, and they all stared as Letya marched towards Rossel Langward.


    She stopped, looked him in the eye, and extended her hand imperiously. Rossel seemed petrified, until one of his friends elbowed him and he stood up in a hurry, awkwardly grabbing her hand.


    Sansa walked towards the bards, smiling and exchanging a few words with guests before reaching the wooden stand. "Master Blue," she called out quickly.


    "My Lady?" he asked quickly, turning from the other four bards and making it seem as if he were briefly joining the dancing, though Sansa knew he was waiting for her orders.


    "Something lively and simple to follow, good rhythm," she rattled of before continuing towards the Redwyne twins and inquiring about the quality of the food. They seemed cheerful enough, talking animatedly with a couple of girls from House Cressy, but they took the time to thank her again for the invitation. She used the conversation as cover to keep an eye on the stiff looking couple as they entered the dance floor and Master Blue switched the band into a simple dancing jig.


    Spoiler: Music


    AN: Set to loop.


    It started with lute and flute, but soon enough the melody was accompanied by the steady beating of small drums, keeping the base simple as the strings flourished and Master Blue sang about a young couple and the laughable antics they got into during a town''s summer festival. The rhythm was simple, but the man with the big drum was soon pounding as well as the song increased in intensity and volume, always held within the steady beat of the percussions. Before long, Rossel Langward and Letya Mallery were jumping and laughing, their hands together as they and everyone else on the floor tried to copy the simple but rhythmical jig Master Blue was carrying out as he sang.


    And if loved bloomed, bringing House Mallory close to the loyalist Langwards and strengthening the Crowns hold in the southeastern Crownlands¡­ then all the better for them all.


    Sansa smiled as she left the dining hall and the house altogether, walking out an opened doorway to the sigh of the backyard. Oil lamps hanged from wooden poles and servants regularly entered the area through a backdoor, carrying simple dishes to be held with a single hand, as well as cups of light wine.


    Most of the guests outside were clustered around a small wooden pen, laughing and cheering. She made her way through the crowd until she was leaning on the fence, smiling when she saw the contestants. A sort of impromptu competition had been held, that much at least was apparent; Downed tankards and discarded throwing knives were laid atop the tables, and someone had even trotted out Joffrey''s training dummy.


    Inside the pen itself though was Joffrey, fighting against his cousin Lancel with their halberds. The people were cheering or jeering as the cousins slowly circled around each other, sporting focused, long grins as they waited¡­


    Suddenly, Lancel leapt with a roar as he tried to pull Joffrey''s ankle, but the Prince avoided the attack and forced Lancel back with a couple of thrusts. It was clear neither was going all out against his opponent, but rather putting up a good show for the audience.


    Sansa''s enjoyment of the show turned slightly awkward when she realized she was right beside her half-brother. Jon must have been waiting for her sudden stiffening, because as soon as she saw him Jon bowed lightly.


    "Lady Sansa," he said politely before making to leave.


    "Jon, wait," she said lamely as she grabbed his arm. He seemed surprise as she let go of him, looking strangely at her.


    "Do you think they''ve enjoyed the show?" she asked him, gazing at the other guests. S~?a??h the N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "I would think so," Jon told her, vaguely still as he nodded slowly.


    Sansa sighed. Her relationship with her half-brother had not been all that great. She''d taken a sort of wariness towards him since an early age... Following the footsteps of her mother, as she had later realized. That wariness was still somehow inside her, lesser but present all the same¡­ and she supposed her own likeness to her mother must play a part on Jon''s side of the divide as well.


    "The boars at least seem to be cooking nicely¡­ I thought Joffrey didn''t know how to hunt though¡­" she mused out loud.


    "Oh, he does not," Jon said emphatically, a twinge of a smile showing on his lips for the first time. "When the hounds found the second boar some sort of primal instinct took over him," he said as he shook his head in bewildered admiration.


    "What did he do?" Sansa asked him in long sufferance.


    Jon actually smirked, "He and a few of the older boys had the first boar pinned with the spears, but when the hounds started barking like mad and another boar charged from the thicket to our right¡­" he trailed off as Joffrey parried a blow from Lancel and laid him on his back with the haft, the crowd cheering as he helped his cousin back up.


    "What did he do?" Sansa asked again as she smiled as well.


    "He actually dropped the spear, took out his arming sword and charged at the thing," Jon told her with an incredulous smile as he turned back to look at her. "We could scarcely believe it, but there he was. The prince of the realm butchering a raging boar with a tiny arming sword as he kept dancing around it, bleeding it out like an unruly pig," he said.


    "That must be why the kitchen staff were butchering it into slices instead of roasting it above the pit like the other one¡­" Sansa mused as Joffrey called out.


    "Any new challengers? Any challengers at all!? Come on people, free chance to beat on your future liege lord!" he called out, only to be jeered down by the audience of drunken knights and squires.


    "More like a chance to sleep with a sore back and a cracked rib!" shouted someone, prompting good natured chuckling as Joffrey shook his head in bemusement and walked towards her.


    "What do you say Sansa? Want to give them a show?" he asked with a smirk.


    "I''d last all of ten seconds, not much of a show there," she said dryly as Joffrey scoffed.


    "Come on Sansa, you know you''re better than that! Besides, Lyra''s been teaching you a few new moves right?" he asked innocently.


    "Shush you," she scolded him, "I spent more than an hour plying Lord Gaunt with wine, food, and flattery so he plays nice when the time comes. The least you can do is appreciate the effort," she said lowly.


    "Thanks Sansa," he said sincerely, "I think I would have just smashed his fingers again after ten minutes¡­ at least he seemed pretty impressed with the boar hunt," he told her.


    She was about to retort something witty and slightly unkind when there was a commotion behind her. She turned around to see the great bulk of King Robert Baratheon shoving aside guests and servants, making his way towards the pen like a runaway elephant, his face red as half the members of the Small Council followed him and the guests started to kneel.


    "You went out on a boar hunt in the middle of the woods boy?!" bellowed Robert as he reached him.


    Joffrey stared as the guests silenced themselves in a hush. Robert seemed to be staring at him with crossed eyes, his face red in perhaps anger or fury.


    "Yes," Joffrey said in the midst of the sudden, surprised silence.


    Robert stared at him in intensely, but Joffrey didn''t back down. Finally, the King spoke again.


    "And you didn''t invite me¡­" he whispered in furious disappointment before bellowing a laugh fit to wake the gods themselves. Joffrey stared in incomprehension before one of Robert''s meaty paws grabbed him. Sansa swore she could hear him squeak as he was bodily moved out of the melee pen.


    "Come here son!" roared Robert as he lifted Joffrey across the wooden fence and gave him a sort of shaking one handed hug. "Is it true you decided to screw the cooks and slice the boar yourself with a sword?!" he all but shouted the question.


    Sansa hid her mouth with one hand, trying not to giggle as she saw Joffrey''s completely lost expression. "I was trying to bleed it to death rather than preparing the meal right there," he defended himself with a slightly aggravated tone of voice, which only served to make Robert laugh again.


    "Bleed it he says!" he proclaimed, "Taking on a boar with an arming sword!" he roared as many new lords and knights entered the great backyard carrying wine cups and looking around in bemusement.


    "It was pretty slow, couldn''t turn around for shit," Joffrey tried to downplay it as he looked strangely at Robert, only to make him laugh once more.


    Sansa could only snort as the sheer honesty in Joffrey''s voice lifted the King''s good cheer and made the rest of the assembled guests look at each other in thought.


    "What did I tell you, you bloody Imp!" roared the King as he turned them both to the sight of Tyrion leading groups of servants which carried huge casks of wine. "A hell of a hunt and a celebration to outdo even you! Best of Baratheons and just the right parts of Lannister!" said Robert before turning to the still kneeling guests.


    "What are you young fools kneeling for?!" he berated them, "I brought down half the Red Keep''s ale stocks and they''re not going to drink themselves!" he roared.


    The guests stood up in a wild cheer as Ned Stark gave out a long sigh and gave Sansa an apologetic look. "We were in the middle of a feast when he insisted in coming down here himself to ''check the wild rumors''," he explained by way of apology. He might have not been made for life in the Capital, but even he understood the importance of his daughter''s work here.


    "Let him be happy, Father," Sansa told him as she looked at the wildly gesticulating King, showing off Joffrey to lords and knights as if he were a fine Myrish tapestry, laughing and bellowing for the ''young''ones'' to get in line with their tankards. Tyrion was all too happy to serve, opening up one of the big barrel''s valves and serving tankard after tankard of foaming ale.


    Father seemed tired, pale under the eyes and just about fed up with the King''s latest antics, but he didn''t move to stop what he knew was to come. "I hope you stocked enough ale and food, Robert has been wanting to ''carouse'' with his son for quite a while now. He''d forgotten about it until some bright fool back in the Red Keep asked whether it was true the Prince had taken down a boar with a sword¡­ and was planning to eat it tonight," he said with grudging chuckle, "There was no stopping him once he learned there was a parallel feats going on at the other side of the city," he told her.


    It seemed the King had learned of his son''s feast and decided to combine both. When she spoke with Tyrion later he told her that they must have lost half of their own guests during the merry carousing between the Red Keep and the Prince''s House¡­ not that the King seemed overly bothered about it.


    Father just shook his head again, before extending a hand a seizing a wine cup from a passing servant. "Tomorrow will be a mess," he moaned before downing it in one gulp.


    -: PD :-


    "Come on boy! You''re not a man before you''ve chugged down one with your Father!" Robert roared as he slammed a tankard of ale into Joffrey. They were surrounded by cheering nobles, and Robert had to hold a monstrous chuckle when he saw Ned''s exasperated head in between the sea of people. It seemed their lost guests were starting to catch up. Deciding to combine both their feasts had really been the second best idea he''d ever had.


    "Drink! For the Seven Kingdoms you seem to give more of a piss than I do!" he roared, and Joffrey finally gave in. He shook his head with a slight smile before clashing the tankard against his.


    "For the Seven Headaches! May they torment some other poor sod someday," Joffrey agreed, gulping deeply as Robert laughed and did the same.


    "That''s the spirit! More! Come on you damned Imp!" Robert shouted over the din, only to stagger back when something emerged from the crowd at waist level and crashed against his belly.


    "You called?" said the Imp with a smirk, holding a keg of ale bigger than himself with both hands.


    Third best idea of my rule, Robert thought as he slapped the little man''s back and relieved him of the keg. "The Master of Coin everyone!" he roared as he lifted his arm with one hand and the barrel with the other. The crowd roared back as he showed them off, Joffrey laughing hysterically as Tyrion swung above the ground freely, downing a big cup of ale with his free hand as he was held up by Robert above the crowd.


    Really, my son is responsible for all three of them¡­ he thought with a wry chuckle as he left Tyrion on the ground and punched a hole between the rim and the side planks of the keg, the expert hit leaving a hole just small enough to pour accurately.


    He sloshed ale all over the outstretched hands holding cups and tankards, but they seemed to multiply by the second as drunk lords, knights, and even maidens crowded around him, all holding out their cups and tankards.


    "One moment you wretches!" he roared as he climbed the table next to him, using his now superior reach to pour over tankards and heads in equal measure all around him. "Joffrey! My aim is shit, come help your lord Father!" he ordered his son. Joffrey climbed up with a smile, shoved up by the loyal Master of Coin. His son was soon grabbing tankards by the dozen from the assembling, cheering crowd and holding them out so he could pour more quickly.


    "There! Now drink!" he shouted, before he noticed something horrible.


    I dropped my tankard¡­


    "Eh fuck it! I''ve got big hands anyway!" he said as he raised the keg and poured into his mouth directly, the crowd cheering him on as squadrons of servants emerged from the house, carrying trays filled with roasted boar, directed by the keen eyes of his son''s betrothed.


    He broke off the torrent of ale to regale the crowd with a colossal burp, cutting off Joffrey''s chuckle as he slammed the keg into his mouth. "Your turn boy!!!" he roared, the audience agreeing wholeheartedly as they cheered him on.


    Joffrey drank deep, lowering the keg with a roar. "That''s all you''ve got you fat oaf!?" he shouted as he tumbled lightly over the table.


    The crowd went silent as all eyes moved to Robert¡­ and he smiled.


    "Finally a proper Baratheon to trade cups with!" he roared before downing another huge gulp and passing it back. Unfortunately, it seemed Renly had already left the party.


    Joffrey accepted it, fire in his eyes as he drunk deep once more and passed it back. It went around a few times, the crowd dividing itself in its celebration. The youngest cheered and whopped and Joffrey shook his head wildly after a heavy swallow, while the older lords and knights banged cups against tables or stamped their feet and shouted as Robert slammed the keg down after a powerful gulp.


    He passed the keg into his tipsy son, but Joffrey frowned as he tilted the keg upside down and shook it, not a single drop coming within.


    "Victory! The last one was mine!" Robert declared victoriously, only for the equally drunk public to burst out into cheers and angry shouts.


    "Nonsense!" Joffrey shouted as he swayed lightly atop the table, "The contest keeps! I''m not defeated!" he declared.


    "Give it up son! You need a belly and another couple of years if you want to take a crack at me!" He said triumphantly.


    "A crack huh? Well, we''ve got a few tourney weapons lying around here¡­" Joffrey trailed off when he saw Robert actually considering the idea.


    "Why the hells not?! Let''s see if you''re truly ready to feel the Fury!" he roared, and Robert swore he could have jumped over the crowd and they would have carried him right into the training yard. Fortunately, even in this state of mind Robert was aware of the whole royal dignity claptrap.


    Joffrey seemed to be eyeing him in shock, before the Master of Coin ¨Cbless his soul- shoved another tankard at him, pushed him towards the wooden fence, and cheered as loud as he could.


    "Ten gold dragons for the Prince!" he shouted, and then the crowd went wild.


    The betting was still going on as Joffrey and Robert threw some padded armor over themselves, aided by helpful nobles. Robert was hefting a tourney warhammer with both hands, starting to reconsider the notion of possibly ending up cracking his daredevil heir''s skull.


    Joffrey however was looking at him with a huge grin, as if he couldn''t believe what was happening. He seemed to have given up control of the situation, perhaps leaving it in the capable hands of Sansa so he could just have some fun.


    As it should be, emerged the sudden thought, regret and pride and something else buttering through his belly before he hefted the warhammer up in the air. He could see Sansa taking out the excellent band of bards out into the backyard, making them stand up over another table. They started a lively tune as he turned to his son.


    "I''ll try to go easy on you, look out for those delicate bones of yours," he called out as he walked towards him, the crowd pressing into the wooden fence and making so much noise it just kind of turned into a drone, though the music could be heard over it somehow.


    "I''ll do the same Robert! Can''t hammer that belly too hard or I''ll just fly back!" called out the cheeky brat as he swung both sword and hammer.


    Robert scoffed, turning to the huge audience, "Seems I''ve got some manners to teach!" he called out. The crowd cheered him on, and for the first time in a long time he thought he could hear something else but false flattery. "Should have taken a two handed one! No proper strength behind the blow!" he said as he eyed his son''s one handed hammer, "Leave the dual wielding for the maiden''s tales!" he goaded him as more people pressed into the sturdy wooden fence


    Had there been so many people in both feasts? He asked himself as he laughed.


    "We''ll see about that old man!" Joffrey shouted back, but Robert was interrupted before he could respond.


    "Wait!" someone shouted. They both turned to see Tyrion climbing on to their old table, which had somehow been dragged to the side of the fence. "You''ll need a judge for this! Impartial! Serious!" He slurred before downing his tankard.


    They stared at him as they waited for his proposed judge to show himself.


    Tyrion nodded, took in a lungful of air, and then roared as hard as he could, "BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER!!!" he said as the crowd carried the cry.


    Robert chuckled as he prepared to take a small lunge at Joffrey, to ease him in so as to not break his skull by accident.


    He was promptly fighting for his life.


    His son was a damned whirlwind as he struck from left and right, sword and hammer synchronized as he spun and delivered a flurry of slashes and lunges which immediately put Robert on the backfoot. He parried wildly with the haft of the hammer, not having the range nor the time to stop the sudden onslaught with a blow of his own until he tripped and fell on the mud, his son''s sword almost by his throat.


    "Victory for the Prince!" Roared the Imp, "Give me the gold you damned rats!" he continued as several guests ran for it.


    Robert could hardly believe it. He knew his son was good, he''d won the damned melee after all¡­ but to be defeated like this? Him? The Demon of the Trident?!


    Joffrey was standing back, bouncing on his knees as kept swinging his weapons, grinning like a fool. "Good enough I suppose, for an old man," the brat told him with a shit eating grin.


    It was not the first time he''d realized how much of a shell of his former self he''d become, but this was the first time he felt some sort of fiery determination immediately after instead of a pitch black void.


    "BEST OF THREE! BEST OUT OF THREE!!!" He roared as he stood up with a huff, using the warhammer as a pole, "I''ll beat that smirk out of your insolent face!" he called out to his son, though he was unable to hide the proud smile as he said it.


    "But what doth the crowd sayeth?!" Tyrion called out, and Robert was unsure if he was that drunk or if he was trying to imitate a crier.


    The crowd roared assent universally, and Tyrion nodded seriously, "Insolent brat ready?!" he asked as Joffrey raised his arm, "Old man ready?!" he asked as Robert pumped his warhammer into the air.


    "Then fight damn you!!! Thirty gold dragons for Prince Joffrey!" he shouted.


    Robert roared as he bull rushed his son, who clearly had not been expecting that. He swung his warhammer horizontally, Joffrey bending below the arc and springing back up to close the range and bang him with his hammer.


    Robert laughed as he swung the other way and took a big step back, catching Joffrey in the foot and bringing him unto the ground before the sword reached him. "This old devil still has a few tricks!" he roared as he lifted the hammer and struck only mud.


    Joffrey had rolled away from the blow, standing up in some sort of twisting leap that saw him close the distance and strike in seconds. Robert parried the strike with the haft and slammed into him with his shoulder, shoving him back brutally and lunging with his warhammer as if it were a spear. Joffrey avoided the blow precisely, but was caught by surprise when instead of repositioning, Robert swung the extended warhammer sideways as he shifted his grip to the end of haft. It caught him in the chest and sent him flying back.


    Joffrey rolled through the mud, turning his fall into a flip and standing back up again. Robert laughed as he turned around, holding his warhammer high as the crowd returned his voice a hundred times louder only for Joffrey to dash at him with a roar of his own. Robert parried the hammer but the sword slammed against his shoulder. He grunted as he retreated a few steps, trying to widen the distance. Joffrey would have none of that though, keeping close and hitting Robert''s thigh with the hammer.


    Old instincts were returning to him faster and faster now, his motions becoming more confident by the second. He bulled through the pain and Joffrey, slamming him aside before he could doge him. He tried to circle left but Robert predicted the movement, slamming the warhammer like a spear against his chest and pushing him back.


    They circled each other wearily, opening the distance as they feinted lightly and switched their grips, each waiting for the other to commit.


    Robert hesitated when he saw Ned shove his way to the edge of the training yard. He pushed aside the last noble in his way and slammed against the wooden fence, both hands supporting his weight as he turned to stare at him, red faced, "Robert! What is the matter with you?!" he shouted as if he could not believe what he was seeing.


    Deep inside, Robert had known this sudden, godly moment of fun and something else had been too good to last. Ned gazed sternly at his best friend for a second before he climbed the first rung of the fence, cupped his hands, and shouted again like a man possessed.


    "Robert!!! Pull yourself together!" shouted his dutiful friend, "BREAK HIS SHAMELESS PAWS!!!" He roared as loud as he could, slurring lightly as Tyrion handed him another tankard.


    Wait what?


    Robert felt as if he''d been slapped and transported to another world. He could only stare at Ned as the man downed the tankard, wiping the foam off his mouth before giving him that stereotypical Ned Stark frown. "Whatr'' re'' you waiting for?!" he shouted.


    "BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" Robert bellowed as he jumped at his son, the hammer light in his hands as he lunged and swept, twisted and slammed, the fast paced music propelling him on as he struck. He felt as if he were twenty years younger, a smile on his face and a hammer in his hands, no worries and no regrets as he all but danced around Joffrey. Granted, it had more in common with an elephant''s stomping than any sort of real dancing, but he felt unstoppable as Joffrey dodged and twisted franticly, avoiding his sweeps barely and parrying his lungs with huffs of strength. Joffrey''s hammer flew away as Robert carried out the same disarm maneuver he''d used to torment Ned during their training in the Eerie, feinting low only to viciously hammer away the weak parry with a powerful overarm strike.


    His son tried to close the range again, and Robert smiled. Let him, he thought in vicious satisfaction as the boy came at him with a low guard. He simply bull rushed him, angling himself so the sword clanged against the training armor instead of his flesh, absorbing the blow and lifting his hammer to shoulder height. He brought it down, quick as a viper as he struck Joffrey''s upper chest, the force behind the blow making him stumble back as Robert stayed back, already swinging as he swept his feet and spun with the warhammer''s momentum, the move a familiar one he''d repeated a million times in the dreams that used to haunt him. He brought the warhammer down brutally before Joffrey could react, slamming the earth and splattering mud all over his son''s face. It would not do to cave in his son''s chest after all.


    "And point for the King!" shouted Tyrion, frowning when several nobles kept staring at him and he realized he was quite indebted right now, "Wait! There''s still one more! Double or nothing!" he said as he tried to save his hide.


    "Don''t be upset son, it was that move that named me the Demon of the Trident!" he called out triumphantly as the crowd roared with him.


    "And gave the Ruby Ford its name!" Ned roared as the handful of northern knights and armsmen banged their tankards against whatever hard surface they could find, veteran storm and riverlanders joining in.


    Joffrey was gazing at him appreciably as he recovered his weapons, caked in mud and sweat. Robert chuckled, again feeling something warm and calm inside him as he took in the rare look of approval.


    They didn''t even wait for Tyrion''s call, they were already at it. There was something playful during their third and final spar, slower and altogether more elaborate than the last two. They weren''t fighting to win, but to have a good time. They struck and parried, spun in elaborate twists and even fought with tankards in hand, each blow forcing the other to drink.


    Robert was sweating like a pig. His lungs burned with every breath and his back was protesting loudly after each swing of his warhammer, but he didn''t care. With his best friend shouting encouragement and the occasional calls for the bloody murder of his son, said son leering back and promptly chuckling when he caught a hammer to the leg and a mouthful of mud, knights and lords and squires and maidens cheering and laughing all around them in complete and utter drunken sincerity¡­


    Robert realized his eyes felt a bit watery as they walked back to the table. Joffrey was supporting his weight as they staggered towards the long bench alongside it, completely and utterly exhausted as they all but crashed down on the bench. People laughed and clapped their backs, the music from the bards switching to something still lively but not as fast paced.


    He leaned back after their latest trade of insults gave way to another round of ale, one hand still over Joffrey''s shoulders as his son was now scolded by Sansa, her blue eyes boring into his in mixed worry and mirth, a small smile growing on her lips as Joffrey came up with excuse after drunken excuse. Robert took a moment to gaze around, chuckling lowly as he saw his Master of Coin upside down over a table, trying to walk with his hands as young squires slammed their tankards against the table in a rising crescendo. He saw Lancel and Olyvar Frey take over the training yard, demonstrating their unique halberd drill as they sparred intensely, not wanting to be shown unworthy after his own bout with his son. Not all of Joffrey''s ''Legates'' were there though. Jon Snow was leaning on the fence, seemingly content to leave the showing off to his peers.


    I think this is the first time I''ve seen him laugh, Robert thought with a slight smile, a smile which turned into a chuckle as he saw one of Sansa''s young handmaidens by the boy''s side.


    Howland Reed''s daughter, he finally recognized her face. He seemed to be laughing hysterically at something the little girl had shouted at the dueling legates, trying to cover her mouth with his hand as she kept jeering despite the poor lad''s efforts. Robert chuckled again when the Reed girl stayed mum under Snow''s hand, the boy retrieving it quickly as if it''d been burned. The Reed girl caught it before it fled completely though, holding it tight between them as she kept looking at the training bout as if nothing had happened. Snow''s face turned from greyish to red in seconds as he smiled slowly, his hand still.


    He had a good smile, a spitting image of her mother''s that made Robert smile at the memory.


    What a beauty she''d been, he sighed in recollection, remembering the hilarious expression on Ned''s face as instead of following all precedent and trying to win her heart himself, he shoved his best friend at the second most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms¡­


    And so another circle closed as the daughter of the man who killed Arthur Dayne clasped hands with his nephew, stories closing and long awaited dues fulfilled as time moved on.


    Robert chuckled as Ned slapped his back, emerging from the flood of guests to say something which Robert couldn''t quite comprehend but seemed to have him quite amused. He slapped him back, laughing as Ned almost lost his footing. It was funny to see him drunk again, after all these years. Memories of old seemed intent on flooding him today as he remembered two young idiots sneaking through Jon Arryn''s wine cellar, a result of youthful exploration which ended with Ned puking his guts while trying to stall the Old Falcon, buying time for Robert to hide a comely wench under his bed.


    Joffrey sniggered as he looked at Jon and Sansa swatted his head. His son turned to him and said something indistinct, which Robert nodded away with a chuckle of his own. He had grown so much in so little time, his son, as if fate had called in its debts from the wrongs of Robert''s own life to set the balance straight once more. As it should have been. As it should be. He gazed at the servings of roasted boar the maids were leaving everywhere atop the tables, avoiding the ones that had been turned over in the midst of the revelry. This particular feast had gone out of control a while ago, and it didn''t seem to be stopping any time soon¡­ truly one for the records.


    My son killed this, Robert thought as he took a bite out of the boar, flavor flooding his mouth as he sighed deeply.


    He wondered why it tasted better than any boar he had ever killed.


    He realized the sappy, sticky feeling in his throat was satisfaction. A happy, calm thing that settled to the core of his bones. He took another gulp of ale to swallow the mellow, sticky sensation that had crept up his throat, that deep feeling which made him realize he was content with his life, perhaps for the first time ever. He''d done good, he hadn''t screwed everything up.


    He winced slightly as the dull headache that had been plaguing him since the middle of the bout intensified. Fortunately, another gulp of ale seemed to drown that particular woe. He felt so tired, so exhausted¡­ spent even. As if tonight he''d pooled all of his strength and vitality to return to the old days of yore, a nearly forgotten youth as he briefly became who he had been, who he was.


    He wiped a lone tear off his cheek before he downed another tankard, taking a deep breath. The numb pain in his forehead was spreading slowly, but he felt it was no worse than any wound he''d taken in his youth or even thirty minutes ago as he''d sparred with his son for that matter.


    He''d screwed up, more times than he could count¡­ But his son would not. With the backing of a whopping five kingdoms through blood and marriage, his son would be secure in his rule. With a loving and smart wife by his side to prod him and make him excel, a loyal and competent Hand to handle the transition, a capable mind with a penchant for copper counting, and arms strong enough to wrestle a bull or smash in a pretender''s head if the need ever arose, he realized he was no longer worried about his son''s future.


    Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, could take that legacy.


    "Don''t let them rule you, do what you feel is right and bollocks for the consequences," he told his son the advice he''d liked to have received when they crowned him, almost twenty years ago.


    He seemed startled by the sudden piece of advice, nodding thoughtfully despite the alcohol before saying some sort of gibberish Robert couldn''t comprehend. It had the tone of a question though, his hand rising hesitantly to touch Robert''s right cheek.


    He waved his son away as he stood up and walked towards Ned. He embraced his surprised friend, who seemed green enough to vomit as if they were all fifteen year olds again. Ned gibbered something that made the men around him laugh, and Robert laughed with them, with his best friend. "I''m glad you came south," he told him with a smile. The swaying Ned nodded heartily at that, slapping him in the shoulder and gibbering something back which sounded nice, thoughtful, and slightly melancholic.


    Pure, typical Ned.


    Robert chuckled as he walked away, his field of vision dimming from the right as he searched around with one eye.


    Ah, there it is, he thought as he reached his discarded warhammer. He''d forgotten why he was searching for it, but he knew it was very important he had it in his hand right now. The entire right side of his face felt oddly lax as he sat down away from the party at the other side of the training yard, leaning his back on the wooden fence and letting his head rest against it.


    He crossed his arms around his warhammer, smashed Rhaegar Targeryen''s chest once more in the privacy of his own mind, and realized the memory no longer gave him such a vicious feeling of satisfaction anymore¡­ Rhaegar Targeryen died unmourned, his legacy in ashes¡­ but what did he care? So many opened things had been closed, so much time had passed him by, new youths and new faces and new dreams and new regrets. The old gave way to the new, and the reigns of life passed from the old to the young, who had the dreams and the strength to impose their will on this harsh world of them all.


    He drank from his tankard one more time, savoring the strong, proper flavor of a good stout, and smiled.


    Who was he fucking kidding? Smashing in Rhaegar Targeryen''s fancy chest plate and adorning his guts with fistfuls of rubies would never get old. He chuckled lowly at that, something about that thought brought a smile to his face.


    The chuckle died off as he blinked with one eye, confused. What was he doing here again? And why did he have his arms wrapped around his warhammer?


    Ah, right. Father always said Baratheons should greet the Stranger with a weapon in hand, he remembered. His dimming vision was replaced by the sight of the Windproud leaning sideways in the midst of the storm, the scene framed by two of Storm''s End''s crenellations as guards roared and little Stannis pleaded for the Gods to spare Father and Mother. He''d always liked to think the wild, big figure atop the main mast slamming an axe against the ruined mainsail had been Father, big and strong and proud to the end as Shipbreaker Bay swallowed him whole.


    Robert wondered if Old Steffon had also felt proud of his son as he died, gazing at his ancestral keep and the two figures perched over the crenellations. He mused about that as his grip on the tankard went lax, forehead resting on his warhammer as he let out a long breath and went still.


    -: PD :-


    ------


    ---


    AN: Decided to get this out in the interest of getting this train on the move again. This was supposed to be in part a chapter about Joffrey''s coronation, but then Robert kind of hijacked the update. He''s not sorry.

 Chapter 46: Raiders.

    Chapter 46: Raiders.Their wedding was a rushed affair. The High Septon had barely finished the rites when two crowns had been brought forward, the wedding turning into a coronation about twenty minutes after Ned had solemnly removed the Stark cloak from Sansa''s shoulders.


    That whole day seemed to pass in a rush to Joffrey. Sansa''s hidden anxiety had been as clear as daylight to him as the High Septon placed a crown on her head, even if no one else had been able to detect it. Her impish smile as he broke through the enthusiasm of the incoming bedding ceremony, shoving aside nobles before he picked her up with his own arms and carried her to their new bedroom himself...


    Joffrey and Sansa had been of one voice and one will, commanding the dual ceremony to be carried out within the fortnight as they worked themselves ragged trying to keep the Seven Kingdoms from splintering into a greater civil war. Watching Ned''s face shortly after he found his best friend sitting quietly near the training grounds had been heartbreaking, all the more so for the fact that Robert had apparently died happy, or perhaps merely content, a stark contrast to all the lives Joffrey had seen him die on.


    To think that he''d somehow managed to make him happy during the last year of his life, through no conscious effort of his own, had been a humbling and wretched thing. He''d made sure Pycell had stopped the weekly doses of coagulant almost immediately after waking up in this life, but the damage done had already been too severe, the intense training bout merely accelerating the inevitable.


    Ned had taken a day to mourn before returning to his duties with single minded dedication. When he''d entered the throne room the day after Robert''s death he''d kneeled and called Joffrey King, smiling grimly at the sight of Sansa sitting in a secondary throne beside him. When he''d heard of Renly proclaiming himself the rightful King of Westeros, he''d called the banners of the North to fight in the south once more. When Joffrey had asked him to continue his service under the crown, he''d merely nodded and carried on.


    A great many schemes and plans were in flux now. Sansa was tightening the noose of spies around Varys'' neck, trying to glean more information about the way he operated Westeros'' biggest spy network. Tyrion was swamped with work, given practically free reign and coin to boost the Blackworks around the Blackwater, and preparing Joffrey''s plans for the founding of a maritime trading company.


    A stiff breeze of wind shook Joffrey out of his head, the banners buffeting around the courtyard.


    "Joffrey, is this really necessary? Ser Jaime will bring you Renly''s head if you but ask," pleaded Cercei, deploying all her charm and her worry as the flags and banners swirled with the wind. "The King''s place is at the Capital, ruling," she told him almost desperately.


    He didn''t respond, merely hugging her abruptly and interrupting any further arguments, his plate making the movement awkward. She took a deep breath, nodding halfheartedly as her last attempt to stop her son from going to war failed.


    He took a step back to regard the rest of the assembled audience standing around the courtyard of the Red Keep, nodding when Ned took a step forward. "We''ll make sure there''s a realm to come back to, Your Grace," he said solemnly. It clearly pained him to let him go, but he understood the reasons behind it all¡­ at least the ones Joffrey had told him about.


    "I''ll be sure to keep the wheel spinning, though this little rebellion will slow down your projections," Tyrion spoke next, carrying himself with an air of authority which Joffrey was glad to see.


    "Thank you uncle," Joffrey smiled, his eyes turning to his Queen.


    Sansa looked regal in her green and red dress, lines of gold and silver tying the whole ensemble together. Her red hair had been tamed by the crown she wore, a golden circlet with three sapphires in a triangular position, right above her blue, worried eyes.


    She embraced him tightly, a hug Joffrey returned in full as he breathed deeply and closed his eyes, sealing the memory in fire.


    "At least take Ser Barristan," she whispered.


    "We talked about this. He stays here, with you. I want you surrounded by loyal swords at all times," Joffrey whispered back.


    He opened his eyes as Sansa leaned back, the smell of roses and Dure House still in his mind as she shuffled one of his pauldrons, settling it in place. She seemed to stare at his eyes then, unwilling to let him go.


    "Slay him, slay all the chivalry of the South and come back to me," she ordered him.


    He answered with a deep kiss, the moment all too fleeting as they separated and she handed him a blue ribbon.


    "A favor from m''lady?" he asked with a smile.


    "You better return it, or you''ll regret the next time you see me," she said with a smile that mirrored his own.


    "Be careful with Varys, and Mother too," he whispered before Sansa shushed him.


    "I''ll handle them, you concentrate on the Baratheons," she said seriously, "Then, we''ll get these Kingdoms to where they should be," she ended.


    Joffrey walked back to his horse, a handful of bodyguards plus Sandor and Ser Jaime already waiting for him as he clambered atop Moonlight. They didn''t speak a word as they rode out of the Keep and then the City, war on the horizon.


    -: PD :-


    Renly had declared himself the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms once again, and it seemed the Tyrells had backed him this time as well. Joffrey didn''t know if that spoke of desperation at their waning influence in the realm, or a mad power grab by Mace Tyrell¡­ but he didn''t really care. Both Ned and Cercei had pleaded with him to wait for reinforcements from the North and the Westerlands, or hells even just the Riverlands.


    He''d declined. That was not the message he intended to send to Westeros and beyond¡­ He wanted the peace to last, and if that meant personally going out there with a numerically inferior force and destroying the chivalry of the south with his bare fists, then that''s what he would do. If he was to rule Westeros he would have to be respected.


    He would be no Aegon the fifth, ground down under the sneers of the nobility. He would have to carve himself a reputation as a warrior king and a general, a breaker of armies and a terror of the battlefield, and the sooner he did that the faster his preparations for the coming Night would go. He had already made some progress with that since he''d woken up in this life, and it showed in the lackluster showing of the Stormlords in support of their Lord Paramount''s claim. Strong, but still lesser than what Renly must have expected, lesser for sure than the many times Joffrey had seen him raise the banners of rebellion all over the Stormlands.


    The five thousand strong First Regiment of the Royal Guard was already marching. His legates led the army at a ludicrous pace -at least for Westerosi standards- eating mile after mile as they went their way south, towards Bronze Gate.


    Sansa had not been idle, as she''d made swift work of the scions of the Crownlands, most of whose had conveniently been in the Capital when Robert died. They were already joining the Guard''s march, despoiled of their useless levies and only bringing much needed cavalry.


    Still, even that sort of speed left him impatient, and so his army would reach him in the Stormlands itself.


    "Raiders!" thundered Joffrey as Moonlight slammed to a halt in a cloud of dust, the people around the small camp rustling out of the way.


    "Bugger me'', the Prince is back," shouted one of them as he stood up, a scarred man with a dead eye.


    "It''s the King now you arsehole!" shouted another one as he ran out of a small tent while clutching fistfuls of coppers, a gaggle of protesting gamblers following him out and starting to brandish daggers at the opportunistic bastard. They sheathed them quickly and abruptly when they saw Joffrey though, and he found their faux-innocent expressions almost endearing.


    "Listen up you wretches! We''re going hunting!" Joffrey shouted with a twisted smile.


    "Wha'' for?!" shouted one of the rapidly assembling men and even a few women.


    Ser Jaime frowned as his horse came to a stop next to Joffrey''s and he gazed upon the slovenly camp, filled with hundreds of all manner of thugs and other scum that wouldn''t have been out of place in the deepest recesses of Fleabottom.


    "Traitors, wealthy traitors," Joffrey delivered with aplomb, his twisted smile growing rakish as the men hollered. Sansa''s spies had done the legwork in the beginning, trawling through the taverns and alehouses of Fleabottom looking for the sort of men Joffrey needed all those months ago.


    "Bout'' time we shed a little blood!" called out one, "Yeah, clubbing messengers was getting rather dull," another one remarked drily as they started to pick up the camp. Westerosi nobles thought crime was a single, monolithic drive of men, all afflicted by the same drive to rape, kill and steal. He could see the same thoughts passing by his real father''s face now, his eyes already ignoring a whole world of meaning to center on one or two thoughts: Brigands, cowards, and thieves¡­ in short: Human trash.


    "We''re going to go shank a few lords down south, burn a bit here and there, put a little fear in those round Reacher bellies," Joffrey told them, bloodthirsty smirks peeking out amongst them. The disdain was mutual.


    Where most Westerosi nobles saw trash, he''d learned long ago to peer deeper into the men and women that were relegated to the deepest recesses of society. Not all cut throats were unrepentant rapists or crazed scum devoid of positive emotions. There were those who followed their own code of honor, those that took pride in comradeship and companionship, those that had been led down by the world and driven to act in a way for so long that it had become habit¡­ there was still value there, another group of people that could be driven to new heights with the promise of purpose¡­


    Albeit purpose of a different sort¡­


    He''d gone down to Fleabottom searching for a specific brand of person, months ago. They were thieves and murderers, true, as well as reckless, disdainful of authority, and without an ounce of the respect expected out of any smallfolk when meeting a noble scion. And yet they did have their honor of sorts. Hard bitten men and women who had not fallen to the lowest of the low even under harsh circumstances; escaped poachers and shady woodsmen, hardened prostitutes with a knack for slitting the throats of those who got too violent, petty gang members who''d managed to thread the line between necessity and needless destruction. With the help of Sansa''s spies, he''d found them and slowly molded them into the name that would plague the nightmares of rebellious lords even as the pounding steps of the Royal Guard grew louder and louder.


    "Raiders! Move out!" he called out, and his skirmishers did so. His father looked disbelieving as the men did as told, quickly stowing the small camp and getting ready for the ride south. They mounted up, checking the new sabers and the supplies of torches.


    They may not be Long Scouts, but godsdamnit it feels good to ride again, Joffrey thought as he spurred Moonlight, Sandor and Ser Jaime struggled to catch up, his Raiders forming up behind as they rode southwards.


    -: PD :-


    Renly''s hundred thousand man host made a sight to behold. Their camp was a veritable city, so big and vast it was. It sported tourney grounds and grand pavilions in a splendor of green and gold, lavish accommodations and grand main roads. It was filled with great storage barns and tents where the plentiful foodstuffs of the reach were stored and carefully maintained, held in safekeeping for when the host lumbered its way north in the morning; centralized for ease of accesses and a safeguard against looting deserters looking for a full meal before running to the woods.


    For all its great length and splendor, the tent city was haphazardly organized the further one went from Renly''s center of power, right in its middle where he held court and showered his bannermen and Reacher allies with gifts and speeches. Keeping order and camp discipline close to the King''s center of power was one thing, ensuring the orderly construction of over a hundred thousand men''s lodgings, most of which were untrained and undisciplined farmers, was a different proposition altogether. Alleyways bottled together, mustering grounds were filled with crates and junk, tents ate over firebreaks and marching streets, fusing together into one big shanty town.


    What most caught Joffrey''s attention though were the banners¡­ he didn''t really know why. There were so many of them, waving and slapping each other under the heavy gusts of wind that were the scourge of the Stormlands. Proud apples and oranges and all manner of foodstuffs, proud huntsmen and bared arms. In the morning they would march once more, towards Storm''s End and then Bronze Gate and ultimately, towards King''s Landing. Intent on bringing glory to their liege lord and King, intent on war and the spoils of battle and intrigue.


    "M''Grace?" rattled Horwik.


    "It''s just Joffrey, or Ser if you prefer," he reminded him absentmindedly as he kept gazing at the banners through the dark and moonless night.


    "Aye M''Grace," he said with a nod, "We''re ready," he added.


    Joffrey nodded lightly as he kept surveying the camp. "Get to the archers, mind your targets," he said before he turned and silently slid his way down from the little overhang, returning to the forest that hid over five hundred heavily armed and lightly armored Raiders, their faces and sabers obscured of glint and chivalry by mud and dirt, only their shifting eyes betraying their positions. Their horses lay behind them, prone on the ground and breathing slowly. Joffrey crept towards the three figures hunched by the edge of the forest, their eyes following the retinue of patrolling knights as it edged further away, clad in plate and mail, their night vision destroyed by the torches they carried. Renly felt safe here, in the middle of the Stormlands and with the Reach at his back, his host so big as to make lesser men quiver in fear at its sight.


    "Add another four minutes to the raid, the camp is even worse guarded than we thought," Joffrey whispered, their slow nods acknowledging his orders. "Like we discussed last night: targets of opportunity, prioritize foodstuffs and stables. Two stage withdrawal, Horwick will be waiting with the archers. Remember to keep you exit routes clear," he said.


    "Anything else, your majesty?" Pocket asked sardonically.


    "Yes, keep your sticky hands to yourself and don''t over encumber your horse," Joffrey admonished him seriously, though he couldn''t hide the tiniest speck of a smirk on his lips.


    "Plenty of loot to be had once they''re all dead," agreed Daryl, checking his scabbard once more in a complicated ritual of confirmations and blinking which according to him was the only way of avoiding certain doom.


    "Indeed. Daryl, take the right and wreak havoc amongst the footsoldiers, burn their tents and try to get them out into the streets, blinded and confused and hopefully in the way of the Reacher knights," said Joffrey.


    "Aye Boss," he said before making his way to his men.


    "Pocket, pierce through the center with me and Glyra, then slash left and burn those barns and foodstocks near the mustering grounds," he commanded.


    "I''ve been looking forward to this for a long time," he whispered without a touch of his usual whimsy, creeping backwards until shadows consumed him.


    "Glyra, we''ll pierce right through the center, straight for the stables. Cut down as many horses as you can, and burn their hay," he told the slip of a girl.


    "You?" she whispered, the scars all over her face contracting as she frowned.


    "I''ll split off there, head for the main pavilion¡­" he trailed off as the corner of his mouth ticked upwards.


    "King''s should be near the fighting, the ballads say so," he said with a wolfish smile.


    She slipped away without another word, and Moonlight was already cantering towards him as the rest of the men and women mounted up.


    Spoiler: Music


    AN: Set to loop, until end of scene.


    Soon they were riding slowly towards the camp, their path dry and heavy with dust, making the sound of the approaching hooves all but silent at this distance, the swirling dirt above them invisible under the moonless night.


    "Go," Joffrey said loudly as Moonlight broke into a gallop, the indistinct mass of riders splitting in three without a roar or battlecry, horses speeding down on the great camp from multiple angles. There were no gates or walls surrounding the camp, only a few patrolling soldiers.


    "Who goes there?!" called out a spearman who''d been watching over the ''main road'' of the camp, the one that led directly to the camp''s center. He raised his torch higher, trying to see what the fuss was all about and probably cursing the over excitable Reacher nobility.


    He stumbled backwards as a mass of charging horses emerged from the night, sabres held point down.


    "What the-?! We''re under attagh-" he tried to scream before Joffrey''s sabre ripped through his throat, the few other soldiers gambling or drinking nearby standing up in a daze only for them to be cut down to a man, sabres reaping a bloody harvest as the Raiders broke into the camp.


    "No mercy! Show ''em the price of war!!!" roared Joffrey as he slowed down Moonlight slightly, his arm swinging back and forth and quickly settling into a familiar rhythm, almost like a lullaby from a long forgotten childhood. With each swing he reaped flesh, the panicking soldiers emerging from the tents only adding their blood to the swiftly growing river of it which now flowed through the camp. Backs and necks, throats and arms were severed as Raiders lit their torches and threw them to tents and granaries, the fires quickly growing out of control and further adding to the mayhem.


    Joffrey realized they were making freakish progress, making their way to the stables almost five minutes ahead of schedule. With a start he realized Renly''s army had not even a single contingency plan for this sort of situation, so content had they been in their assembled might and the blind knights they used for scouts, their postings another prize for Renly''s bannermen to fight over. Men at Arms were rushing out of tents with whatever they had been sleeping with, brandishing dirks or arming swords before they were cut down. Smallfolk levies were simply panicking, screaming for mercy or running in circles as the fires spread and they spotted raiders everywhere, three men squads splitting off from the main thrusts and making their way through alleyways and spreading chaos and mayhem.


    Glyra was already leading her own section towards the nearby stables. There were few horse archers within the Raiders, but lit torches would burn just as well as flaming arrows. Joffrey could already hear the horses neigh in desperation as the fires spread and he kept galloping straight ahead, the road so wide it seemed a parade ground. His arm was tireless, still cutting down confused or fleeing soldiers, no type of rapid response force trying to stop him and his personal retinue of raiders as they slashed and burned their way towards the center of Renly''s folly.


    Joffrey was almost nauseous, nearly in shock at the sheer incompetence, the sheer slaughter he was carrying out against such a numerically superior foe. It was clear they had achieved complete and utter surprise¡­ Here and there he saw groups of men at arms converging, trying to sort out some kind of formation as they passed spears to each other¡­ but it was late, far too late for the amount of damage they would get away with tonight. Joffrey had pitted his Raiders against the Royal Guard during countless exercises, imported and adapted raiding doctrine from the east, drilled small unit tactics into his Raiders until they dreamt of ambush.


    And now they had been unleashed against an enemy which had been utterly unprepared for it.


    Joffrey took in a gulp of air as he realized he was almost at Renly''s tent, scores of banners flying from the fine pavilion, the triumphant stag the tallest of them all.


    Can I end it all right here?! He asked himself in a daze as he ripped through an unarmored man''s back, jumping down from his horse and taking out another torch, swiftly burning as his flint and steel rings clacked. The ''courtyard'' in front of the pavilion was a mess, filled with the dead and dying as Raiders kept trickling through the lackluster defense, which was barely now stiffening, burly men at arms bellowing at their charges as soldiers mingled with Raiders and routed levies.


    He dared believe he could, when he tossed a lit torch at the pavilion. It went up in flames magnificently, the finely oiled silk burning like pitch as a couple of armored knights emerged from within. He''d wanted to scare Renly, but never in a million years he''d have thought he''d get this close him.


    "Renly!!!" Joffrey roared as he recognized the telltale colors of the vaunted Rainbow Guard, Renly''s personal retinue and Kingsguard analogue, the Yellow and Purple ones specifically. They were surprised as they looked at him, both of them moving forward to make space behind them.


    "Get him outta here! Move damn you!" shouted the Purple one at the tent flap, brandishing a longsword.


    "Bandits dare attack the King himself!?" roared the Yellow one at the same time, jumping at Joffrey with a bastard sword and an outraged bellow.


    Joffrey parried the blow sideways and took out his hammer, planting it on the Yellow Knight''s visor. He extracted it in a shower of blood as Renly came out of the pavilion, surrounded by five knights of various sundry colors.


    "Uncle! Fancy meeting you here tonight!" He smiled, striding towards him as the Purple knight brandished a two hander menacingly.


    "Joffrey?" Renly mouthed, still in his night silks, the grip on his longsword lax as Ser Loras and the Blue knight dragged him sideways by the arms, away from Joffrey.


    "Kill him!" Shouted Ser Loras.


    The Purple and Green knights charged him at once, bellowing mighty battlecries. "Go!" shouted the Purple one as he tried to split Joffrey apart with his two hander. The Green one was ready when Joffrey dodged the blow, trying to smash his thigh with a hammer.


    Joffrey retreated under the coordinated assault of the two Rainbow Guards, barely avoiding the blows on his lightly armored body. The men had clearly spent some time training together, and it showed in the coordinated rain of strikes Joffrey had to dodge or parry without stop. "Renly! Come back here and fight for your throne!!!" Joffrey roared, crouching and letting Purple''s two hander sail over his head as he overextended slightly, leaving a window of opportunity. He jammed his sabre into Green''s unarmored boot before the knight could coordinate his blow with Purple, making him bellow in pain before he jammed the sabre''s pommel into his eye and he collapsed on the ground with a shriek.


    He sprinted after Renly, ignoring Purple''s warning cries as he quickly caught up with the fleeing retinue. "He''s behind us! Keep going!" shouted Orange, but the heavy weight of his plate made him a millimeter too slow, Joffrey spearing him through the neck before he could turn completely within the tight confines of the ''alleyway'' formed by Renly''s burning Pavilion and the adjoining tent.


    "Lord Bryce!" shouted Renly in shock as he gazed back over Ser Loras'' unarmored shoulder, almost frozen as Joffrey took out his sabre from the limp body and parried a blow from the Blue knight, who''d jumped on him with a furious shriek.


    "Didn''t you want this Renly?! Come and reap your glory!" Joffrey roared as he parried another blow from the blue knight and pummeled his head with the hammer. He sensed someone behind him and turned just in time to avoid being skewered by Purple and his two hander.


    Renly and his remaining knights kept fleeing, the Blue one blocking Joffrey''s way as she took her dented helmet off, shaking her head before readying her bastard sword.


    "Renly!!! Come back here damn you! COME BACK HERE!" Joffrey roared as he parried an overhead blow from Purple''s two hander with the hammer, locking it with the arming sword and jamming it sideways and away from him. The two hander ripped through a piece of the burning pavilion as they struggled, Blue trying to skewer him from behind and barely failing.


    Joffrey grunted in pain as he felt Blue''s sword catching his back, a shallow cut by the feel of it. He locked his feet with Purple''s own before rolling his weight sideways, making them both tumble into the burning pavilion. They rolled until Joffrey pinned had him down on the ground, slapping away Blue''s stab with the hammer just as he slid his arming sword over Purple''s neck, leaving him gurgling blood. Joffrey lowered his head and dodged Blue''s second strike by a hair''s breath, the blade making the air sing. He slammed his hammer on her arm as he tried to stand up from Purple''s body, but she took the harsh blow with a nary a sound, trading it for a cut on his forearm.


    Joffrey rolled away from her with a scowl, "RENLY!!! LET''S END THIS!!!" he roared, but the Blue one was good, and she kept pressuring him backwards inside the burning pavilion in a quick flurry of sweeping slashes and long stabs.


    Joffrey gave a bellow of frustration as he left the tent through the same flap Renly had used, cursing as he saw the stiffening defense and the bodies of slain Raiders on the ground. He whistled as he ran away, jumping atop Moonlight as she galloped right by his side. He took his horn as he rode away between the steadily crowding streets and the fires, bellowing the signal to retreat.


    "RAIDERS! WITHDRAW! WITHDRAW!!!" he roared in between the horn''s call, slashing his way out as groups of Raiders converged on his position and he threw his remaining torches at whatever tent he happened to ride by. The quickly made their way outside, the last of the whole group apparently as a dozen mounted knights followed after them. They rode hard for the ambush point, the unarmored knight''s fresh mounts almost catching up to them before a rain of arrows decimated them, suddenly materializing from the night as they appeared within torsos and horses, putting out eyes and piercing hands.


    "Horwick! Good job! Mount your men up and ride for the staging grounds!" Joffrey ordered the man as he sped by. There was bound to be a more organized pursuit, though by that time Joffrey planned to be far away indeed.


    -: PD :-


    The Raider''s camp looked deceptively disorganized, a mess of small tents and piled up rocks. Joffrey knew better though, eyeing the weapons and horses always within easy reach of their users. Instead of recreating the Dawn Scouts from zero, Joffrey had sought to make use of what Westeros had to offer, its strengths and advantages. Unlike the Scouts, the Raiders sported few mounted archers for example, though when dismounted the ex-poachers and woodsmen could hit a running target better than a castle trained archer. Instead of flaming arrows they used torches to spread fire and chaos, and their social backgrounds made them adept at personal initiative¡­ as long as the Raider himself was minimally trustworthy.


    After months of selection and more of training, Joffrey could confidently say they were. He joked a bit here and there, laughed and scolded in equal measure as he walked around the camp, nestled within a small outcrop shielded from the winds of the Stormlands. Bringing this disparate group of men and woman together had perhaps been his toughest endeavor this life. Striding a line between people unacceptable by Legion standards, but not so hopeless as to eventually commit something deserving of death or the Wall. They were unruly and ill disciplined by traditional standards, but they followed orders and would back him up in a fight to the death.


    He found his ''bosses'', for that was what the men called them, sitting around a small campfire. They were cooking quite the stew it seemed, its many ingredients no doubt looted from yesterday''s raid.


    "Joffman! Stew drew you in?" Pocket called out irreverently as he kept swirling the dubious brew with a long wooden spoon.


    "Another family recipe I suppose?" he called back, forcefully sitting between him and Dalyn and making himself some space. With Pocket it was always a family recipe.


    "Great grandma taught me, she was Reacher herself, a bastard girl from some knight with a vegetable on his banner. A cabbage I think," he mused as he kept shaking the brew with passion.


    "It was a carrot the last time you said that," Dalyn remarked thoughtfully.


    "I doubt he reckons the difference," the Hound said drily, munching on an apple. He''d been surly ever since Joffrey had forbidden him from partaking in the main raid on Renly''s camp.


    "And you do? Dogs don''t eat no vegetables," Pocket defended himself, holding the big spoon out of the cooking pot and under his big nose, "Aaaahhh¡­ smells of home," he declared. "Hey Gold, it may not be the Royal kitchens but it''ll keep you alive!" he jeered when he saw Ser Jaime''s face.


    Jaime just shook his head, returning to his favorite pastime: sword sharpening. He''d been doing it nonstop for days now, a way to find something to do within the strange group he found himself in. Joffrey had taken him along mostly so Mother didn''t have an accomplice to brew trouble in the Capital.


    He was not sure whether the awkward silences on the road were worth it, to be honest.


    "We''re going to be splitting again," Joffrey said as he brought them back to task. They''d left Renly''s host behind and gone wild on his supply train, giving Sandor and even Jaime some much needed distraction. The few caravan guards carrying the harvest of the Reach to the voracious host had been easy pickings for his Raiders. They''d practically cut off his host entirely before detachments of armored knights had started appearing around the caravans, diminishing his frontline strength for when the time came to do battle. The uncertain nature of his supplies had also delivered a few extra benefits, welcome side effects that would take just a bit more time to really start impacting his host''s effectiveness.


    "When?" asked Glyra, lifting her eyes from the dagger she''d been cleaning.


    "After lunch. We''ll be hitting the seaside roads before turning back for another go at Renly, keep him scared and slow," Joffrey told her.


    "Close in work?" she asked.


    "If the moon cooperates," Joffrey nodded.


    Glyra gave him a twisted smile at that, before nodding and setting off to her men. The other two bosses quickly finished their meals with an air of long familiarity at gulping down meals, setting off to make their arrangements and leaving only Joffrey and his two ''bodyguards''.


    "You sure like them tough," Jaime remarked idly at the uncomfortable silence, gazing at the retreating back of Glyra.


    "They have to be," Joffrey said simply.


    He hadn''t even set out to recruit women for the Raiders at first. Unlike the Guard, he had no pressing need for literate officers who could handle logistics here¡­ but he was not adverse to more warm bodies if they made the cut. He''d had no problems with discipline either, as the Raiders took care of that all on their own. Officially, he hadn''t heard of any rapes, though he had found a few Raiders butchered in shallow ridges, missing certain body parts. Nobody had seen anything, least of all the few women in the group who all swore up and down the poor man must have tripped on a waist high knife.


    "What''s her story?" Jaime asked once more, returning his gaze to his sword.


    "She worked in one of Fleabottom''s brothels before a client got too bloodthirsty, left her those scars," Joffrey shrugged, "After she knifed him in an alleyway she found she had a knack for violent retribution, and the inn kept her on retainer to deal with any other overzealous costumers," he explained the story.


    "A shame. She must have been beautiful before those scars," Jaime said drily.


    Joffrey grunted as he filled his mouth with soup, drinking directly from his small bowl. The silence stretched for another painful moment before Jaime spoke again.


    "I heard you almost gutted Renly," he remarked idly, "Back during the raid a week or so ago¡­"


    "Almost ended this whole stupidity then and there, never thought I''d get that far¡­" Joffrey mused as he gulped down the last of the soup. The sun was directly ahead, and he let his eyes close as warmed up after the rather chilly morning.


    "Ser Loras gave you trouble? I''ve been meaning to clash swords with him for a while," said Jaime.


    Joffrey grunted, hiding a small guffaw, "You should be careful, he''s been sparring with Renly quite a lot," he said innocently.


    "Renly does have a lot of experience¡­ I''ll try not to cut myself when the time comes," he said with the same pensive tone.


    Joffrey was surprised as he found himself chuckling along with his real father, even Sandor seeing it fit to add a grunt or two.


    When it ended, the silence returned, though lesser in its awkward mist.


    Joffrey could tell Jaime was warring with himself, debating whether or not to ask one of the hundreds of questions that were no doubt plaguing his head. In the end, he decided to return to the sword and the lodestone.


    Chrrick.


    Coward, Joffrey thought before standing up.


    "See they don''t leave anything, would you Sandor? This treasure burying has got to stop; if it''s not going with us then we''re burning it right here," he told the Hound, which had somehow ended up as a sort of company quartermaster during their little adventures throughout the Stormlands.


    "I''ll be sure to kick the dogs in order," he said with a weary sigh before standing up and getting to it. S~?a??h the ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Joffrey walked towards the ledge of the overhang and surveyed the rolling hills again, the brisk winds slowly chilling him as they rolled from Shipbreaker Bay.


    There''ll be a storm soon, he thought, breathing in the salty air¡­ Here in the Stormlands there were more rainy days than sunny ones¡­ They''d strike Renly''s supply train a few more times before attacking his host directly once more, to further stretch his provisions and force him to forage through his own domain in force. Support for Renly''s Rebellion within the Stormlands had been lukewarm the further one got from his center of power in Storm''s End, in no small part due to the prestige Joffrey and Sansa had managed to drum up during the year before Robert''s death. If Renly was forced to turn on his own lands to keep his humongous host fed, then more and more Stormlords would stay in their keeps with their heads down, instead of throwing his lot in with him. The more desperate his shortages became, the more weary and debilitated his soldiers would become.


    Renly had no choice but to march on the Capital as fast as he could, before the North and the Westerlands could mobilize entirely. In raw numbers his host could slaughter the Crownland and Riverlander armies in a straight battle, and if he followed a great victory with the legitimacy that came from occupying King''s Landing, the Crownlords would have little choice but to bend the knee. The more reluctant Stormlords would join him as well, and with those numbers the odds favored the Tyrell-Baratheons. With nothing but silence coming out of the Vale, Renly had reasonable odds of succeeding¡­ As long as he moved fast and with a clean, uninterrupted supply chain enabling a fast marching rate¡­ for Westerosi standards at least.


    Of Stannis Joffrey had not heard a word beyond the usual proclamation, a fact that was leaving him more and more worried as the days passed. He had been supposed to show up at Storm''s End to contest Renly''s control of the Stormlands days ago, but it seemed fate had decreed otherwise¡­


    He shook his head, there was nothing he could do there for now, not without a fleet of his own.


    "Raiders! Move out!" he shouted as he returned to Moonlight.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    Hokk had been selected for his keen eyesight and no-nonsense attitude. After the King''s nephew had assaulted the great camp himself, the lords had been falling over themselves attributing blame to each other without stop, all while Lord Randyll Tarly took measures into his own hands. He''d flogged the guards that had been stationed that night, and replaced them with men who''d shown initiative during the raid. Hokk was one of them, formerly a serjeant serving under House Ashford. After he''d driven a spear through one of the pet cut throats Joffrey Baratheon himself had led during that fateful night, he''d been promoted to Watch Captain, a duty he''d taken seriously through the nerve wracking week that had followed the raid.


    No following attack had materialized though, and as the enemy raids struck their supply lines further south the men had begun to grow complacent. The night watch had been tripled, and clear patrol lines and sentinels had been designated, trios of men moving together with decision, awaiting an attack whose possibility grew smaller the further south the raiders went.


    Hokk still did his duty though, despite the heavy rain that had been plaguing them during the past day and now during the night. He walked past four guards standing uneasily under the rain, spears and lanterns out as they peered at the moonless darkness beyond the perimeter. A line of stakes now surrounded the camp, which would buy a few moments if the mounted raiders struck again. The groups of already awake, armed and armored spearmen would then help enforce the perimeter and ensure any attack was quickly pushed back.


    "Whatta you'' doin?! Eyes out there or you''ll beg for Lord Tarly''s mercy!" he snapped as he walked past two spearmen kneeling around a small campfire, barely alight as the rain splashed all around the crude cover the men had erected around it.


    "But Serjeant-! We ''still looking, just warming up as we do," one of them explained as he stood up.


    "Then you can do so standing," he muttered as he turned his head back, frowning. He blinked away the rain, shaking his head. "And keep an ear out for hooves, we''ll barely have any time to react before the fucking bandits are upon us," he told them.


    "Nothin'' out there but those soggy heaps o'' wheat, stupid farmers didn''t even bring it in," muttered the other guard, the one with the wide back and strong arms.


    "Seven know I''d run too if I saw an army this big marching down on us. Tough luck they were in the middle of a harvest," said the first one as he threw mud at the fire, shaking his head.


    "Tough luck it was all rotted before we got here; we could have used the extra bread," muttered Hokk, peering at the darkness and the occasional bulges of shadow that dotted the long fields where the King''s Host had settled in for the night.


    "They would have just givin'' it to the lords. To keep feasting while we eat nothing but jerky," said the big one, spitting on the mud.


    "Watch your tongue," Hokk scolded him absentmindedly, peering at the heaps of rotting wheat in the distance, rain soaking him to the bone, "The Queen promised extra rations for the night guard," he reminded them, to keep them from whining. He tapped his hand on the lantern for a second before speaking again, "Come here, both of you. Do you see something out there by the leftmost heap?" he ordered as he frowned. He swore he''d seen something move.


    "I said, did you see anyth-" the words died in his throat as he turned back and saw both guards struggling, their hands desperately trying to stave off the garrotes that were choking them to death, black hooded figures behind them.


    Hokk took in a startled breath as he jumped back, but he wasn''t able to scream before a strong arm locked his throat like a steel clamp from behind. A gloved hand covered his mouth as he struggled for air, his frenzied eyes cycling between the guard''s purple faces and the silent, hooded figures choking them relentlessly. He tried to kick, scream, bite, but the world grew dimmer and dimmer as his assailant slowly lowered him to the ground, his grey, green eyes boring into his as the world melded into swirling rain and black and nothing.


    -: PD :-


    Joffrey stayed crouched, making sure the guard was dead before clicking his tongue twice. More raiders crept up through the hole in the perimeter, crawling all the way from the piles of rotten wheat out in the fields, through the stakes and then into the camp.


    Over fifteen raiders were with him when he joined both his hands, fisting them and then showing three fingers pointed at an opened palm. He followed the gesture by taping them together two times and pointing in the general direction of the tents. The raiders nodded as they dispersed, two following him as he made his way through tents and muddy trails. Raiders followed the snores of sleeping soldiers as they entered into tents and then came out with bloodied daggers, a gradual silence descending over this section of the camp as they carried out their bloody work. Supply dumps had been distributed after the first raid, perhaps in order to avoid a few enemy torches from igniting a fifth of the Host''s food in one go, but that played further into Joffrey''s favor as he and the men infiltrated the small supply dumps around the local area, readying slow burning wickers surrounded by tinder, a delayed tactic which would see local stores igniting suddenly and without apparent cause. The rain which had so far been a boon would work against them here though, dousing the eventual fires and preventing them from spreading beyond individual tents.


    They were quick and efficient, melting away into the night as the rain kept pouring and the roving patrol guards failed to complete their circuits, their bodies dumped around campfires or tents.


    It was before dawn when the screams started, as soldiers woke up next to dead comrades, and guards found their reliefs strangled in their posts. The fires began soon after.


    -: PD :-


    -------


    ----


    Spoiler: AN


    AN: The muse has been wonky lately, so I''m picking up the pace. There''s a lot of stuff I''d want write more of (like the coronation), and even more which some readers would like to see (like more Ser Jaime for example), but I think it''s better we move on with the program lest that Author burnout I''m glimpsing beyond the horizon catches up to me.

 Interlude: The Turtle Lord.

    Interlude: The Turtle Lord.Lord Eldon Estermont sighed, this was clearly leading nowhere¡­


    The grand pavilion looked as fine as ever, beautifully decorated and supplied with mastercrafted chairs and tables¡­ it was the current occupants that were rather souring the already rotten mood.


    "This is chaos," said Lord Arstan Selmy as he shook his head. Many of the younger Stormlords had taken a liking to the Lord of Harvest Hall these past few weeks, being a man of calm demeanor who did not hide his anger if the affront was warranted. The Stormlords had needed such a figure after the string of defeats suffered by the whole host increased the scrutiny upon them¡­ and Lord Estermont was sadly too old to fulfill that need.


    "Queen Maergery was a stabilizing influence on the men, the King shouldn''t have sent her away," Estermont told him as he wiped a bit of water off his doublet. It was raining lightly outside, and it seemed even Renly''s luxurious, reserve pavilion has started to feel the strain of the past few weeks. It really was a shame the last one had been burnt¡­


    "War is no place for women, less so a fight as hard as this one," Selmy said with a shrug.


    "Hm, tell that to good Lady Brienne," said Estermont, hiding a smile as he gazed at the armored blue figure always standing near her liege, a hand always hovering over her sword''s pommel.


    "Ha!" Lord Selmy huffed, "Old Selwyn without a proper heir? Seven damn them all, he''ll make his daughter into one!" he said with a chuckle.


    "And one fit enough to pummel all our boys unconscious," Estermont chuckled as he gazed at Alrick, arguing about something with a couple of Reacher knights. No doubt trying to salve his wounded pride after the combined cavalry force spent the entire day chasing shadows. Alrick counted no more than nineteen namedays despite being his second son, an unexpected gift long after he''d thought his wife no longer capable of bearing children. His first born, Ser Aemon, had drawn the wrong lot and was now on guard duty along the camp''s western side.


    "What a fucking waste of time," grumbled Lord Lester Morrigen, who sat on Estermont''s right.


    "You talking about today''s merry chase or this madness in particular," asked the young Lord Lonmouth who sat by Morrigen''s side, pointing at the general chaos of arguing lords all over the pavilion.


    "This, that, everything," grumbled Morrigen, "Whole fucking waste of time, bleeding men and food and for what? So a fucking Tyrell can be Queen," he said in disdain.


    "Careful Lester, those words could be dangerous," Lord Selmy admonished him gently.


    "But it''s the truth ain''t it?" he grumbled again as he shook his head, "All this marching and dying and eating all so we can replace a Stark Queen with a Tyrell one," he said.


    "The Stormlands have always rallied to the Stag," reasoned Lord Estermont, "No reason to-"


    "A Stag is already sitting on the Iron Throne so don''t even try!" Lord Lonmouth mumbled angrily, "More than a Stag, fucking Robert Baratheon reborn. He may look Lannister alright, but if his blood were any more Baratheon he''d be growing'' antlers," he said before shaking his head, "You''ve all seen him. Only reason he doesn''t use a warhammer is so he can use both hands to kill twice as fast," he said in restrained frustration.


    "I don''t like the course of this conversation," Estermont told him flatly.


    "Then I shall recuse myself," said Lonmouth as he downed his tankard and slammed it on the table. He stood up and left the tent, grumbling all the way. S~?a??h the N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "A Stag''s a Stag," Lord Selmy said over the ensuing pause in the conversation, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself. They all tried not to look at their King over by the main table, trying and failing to make his voice heard over the shouting and the arguing of over a hundred lords and knights.


    "Any other transcendental wisdoms for us, Arstan?" asked Lord Morrigen with a tired grin.


    "Not for you," Selmy quipped.


    "Damned Selmy''s, been all full of themselves ever since Ser Barristan," he said with a snort, "Right Eldon?" he elbowed Lord Estermont as he served himself a bit more of the depressingly scarce sweet wine.


    "Shush now, seems the King''s just about fed up with the spectacle," said Eldon before stealing Morrigen''s cup.


    "Make quiet! Silence for the King!!!" shouted Ser Loras, turning the indistinct shouting into merely indignant grumbling.


    "Thank you Ser Loras," said the King as he placed a hand on his shoulder and stood up, the lords and knights quieting down as their King regaled them with a wayward look.


    "My lords, please, falling into this kind of disarray is exactly what my cut throat of a nephew wants of us. Let us remain calm and remind ourselves of our dignity and standing," he told them with a vaguely disappointed tone of voice. The men grumbled lightly at that, seeing reason in the King''s voice even as they looked at each other with scowls or frowns.


    "Now, I believe Lord Caswell was speaking just now?" he said as he sat down once more.


    "Thank you, Your Grace," said the stocky lord, looking around the great pavilion in restrained anger. "Last night''s so called battle was the last straw. The men could chin up after getting pounded by the Prince''s pet bandits, even if it meant shitting themselves at every godsdamned owl or deer creaking in the night, but getting assaulted again and again by fucking regulars without a chance to react simply cannot stand-" he ranted apoplectically.


    "Prince Joffrey and his so called Royal Guard"- Lord Crane sneered at the name as he picked up Lord Caswell''s anger -"Know neither honor nor basic decency! They strike at the dead of night and force battle only to march away before the whole host can turn on them! And his crossbows shoot the horses out of our knights whenever they try to force an engagement between all those damned halberds! We''re trading a knight for a fucking halberdier one to one! And that''s on a good day!" he roared.


    "The cavalry can hardly charge at a wall of halberds and crossbows if it''s not supported by the infantry Lord Crane¡­ something which was Lord Caswell''s responsibility!" shouted Lord Mullendore as he stood up.


    "Don''t you dare pour yourfailures on the infantry! The foot can''t keep up with the fucking Prince, they march away any time we try to force an unfavorable engagement on him!" said Lord Caswell, red faced. "A marching speed, I might add, that would be considerably reduced if the cavalry did its job and threatened the bastard''s flanks instead of dancing around with the fucking Crownlanders!" he shouted as he stood up.


    "My lords! For the love of the Seven, get ahold of yourselves!" shouted Eldon as he could no longer bear it. "This is clearly leading us nowhere, except further sullying our King''s presence as we argue like frightened children," he shouted over the din, forcing some degree of sheepishness as the various lords sat down, mulling down their anger with their harrowingly scarce liquor reserves. Eldon didn''t even want to think about what would happen when those finally ran dry.


    "Your Grace, instead of further playing the blame game, I propose we review the general situation of the host, to further prepare a coherent response to the Prince''s¡­ unusual style of warfare," he asked his liege lord.


    "Thank you Lord Estermont, please do so," said the King with a benevolent nod. He looked as fine and unworried as ever in his green enameled armor, but the deep pits under his eyes gave away the lie.


    "Very well," said Eldon, squaring his shoulders. "While some stayed here discussing matters of blame, myself and Lord Tarly took the liberty to survey the entirety of the camp, the men, and the stocks," he said as he looked at the stern Lord of Horn Hill across the pavilion, who nodded slightly.


    "What we found did not fill us with confidence. The situation has turned critical," said Lord Tarly, a curt statement that seemed to leave a chill in many a lord''s spine.


    Lord Mullendore looked disbelieving, "But, my lord, surely five thousand foot, a gaggle of Crownlander knights, and some pet bandits would never be enough to meaningfully endanger over a hundred thousand-"


    "It can and it has¡­ And we''ve far less than a hundred thousand men right now. If we don''t react in an organized manner this army will fall to pieces, and our cause with it," said Lord Tarly without an ounce of emotion.


    The silence was deafening.


    Lord Estermont cleared his throat, "The crux of the matter seems to be Prince Joffrey''s unheard of speed and mobility," he said. "Having him at the head of his so called ''Raiders'' was bad enough, but when the Royal Guard joined up with him was when the situation started to truly unravel. He kills our scouts and strikes precisely and with no warning, sometimes during dawn, dusk, or even midnight. His men have been drilled superbly, and they are able to quickly withdraw in formation without losing cohesion, keeping the cavalry at arm''s length while marching faster than footmen have any the right to be," he delivered the grim summary with aplomb. "He baits us with it, keeping enough distance so the host overextends itself like a snake during the chase. Then he performs a dog''s leg, turning around in a circle and ripping through the section he appears to consider the weakest, inflicting disproportionate casualties. With that in mind, Lord Tarly and I are of the opinion that letting the massed cavalry remain under centralized control was a mistake; for all its admitted might, it makes our knights too unwieldy as a field formation to corner Joffrey''s foot."


    "What about the Star Camps?" called out a knight from beyond his sight, over by the section of the tent mostly occupied by Reachmen. The question sounded innocent, but Lord Estermont suspected it served as a needle to lower the esteem the King had in him. The King had been relying more and more on the Reachlords as of late, and Estermont himself was one of the few senior Stormlanders still in the King''s full confidence, for all that he made a showing of taking the council of all his Bannermen. The Reachlords were playing the influence game even as the host creaked with the strain¡­ Seven damn them, they couldn''t stop scheming even if their lives depended on it.


    "Regrettably, the King''s strategy does not seem to have delivered the¡­ expected results," he said carefully.


    "Do not mince words Lord Estermont, my plan was a complete failure and I alone bear that blame," said King Renly over the ensuing silence.


    Lord Estermont bowed politely in sincere thanks, "That it was, Your Grace. Far from supporting each other, all the Seven Pointed Camps did was provide men for Joffrey to defeat in detail. His drill puts a heavy emphasis on shock. That combined with the Royal Guard''s superb mobility meant that by the time news of the battle had reached the nearby camps, the Crownlander cavalry was already slaughtering the routed infantry while Joffrey marched away," he said in a vaguely apologetic manner, "Far from supporting each other to pin Joffrey down, the men have started to regard the Camps as a death sentence."


    The scores of lords remained quiet, only the cold, somewhat disappointed voice of Lord Randyll Tarly interrupting the delicate silence.


    "Steps will have to be taken," he said curtly as he gazed at the King. "With Lord Estermont''s assent, I''ve taken the liberty of drawing up a preliminary plan to rebuild our combat readiness. As a start, if the King is amenable"- he said the last as if it were a foregone conclusion -"command of the host''s van, flanks, and rearguard will no longer be appointed each morning by the Crown, but granted indefinitely to commanders who have prior experience in the field of combat," he said, and it seemed even Lord Tarly''s stern demeanor would not be enough to hold the lords any longer as they stood up and shouted, speaking over each other and gesticulating wildly. Those positions were highly coveted prizes for every lord in the host, driving them to greater heights in their search for recognition. Doing away with them would rip out what had become almost a ritual each morning, as King Renly presided over the clamors of lords and knights. The King was frowning right now, Ser Loras whispering quickly in his ear as a dozen lords around him tried to speak to him at the same time.


    "Morale is hitting the bottom of the barrel," Lord Tarly struggled to make himself heard, frowning coldly at the undignified chaos. "Most of the foot was ill prepared for the rhythm the Prince has inflicted upon us," he said bluntly and with the tiniest smidgen of admiration, regaining the attention of most of the lords, "Desertions are at an all-time high and not even floggings seem to be slowing them down. Food shortages are now prevalent even amongst the Men at Arms, and we can''t get enough arrows to supply all of our archers," he declared. "The levies are fainting under the constant marching and maneuvering, and are totally unprepared to stand their ground when Joffrey charges in for a melee. They do not have the constitution for this style of warfare, less so with our supply problems," he said cuttingly, trying to make them see reason.


    "Can hardly expect the men to fight properly with an empty belly. Perhaps the situation would be different if the Stormlords backed their King with more than just words," said Lord Fossoway after downing a full tankard of mead.


    Lord Arstan Selmy stood up to the thrown gauntlet, giving voice to many of the proud Stormlords who felt themselves the subject of repeated disrespect by the Reachlords, "And perhaps if the vaunted might of the Reach kept our rear clear of bandits then perhaps this host would not be drying every single field and barn dry from Harvest Hall to Storm''s End!" he said.


    "Food?! You worry about empty barns while a host a tenth our size thrashes us like unruly children?!" shouted a knight in House Ashford livery.


    King Renly stood up as he often did when his lords quarreled, seeking to calm them down with the tone of a disappointed father, "My lords, our victory will be all the greater when-"


    "Of course we worry about bloody food! At this rate the Stormlands will starve come winter!" Lord Morrigen roared over the words of his liege, standing up as well and throwing hands up in the air, "My lady wife wrote to me yesterday, the larders of Crow''s Nest are nearly empty! And we aren''t even in sight of Bronze Gate!" he said, furious.


    "Brave words to the men that have been doing all the dying for you!" shouted one of the Green Apple Fossoways as Beesburys and Florents banged their tankards on the table, the insult cutting deep in all the assembled Stormlords.


    "Perhaps things would be different-" Lord Selmy shouted the words mockingly over the din ¨C"If Lord Fossoway had sent more of his witt-addled knights back to the rear instead of having them gallop uselessly over empty fields chasing Crownlanders!" said the red faced, normally soft spoken lord of Harvest Hall.


    "My lords-" started the King again, but Lord Fossoway stood up before he could speak, his face disfigured with rage.


    "And perhaps things would be different if more of you traitorous dogs supported your liege instead of hiding in your rain begotten hovels!" he roared as he tossed the tankard to the ground. Lord Fossoway''s son and heir had perished last night during the fighting around Broad Arch. House Staedmon had refused to sally from their keep, just a few minutes away from the battle site, claiming that as long as one of Baratheon blood sat on the throne they would remain neutral. The number of Stormlords claiming something of the sort had risen exponentially as of late, further sullying the comparatively poor showing of the region in support of their supposed Lord Paramount.


    Lord Selmy''s face turned beet red as he drew his sword and the Stormlander section of the table stood up in outrage, calling for satisfaction right then and there as hands went to pommels. "The enemy would see us unworthy of the glory of a proper battlefield, surely we won''t give them the pleasure?!" said the King, his face turning disbelieving when nobody heeded him as Lord Fossoway drew his own sword as well and shoved his way to Lord Selmy.


    "You want bared steel?! I can give you fucking steel!" roared Lord Fossoway, completely out of his mind with rage, sorrow, and drink as the big Ashford knight hurried after him, hollering about being his second.


    This is spinning out of control, Eldon thought in a hurry as he moved towards the two Reachmen.


    "My lord of Cider Hall! Think about what you''re doing!" shouted Lord Estermont as he tried to grab the Fossoway lord, only for the Ashford knight to forcefully shove him aside. He crashed against a table, cutting his hand on the cutlery as his son shoved Ashford back.


    "Keep your hands off him you Reacher filth!" roared Alrick, only to be shoved in turn by Dickon Tarly.


    "Everyone QUIET! Dickon! Get back here!" shouted Lord Tarly as he tried to restore order and get his son out of the scuffle at the same time.


    "My lords! Stop this unseemly spectacle at once!" Renly shouted in growing despair, "My lords! Stop this! I- I command it!" he said as if he couldn''t believe it, but his words were swallowed whole by the noise. The voices had grown too large, the lords and knights from the two Kingdoms pushing into each other as they roared the pent up aggression of sleepless nights, relentless marching, and scarce food. A sort of circle had formed around Lord Selmy and Lord Fossoway, both of them shouting at the other.


    "Take back your words and honor shall be upheld!" hollered Lord Selmy as he looked to his sides, trying to think of a way to salvage the honor of the Stormlands and defuse the whole situation before it kept deteriorating.


    "Piss on Stormlander honor! My sondied waiting for it!!!" roared Fossoway as went for an over arm swing. Lord Selmy parried and twisted sideways, his heart hammering as he automatically followed the motions his great-uncle had taught him. One moment, Lord Fossoway''s leering face was spitting insults as he tried to retrieve his sword for another swipe. The next he was stumbling back, five inches of steel boring out of his eye socket.


    "Gewyn!" shouted Ser Tanton Fossoway as he emerged into the circle past the vaguely scuffling lords, just in time for Lord Selmy to retrieve his sword in a shower of blood.


    "Gewyn! Gewyn!!!" shouted Ser Tanton as his brother collapsed backwards, bleeding out in the middle of the pavilion.


    I''ve got to stop this madness, thought the Lord of Greenstone as he put himself between Lord Selmy and Ser Tanton, the shouting growing indistinct as he held his bleeding hand close. He could see King Renly climbing down from his table and trying to make way to the circle, his Rainbow Guard pummeling aside Lords and knights alike as they desperately tried to catch up.


    "Let it go Ser Tanton!" Eldon said preemptively as the Fossoway knight breathed harshly, almost hysterically as he kept shaking the corpse of his brother. "The duel is over, let it-"


    "You son of a whore!!!" Roared Ser Tanton as he dashed up with his brother''s sword, right towards Lord Selmy.


    "Ser Tantogh--" Lord Estermont spluttered as he moved to stop him, gazing down at the bastard sword now in his belly. Awareness flooded Ser Tanton''s eyes as he realized what he had done, staring at the bloody sword in his hands.


    "Eldon!!!" shouted Lord Morrigen in stunned outrage.


    "Father!? Father no!" shouted his son, the harrowing despair in his voice almost making Eldon weep. His son''s face was bruised and swollen after the scuffle with the Ashord knight, who was still struggling with him as the boy gazed at his gutted father.


    "TREACHERY!!!" roared Lord Lester Morrigen as he split Ser Tanton''s head with a brutal cut of his two hander. Lord Estermont fell to his knees as the sword in his belly tilted downwards with Ser Tanton''s body, blood filling his mouth as a wordless roar emerged from the Stormlords around him, like a huge wave bearing against the jagged coast of Shipbreaker Bay.


    "FATHER!!! Get off me!!!" screamed his son as he finally managed to shake off the Ashford knight by jamming an arming sword through his armpit. "GREENSTONE!!!" he roared shrilly as he took it out and finished him off with a clean thrust through the knight''s throat.


    "HORN HILL!!!" shouted Dickon Tarly as he jumped at his son with a bastard sword, both of them now fighting for their lives as Lord Estermont tried to make himself heard throughout the sudden roar of battle, lords and knights taking out their weapons as blood flowed through the ground and his mouth. Lester was trying to move him, and Lord Selmy was battling with a Green apple Fossoway right beside them when the King manage to make his way through.


    "Lord Arstan! Ser Jon!" he shouted hysterically, but Estermont could barely hear him over the song of steel on steel. Lord Selmy drew a long cut from the King''s forearm by accident as the young Baratheon tried to stand between the two combatants at the center of the budding battle.


    "RENLY!" roared Ser Loras as he batted away Lord Selmy''s sword and jammed his own through the man''s armpit, past his plate.


    "LORD SELMY!" shouted someone from the back as a tower of the Stormlands in these turbulent times stumbled. He took a step back in a daze, gazing at his liege with a stunned, perplexed expression that seared itself on Eldon''s and every other Stormlord''s eyes. Lester was dragging him away from where the fighting was the thickest when Lord Selmy fell, blood bubbling out of his mouth as he collapsed on his knees, the armored greaves jingling as Arstan used his sword as a momentary cane, swaying lightly and with the same expression of shocked betrayal that seemed to stare right into Renly''s soul. Selmys had a strange, easy grace in everything they did, and even dying was one of them.


    The Lord of Harvest Hall toppled forwards gently. He spun lightly, falling on his back and gazing up as the light faded from his eyes¡­ Eldon thought the din of battle grew lesser then, if only for a single second.


    And then Eldon despaired, for he could not speak and the second was then lost to time.


    "Lord Selmy! Lord Selmy!!! We need to cut through to Lord Selmy! HARVEST HALL! HARVEST HALL TO ME!!!" roared a voice in the distance, and the din of battle slammed into the pavilion once again with the fury of a thousand storms, harsher than the thunders that could be heard in the distance, stronger by far than what it had been before. There had lacked a certainty in the skirmish up till now, the whole pavilion wrapped in a thick miasma of strange unreality.


    Now that unreality had curdled into pure, mad violence.


    "Call Ser Gollys! Bring the levies!!!" he heard a painfully familiar voice say. "FOR THE STORMLANDS!" he could hear over the steadily darkening room, "Treachery! Ware the Reachlords!!!" he thought he could hear as he blinked slowly, iron tearing through flesh somewhere near. "HIGHGARDEN! HIGHGARDEN!!! TO ME!!!" the battlecry sounded strange, twisted, mushy.


    Lord Estermont realized he was lying on the ground now, the ceiling of the masterfully weaved, gold and silvered pavilion spinning above him. He tilted his head sideways, and the last he saw was his son standing over Dickon Tarly''s corpse, desperately trying to fend off Lord Tarly''s rage and the Valyrian flash of light that was Heartsbane.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 47: Storm.

    Chapter 47: Storm.Joffrey was laying on his belly as he surveyed the burning center of the great camp, the fires already spreading as indistinct shadows fought each other in a spreading conflagration of madness, fire, and death.


    He moved the far eye towards the west. He estimated at least a thousand men making a run for it in the middle of the night, away from the safety of the camp and lugging all they could, mainly coffers and bales of wheat. Organization amongst the group seemed sparse, and Joffrey didn''t know if there was some sort of leadership guiding it or if they were all just fleeing in the same direction.


    Back to the east, he could see a bunch of men at arms cutting off stakes and dropping a burning tent over three score or so peasant levies, slaughtering them with maces and two handers as the screaming farmers struggled against the burning tarp. A few of the men at arms were falling to badly aimed crossbow bolts from somewhere further within the camp though¡­


    "What the fuck is going on in there?" he muttered as he gazed at the madness. He blinked slowly as he lowered the far eye, scowling when a big drop of water fell on his head. It seemed the weather was once again being kind to Renly: the rumbling, coming storm would keep any spreading fires in check¡­


    Of course, rainstorms were the rule rather than the exception in these lands. Westerosi were self-explanatory like that.


    "You sure the Raiders are where they''re supposed to be?" he asked Pocket after a moment of silence.


    "Swear on my Great Grandmother my''grace. They''re all quiet as hens waiting for the signal," he said quickly.


    "Pocket, I swear, if you had something to do with this and you didn''t tell me-" Joffrey warned him.


    "Swear it on the blessed Mother m''grace! We-wer''-only-goin''-steal-a-bunch-o''-horses-from''-them-but-two-days-from-now-at-the-very-least!" he jabbered so quickly Joffrey had to pause to understand the words.


    "Those are¡­ Nightsong men at arms," said Jon as he surveyed the area with his own far eye, slowly focusing the device.


    Joffrey shook his head slowly before returning to his own instrument, "And they''re slaughtering the Ashford peasants because¡­ they really needed the practice?" he asked out loud as he watched. They were really into it too, making sure they were dead as maces split skulls open and two handers cut men in half. "Those bolts are coming out of that makeshift barricade to the south, the one with the Fossoway banners draped over it," he pointed out after a moment.


    "Maybe they tired of the nightly raids and decided to just do it themselves?" Lancel mused as he tried to climb over the prone form of Olyvar, "Come on man, let me see," he said impatiently.


    "Lay off, not my fault you decided to gamble away yours," said the Frey as he shook him off, "Knights incoming, from the south. About¡­ a dozen," he added.


    "Bees bees bees¡­ what house was that?" Joffrey asked out loud as he shifted minutely, leaning the far eye on his elbow.


    "House Beesbury," said Lancel as he frowned and raised his head slightly, "Think they''re going to finish the peasants off?" he asked out loud, though Olyvar was probably the one who felt addressed, given that Lancel was practically shoving his head away with his own.


    "I don''t know, maybe," mused Olyvar as he shuffled left and cradled the far eye from Lancel''s thieving hands, "The Nightsong men don''t look like they need any help though, they''re really-" he interrupted himself as he drew in a breath of cringed pain. Jon and Joffrey did the same, Jon going so far as to bite his lips slowly and mechanically.


    "What?! What happened!?" Lancel asked desperately as Jon took pity and gave him his own far eye.


    "Beesbury knights tore the Nightsong men a new one. Gods be damned, wear some bloody chestplates!" Joffrey muttered in sympathetic pain.


    "More knights, House Lonmouth I think," said Olyvar.


    "Looks more like scouts to me, they seem to be scaring off the Beesbury knights though," Lancel noted. "More cavalry behind the Lonmouths, at least three different banners¡­" he said after a moment as he shifted his grip on the loaned far eye. He''d never bet against Glyra, never again... "Hm¡­ they''re splitting off, about a third going for the barricade at a gallop. The rest are scattering into the night," he said, slightly nonplussed. "Hey Jon, look at the reload speed of the Fossoway crossbows," he said as he handed the far eye to the other legate.


    "Pathetic," Jon muttered as he peered through it, the scouting cavalry jumping the barricade and slaying the front rank of the now scattering crossbowmen¡­ only to jump back out again as if something were chasing them. "Reach Houses seem to be fighting together against the Stormlords¡­" he said after a moment.


    "It''s been a long time since-¡­ I''ve never seen anything like this," Joffrey muttered lowly in disbelief, "The whole host simply went mad," he said as he lowered the far eye, gazing at the destruction and the slaughter with the naked eye. "There''s always something surreal with Renly''s host¡­" he muttered lowly after a moment.


    "Lack of Arbor Gold does funny'' things te'' Reacherfolk," Pocket said in his infinite wisdom.


    The abrupt silence was almost as hilarious as the quip.


    "Alright," said Joffrey with a restrained, nonplussed smile, "Sightseeing is over. We''re ending this whole folly right now before someone manages to restore order¡­ as improbable as that looks right now. Lancel, Olyvar, get back to the Regiment and strike from the Northeast, move the fighting away from the camp. Wall of Steel, regular marching pace¡­ And get the men to shout ''Stormlanders for King Joffrey'' or some drivel like that as they fight inside the camp, see if we can find a few sudden allies," he told them.


    "Aye Commander," said Lancel as he leapt up from the ground quickly and ran back to his horse, quickly followed by Olyvar.


    "Tyrek, go rouse the Crownlanders and take command. I want knights running down all Reachmen in sight of the camp who still have weapons in their hands," he said as he returned to the far eye.


    "Yes Commander!" said his little cousin before jumping to it, who''d been quietly observing the battle with his own far eye until that moment.


    "Pocket, we''re moving up your horse stealing scheme. Get me as many stallions as you can from that madness. If it looks like the host will survive the night, butcher all those you can''t steal," he told the willy thief.


    "Right''away m''grace," he said as he shuffled backwards. Joffrey doubted he could have looked more untrustworthy if he''d tried.


    He grunted in satisfaction as he moved the far eye horizontally, the pieces of the puzzle inside his mind already moving as he smiled slightly.


    "What about me?" asked Jon.


    "You''ll take command of your cohort when the men get here. We''re punching straight through to that bonfire," Joffrey told him, aiming a hand at Renly''s flaming pavilion. They were surprisingly flammable, all things told.


    "Blood and Mud?" asked his legate, a feral smile on his lips which would not have been out of place on his direwolf.


    "Blood and Mud Jon," he muttered as he lowered the far eye and unconsciously placed his right forearm over the pommel of his sword. He''d have to trade it for another hammer tonight, he''d be seeing a lot more armor soon¡­


    "Blood and Mud¡­" he mused.


    -: PD :-


    "First Cohort! By centuries-Advance!" roared Jon, and the men responded with a grunt of their own, lowering halberds and splitting off under the directions of the centurions. They swept their way towards Renly''s pavilion, halberds red with the blood of men who did not surrender on sight, the banners of the King''s Fist and the Baratheons of King''s Landing flying proudly over the forest of halberds, whipped this way and that by the winds of the Stormlands, the distant thunders growing closer by the hour as the rain intensified and quenched part of the raging fires.


    Joffrey nodded approvingly at Jon. His legates had performed admirably, each leading a cohort of a thousand or so men. Nominally that would be the job of the Tribune, as the Ghiscary called them. Legates were supposed to command legions of their own.


    But because there was only a single legion for now, or regiment as Sansa had forced him to change the name to something more ''harmless'', his legates had been learning the art of command on the field with their individual cohorts. After dozens of skirmishes all along the northern Stormlands and a quarter as many battles, the First Regiment of the Royal Guard had been thoroughly bloodied. Lesser through its sustained casualties, but greater by the glint in the men''s eyes and the iron tight grasp on their weapons.


    "King Joffrey and the Stormlands!" they roared as they marched, the rain that so often assaulted the region already pouring again, distant thunders on the horizon. Joffrey had taken a single century with him though, marching quickly past the multiple foci of furious if disorganized combat.


    He led them at a quick pace, past burning tents and groups of neighing, riderless horses. The century came to an abrupt stop as they emerged into a budding battle right in front of them, illuminated by burning tents which were barely contained by the free falling rain.


    A mixed group of Morrigen and Fell men at arms were battling it out with their Tyrell counterparts. Right in the middle of the furious skirmish was a fully plated man with a huge Tyrell rose painted over his shield, his sword a whirlwind of movement as he fought two Morrigen men at Arms plus their lord at the same time. He pivoted and extended, his sword clean through a soldier''s throat as his shield bashed the battered figure who Joffrey presumed to be Lord Morrigen himself. The fighting was not going well for the Stormlanders, but the battling soldiers quickly gained a breather as both forces saw Joffrey''s men and they disengaged abruptly.


    "Guardsmen here?!" shouted the armored Tyrell, incredulous, "Morrigen! Fell! We can sort this out later when-"


    "That won''t be necessary¡­ Ser Garlan Tyrell, I assume?" Joffrey called out with a strong voice, stepping beyond the line of uniform halberds held at the ready. He was not dressed like a Raider.


    He was decked for battle, clad in full plate battered with a hundred cuts and dents, wearing a red and yellow tabard with the sigil of the Baratheons of King''s Landing sewn on it. Two great antlers emerged from his helmet, angled forward and glinting sharply in the night, playing off the understated green of the raw copper enameled pauldrons. Two hammers were strapped to his waist, ready to be taken out at a moment''s notice.


    "Joffrey Baratheon!" Garlan spat the name as if it were a curse, taking off his helmet to gaze at the King of the Seven Kingdoms, "You. You did this. All of this," he roared as he swept the area with his sword, the roiling thunderstorm in the distance punctuating his words.


    "Your so called King did this, Ser," Joffrey told him neutrally as he lifted his visor, projecting his voice to carry, "Is that you Lord Morrigen!?" he shouted as he proceeded to ignore Ser Garlan.


    "It is!" came the reply from the huddling cluster of Stormlanders.


    "I''ve come looking for traitors, have you seen any lately?" shouted Joffrey.


    A look of dawning comprehension settled on Ser Garland as he whipped back, "Lester, don''t you dare-"


    "No traitors here but these Tyrell fucks, Your Grace!" came Morrigen''s reply.


    "A traitor by word as well as deed now Lester?! So easy you betray King Renly?!" shouted Ser Garland, enraged.


    Lord Morrigen spat on the ground, "Renly had Lord Selmy killed! Renly brought the Stormlands to war against the son of Robert Baratheon! Piss on the usurping fuck!" he shouted back.


    Ser Garlan looked stunned, looking at the Morrigen men and back to Joffrey''s troops. He put his helmet back on, cursing as he shook his head and realized his escape route had been blocked by the guardsmen.


    "Highgarden!" he roared quickly as he charged towards Joffrey, "Highgarden!!! Through to King Renly! Through to King Renly!!!" he roared at his men as they followed him. "Meet me you coward! Meet me!!!" he roared in despair as he ran, realizing that only slaying Joffrey right then and there would break the formation in front of him.


    "Centurion," Joffrey called out calmly as he lowered his visor, standing alone as he looked at the charging Tyrell and the brave souls with him.


    "Crossbows! Quick bolts!" roared Jelk of Fleabottom, now centurion of the Royal Guard. "LOOSE!" he commanded after crossbows emerged from the rank of halberds, unleashing a storm of bolts which whistled past Joffrey, cutting down the charging Tyrells brutally. "Second rank! Loose!" roared the Centurion but seconds later, new crossbows emerging from the formation and unleashing another storm of steel. Bolts pierced gambeson, plate, and flesh at point blank range, the flurry of clicks foretelling the dull thuds as the charging Tyrells fell down like threshed wheat, their battlecry turned into a collective gasp. Garlan''s charge turned into a jog as a dozen bolts materialized over his chest, legs, and arms. He walked a few more meters before he dropped sword and shield, putting a knee on the ground before collapsing face up on the mud. Those who had followed him were a few steps behind, laid over mud and bleeding out under the rain.


    Joffrey marched towards Garlan''s fallen form, the man breathing painfully as Joffrey reached him, blood flowing from under his breastplate.


    Joffrey sighed as he looked at him, "What a fucking waste," he muttered before taking out his hammer and putting him out of his misery. The Mother''s Mercy was, like all things westerosi, a harsh and brutal thing.


    "Your Grace," said Lord Morrigen as he walked towards him, subdued by what he''d just seen.


    "Lord Morrigen," Joffrey acknowledged him as he turned, sheathing his bloodied hammer and looming over him as the rain pattered off his antlers. He''d gotten used to their weight by now, though sometimes he still had this dread certainty that everyone around him were about to burst into outright laughter at the things.


    "My sword is yours to command," said the Lord, a bit of blood trickling from his plate as he planted his sword on the ground and knelt. The outrage directed at Renly -or at least at the thing he had presided over- had been all too real. Of course, part of Lord Morrigen''s change of heart came from the prospect of saving his own skin.


    "Rise, my lord of Crow''s Nest," he said with a nod, doing something similar when Lord Fell emerged from the group as well. "I''ll be returning this camp to the King''s Peace now, rally as many Stormlanders as you can and follow me," he ordered him curtly.


    Lord Morrigen quickly informed him of what he knew, and Joffrey nodded decisively as he returned to his century. He now had a rough idea where Renly could be¡­


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    The once mighty host of a hundred thousand swords was dying. Deserters and looters were streaming out of the camp in every direction, and many others were tossing down their weapons and offering ransom, if they had one to give. Right in the center was Renly and what was left of his Rainbow Guard, struggling to rally the men as a small core of Stormlanders and Reachmen surrounded him, a few of them fighting each other as the rest moved with Renly away from the camp. It was uncertain if they were really following him or just escaping in the same direction, but the point was moot in the end.


    The Royal Guard slammed into them like the Fist of the Warrior, a double barrage of crossbow bolts followed by two charging line of halberds. Barely coherent levies and wavering men at arms screamed as they fell and died, blood mixing with rain and mud as they broke and ran.


    Joffrey was at the forefront, carving a path almost singlehandedly with two one handed hammers. He was the tip of the spear puncturing Renly''s force, opening up knights almost surgically, as if the hammers were steel pliers in the hands of a master smith. He teared and rent their armor apart, smashing aside flesh and metal as he lost patience and went deeper and deeper into the formation. He roared as he slammed both hammers against a knight''s helmet from either side, crumpling it and leaving the man to fall backwards like a puppet with its strings cut. He stepped over the dead man and parried an axe blow, slamming the other hammer on the attacker''s arm and then promptly twisting both his hammers in opposite directions. The man screamed as his arm crunched, quickly falling silent when Joffrey struck his helmet with both weapons one after the other in a rain of furious strikes that lasted less than two seconds but left a dozen jagged tears on it, blood pouring out of every hole. He slipped and tripped a man at arms that tried to jam a two hander through his middle, slamming a hammer into the man''s chest and another on his neck as he fell on the ground. Levies tried to run away and ended up jumping him when they realized there was nowhere to go, the press of bodies too great. They were the ones that lasted the least, their motions slow and panicked and lacking the strength to pierce his armor.


    Joffrey''s rate of advance turned faster and faster as an ever growing proportion of his enemies turned out to be levies, his unstoppable search for Renly carrying him right through a whole cluster of Beesbury peasants; terrified farmers armed with fire hardened spears or even pitchforks, wearing nothing but leather or the odd chainmail. He waded through them as if they were nothing but part of the furious rain buffeting the battle site, butting aside spears and ripping jaws and hands, the wickedly sharp flanges cutting fingers and even hands sometimes, his breathing regular and steady. He was almost in a trance, his mind focused and quiet as he searched for Renly and an end to this all.


    So much death, so much death¡­ he thought distantly, the ebb of guilt caressing his mind. For had he not wanted this? Needed this? A strong showing to deter future rebellion, a way to show Westeros that they''d inherited a warrior king even stronger than Robert?


    He realized he''d lost Jon along the way, his trusty halberd disappearing within the melee. Jaime and Sandor had even showed up one moment, but they too had been lost amongst the press of bodies.


    He didn''t care. S?a??h the N0??F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "RENLY!!!" He roared, knights and peasants stumbling back from him even as he didn''t let them, striding quickly and forcing shields away only to rain blow after blow on exposed faces and plate joints. He turned in a semi-circle every two seconds, covering his own back and slaying any who dared approach from a blind spot. "REEEENLYYYY!!!" He roared as he went deeper into the enemy mob, jamming the hammer''s tips through visors and striking like a whirlwind at any who dared to close.


    He had to be around here somewhere!


    "CIDER HALL!!!" roared a knight clad in Green Apple Fossoway livery, and Joffrey barely parried the perfect sword thrust, the blade biting the side of his helmet instead of going through his visor.


    "DIE!" Joffrey roared in return, slamming aside the sword and almost planting a hammer on his head. The knight intercepted it with his shield though, trying to bash him away. Joffrey let the shield-encrusted hammer go as he pivoted like the lightning flashing above them all, spinning around the shield and planting his other hammer in the nape of the man''s neck. He extracted it with a grunt, the fighting around him dying down as men kept stumbling backwards and other jumped at him.


    He stepped sideways and let a farmer sprint by with his pitchfork, striking the back of his helmetless head before redirecting a spear thrust into a soldier that had been about to attack from his left, slamming the hammer on the next attacker''s chest. There were so many enemies everywhere, as if they surrounded him from every side, every second a man dying even as his arm could not keep up with the press of bodies all around him. Someone managed to pry the hammer off his hand as the mob of people constricted him; two peasants holding down his left arm as another one tried to grab his right, one hand fumbling for the hand axe on his belt. A knight in full red livery roared, hefting a mighty battleaxe above to finish him off, but Joffrey pulled his right arm and let the battleaxe cut one of the levy''s arms instead. He used his now free hand to slam an armored cuff on one of the peasants to his left, shaking him off before using the other as a meat shield for the sideways slash he knew would come. The peasant screamed as the Red Knight''s battleaxe tore through him, Joffrey using the cover to close in with the Knight as he bellowed in fury. He belatedly realized he had no weapon in hand as he tore off the man''s helmet, his hands already starting to choke the Red Knight of the Rainbow Guard when he concluded that it would take far too long to kill him.


    "WHERE''S RENLY!?" He roared at Ser Robar Royce''s purple face. He must have been near, the Rainbow Guard was never far from its liege. The thought gave him renewed strength as he kept squeezing, breathing harshly as the din of battle grew strangely muted around him.


    A spear thrust left him breathless after he slammed a fist into the young knight''s teeth, and he turned to wrench the spear out of the brave peasant that had attacked him. He roared as the peasant didn''t let go and instead was carried right into Joffrey''s other gauntleted fist. He left him breathing blood on the floor as the now unattended Royce tried to unsheathe an arming sword. Joffrey parried the predictable blow with a vambrace and pummeled him again with the other hand, bellowing wordlessly each time his fist struck the knight''s face. Almost everyone was stumbling away now, and Joffrey let the knight have it with both hands, twin gauntlets striking one after the other in a quick flurry of relentless strikes that kept following the knight as he stumbled backwards. The individual roars turned into a singular one as the cadence of his strikes accelerated and he suddenly lifted the dazed, wrecked knight upwards, adrenaline and pure berserker fury fueling his strength as he roaring with all his might and jammed one his wickedly sharp antlers through the man''s neck. Ser Robar gurgled as Joffrey wrenched the bloodied antler out of him, giving another bellow as he tossed him to the ground at his side. The armored knight bounced once on the mud, squirming lightly before laying still.


    The rain was washing the blood off his armor, for once, but he still felt the sickly, sticky thing pouring down his plate as he gazed all around him, terrified lords and knights brandishing weapons as he finally found his prey.


    "Renly!" he shouted good naturedly, pleasantly surprised at the sight of his supposed uncle, a slightly bleeding Brienne of Tarth and a helmetless Ser Loras Tyrell standing protectively by his sides. As it was all too common in Westerosi warfare, combatants from all sides were more looking than fighting, smelling a duel of champions near them.


    They wanted theater? Joffrey could bloody well give them theater.


    Bloody theater, whispered a red voice in his ear, drinking in the attention and the blood and the way his body seemed to move with a mind of its own, every single step calculated and harmonized with the whole.


    "Well nephew, it seems you have found me," Renly called out with his suave voice, made for easing lordly worries and to make ladies blush, to lead the feasting hall and to persuade through soft words. It did not sound the least bit intimidated, but his face gave away the lie. "Lannister get seems all too common around the Kingdoms these days, would-"


    "STORMLORDS!" roared Joffrey as he ignored him, turning to gaze at the staring lords and knights. "This is your vaunted King?! This is the man you chose to lead the Seven Kingdoms?!" he challenged them as he strode towards them, the damned weight of the antlers making him feel like a giant, "Clad in polish and chivalry?! Well dressed and well spoken?!" he roared at them as Brienne gave an outraged bellow and charged, half handing her bastard sword precisely and trying to gut him. Joffrey grunted as he moved aside, the sword scratching his plate as he moved to slam a fist on her visor. She ducked though, shouldering him aside.


    Joffrey wrenched a halberd from a paralyzed man at arm''s grip, twirling it into a low guard as Brienne charged again, not giving him a moment to breath. She screamed as she tried to split him in half from above, the halberd''s head barely stopping the blow before she closed him from below and slammed an armored knee into his protected stomach.


    "Kill him Brienne!" shouted Renly, moving backwards and forwards slightly as he repositioned the grip on his longsword again and again, Loras wanting to get in on the action but unwilling to leave Renly unprotected. She moved to comply, half swording a stab that almost punctured Joffrey''s chestplate, leaving him huffing as he stumbled back. She was a natural¡­


    But inexperienced. Incredibly inexperienced.


    Joffrey feinted a perfect low thrust, and when she moved to stop it he jumped instead, trying to slam the halberd through her visor. She barely moved her head out of the way, but then Joffrey pulled with all his strength, jamming the halberd''s hook into the nape of her neck and pulling her into the ground. He jumped atop her back and delivered the clean killing blow in a blur, slamming the halberd through the same place, the tip emerging from her throat.


    Renly looked green, blinking rapidly as Loras breathed serenely by his side, sword and shield at the ready. "That is enough nephew! We yiel-"


    He roared over it, drowning Renly''s voice harsher than the screaming rain, "This is your King?! Who quips and japes as a circle of steel closes on his throat?!" he shouted at the face of a peasant levy, the man stumbling back and blinking rapidly. He strode around the two, gazing at his spectators. He had once done something similar, near the wheat fields of the Riverlands many years ago. Tonight there was a greater purpose to this spectacle though, a purpose to the theater for all that his rage was real.


    "You who fought and bled with my father at the Trident, you who betrayed his memory while his body was still warm¡­ this was the man you chose to replace his son with?!" he roared as he traversed along the line of soldiers but a hair''s breath away from them, not a single one extending their weapon and ending his life then and there. Guilt, Sansa had whispered. Guilt and shame would choke the Stormlords into compliance, after they''ve been dutifully cowed. The fighting had died down by now, guardsmen emerging amongst the tired and dirty lords of the Reach and the Stormlands.


    "Stand your ground!" he roared as he charged at Ser Loras all of a sudden, the halberd light in his hand as he sidestepped left and right in his charge towards him. He slammed the tip into his shoulder, the knight hollering in pain before his sword licked Joffrey''s vambrace painfully. Guardsmen had already fought their way through it seemed, joining the sudden lull in the fighting as they clustered to one side of the circle. They had started to slam the butts of their halberds on the ground a few seconds ago, a crescendo of sound that made Joffrey''s blood sing even as the relentless rain soaked him to the bone.


    Loras retreated as he wrenched the halberd out of his shoulder, and Joffrey let him go as he took his helmet off. He tore the bronze-iron antlers off it, turning the mechanism that held them in place before tossing the helmet away.


    "Stormlanders!" he called out, the spittle mixing with the rain as he attacked with an antler in each hand, both a blur of movement and he pounded the huffing Ser Loras one, two, three times with the antler''s blunt sections, using them as hammers. He was unprepared for what Joffrey did next though, kicking him back before jumping at Renly with a high guard. His surprised uncle stumbled back under the rain of blows, parrying desperately.


    For all his skill as an orator though, Renly had not been born a warrior. Two punctures now showed bleeding flesh past the armor, in his arm and chest.


    "Renly! Stand back!!!" screamed Ser Loras as he discarded his shield and wielded his sword with both hands. He had a reputation as a skilled fighter, but that was nowhere in evidence as Joffrey''s assault on Renly made him go berserk. The Knight of Flowers screamed as he charged like a madman, and Joffrey turned just in time to lock the sword with one of the antlers, redirecting it harmlessly.


    He jammed the other antler''s tip through Loras'' eye socket, using the man''s own momentum to jam it deep. The Tyrell knight stumbling past him and clipped Renly in the shoulder before collapsing on the ground, shaking wildly as another thunder crashed above the heavens.


    Renly gave out a wordless moan as he dropped his sword and kneeled by his side, his trembling hands ripping the fine silks that peeked from under his green armor as he hopelessly tried to stem the bleeding. "Loras! Loras!!!" he screamed, the sound all but drowned by the thunderous rumble of the halberds slamming rhythmically against the earth. Joffrey felt surreal as he strode towards Renly, letting the other antler fall to the ground.


    "STORMLANDERS!!! Sons of thunder and fury!" he roared as he grabbed Renly''s shaking form, dragging him away from Loras'' body as tears started to stream down his face, mixing with the rain. He dragged him by the nape of his neck, turning to stare at the ashen faced lords and knights clustered on one side of the abrupt clearing, their hands white as they gripped their weapons.


    "This man! Who could not prevent his own army from falling into fratricide, will lead the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men!?" he asked them as he tossed Renly at their feet, splattering mud everywhere.


    They were speechless. Pale as they avoided his gaze...


    Their silence said all Joffrey needed to know.


    "Blood and Mud Renly," he breathed, "That''s what the songs never tell you," he said lowly, his voice echoing strangely within the clearing.


    He stared at the lords and knights, breathing slowly as he felt the wind on his face, the storm blowing the rain sideways, the pounding of thousands of halberds against the mud almost drowning the sound of thunder itself, flashes of light in the distance. He was unarmed and within spitting distance of lords who days ago had been trying their level best to kill him.


    He kept breathing deeply as he stared, his back as straight as steel as his armor creaked with every inhalation. He challenged them with his eyes, dared them to come at him, pleading them to do so.


    He felt mighty as he gazed at their eyes. A strange sensation he hadn''t felt since he''d tossed a wight down the Dawn Fort''s battlements. Old Gods forgive him, he felt like he could murder every single one of them with his bare hands in this very moment, if he so chose to.


    "STORMKING!" suddenly roared one of the Stormlords, voice clear over the din of halberds and the streaking lighting.


    "Stormking!" shouted another, half a second later. "Ours is the Fury!" bellowed yet another one. "Fury!" they screamed. "FURY!!!" they roared.


    "Stormking! Stormking! Stormking! STORMKING! STORMKING!!! STORMKING!!!!!" they chanted, not in joy or glory, but in acknowledgment. It was an admission of guilt, a plea for mercy¡­ but also an acknowledgement. Something primal seemed to be screaming with them, a call to times long gone by. Assent to the legacy of Orys Baratheon and the Durrandons, which had ruled them for so long, ages ago.


    "STORMKING!" they roared, hefting their sword and maces above them in an oath which hadn''t been heard since the Conquest, the Reachlords kneeling as they tried to avoid his gaze.


    "STORMKING!!!" they proclaimed him as spider webs of lighting crawled above the heavens and thunder deafened the cry.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 48: Magnar.

    AN: Small update, but better to keep em coming right?--------


    ---


    Chapter 48: Magnar.


    "But that''s just it Your Grace, she paid absolutely nothing!" the merchant blustered, thoroughly discontented as the seamstress shook her head harshly.


    The woman shook her head again as she looked at Sansa, "If that cloth were any more rotten, mice would have jumped out of it! You said that-"


    "Shut up you lying whore!" the man interrupted her abruptly, "I will see you flogged for this! Mark my wo-"


    "SILENCE!" roared Ser Barristan after Sansa gave him a small look, settling the throne room into blessed silence so she could think.


    Sansa took a deep breath as she leaned back on the damned pointy chair, accommodating herself over the red and yellow cloak she''d lain over it. "Master Tobias," she called out calmly, unhurried as she surveyed him from boots to head, "Only the Crown or its duly appointed Master of Laws has the authority to flog a resident of the city. And last I checked, the latter was in open rebellion and the former¡­ well, are you proclaiming yourself a claimant to the Iron Throne, Master Tobias?" she asked lightly, as if she were asking him whether he''d like ham or cheese for his breakfast.


    The man swallowed awkwardly, gazing around the Throne Room at the half century of Royal Guardsmen standing impassively in line, facing the rows of people awaiting their turn for a public audience. "Ah, no, Your Grace," he stammered.


    "Good. Because both carry heavy penalties far, far worse than a mere flogging Master Tobias," she said as she stared at his eyes. "Now, I think I''ve heard just about enough about cloth quality without seeing it myself, do you have a sample?" she asked as her eyes shifted to the seamstress, who immediately looked flustered.


    "I-I''m afraid not, my lady-"


    "You shall address the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as ''Your Grace'' or ''my queen''," Ser Barristan interrupted her with a strong voice.


    "Your Grace¡­ If I may¡­" the merchant asked awkwardly over the resulting silence, shuffling his hands.


    "Yes, Master Tobias?" she asked him.


    "I could recognize it anywhere¡­ that veil she''s wearing right now was made from my cloth," he said deferentially.


    Her eyes shifted to the seamstress, "Is that true, goodwoman?" she asked her.


    "Of course n"- she stammered when Sansa kept gazing at her, swallowing something sour before nodding, "Yes it is," she nodded quickly.


    "Ser Barristan," she asked the Kingsguard.


    The white clad knight strode confidently to the seamstress, receiving the veil with surprising gentleness before returning and climbing the steps to the throne. People in the audience were murmuring as Sansa received the veil and examined it, putting it up against the daylight coming from the big windows.


    "It looks a bit ragged, though not extremely so¡­ subpar treatment post-harvest but nothing out of this world¡­ " she said out loud as she returned it to Ser Barristan, "Hardly something that will last, but that would have been obvious by the low price you paid for it," she told her before nodding slightly. "You should have paid the price in full plus half its value again as restitution for the delay and wasting Master Tobias'' time," she declared, turning to Master Tobias'' grinning face before frowning, "Or you would have if the Master had not taken measures into his own hands and ruined your shop''s door and lock in an attempt to retrieve the goods," she said with a frown, shaming the man into silence.


    "As it is, we see no further need for restitution between both parties, both having induced unlawful loss on the other, of similar magnitude. In the future, we are of the hope that parties in a similar predicament will not waste the Crown''s time and will instead seek the arbitration of the Royal Court of Commerce, or even better, consult the Royal Office of Weights and Measurements for quality references and their usual market prices¡­ before jumping into a suspiciously good deal," she proclaimed.


    The halberdier closest to her banged the butt of his weapon against the floor three times, the royal usher guiding the grieving parties back through the main doors after they had bowed or curtsied awkwardly.


    Ser Barristan gazed at her, and Sansa shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Court is adjourned for today!" he called out, "All petitioners with red tablets will have priority tomorrow morning. If your tablet is not red then come during the afternoon," he said forcefully, a little bit of frustration peeking in his voice.


    Sansa stood up when the hall was cleared, taking a deep breath and messing her hair a bit. She accommodated the small crown over her head as she descended the steps, waving away the sheepish royal usher.


    "I''m sorry my queen, I don''t know how they got past the door! I''ll-"


    "Calm down Kirt," she scolded him lightly as Ser Barristan returned to her side, "Just make sure it does not happen again. There are not enough hours in the day to see all legitimate complaints, so cluttering up that valuable time with stuff that could have been resolved by one of the lower courts defeats the whole purpose of establishing them in the first place," she explained gently.


    "Of course my queen, it won''t happen again," he said apologetically, bowing his head repeatedly.


    "See that it doesn''t," she said before walking out of the hall through one of the side doors, greeting Meera with a smile. "How long were you watching?" she asked her.


    "Half an hour, I don''t know how you can spend whole mornings at a time just sitting there," she said, perplexed as she walked with her, Ser Barristan half a step behind.


    "Believe me, neither do I," Sansa told her with a sigh as all the exhaustion she''d been hiding from the audience suddenly manifested itself and she took a second to stop and lean on the corridor''s wall.


    "Maybe you need a bit of movement, stretch out a little," Meera said mischievously.


    Sansa looked at her, smile growing as she turned to the kingsguard. "What do you say, Ser Barristan? Up for a little spar?" she asked him as she gave him her best young queenly look.


    Ser Barristan shook his head with a halfhearted huff, "As you say, Your Grace," he said with a reluctant smile.


    -: PD :-


    The rhythmic taps of the spear against tourney steel were a godsend to Sansa''s mind. After hours upon hours holding court, followed by relentless politics and juggling half a dozen different intrigues at the same time, the simple reality of a good spar had become a luxury to be treasured and savored to the last second.


    Ser Barristan was a superb teacher, and she didn''t know why Joffrey had never sought his instruction during his early lives. He adapted to a place just above her skill level, making him an infuriatingly good opponent who was always one step ahead, just close enough to extract every drop of sweat and skill from her body before trouncing her all the same, wrapping it all with a few pointers she would consult with her pillow.


    She''d been keeping and increasing her strength whenever she could, mostly as a way to deal with the stress of rulership and worse, the stress of rulership without Joffrey by her side. She parried a sword strike and twirled below it, spinning the spear for a quick butt at Ser Barristan''s calf, but he sidestepped it effortlessly as he closed the range and tapped her with the pommel of his sword.


    "Keep the range, Your Grace. It is the motto of the breathing spearman," he chided her lightly as she retreated, rubbing the itchy training helmet that contained part of her long hair which even now struggled to erupt from within.


    "I''m hardly breathing right now," she said in return as she dashed at him with a small bellow, jumping and going for a full strike on his chest. He managed to block it with his shield, trying to cut away at the spear with his sword before Sansa retrieved it for another stab. She was quicker, thrusting twice at his shield covered chest to distract him from the follow up thrust to the shin. He didn''t buy the Ib-ke though, advancing on her as the sword twisted the spear away from its trajectory. She retreated, planting the spear on the ground and thus parrying the sword strike that came for her hip, before she used it as a pole to support her weight as she slammed into Ser Barristan''s shield with both legs.


    She sent him stumbling back as she landed half crouched, sprinting towards him and delivering a flurry of follow up strikes to keep him off his footing. "Sometimes I wonder where you learned those techniques my queen," he said after he''d warded her off with a coordinated strike of sword and shield.


    "My husband is a man of many talents," she said cheekily in between huffs, but Ser Barristan was already on the attack again. This time he feinted perfectly, Sansa moving to cover the strike that never came and instead receiving a painful chastisement on her forearm.


    "Point," she grumbled.


    "You could still continue fighting with one hand and a stump! At least another ten seconds!" Meera called out from the fence.


    "I once saw a man last around thirty," added Ser Barristan, a thoughtful frown of recollection adorning his features.


    "Well, I won''t," she grunted as she took off the training helmet and sat on a stool near the fence, turning around to see the rest of the main courtyard staring at the training yard, servants and guards looking at her discreetly. "Is it just me or has a sorcerer frozen time itself around here?" she asked out loud.


    Just like that, the spectators returned to their duties, conversations and shuffling reviving as if by magic.


    "Seems you scared off the sorcerer," said Meera as she came and leaned right next to her on the fence.


    "I''ll have a talk with the Centurion," Ser Barristan said somewhat apologetically, stashing the training gear with a frown.


    "Don''t bother, I don''t mind the gossip," Sansa told him as Meera hummed.


    "What about my turn?" asked the willy Reed.


    "Yard''s free," Sansa told her with a lifted hand.


    "You know I hate the yard," she pouted.


    "Fine," Sansa huffed, "Ser Barristan, go get yourself cleaned up, we''ll be safe and sound in the Godswood," she told him.


    "Aye Your Grace," he said with a perfect bow, pointing a familiar frown at Meera as she happily went for her trident.


    -: PD :-


    The spar with Meera was a much more lighthearted affair, indistinguishable from gossip and giggles even as she showed her some nifty tricks crannogmen could do with a pole weapon. This was the usual way they conversed, as Meera had little stamina to sit through the long court sessions like Wylla or Talia did, whispering in her ear about affairs of state or merely chatting to stave off the harrowing boredom that seemed to permeate many of the petty squabbles of the citizenry of King''s Landing. The small but progressively growing courts she had established had been based on the Braavosi High Trade Council, the body that oversaw the litigation of the thousands of disputes that occurred every day at the City-in-the-Lagoon.


    Westerosi legal culture was much less developed than Braavos'', which was both a pain and a blessing. She''d more or less had a free hand in establishing its foundations, which had been a blessing for the serious legal burden on a system that had depended almost entirely on a handful of people. On the other hand, petitioning the Crown for an audience was an ancient prerogative and pride of the citizenry of King''s Landing, and taking it away entirely was a nonstarter. She''d been threading a hellishly complicated middle ground of delegation, efficiency, and legitimacy which had honestly started to take its toll on her other schemes and her psyche. Father helped inmensly, but his recent duties had seen him socializing with the passing Riverlords away from the capital, on their march towards Bronze Gate.


    Fortunately, Meera did her best to help. Mostly by trying her damnest to pierce her gut with a trident¡­ which was a better prospect than Lyra''s efforts now that she thought about it. At least Meera was not trying to bash her skull in.


    "Uff-" Sansa grunted as the blunted trident slammed into her lightly armored belly, throwing her backwards. Lady barked from her nest by the Heart Tree''s roots, as if disappointed by Sansa''s lack of poise. She''d been prowling the Kingswood again, Sansa knew, though you couldn''t have guessed that by the way her pristine coat of fur seemed to shine under the afternoon sun.


    "You''re distracted again," Meera said cheekily as she dodged her thrust and locked the spear with the trident, leaving her vulnerable to a swift kick.


    Sansa sighed as she defended herself, "Legal stuff," she pouted, "I''ll be having a meeting with Tyrion in about an hour or so. More work," she told her before giving Lady an accusing look. Her direwolf looked as innocent as freshly fallen snow, sprawling on her little nest with puppy eyes.


    Considering the direwolf was by now bigger than any dog in the Crownlands itself the vision was at least mildly amusing¡­ which Sansa reckoned must have been the point.


    "At least you''re not thinking about your beloved," Meera said the last words all mushy, almost mumbling them before grinning silly.


    "Oh so that''s how you want to play it?" Sansa arched her eyebrows as she struck and deflected, "Takes one to know one. And I understand it, truly. Jon may be my half-brother but I''m not blind," she said with a grin.


    "I- wh- what?!" Meera complained wordlessly, parrying strike after strike with her trident.


    "I get it Meera! There''s something about the broody ones, you just want to give them a big sloppy kiss and suck the angst right out of them," she explained as she feinted.


    "Wha- SANSA!" She screeched as she turned beet red and the spear sailed effortlessly through her parry, smacking her in the knee.


    "Ouch!" Meera said as she limped back, "Unfair! Totally unfair!" she complained in between bouts of budding, hysterical laughter.


    "So stoic but so soft! At the same time even!" said Sansa as she tried not to laugh and Meera held her mouth with both hands, dropping her trident, "Frowning as if they were constipated before finally deciding to lay down their duty"- she said the last with an exaggerated manly knight voice -"and deigning themselves to feel this strange and forbidden thing called happiness¡­" she said grandly before trailing off as Meera pleaded for her to stop, laughing like a madwoman. She continued, merciless, "Struggling with their conscience as they stop suffering for a second and deign to demean their all glorious purpose for¡­" Sansa trailed off once more as her handmaiden took in a much needed breath of fresh air.


    "For a pathetic little kiss!" Meera harrumphed before blowing up in hilariously high squeaked giggles, Sansa laughing as well as they commiserated. They sat down together, against one of the Heart Tree''s roots and leaning together as they weathered the occasional outburst of returning giggles.


    They spent the rest of the hour there, chatting about everything and nothing, commiserating about ''the broody ones'' and further plotting a certain match perfect for one Lyra Mormont.


    The Hound would never know what hit him.


    "It really is amazing," Meera said idly during the last pause in the conversation, giving Lady a bit of ham from the basket they had carried with them to the Godswood. The direwolf sniffed it delicately before slurping it in one go, scratching her head against Meera''s hand almost as if it were a regal curtsy before settling back down.


    "She is," Sansa agreed easily, giving her grey-white follower a smile.


    "I mean, not only her. But the fact that all your brothers and sisters also got one," Meera told her, "And that they''re all so obedient and similar to their masters," she added.


    "Ghost, the only living being that can out brood Jon," Sansa said glibly.


    Meera turned red again as she coughed, "Yeah¡­ isn''t it strange though? They''re also on your House''s sigil, so they must have meant a lot to the Starks of old¡­" she mused.


    Sansa frowned lightly, picking up on the way Meera was trying to lead the conversation. It was a topic she seldom approached, but when she did it was always carefully, and very obliquely.


    "¡­ Meera, you''ve been dancing around this topic since the day I met you at Fort Cailin," she cut to the heart of the matter. "Why don''t you just say what you want to say?" she asked of her.


    Meera seemed paralyzed, like a startled deer. She seemed to be munching on something dry, struggling to speak.


    "Come Meera, spit it out!" Sansa called her out lightly, secretly wary about what could have her in such a state for so long. She smiled, "Or I''ll tell Jeyne all about the oh so painfully brief and chaste kiss my honor stuffed half-brother gave you before riding off into the sunset and war!" she said triumphantly, deciding to tack this from another direction.


    "You wouldn''t!" Meera squeaked despite herself.


    "So painful! As if he were committing the greatest sin against the Old Gods and the New! I didn''t hear what he told you but I''m sure I could come up with a brief approximation, something like ''Move on if I fall, don''t wait for me''," Sansa savored the words as if they were a well-cooked steak, "Jeyne will positively melt through the courtyard''s cobblestones! I''tll-"


    "I think you''re a warg!" Meera squeaked at last, cutting Sansa mid-sentence.


    "I''ll¡­ wait, what?" she asked her with a colossal frown, Lady tilting her head as well as she gazed at Meera.


    "A warg, a skinchanger, someone who can peer into the minds of other living beings and experience what they feel, even control them if he or she is strong enough," she explained painfully.


    Sansa looked at her for a second before bursting out in laughter, shaking her head at the good joke. She trailed off when she realized Meera was serious.


    "You can''t be serious," she told her, nonplussed.


    "But I am! Father had his suspicions, and your invitation was the perfect excuse to see for ourselves-"


    "So you were spying on me?" Sansa asked her, stunned.


    "Not like that! We serve the Starks, if there''s one thing you can be sure of Sansa, is that we serve the Kings and Queens of Winter, always," she said suddenly, the abrupt, absolute certainty in her voice convincing Sansa more than a dozen apologies put together.


    They stayed quiet for a moment, each thinking deeply before Sansa stood up. "That''s old northern superstition Meera," she said as she walked to the chest close by to stash her spear. "I don''t know what tales they told you in Greywater Watch but-" she stopped abruptly as she spun and blocked Meera''s silent trident thrust with her spear, the bronze tip but a hair''s breath away from her skin.


    "How did you stop me?" Meera asked commandingly.


    Sansa shook her head angrily as she stood back, "Meera! What were you th-"


    "How did you stop me?!" she almost shouted again.


    "I saw you! Now, why-"


    "Nonsense Sansa! I struck from your blind spot, you couldn''t have seen me even through the corner of your eye!" she said forcefully.


    "I-, Meera-, I know what I saw, else how did I block your thrust in time?" she explained to her as if she were a simpleton, frowning at her own explanation.


    "You did see me, just not through your eyes," Meera said calmly as she stood back and gazed to her side. Sansa looked as well, gazing at the alert form of Lady as she stared at them from her nest of roots, still as a statue.


    "I- You''re not-" Sansa shook her head, looking at Lady and back to Meera again and again.


    "You''re a natural Sansa, you have such an innate talent you hadn''t even realized it! Has there been any time when you''ve felt strangely connected to Lady?" she said quickly.


    "I, no, yes, but she''s Lady! Of course we''re connected!" Sansa tried to explain, mostly to herself.


    "Almost as if you shared thoughts and emotions?" Meera asked piercingly, "Like you dreamt of being her?" she pierced deeper.


    "I- n-" she stuttered as she gazed at Meera, her hands moving to where she knew Lady had just positioned herself, just by her side. She rubbed Lady''s head gently, repeatedly as she tried to calm down her anxiety and Meera''s eyes bore relentlessly into hers.


    "Calm down, breathe Sansa," Meera told her as she gently lowered her to the floor, sitting by her side and opposite to Lady''s. "There''s nothing to be afraid of, the Starks of old had that direwolf on their banners for a reason. You''re rediscovering a legacy of your family right now, something deeply yours as much as your House words or Winterfell itself," she explained slowly, possessed of that serene certainty again.


    "No, I mean, yes¡­" Sansa muttered as she blinked, steadying her breathe, "You''re right," she said as her eyes focused, turning from the ground back to Meera''s face, "Joffrey had theorized about the magical powers of Westeros'' oldest dynasties. The Red Comet''s arrival must have somehow repowered them from dormancy, as it did with Daenerys'' dragons and the Warlocks and the Cultists," she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other as Meera''s expression of supporting acceptance turned bewildered.


    "The Starks led the charge on the White Walkers during the First war for Dawn," Sansa said as she stood up, the hair at the back of her neck standing on edge as she paced to nowhere in particular, Meera trying to get a word in edgewise as she stood up after her. "My ancestors erected the Wall, they ruled over the Children of the Forests and the Giants, the legends say they rode their direwolves into battle," she muttered almost in a daze as she turned to gaze at Meera.


    "Sansa I- I know it can seem intimidating," Meera said as she reached her, frowning as she followed a prepared speech that had clearly just become obsolete, "I mean, that, -" she seemed at a loss for words at Sansa''s reaction.


    "Intimidated?" Sansa asked in turn as she gazed at Meera''s eyes, "Meera I was so stupid! Of course I should have the potential, sorcerous power is a legacy of House Stark! It practically must have been to defeat the Scout Walkers with bronze. But I never thought I¡­ That my bond with Lady¡­" she trailed off as she turned to look at her Direwolf, "¡­ could be the result of ancient bloodlines returning¡­" she was breathing deeply, gazing sharply at Lady as her direwolf stared back, feeling her without touching, sharpening her mind against the uncannily familiar sensation like never before, the one that had always been there. She immersed herself in it, jumping straight into it and feeling as if she''d just dived from the Red Keep, straight into Blackwater Bay as sge shivered.


    "I never thought that our bond¡­" she trailed off once more as she frowned intensely, "Gods Meera it was so obvious¡­" she whispered as she kept staring at lady, her breath hitching when one of her eyes turned white.


    Meera shivered in awe as Sansa and Lady both looked at her at the same time, one of Sansa''s eyes a milky white as she blinked slowly and started to lose her balance.


    "You can''t do that yet! You need training!" she said urgently as she grabbed Sansa firmly before she fell to the ground. Sansa shook her head in a daze before she regained her footing, Meera still holding her arms tightly.


    "Teach me," Sansa told her after she''d returned fully to herself.


    "I don''t know as much as my Father or even my brother Jojen! We all know but scraps that have survived-" Meera gibbered before Sansa squeezed her arms tightly, sternly but not painfully.


    "Meera Reed, teach me," her Queen commanded, her blue eyes as deep as winter storms as they bore on her own, her direwolf sitting by her side like a grey marble statue who happened to blink, gazing at Meera serenely.


    Meera Reed felt something deeply primal within her as she fell on her knees, the rusty words of the Old Tongue coarse to her ears.


    "Yes, Magnar," she swore.


    -: PD :- S?a??h the N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 49: Howl.

    Chapter 49: Howl.Her little shadow war with Varys had been an incredible learning -and humbling- experience; which was one of the reasons the man was still alive. Other than serving as a sort of training dummy for Sansa though, the Master of Whispers was a very useful font of knowledge about their adversaries and even neutrals of the budding civil war. Though always taking his word with a hefty shipload of salt, Sansa had learned more about the Iron Islands in a month than what she would have known after a year of study and dedicated effort towards them¡­ and that was only one example of the ways Varys helped the running of the realm as a whole.


    Of course, the longer he lived the more dangerous he would become to her and Joffrey''s efforts, but conversely, the more he would reveal about his secretive Essosi contacts in Pentos and other Free Cities. It was a waiting game to see who decided to end the mutually beneficial relationship first, and perhaps that was why Sansa was so stunned when the first serious fatality of the Game of Thrones seemed to be carried out by neither of them.


    Sansa sighed, pushing away a well-meaning Ser Barristan as she kept looking at Tyrion''s horrified expression of pain, forever frozen in place. The dwarf was still in his bed, the body of the wench that had poisoned him conveniently slumped over in the corner, white bubbles still foaming out of her mouth even if her body had expired hours ago by the Grandmaester''s reckoning. Sansa had found an empty vial in the wench''s pocket, and the smell of Foxglove had been clear as day at least according to the Grandmaester¡­


    "Lady," Sansa whispered as the alert direwolf trotted to her side. Sansa closed her eyes as she lowered the vial, letting the direwolf sniff the residue. Pycell had shown her a full vial as a sample and¡­


    Ahh¡­ they match, she thought as she opened her eyes and wrinkled her nose, Lady peering up at her curiously.


    So it was actually Foxglove, Pycell''s not lying¡­ but why would Cersei make it seem like Tyrion had a heart attack, and then go to the trouble of making sure the obvious assassin died in the same room? And of a much more obvious poison at that!? She asked herself.


    "Ser Barristan," she called out.


    "My Queen?" asked her stern protector.


    "Lock down the Red Keep, rouse the northern contingent and relieve the Red Cloaks of their arms and posts around the outer walls and the gatehouse," she commanded.


    He looked rebellious at the thought of leaving her right now, before looking at Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Preston Greenfield, both of them nodding. "Aye Your Grace," he said finally.


    "Centurion Holt," Sansa called as she left Tyrion''s room.


    "Your Grace!" the man slammed the halberd against the floor as he straightened, the eight halberdiers behind straightening as well.


    "Assemble your century inside Maegor''s Holdfast and stand vigilant, no one is to go in or out," she ordered him.


    "Aye Your Grace!" he said before turning to his men, delivering a flurry of orders as they split into two groups going in opposite directions. Sansa walked her own way, Ser Mandon and Ser Preston following her with their hands on their pommels. She entered the Sept at a quick pace, sighing in relief when she saw the familiar silhouettes of Wylla Manderly and Butter Fingers standing by the side of the Stranger''s Altar, half hidden from view.


    "Wait here," she ordered her escort, the two kingsguards covering the door as she walked towards the altar, "Wylla, Butter Fingers. It''s nice to see you," she said quickly.


    "Sansa," Wylla smiled nervously as Butter merely nodded, his big frame making the shadows dance.


    "So, Cersei?" she asked them.


    "Yes," Wylla said simply, "We knew she was jockeying for influence around the Royal Court of Commerce"-


    "Rather ineffectually I might add," Butter cut in with a rumble.


    -"Before Tyrion absolutely wrecked the small progress she''d made amongst a minority of the judges," Wylla finished, giving Butter the stink eye.


    Sansa cursed, leaning on the statue of the Crone right in front of them, "I told you both to keep an eye on her, she was bound to react badly after that little failure of a scheme," she told them forcefully.


    "We never thought she''d murder her brother! Maybe strike at him politically or get him out of the Capital, not kill him!" Wylla grumbled. She''d ended up being an invaluable help as Sansa''s queenly duties overwhelmed her, serving as a sort of auxiliary Mistress of Whispers who could supervise on going schemes when Sansa was strapped for time. "Least of all like this," she added, shaking her head.


    "And what did you find out?" Sansa asked the big brute with the lute on his back.


    "The girl was in Cersei''s employ. She and five others were plants Cersei placed at Chataya''s," rumbled the bard, cracking the fingers which gave him his name. People just couldn''t understand how Sansa would keep such an awful bard in her retinue¡­ to that she''d often said that the man''s voice made up for any less than stellar performance with his chosen instrument. Of course, his meaty fingers were also quite useful for breaking skulls in the middle of the night.


    And no one would ever suspect the fumbling court singer to be a spy and the left hand of the Queen in the murky matters of intrigue, would they? Everyone who was not the Spider at least¡­


    "Let me guess, they all pointed to Cersei, who bought them through a Lannisport Lannister of all people," she huffed.


    "Not quite," said Butter, "But the trail was almost as obvious as that, a Red Cloak serjeant whom we know Cersei owns completely."


    "I''m not that surprised now that I think about it," Sansa told them, "She looked absolutely thunderous after Tyrion baited her with that bit about sending her to Casterly Rock, away from her children¡­ he should have known better than provoking such an impulsive woman," she trailed off, the hit of losing Tyrion pummeling her hard just now. The thought of all his help with the Trading Company and the Courts and the Blackworks and more no longer being available¡­ the lack of his easy smile or the friendly jape after a horrible morning at court-


    She shook it off, blinking away the budding tears before returning to the matter at hand. "Means, motive, and opportunity all stack up, but there''s still something rotten inside it all. Why make sure the killer died in the same room? If she had just slit the wench''s throat and tossed her down the blackwater she could have had plausible deniability," she reasoned.


    "I''m afraid that will take more time than we have right now," said Wylla as she shook her head.


    "Right, you two keep digging into this; I want answers," she told them before walking quickly out of the Sept.


    Damnit, I miss Joffrey, she thought morosely as the knights followed her again, swiftly joined by Lyra, who had been waiting by the doors. "Skulls to crack?" she asked excitedly.


    "Not every problem requires a hammer," Sansa told her with a fond half smile, swiftly arriving at Maegor''s Holdfast and the assembled Guardsmen who had taken the draw bridge without a fight.


    "Says the woman about to storm the palace," she said glibly, hammer and shield already in her hands.


    "Shush you," said Sansa before nodding at the Centurion.


    "Holt, the Red Cloaks are to be disarmed and the Royal Family to be placed under custody. The Queen Mother is to be placed under arrest," she said quickly, leaving the details up to him. "And please, minimum bloodshed," she told him.


    "Aye your Grace," said the Centurion before turning to his three score or so of men. "Listen up men! We''re marching in and disarming the Red Cloaks. The Queen Mother is to be arrested and the children placed under protective guard. Fin, Gawald, get your sections in order! Halberds at the front!" he bellowed.


    Soon they were marching through Maegor''s Holdfast, and though a few Red Cloaks tried to resist here and there, most were intimidated by the surprise of the situation and the veritable tide of steel taking over the heart of the Red Keep.


    "What is the meaning of this!?" Cersei screeched as she retreated into a corner of her room, grasping Tommen and Myrcella tightly as the former cried and the latter put on a brave face.


    "Auntie Sansa?! Wh-what''s going on?!" she cried out from Cersei''s grip as halberdiers fanned out along the room.


    Sansa took a step forward, holding her hands aloft, "It''s okay Myrcella, it''ll all be over soon," she tried to calm her down.


    Cersei looked outraged, "Over?! I should have known you would try something like this the moment my son was gone, you traitorous bitch!" she screeched, stumbling back again, dangerously close to the window.


    Sansa closed her eyes, Lady sniffing the air and unerringly pointing her muzzle to Cersei. Her hands reeked of Foxglove.


    She didn''t even trust Pycell to carry this out, how thoughtful of her¡­


    "Cersei Lannister, you are accused of poisoning and murder Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms," She told her, frowning as the woman stumbled closer to the window, an iron grasp on her children. She looked momentarily startled, but quickly smoothed her face back into all outrage.


    "Lies and slander! A transparent excuse so the Starks can seize power!" she shouted before a net slipped through the window, tangling her and the children on the floor.


    Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as the Guardsmen quickly charged in and untangled the Lannisters, smiling as Meera slipped in from the window.


    "Must be the strangest catch of your life, huh?" she asked the Reed the girl, who seemed to be sporting a grin fit to make a guilty cat proud.


    "Not even close, my queen. Not even close," she said ruefully, the smiles on both of them disappearing rapidly as the gravity of the situation returned.


    -: PD :-


    Father had returned swiftly after the news reached him; galloping across the Kingswood back to King''s Landing. He''d been reviewing the Riverlander forces there, securing Bronze Gate like a cork and making sure Renly''s Host could not cross into the Crownlands if they somehow shook off Joffrey. A decisive engagement of a sort would no doubt happen soon enough, but communications were patchy around the devastated Stormlands, so Sansa was still in the dark about that. She did know that Joffrey had been hitting their supply train hard, refusing to engage unless he had local superiority and making the great host bleed for every step they took¡­ aid would have to be given to the Stormlands once it was all over, lest they starve after the war.


    Father had been overseeing the investigation surrounding Tyrion''s death, and while the case seemed clear enough, Sansa still couldn''t find the missing link in it. The cook that had fed the assassin and thus poisoned her ahead of time was dead, his throats slit in his very house. It was almost a certainty that Cersei had poisoned Tyrion, given their history and the way tensions between the both of them had escalated around the Royal Court of Commerce, but her catspaw''s death had been planned by a third party¡­ the obvious candidate for that was -of course- Varys¡­ but her agents had not been able to prove it one way or the other. As the days passed, she had a slow creeping certainty that her game with the Spider would soon be over, one way or the other¡­


    Cersei had been jailed within one of the Red Keep''s towers, kept in a room befitting the station of the King''s mother, for all that her bouts of screaming could sometimes be heard throughout the whole keep.


    Tyrion''s death had hit her schemes hard, flooding her already stretched days and delaying a dozen different projects. Father had been a huge help of course, shouldering many of the typical legal and courtly matters that were expected to be delegated to a Hand, but she still felt the strain¡­


    Even with the strain her training with Meera had continued at an accelerated pace, and Sansa thought the girl was honestly surprised at her progress. Joffrey had often talked about his experiences exploring his ''inner self'' and the infinite conduits he saw the Purple as, all leading to the center of his soul. Having meditated with him many times before, she had soon realized that her training as a¡­ warg, had been halfway complete before she''d even started it. The mere possibility of it had been enough for her to consciously deepen the connection she''d always knew had been there¡­ with immediate results. The possibilities of magic had her dizzy, and she felt there was so much more she could do if she had but the time and the knowledge¡­


    She was enjoying the early morning sun in a rare moment of relaxation when she heard the bells. It was only one at first, but as more and more of its brethren joined in the mad tolling, Sansa knew something was amiss.


    She left the painfully empty room she and Joffrey had made theirs, walking down from Maegor''s holdfast until she reached the lower bailey and then the outer courtyard. The sight of a frantic messenger still atop his horse and her Father''s face as he talked with him sent shivers down her spine.


    Father was walking back when she reached him, her heart hammering wildly as she grabbed his arms. "Father, what is it?! Has something h-happened to Joffrey?" she asked him with a tight voice.


    Father looked pale as he regarded her, shaking his head slowly. "No, no," he said, lifting the leaden weight in Sansa''s belly before placing another one in its stead. "It''s Stannis¡­ he''s sailing for the capital with a whole fleet at his back¡­ and I don''t think he''s coming to kneel," he told her before shaking his head once more and striding towards a couple of Stark men nearby, hollering at them to mount up and ride for the Riverlander host by Bronze Gate as fast as they could.


    "How much time do we have?" she asked urgently as she caught up to him.


    "A fisherman spotted the ships past Driftmark, so we should have until dusk or maybe next morning if we''re lucky," he said quickly, Stark and other armsmen from the northern contingent already pouring out of the towers around the courtyard.


    Not enough time for the Riverlords and their levies to get here, not even close, Sansa thought as she turned and started hollering at servants of her own.


    There was a war council to attend to.


    -: PD :-


    The small council chambers seemed to be permeated by an aura of dread, fidgeting hands and creased foreheads almost a requirement for every current occupant. The creaking of armor was the most prevalent sound, knights and commanders conferring with each other before Father called for order. What few preparations that could be carried out had already been done so, and all that was left was the battle to come¡­ the vanguard of Stannis'' fleet had already been sighted nearing the mouth of the Blackwater, the sun hiding from the ships of the Royal Fleet and the lords of the Narrow Sea. Sansa turned from the balcony as Father spoke, her attempts at trying to spot the fleet failing miserably.


    "Ser Jacelyn, is the City Watch ready?" asked her Father, his figure stern and imposing when fully clad in northern plate, Ice resting in its sheath and against the side of the table.


    "As much we can hope for with so little time, my lord Hand," said the tall, lantern jawed Commander of the City Watch. Sansa had sent Slynt to the Wall for both his corruption and incompetence, and the subsequent purge of corrupt goldcloak soldiers and officers had left scars which were still healing¡­ just in time for Stannis to hit them like a warhammer. "They''re already manning the walls and the gatehouses, though the north western sections will be undermanned¡­" he said before trailing off, "Lord Stark I¡­ many of the better soldiers already joined the Royal Guard, and after the post-Slynt reforms¡­ I can''t guarantee they''ll hold if disaster strikes," he finally said it, cringing as if they were about to demand his head right then and there.


    Honesty, that was one of the reasons Tyrion recommended him¡­ Sansa thought idly, the small pain at his death stinging her belly before she put it away in its box. She''d been doing that more and more often as of late.


    "No one can doubt either the strength or the conviction behind your work, Ser Jacelyn. We can only ask the men to hold to their ground as long as they are able to, nothing more," she soothed him, placing a hand on his armored shoulder.


    "I- thank you, Your Grace," he said, slightly relieved. Father had immediately taken control of the city''s defense, but that didn''t mean Sansa couldn''t do what she could to help.


    Father nodded slowly, gazing at Patrek Mallister. He was the most prominent of the young heirs and knights that had volunteered to escort Father back to the capital after word of the troubles in the Red Keep had reached Bronze Gate, a few days ago. "That brings us to around fifteen hundred spears, as well as your forces Master Patrek," he said.


    "Indeed my lord. We''ve a hundred Riverlander knights and squires ready to put a sword through the traitor''s belly as soon as he shows his face," he said bravely, the young boy standing tall and proud in his polished breastplate. Sansa could smell his fear as if it were a cloudy day, windy and flighty and scared. She shook her head slightly, scratching Lady''s head almost compulsively.


    "The honor and courage of the Riverlands shall not be forgotten tonight. Tribune Vince?" he asked the grim faced man, or rather boy at the other side of the table. Centurion Holt sat by his side, and they stopped whispering when Father addressed him.


    Tribune Vince was, like most of Joffrey''s officers, almost painfully young. He''d been one of Joffrey''s first recruits though, and he looked both exhausted and confident. "Men are still arriving through the Gate of the Gods, a bit more than one thousand men all told between trainers and recruits. They''re all but half trained though my lord," he said, grim faced, "And tired after the forced march from the Camp and Reston. I wouldn''t rely on them to do anything but hold their ground in a basic box formation," he said almost apologetically.


    Father nodded at that, leaning his chin on one hand as the other tapped the table. "That leaves us with about three thousand men, most of them unsuited for nothing else but standing still and holding their ground¡­" he mused as he gazed at the map of King''s Landing by the table''s center.


    "That''s all they need to do my lord, stand their ground. The walls will do the rest," Ser Barristan murmured with an air of long held experience.


    "Between my retinue and the Red Cloaks who have been deemed reliable you can add another two hundred swords on that, Father," Sansa told him.


    Eddard nodded once more before he looked at Varys, his brow furrowed in confusion, "How did we not know this?" he asked coldly.


    "Lord Stannis has kept careful watch around his keep and island, my lord. Not even my little birds can reliably communicate with me¡­ all signs seemed to point to the King''s prediction; a quick expedition to the Stormlands as a way to garner further support amongst the Stormlords," he said innocently.


    "What about Lord Stannis'' strength?" asked Father.


    "Anywhere between four and seven thousand men my lord hand, depending on how many more mercenaries he''s managed to buy," Varys murmured.


    "No amount of mercenaries will take over the capital, on that you can count on us Lord Stark!" said Patrek.


    "Decent odds¡­ as long as the men don''t break. If they burst through the gates or the wall the odds will flip and our forces could be surrounded and destroyed¡­" Father murmured. Sansa had never seen him like this, clad as a warrior and commander, a true veteran of Robert''s Rebellion.


    "Why would he try this? The Riverlords are too close for him to flip enough Crownlander houses to make a difference after he takes the city¡­" Sansa asked herself, frowning.


    "He must have thought the Riverlords busy in the Stormlands, fighting with King Joffrey against his younger brother. I doubt he foresaw the King''s¡­ unique plan," mused Varys.


    "The legitimacy of holding the capital is not to be underestimated," Grand Master Pycell counseled, who was looking rather green at the rapid pace of events, "If he were to hold it, he could gain substantial support from the Crownlords and those further afield who dislike both Good King Joffrey and the usurper Renly," he said slowly.


    "He''d still be in a bad position afterwards," said Sansa.


    "It would be better than where he is right now," Father said in turn, "I still can''t understand him. How could Stannis fall for such a blatant lie. He must believe it, there''s no way he''d jump the chain of succession like this if he were not certain of his outlandish accusations," Father said as he shook his head.


    The silence was broken by Ser Barristan after a moment, "I''ve seen my fair share of good men die for the wrong cause, my lord," he said before squaring his shoulders, "Lord Stannis won''t be the first, and he certainly won''t be the last," he said grimly.


    "Well said Ser Barristan," Father told him before he stood up, holding Ice against his shoulder as the various men around the table did likewise.


    They all streamed out of the keep, the outer courtyard filled with messengers and grim faced goldcloaks, as well as Stark guardsmen awaiting their liege. People were still sharpening arrows and desperately moving ballistas from the Red Keep to the Mud Gate as the sun hid almost completely beyond the horizon, the different commanders mounting up or quick walking towards their forces. The Riverlanders were making a brave showing as the young men boasted and slapped each other''s shoulders, trying to hide their fear.


    "Please¡­ be careful Father," Sansa pleaded as they walked across the courtyard, his helmet already on as he turned to look at her.


    "If Stannis does breach the wall, you''ll have to hold the Red Keep until Edmund and your great uncle Brynden get here," he said, ignoring her words.


    "Eddard please," Sansa insisted as she grabbed his arm and he stopped walking, an eerie shiver startling her before she shook her head.


    "War is the most terrible scourge on this land Sansa," he said with uncharacteristic passion, the icy fa?ade that had dominated his face during the meeting all but melting for a few seconds, "I''d hoped you''d never see it, but I was blind to that as I''ve been to many things in my life. If anything were to happen to me, you must take care of your brother and sister. Can you do that Sansa?" he asked urgently.


    "I- I will Father," she whispered, swallowing something bitter. She wanted nothing but to charge after him, not even let him off her sight¡­ but she knew better than to get in his way.


    "Good," he said with a proud smile before the icy fa?ade returned, the men forming up in the courtyard nearby as they finished putting on their arms and armor.


    Sansa took a deep breath as Father walked to his horse, and she walked back to the Red Keep. There''d be the wounded to supervise, and surviving lords to turn to her side when it was over¡­


    She stopped abruptly as the hair at the back of her neck tingled, and she frowned.


    "AAAAAAAWHUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuu¡­.." warned Lady from the Godswood, Nymeria and Summer joining in quickly.


    "Something''s wrong!" she half shouted as she turned back to the courtyard, startling Ser Mandon by her side and the various goldcloaks still lifting crates and supplies.


    The shivering tingle intensified as she looked all around her, before turning to Father. "Father! I, there''s something wrong!!!" she shouted at him.


    He turned to look at her, startled, when she saw a shadow flying just above the crenellations like a crossbow bolt, a formless black thing that went straight for Father''s back.


    "BEHIND YOU!" she screamed at him, and Father turned quickly as he unsheathed Ice, parrying a swift stab from the shadow by reflex before he stopped, frozen in place by the visage of Stannis Baratheon silently screaming in horror and fury; a twisted, coiling shadow that merged with the darkening evening.


    "Stannis-?" Father asked in shock, his voice sounding abnormally loud for a second as if the rest of the courtyard had grown muted. The name had barely left his lips when the shadow tore through his heart with a dark coil, a tiny squirt of blood emerging from his back as he grunted in surprise.


    Sansa screamed before the Shadow dissipated, everyone in the courtyard shouting or bellowing as weapons came out and Ser Barristan charged bravely forwards, but it was late, far too late as Father fell on his knees, blood bubbling from his chest before he collapsed on the ground, listless.


    "No. Please. Please don''t," Sansa sobbed as she ran to him, kneeling by his side seconds after Ser Barristan, "Father please," she begged as she shook him, his face still bearing the same surprised look, frozen in place and searing itself on Sansa''s mind.


    Jory Cassel gave a shrilly scream as he unsheathed his sword and ran to his fallen lord, "Alyn! Harwyn!!! Get the maester here!!!" he roared with broken desperation as his dash ended with him on his knees, holding Father by the shoulders and trying to hopelessly stem the bleeding even as the last of the light left Father''s eyes completely.


    Sansa moaned wordlessly as chaos reigned the courtyard, people panicking and fleeing through the gatehouse, others aiming weapons all around them as if expecting a flood of murdering shadows to engulf them any second now. "The Hand is dead!" screamed a goldcloak in the distance as Ser Jacelyn struggled to maintain order. "The shadows rise up for Stannis!!!" another screamed hysterically as the volume of noise in the courtyard rose exponentially, horses neighing in fear as goldcloaks dropped their spears and Ser Barristan turned in circles around her, as if trying to dispel the night itself with bared steel, his expression one of confusion and stunned disbelief.


    "My queen, we must get you out of here!" he said forcefully, shaking her lightly as Sansa rocked her father''s body, Stark guardsmen surrounding them and forming a calm bubble of bared steel amidst the chaos of the courtyard .


    "Where''s that maester!!! Alyn!!!" Jory screamed as Father''s blood seeped through his palms sluggishly. He turned back to the men, as if he could not believe what his eyes were seeing; the abrupt murder a full bodied shock to his mind and soul.


    "Your Grace, we need to get away from whatever¡­ that thing was!" Ser Barristan said again, Ser Mandon and Ser Boros at last reaching his side and surrounding her with white within the circle of arms and steel.


    "No," Sansa whispered, still looking at the endless lack of life beyond her Father''s pupils.


    Spoiler: Music


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    Ser Barristan shook her again, "Your Grace, we need to-"


    "NO!" she said forcefully, turning to glare at him. "He did this. Him and his pet sorceress," she whispered harshly, fury boiling in her blood like she''d never felt before.


    She slipped past Ser Barristan and the rest before he could say anything, lifting her muddied dress so she could walk faster towards the gatehouse and the sheer panic that had turned the men into scared animals, only Holt''s century and the Stark armsmen seemingly withstanding the insidious power of the chained rout. s?a??h th? Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Silence!" she screamed, but she was not her husband, to command the attention of men with but a word, be it in the field of battle or over a dinner conversation. She snarled when nobody heeded her, one goldcloak even running past her and almost smashed her. "Stand your ground!" she screamed, but another five goldcloaks ran past her, one of them even shouldering her aside. It was chaos, the men in the Red Keep were routing and so would the city once news reached the other garrisons.


    I have to stop this, she despaired.


    NOW! She screamed within her own mind.


    "Stand your ground!" she bellowed after she''d picked up a discarded spear, her heart hammering as Lady finally reached her side and snarled.


    The next goldcloak running for the gatehouse didn''t stop. She rammed the spear into his throat with a perfect thrust, twisting before wrenching it out and splattering her dress with blood. The man gurgled as he collapsed on the ground and Sansa stepped over his chest, stabbing him through the mouth. The red, gleaming spear tip emerged from the back of his head as she bit down a gut wrenching scream.


    Sansa bottled the nausea and the horror deep inside her as she widened her connection to Lady, letting the horror at what she''d done dissipate within the storm of fury her direwolf felt for the cowardly murder of the leader of the pack. It was an affront without name -for direwolves knew no language- but they understood the gravity of the atrocity all the same.


    Sansa narrowed her eyes as she lifted her gaze to the rest of the courtyard, Lady springing by her side and howling at the steadily brightening moon around the gentle arrival of the stars above. She''d grown throughout the months since this life started, and her howl was neither mournful nor quiet. It was rage, it was violence, it was the call of the hunt that had led the packs of bloodthirsty, horse sized canines through the screaming blizzards of the northern winters since time immemorial, hunting man and stag and giant and mammoth and even what that which was Other.


    Summer and Nymeria joined in almost immediately as they congregated around Father, Bran and Arya having just arrived at the courtyard, their wooden practice swords discarded. The other direwolves gave Lady''s shivering howl a sort of background hum, a full bodied reverb that thrummed off bellies and chests, cutting through the chaos like Valyran Steel and drowning all sound but Bran and Arya''s sobs. The hair rising howl turned eerie, on and on as its pitch rose and men were paralyzed in place, looking at her.


    "MEN OF WESTEROS!" Sansa shouted in the midst of the ensuing silence, extracting the spear with a grunt. "You call yourselves men!? Warriors and Soldiers!?" she asked of them as she gazed at their eyes, stalking towards the middle of the courtyard. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she berated them harshly, the snarl almost fixed in her mouth as she looked at them, "All the chivalry, the boasting, the proud arms and the steel have come to this?!" she screamed, outraged.


    She poured out her outrage as she looked at them, stunned goldcloaks frozen in place and young riverlanders fidgeting with their horses as she strode with the spear, feeling the weight in her hand before planting it firmly on the ground, Lady snarling lightly by her side. "Fine! I''ll go there myself! Magic or not, I''m going to kill Stannis for what''s he done!" she declared, meaning every word even if she had to try and defend the entire wall herself.


    "I''ll go get your armor my queen! Seems the men all but dropped off their balls to run faster!" hollered the lightly armored form of Meera Reed as she hefted her trident, her words setting out disgruntled murmurs of budding anger that started to replace the panic amongst the men.


    "Bring it to me!" she ordered as she turned to the ashen faced Stark guardsmen and the dribs and drabs of her handmaiden''s retinues. "And what of you men of the North?!" she challenged them as she walked towards them, bloodied spear in hand, "Will you drop your swords too, after your liege lord was murdered!?" she demanded of them, "Before your very eyes?!" she screamed at them, Lady''s snarl feeding off her rage and almost drowning her voice as the direwolf eyed the northeners as well, saliva dripping from her dagger-sharp fangs.


    "Magnar!" bellowed Lyra Mormont as she emerged from the men at arms, banging her mace against her shield wildly.


    "WINTER IS COMING!!!" roared a red faced Jory Cassel as he somehow came out of the shock, standing up and hefting Ice up to the skies, budding moonlight reflecting milky white over the gloss of the Valyrian Steel. The men roared with a delayed fury that seemed perhaps even greater than Sansas'', the Queen managing to turn fear into rage of a matching intensity. The men of the north picked up the cry, bellowing ''Winter!!!'' and ''Magnar!!!'' so loudly Sansa thought Stannis would hear them.


    She turned to the guardsmen to rally them as well, but they were already banging the butt of their halberds against the ground, a crescendo of sound that made the earth rumble, no voice joining the choir of voices but the deep rumble of steel on dust.


    "Check those bolts!" Centurion Holt roared as he strode behind the back line, shaking his crossbowmen''s quivers and making sure not a bolt flew out because of the sudden movement. "Prepare for quick march!" He shouted as the halberdiers faces'' turned from stunned to disciplined.


    They need courage. They need anger, she thought wildly as she moved on, a snarling Lady by her side. She didn''t have her husband''s voice nor his skill at war, but she did have the words to exalt her people, the poor souls who would face the might of the Long Night one day.


    "And what of you, scions of the Riverlands!?" she bellowed as she turned and strode to the knights and the squires, many of them shaking with fear, "What of you Patrek Mallister?! What will you do?!" she screamed as she addressed him directly, his eyes cycling wildly between Father''s corpse and the gatehouse as she barreled unto him. "What will the bards sing of?! What will the songs say was the due of the Riverlords?!" she asked of him.


    He seemed to fill out his armor as she approached him, breathing harshly as she stared defiantly into his eyes. "DEATH!!!" he bellowed as Sansa tapped into something drilled into every son of nobility from an early age, a legacy, a dream and a folly all into one. "DEAAAAAATH!!!" he roared again as he gained more confidence, the smoky battlehaze that Joffrey had so often spoke about taking root in his eyes, gratitude filling his form before that too was taken over by the bloodlust. The Riverlanders took up the cry, taking out their swords and lifting them up in a chorus of drawn steel that seemed without stop.


    Sansa turned to her hardest task yet, the terrified goldcloaks even now eyeing the gatehouse and stumbling in near panic, one surprise away from routing again as they looked at her in mixed shock and wariness. She immediately knew no usual sentiment would move them, for who sang for the peasants dying for the ambitions of Kings and Queens? Revenge for treachery and murder¡­ what did they care for restitution? Hands came and went, but the smallfolk remained and toiled.


    "And what of you?" she said almost quietly, startling them. It was a trick she''d learned from Joffrey, forcing them to strain to hear her words. "Why should you care?" she almost whispered. Whatever they were expecting, it hadn''t been this. Sansa walked right up to them, focusing in no one in particular as she shoved past the first rank of the unorganized mob. "You won''t fight for glory, for no one will sing for you. You won''t fight for revenge, for you will toil under the weight of whoever sits on the throne," she told them as they stumbled away from her, a circle forming around her as they gave her and Lady a wide berth.


    "So why should we fight?!" someone called out from the mob, panicked and resentful, and Sansa blinked a second more slowly than usual than usual as she strode unerringly to the man that had said that, Lady''s ears guiding her. "Because Stannis will take EVERYTHNG FROM YOU!" she roared in his face. The goldcloak spearman stumbled back, but Sansa took a step forward and didn''t let go. "Your wives and daughters working with the new looms, your uncles and nephews logging and turning the Kingswood into industry, the courts expanding and meeting your pleas for justice! He''ll take ALL OF IT!" she snarled before turning and gazing at them all. "He''ll return things to the old order, to the stern fatherly justice of a single man with no time, to the proper order of things where no work and no food is the birthright of the smallfolk!" she bellowed. "For three hundred years have the citizens of this city moldered in slums and neglect, and for another three hundred years they shall remain so if Stannis and his Essosi bitch take this city!" she told them, and a wordless grumbling underscored her words, indistinct growling eroding away the fear if only for a few seconds.


    "Will you let him?!" she asked of them as she turned in a circle, and the men grumbled louder.


    "Will you worship his Red God of chains?!" she asked of them, louder.


    Cries of ''No!'' came from here and there, some of the goldcloaks holding their spears more tightly as others spat in disgust.


    "Will you be his slaves?!" she asked of them, and they bellowed harder.


    "Will you go back to the begging bowl?!" she asked of them, touching a tender nerve of the smallfolk as they roared suddenly, faces twisting in anger and spear butts stabbing the ground in real defiance.


    "Will you let him rape your wives?! Sack your homes?!" she snarled as the bells of King''s Landing started tolling again, signaling the arrival of Stannis'' vanguard, red and black sails on the horizon.


    "No!!!" they snarled, and Sansa raised her spear.


    "MEN OF KING''S LANDING! WILL YOU SCURRY BACK TO THE SLUMS?!" she roared, and the goldcloaks roared with her. They roared harder than the knights and the armsmen, harder than the squires and men at arms. They screamed their denial as the great bells of Baelor''s Sept added their sound to the cacophony, the rhythmical crash of the great monuments of bronze echoing throughout the city as the men gave voice to a deeply buried injustice they wouldn''t let anyone drag them back to, not now that they''d tasted it so clearly for the first time.


    -: PD :-


    When the deserting soldiers and the first looters ran head first into the descending column from the Red Keep, they were shocked into silence. The goldcloaks and the armsmen, the knights and the royal guardsmen, they all marched at a quick step, barreling down the streets with sudden, bloodthirsty battlecries that seemed to be set off at the slightest prodding. They marched straight for the Mud Gate, led by a glimmering figure atop a white horse, a white-grey direwolf howling retribution through the night sky.


    "DEATH!!!" they screamed, and Sansa raised her spear with them as her horse cantered at the head of the column. She wore the armor she and Joffrey had commissioned from Master Tobho Mott; steel plate with a serene looking direwolf carved into its chest piece, twin sapphires for eyes. Sansa rode helmetless, her crown her only headwear as she rallied the flagging defenders, catching those fleeing and carrying them with her towards the fury that sailed for their homes.


    The lackluster return fire from the walls of King''s Landing suddenly intensified; meek volleys of arrows turning into crossbow and ballista bolts that rained from above. Ships were set ablaze; burning figures jumping from the hellish decks as vessels drifted and crashed even as more and more galleys flooded the Blackwater and bombarded the city, bows and catapults singing as arrow and boulder slammed against bastions and houses. Stannis'' men seemed fearless as their rowboats reached the shore, the great boats turning upside down as the men carried them forwards from the shore to the walls, giant turtles of wood that hid archers and javelins.


    Sansa delegated command to Ser Barristan, the old veteran spreading his troops where they would be of most use during the frantic defense. The halberdiers of the Royal Guard stood their ground and paid in blood for it, converted knights of the Red God crashing a battering ram through the Mud Gate and bringing fire and steel for their King and their Red God. Essosi sellsails from Lys and the Stepstones disembarked and dashed through holes in the defense with climbing ropes, trying to scale through undermanned sections. Siege ladders slammed against the walls, grim faced armsmen from Dragonstone hacking into the fray with axes and shields, the levies of the Lords of the Narrow Sea behind them. The river was soon set ablaze as unmanned fishing boats filled with dry hay were set adrift, their fires licking the hulls of sellsail and lordly galleys alike, ship crews trading arrows with the walls as the night darkened and the fires leapt higher.


    Sansa let the far more experienced Lord Commander of the King''s Guard command the troops in truth, using herself as a figurehead and trying to rally the men into standing their ground. She slammed her spear into soldier after soldier as they tried to scale the walls, making them fall to their death or piercing their heads and hands until they did. She led a counter charge past the decimated, wavering recruits of the Royal Guard as knights and zealots tore through the wall of halberds and crossbows like a storm. She bottled the horror and the fear and the sights she would never forget deep within, her armor running red with blood and gore.


    She was nowhere near the skill of Joffrey in personal combat, but her presence seemed to lift the fighting spirit of her men as she neared them and bellowed encouragement, stories and snippets of her speech having already reached them long before the first siege ladder had touched the walls. They would not, could not be shown up by a woman, and so the men died proving themselves.


    They cut her. Axes bit deep into the plate and drew blood, spears pierced her shallowly, arrows pelted her full of bruises. She thought she could understand a glimmer of Joffrey''s harrowing stories then, as her body was torn and she watched her friends die. Jory Cassel bled out from a score of holes as he charged at the distant figure of Stannis in the middle of a wall section taken by the enemy, half a dozen Dragonstone armsmen dying with him as he went berserk with Ice, chopping through plate and arms in equal measure.


    Lyra was by her side during the thick of it, her hammer and her shield bashing through armor like a ship through waves, a smile on her lips at having proven herself a real Mormont before her sisters could. The Onion Knight did not boast or sneer when he gutted her through the armpit, only moving on to Sansa with grim decision and relentless drive. She jammed her spear through his eye when Meera threw a net from beyond, the man managing to cut Sansa''s cheek before she ended him with a spear thrust.


    There was a certain, simplifying principle to battle, Sansa thought. A narrowing of the senses, a dissolution -at least in part- of the self. Time seemed both slower and faster, life seemed somehow even more real, colorful in a way.


    Ser Meryn Trant fell taking a blow for her, the same man who in a distant, now forgotten past had beat her into obedience at her beloved''s orders. Ser Boros Blount and Ser Preston Greenfield died like lions when they were all cut off; northmen, goldcloaks, and a few squires led by Patrek Mallister at her side as they tried to cut their way through a relentless tide of Velaryon levies. Aurene Waters, The Bastard of Driftmark, leered with lust before her thrust sent him over the wall, impaling him through a piece of wrecked timber. Lord Velaryon himself was a far greater match, and Lady would pay the price for the man''s life before they could cut through to Stannis.


    The would be King had led his men himself, haranguing them as they climbed the walls, killing goldcloaks one after the other with sword and board. He seemed surprised when he found Sansa; they''d clashed but once before, when the Onion Knight made sure he''d get away.


    Sansa tried. She spun her spear unpredictably, feinting wildly before delivering heavy Ibbenese blows that saw him stagger back. She parried and deflected, dodged and cut, slammed and pierced, but Stannis was as unyielding as iron and with a patience to boot, tiring her out beyond exhaustion as he blocked and riposted, wounding her for every overextension like a cruel teacher.


    It was Ser Barristan who truly tilted the fight. He burst into the battle like a white hurricane, slaughtering everyone in his path and wounding Stannis once in the arm and another through his knee... But even that single burst of speed and slaughter was too much for the old veteran. Like a hurricane entering land, he quickly lost strength and speed as his age caught up to him. He was still just as skilled, but his failing endurance quickly gave way to small errors that finally ended with Stannis slamming his red sword through the man''s elbow joint, and then through the mouth when his shield arm failed.


    Sansa couldn''t even talk as the press of bodies carried her back to Stannis again, so great was her exhaustion. If their fight before had been worthy of songs, then this one was just a violent brawl; a sluggish exchange of steel and howls of exertion. They stumbled as they fought, flaming boulders slamming around the battlements and wiping smallfolk spearmen from the face of the earth. The bells of King''s Landing tolled through the night as the fires spread and King and Queen battled, a harrowing fight which ended when Sansa managed to close in and shove one of her daggers through Stannis'' eye, the man scowling as he pulled her arm and grabbed her throat for a second, sudden steel choking her before the grasping royal realized he was dead, his remaining eye widening slightly as he swayed. His armored form fell to the side, leaning on a crenellation for a second as if to orient himself before sliding on his side and leaving a trail of blood on the stones, legs still trying to get him up again somehow before he blinked once and moved no more.


    She spent a while thinking about how foolish she''d been once, as a maiden dreaming of gallant knights who would duel for her honor. There was nothing gallant about war, only broken dreams and dead friends.


    She''d been hugging Meera when she finally lost consciousness, the ashen faced girl whispering sweet nothings as they sat together against a broken crenellation. Sansa blinked at the morning sun which now bathed the blood stained walls, a sea of corpses around her as the banner of the Starks still flew from the nearby battlements alongside that of the Baratheons of King''s Landing. It seemed as if not a soul had lived through the ordeal, so deep was the silence and the lack of movement. Sansa wept when she imagined how it must have felt for Joffrey to suffer through this, a million different times, a thousand different lives. Truly was the Purple beyond mortal ken, to subject her husband to such horror.


    She snuggled closer to her friend, sighing as her eyes closed against her will. Meera''s tight voice kept fading as she rested for a moment, until she heard nothing and she knew peace.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 50: Curses and Spiders.

    Chapter 50: Curses and Spiders.She smiled like a lazy cat as she stretched, making her best impression of a jealous limpet as she cuddled even closer to Joffrey, savoring his athletic form with her hands.


    "Someone woke up in a good mood," he said with a fond smile as he hugged her back with one hand, the other gently stroking her face.


    "Now we can do this every night and no one in the kingdoms can bat an eyelash," she said in infinite contentment.


    "I don''t know, the forbidden aspect did give it a certain charm," Joffrey mused, gazing at the discarded crowns near the bed.


    "I don''t care, this bed was worth it," said Sansa, "Tiny rooms and abandoned closets are uncomfortable," she added before she smiled lightly, nearing Joffrey''s lips. "Wait, do I have to call you husband now?" she asked.


    Joffrey snorted, the air lifting a lock of Sansa''s hair and hiding one of her eyes. "I recall you had no such problems doing so in Braavos," he reminded her.


    "Hm. But now it''s really legal. Husband," she said slowly, savoring the word.


    "One night in bed and you''re already submitting, wife," said Joffrey with a restrained smile.


    "Oh, submitting am I?" she asked him as she climbed over him. "I think we''ll have to do something about it, dear," she said with relish.


    Joffrey''s smile disappeared as he gazed at something behind her, "Sansa-" he was interrupted by a shadowed tendril emerging from his chest, and Sansa screamed as she turned and an enormous shadow consumed the room, a hundred tendril spearing her with axes and spears and arrows as the Purple stood idly by, doing nothing as she died in truth-


    Sansa blinked, startled. She quickly relaxed when she saw Joffrey though, his ashen form already kneeling by the side of the bed and holding her hand tightly.


    "Hey, husband," she whispered, having trouble with the words. Her throat felt so dry, or was that her head? She felt all buzzy, her mind sluggish and resentful.


    "Hey, wife," he said, slightly choked as he stroke her arm gently. He looked like hadn''t slept in a week.


    Sansa felt strange, light and heavy at the same time. She could barely move her head, and her body hurt so much it kind of didn''t anymore.


    "We¡­ won?" she asked him as memories emerged into her conscious mind, slowly.


    "Yes Sansa," he said gently, "You won, the city is ours and the other ''Kings'' are dead. It''s over," he told her.


    Sansa blinked slowly, the world turning dark again as she smelled something sick and sweet.


    Milk of the poppy, she thought in a daze, trying to concentrate as the world grew dim.


    No¡­ there''s so much to do¡­ she thought with a sort of sluggish anger, Joffrey''s face disappearing as she closed her eyes.


    -: PD :-


    Coming back to the land of the living was a bothersome affair, Sansa thought. It appeared she had been slipping in and out of consciousness for weeks now, battling a severe infection as the city slowly recovered from the battle.


    The final butcher''s bill had been insane, almost unheard of in terms of proportions since the Dance of Dragons. Neither side had broken completely, at least not before Stannis himself died. The slaughter had been hidden from each side by the nature of the wall, and it was said the piles of bodies had burnt well into the third day after the battle.


    A whole night it had raged; the Night of the Wolf as the denizens of the city had taken to calling it. More than half the goldcloaks were dead or crippled, and the guardsmen recruits and trainers were even worse off.


    The Lords of the Narrow Sea were simply¡­ gone. Dealing with Joffrey during the first few weeks of her recovery made her want to wring his neck, as he hid what he''d done like a shameful cat trying to halfheartedly bury the slain pet bird. It seemed her near grasp with death and the horror of the battlefield had left him¡­ determined.


    He''d sought to bribe the Redwynes with half the Tyrell''s holdings if they sailed their fleet to King''s Landing ''right now damnit!'' in the words of Sandor. Else he would send them one of the Redwyne twins -locked in the Red Keep since Renly''s Folly- in pieces as an incentive.


    The Redwynes complied, and with two hundred war galleys to play with Joffrey went berserk on the Narrow Sea. He knighted Mark Piper for his valiant showing during the Night of the Wolf, and then promptly told him to gather as many heavy infantry and knights as he could in less than three days. The nearby Riverlander host that had swept the city''s immediate environs of bandits and deserters, as well as former Stannis stragglers, had been more than willing to accommodate. The gaggle of Stormords and knights that followed him everywhere like beaten dogs had been a huge help as well¡­


    Tywin''s belated cavalry arrived just in time for Joffrey to fold them into his force, and he had a quiet word with the Lord of the Westerlands regarding his mother. He then proceeded to storm every single keep and hovel that had supported Stannis, burning them to the ground if he deemed the possible losses not worth it. It was reported fishermen were still finding spiked heads all over Blackwater Bay''s shores¡­


    Thus Sansa awoke to a strange new world of shining new Houses like the ''Piper''s of Driftmark'', the ''Mootons of Cracklaw Point'' and the ''Brackens of Sharp Point''. He even went the extra mile and appointed the ''Blackwoods of Stonedance'' in symmetry so the eternal feud could continue but with ship combat instead of the endless old boring Riverland quarrel.


    Sansa really didn''t know what he''d been thinking with the last one.


    In short, it was a mess. The Narrow Sea was devastated and the smallfolk grumbling lowly about ''foreigners'', while the Reach had been devolving into a soft war of intrigue and positioning as Joffrey''s half completed terms were exactly that, uncompleted. While Joffrey''s punitive terms for House Tyrell had been known and clear since the morning after he was declared ''Stormking'' ¨CThe Tyrell''s now ruled less than a fourth of what they''d owned before, which were composed of Highgarden and a few bits of land around it- he had not staked out terms for the other houses or even the Paramountcy of the Reach itself; he''d been too concerned about getting to the capital as fast as he could and then butchering the Lords of the Narrow Sea to a man. Uncertainty had been the purest of poisons as far as the situation was concerned, and thus the Reach had fallen into a silent and not so silent war of violent intrigue, with lesser vassals jockeying desperately for someone they''d consider above Royal displeasure as the greater houses figured out who to join or backstab.


    Sansa would have liked to give the Paramountcy of the Reach to the Florents, as their adequately strong holdings plus the former Tyrell lands would have balanced their lack of dynastic marriages amongst the other Reachlords, leaving them strong enough to rule in a way but still beholden to the Crown¡­ but the time for that had long since passed as she lay bedridden and barely conscious. The Florents had been the most disadvantageous option for the Reachlords as a whole, so the surviving lords from Renly''s Folly and the Night of the Antlers had promptly butchered them after Joffrey had left for the capital¡­ or to put it in lordly speak; the brave Lord Florent and his heirs had been slain by vile smallfolk deserters. The previous marriage alliances forged by House Tyrell had seen them survive as lesser partner in a coalition of sorts between the Hightowers and the Redwynes. The Hightowers had emerged quite well from the war of intrigues, what with their intact influence and manpower; thus Sansa had seen no choice but to give them officially what had been by that point already theirs: The foremost position within the Reach. By giving them the Paramountcy, Sansa had at least extracted some concessions, including taking some chunks of the Reach -almost a fifth of its area all told- and giving it to the Stormlands and the Crownlands, which would be enough to help contain Westeros'' breadbasket as she doubted the internal struggles unleashed by the fall of the Tyrell''s would abate any time soon¡­ the harbinger of poisons and intrigue would most likely plague the Reach for a few years.


    She''d tried to smooth over the transition, but there were still a lot of vassal houses that had to be replaced, to the grumbling of the petty nobility and the smallfolk. She was fairly confident the Reach would not rebel or even fall into outright civil war ¨Cthe plentiful hostages in the Red Keep would certainly help with that- but that didn''t mean that they''d support the Crown in its time of need, or that their aid would be strong and coherent enough to matter.


    There was a long line between rebellion and cooperation, and Westerosi knew that better than most.


    "I''m sorry alright?" Joffrey said half-jokingly again as he grew tired of her silence.


    Sansa shook her head lightly, emerging from her thoughts and cringing in pain when a stitch somewhere in her belly pulled.


    Joffrey stood up quickly, but Sansa waved him down. The sight of his immediate worry did a lot to sooth her anger at him¡­ some of it at least.


    "It''s a complete mess Joffrey. I know you wanted bloody retribution against the Narrow Sea but couldn''t you at least work out a decent settlement with the Reach before you stormed away? We had even talked about it!" she asked him plaintively, leaning forward on the table.


    "Sorry," he said again, and the fact that it sounded genuine almost made Sansa madder. "Not everything''s bad though. The Riverlords are in love with you, for one," he said with raised eyebrows.


    No wonder, given the fact that several of their number had risen to legend after the Howling of Wolves.


    Damned Westerosi and their penchant for naming. It''s ridiculous, she thought with a huff. It was uncertain whether the ''Night of the Wolf'' or ''The Howling of Wolves'' would prevail¡­ though that didn''t stop the bards.


    Of course, there was also the little fact that half the Riverlands now had kin ruling over the Narrow Sea. They would have followed Joffrey into the hells just for that.


    She sighed, smiling teasingly, "And the Stormlords with you. The ''Stormking!'' bit is getting tiring though. Do they have to shout it so loudly every time they see you?" she asked as before forking a piece of lettuce.


    She still had trouble with meat -or any food truth be told- after¡­


    She left the fork, surreptitiously pushing the plate away.


    "You''re one to talk," Joffrey said from his side of the small table, "This whole Magnar thing has a certain sexy flare though," he mused cheekily.


    Sansa snorted halfheartedly. "All for the price of a little carnage¡­" she mused lowly, frowning when Joffrey managed to hear her.


    His face crumbled as he frowned, "Sansa I''m sorry-"


    "No, no, it''s okay," she waved him away, looking through the window.


    Let it go. Let it go please, she thought desperately as she blinked slowly.


    "¡­ Sansa¡­" he muttered after a moment of painful silence, "You need to talk about it. You of all people should know that," he said, the harrowing honesty too much for her to bear.


    She breathed slowly, fisting her hands lightly under the table so Joffrey couldn''t see them.


    It''s okay. I''ll just train a bit with Ser Barr- With Joffrey, just need to move about and vent, she thought franticly as the pressure in her throat kept increasing, but her thoughts could not ward away the steadily creeping miasma of discomfort flooding her chest.


    She tried with all her strength to hold it in, but she couldn''t let a lone, traitorous sob escape her lips.


    "I''m okay, I''m okay!" she said as she stood up from the table and shuffled away from Joffrey, but he was relentless as he gave a few quick steps and hugged her tightly, dooming her. It was as if a faucet had been torn open, Sansa thought as she found herself sobbing incoherently, crying into Joffrey''s shoulder in deep gasps that left her without air.


    "I-I-I''m-m o-o-ok-kay," she sobbed as she felt her knees go weak, Joffrey supporting her weight as he carried her across the deserted, small dining room to the nearby couch.


    "We can take turns being the strongest," he whispered gently as they sat on the couch, Sansa taking in a harrowing breath of fresh air as she tried to cuddle closer to him, feeling cold even as the early evening sun glowed from the nearby window.


    "Oh Joffrey¡­ it was so terrible," she whispered the word even as she knew it would never even approach the magnitude of what she truly meant, "The screams¡­" she managed, holding on to him so tightly she feared she''d rip the back of his doublet.


    "I know," Joffrey whispered back gently, rocking her slightly. There was truth in his voice, a calm and serene certainty that Sansa latched on to as she cried.


    "The f-fires a-and the s-s-smell," she tried to explain, failing miserably as the sobs took control of her. Joffrey seemed to know exactly what she was trying to say though, what she had to explain even if it didn''t make any sort of sense.


    He whispered sweet nothings as they spent the rest of the evening there, holding tightly into each other as the rest of the world faded for a while.


    -: PD :-


    The weeks following Sansa''s recovery were characterized by tying loose ends, something which Joffrey could approve of. Renly was one of them, and had made a pest of himself even in death when he found the man dead inside his luxurious cell. Joffrey had been intending on the Night''s Watch for the bastard, a suitable punishment in his mind for the pompous prick¡­


    Alas, it seemed that the violent loss of his lover and the crumbling of all his dreams had been too much to bear for Renly. The sight of his supposed uncle hanging from a rope tied to one of the chandeliers had shaken him more than he was willing to admit ¨Cmore than quite a few of the strange and twisted things he had witnessed during his long life- and he didn''t quite know why. Perhaps it''d been the eerie sensations and similarities that the scene had brought to mind, carrying along memories of despair and relentless suicides when the Purple had finally broken him, many many years ago. Regardless, the man had done no favors by dying inside the Red Keep, unleashing rumors of kinslaying amongst some of the courtiers that had been unhappy with his reign anyway, as well as those more devout to the damned Seven. Joffrey doubted they''d take his explanation -not being a kinslayer anyway because he was actually a bastard- very well¡­


    He''d captured Melissandre -Stannis'' pet sorceress and magical killer- when he''d stormed Dragonstone though. She''d been fairly incoherent when he''d brought her to the Black Cells, but after he''d started- well¡­ S?a??h th? N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The screaming grew old weeks ago, Joffrey thought as he sighed.


    Melissandre tried to squish herself against the wall as he entered the room, shrieking desperately as she averted her eyes and her chains rattled.


    "By the Seven! Joffrey, what did you do to her?!" Sansa asked, dumbfounded as the sorceress kept shrieking like a madwoman, pulling on her chains as much as she could as she tried to hide in the corner of the black cell.


    "Nothing!" Joffrey blurted, his hands in the air, "She just gets like that whenever she sees me," he defended himself.


    "Nothing?" Sansa asked skeptically, gazing at the unlit braziers around the chained murderess.


    "Well¡­" Joffrey tilted his head a bit, reticent.


    "Joffrey¡­" Sansa sighed.


    "Sometimes I come here and light the braziers¡­ it seems to¡­" he hesitated, finally shrugging when Sansa kept looking at him, "Well, make her loose her mind faster," he said guiltily. "She was not coherent enough to interrogate, so I thought I might as well¡­" he trailed off with a considering hand, vaguely aiming at the crazed sorceress.


    "And why didn''t you just kill her then?" Sansa asked plaintively.


    "Well, I thought you''d want the pleasure after what the bitch did to Ned," he said with an awkward smile.


    Sansa just stared at him, shaking her head slowly. "Just kill her, Joffrey. The screeching is going to leave me deaf," she told him.


    "Oh, alright," he said with a self-conscious shrug, walking up to Melissandre and scowling when her screeching increased in intensity. "By the Old Gods woman, what the hells is wrong with you?!" Joffrey grunted as he materialized Brightroar and slit her throat. The screams stopped just half a second before Joffrey did the deed.


    "No¡­ it can''t¡­" she gurgled, wide eyed as she stared at the bloody form of Brightroar. She bled out, stunned surprise warring with horror in her face before she tilted forward and moved no longer.


    "Why would a shadowbinder work with Stannis anyway?" Sansa asked the question that had been plaguing her for a while as she looked at the corpse uneasily. She allowed herself a slight breath of relief at the death of Ned''s assassin, before larger concerns took over.


    "She spouted some drivel about Stannis being the chosen one of the Red God when we captured her," Joffrey told her as he returned towards the door, "Dragonstone barely put up a fight when we showed up; the garrison all but begged us to storm the castle when we landed," he said while shaking his head, as if he could barely believe his own words, "The mad bitch had really gone insane when she returned to the island with the dregs of her zealots and coverts after the battle here, her chosen one dead by your hand. She''d been burning innocents like firewood conjuring who knows what before we stopped her," he said lowly.


    "I knew she''d burnt Selyse and Shireen," Sansa mused, shaken by the tale, "But I didn''t know it had been that bad," she whispered.


    "Let''s just say the shadows were getting pretty strange before I clubbed her head, though nothing outright magical seemed to happen before we stopped the ritual or whatever the fuck she was doing," he said.


    "Fucking magic," he spat with feeling, "Always tries to pull one on me," he grumbled with the air of someone airing a stubborn grievance.


    Sansa shook her head, "The Red God''s chosen one¡­" she mused. "Azor Ahai? You must admit, the similarities between that legend and¡­ well, us¡­" she trailed off as they ascended through the dimly illuminated staircase that connected the Black Cells to the rest of the keep.


    "I''ve often wondered about that myself," Joffrey agreed, "It''s steeped in R''hllorite mysticism, but the similarities at the core of the story seem too significant for it to be a coincidence. He must be who the East remembered as my predecessor, our ''Last Hero'' here in Westeors," he mused, "The iteration of the Purple that managed to hold back the Cycle''s scouts," he said in a lower tone of voice, frowning.


    "Hm¡­ perhaps an avenue to work on in the future? Having her working for us instead of Stannis could be a boon," said Sansa.


    Joffrey was surprised by her willingness to make use of Ned''s killer, to say the least. He often forgot that she, too, had grown from the trials and tribulations served up by the Purple and all it entailed.


    "Maybe," Joffrey told her after a moment, before tilting his head a little. "You think we won''t succeed during this life?" he asked her, the light tone of the question betraying its gravity.


    Sansa remained silent as they left the Black Cells entirely, arising to the surface and returning to the realm of those who had not yet lost all hope.


    "I don''t know¡­" she said finally, "With Father and Tyrion gone there''s a lot we won''t be able to do, or at least a lot that will be delayed¡­" she said slowly.


    "We can only do our best," Joffrey said it with the air of long experience, and Sansa sighed as she smiled and grabbed his arm.


    "Let''s hope it''s enough," she said after a deep breath.


    -: PD :-


    The other loose end to be tied was none other than Varys himself. Joffrey had wanted to murder the eunuch ever since he''d learned of the young pretender across the sea, but Sansa had cautioned against it, claiming quite a few reasonable arguments that made him more useful to them alive¡­


    Times had changed.


    Sansa''s spies had finally succeeded in tracing the other end of the plot that had killed Tyrion. His mother had been an unwitting pawn of the Spider, as Sansa had learned. Between her directions, Butter Fingers'' talents, and the aid of Wylla Manderly, they had managed to learn that the cooks who had fed the assassin had been under the directions of Varys himself. The cooks had mixed a rare poison with the flour that had seen the girl die in the very room she''d killed Tyrion, though it was unlikely the dosage had been so perfectly calculated; most likely the Spider would have preferred she''d died a few hours after the morn ¨Cperhaps in one of Red Keep''s corridors - so as to keep his involvement under plausible deniability.


    The cooks themselves -two men working at Chataya''s- had been found with their throats slit, but intensive canvassing and investigative work had left Butter Fingers with a most auspicious lead; the physical details of two orphans which had somehow managed to beg around the prestigious whorehouse for a whole hour despite the persistent attempt by the private guards to kick them away from the street. From there it had been a matter of cross examination and endless reviewing of reports from spies around the city, but the answer had been obvious since the discovery of the orphans¡­ or ''little birds'' as Varys ¨Cthe sick fuck- liked to call them.


    And now the time had come.


    Joffrey looked at Sansa as they crouched behind the boulder, only a few steps away from the waves of Blackwater Bay, roaring as they crashed against the beach.


    "You sure he''ll come out here?" he asked her.


    "Almost certainly. We have all his other escape routes mapped out including the second decoy, it has to be this one," she murmured.


    Joffrey nodded, staying still and letting his mind wander as he listened to the sea. It was not long before Varys appeared on the little beach below the Red Keep, huffing as he walked quickly from a hidden passageway. He carried a small backpack as he made for the boat, no doubt spooked after Joffrey had sent a few Royal Guardsmen to arrest him. Varys had been too well prepared to fall to such a brute move, as he had a dozen contingencies in place to both learn about any arrest attempts and to make use of said heads-up to flee before he was caught.


    Unfortunately for him, Sansa had not been idle as Joffrey had been painting the Stormlands with the blood of chivalry.


    "What is-?" Varys said lowly as he stumbled back, two Raiders standing up from the getaway skiff which had been tied nearby.


    "I''m afraid it won''t be nearly as easy, my dear Master of Whispers," Joffrey said as he walked from behind the rock, cutting Varys'' escape route back to the Red Keep.


    "Your Grace," he said as he immediately went still, his eyes shifting to him, Sansa, and the Raiders by the boat. Joffrey could see the dozens of responses being created and discarded by the second as Varys took stock of the situation, before he accepted his fate and sighed. "I would have dearly loved to see it," he whispered almost too lowly for Joffrey to hear him as he took out a small vial from somewhere within his sleeve and opened the tiny cork.


    "We''ll be having none of that you fat fuck," said Sandor as he emerged from the boulder right by his side and smacked the eunuch in the head with the pommel of his dagger.


    The Spider collapsed on the sand with a dull thump.


    -: PD :-


    "I''ll handle it Sansa," Joffrey said once again.


    "I need to be here and ask questions as well," Sansa said the same again.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, the moldy air of the Black Cells filling his nostrils with half remembered horrors and glees.


    "I work better alone with this," he said again, the excuse sounding frayed to his ears as the Spider began to wake up, weakly struggling against the chains that held him against the torture table.


    "You''ll need a sounding board to make sure he''s not lying," she countered, crossing her arms. It was only the three of them in the room, and only Sandor and the two Raiders from before even knew the Spider was here right now and not carrying out his dastardly escape across the Narrow Sea.


    After all, it would not do for the King to torture his prisoners himself¡­ especially not after what happened to Renly¡­


    "I need space to¡­" he trailed off, taking another deep breath. "Sansa I¡­ I really, really rather you don''t watch this," he finally admitted, gazing away from her and the wide array of torture implements by the nearby tray. It had been a long, long while since he''d done this¡­ and the prospect of it still made his blood sing in anticipation.


    "We swore we''d be in this together, I swore I''d be with you during the good and the bad," she said defiantly, "I''m not a hypocrite. I didn''t swear to stand by your side only to leave it when things turn¡­ harsh," she said with grim determination, pursing her lips.


    "Sansa I¡­ please don''t," he begged her.


    "Don''t you remember, Joffrey?" she aksed him lightly. "If I am but part of a weapon, then so be it¡­ but I''ll be where I belong. By your side¡­" she quoted softly, looking at his eyes.


    He swallowed drily, forcefully as he stared at her deep blue eyes, struggling with them until Varys coughed, blinking slowly as he gazed around the room and it was time.


    Time to start.


    -: PD :-


    He enjoyed it. He couldn''t help it. He couldn''t repress a smile as he tore Varys open, slowly and expertly as the intricacies of prolonging a man''s suffering came back to him as if he''d never forgotten them. He was soon lost within himself as Varys screamed and he cut away, twisting and breaking. Sansa never lost her composure as she saw this cursed part of himself with her own eyes, in detail like never before. A small part of himself could feel her burning gaze as he worked on Varys, reveling in the blood as he screamed internally and Sansa worked with him, calmly trying to extract every single drip of knowledge from the Spider as Joffrey''s hands went slippery with blood. He couldn''t stop, not even to scream.


    They ended up with nothing.


    Varys withstood the breaking and destruction of his body like Joffrey had never seen before. When Baelish had already began to scream for mercy, Varys had kept breathing slowly and stoically, screaming and bellowing his pain and his despair but not giving a single coherent word, so strong had been his force of will and the strange conviction that guided him. Joffrey worked on him for the whole night, until finally, at dawn, the Spider expired. He''d known the eunuch was no ordinary man, but he''d expected something from him, anything. Who was Aegon Targeryean in truth? Where would his ships resupply after Lys? Where would they land? How did he communicate with him? Who else was in on the plot? Why did he do this?!


    He snarled with red rage as Varys died, seeking to prologue the suffering just a bit more as he breathed his last. He bellowed in fury as he hacked away at the body with an arming sword, tearing and raging as Sansa ceased her questions and turned from the dead body to STARE AT HIM.


    He came back to himself as he breathed harshly, struggling for air as he leaned on the blood soaked table, swaying as his chest tightened like a snake and he thought he''d die, one step away from clawing at his throat for air as he realized he was soaked in Varys'' remains.


    He was halfway convinced he was dying; the Purple coming for him as he stumbled away from the table and leaned against the wall, his eyes moving by a will of their own and focusing on Sansa, fearing her.


    Her gown was splattered with Varys'' blood, her face streaked with the lines of red that Joffrey had spread around the room as he hacked at Varys like an animal. She stared at him, her expression neutral as Joffrey despaired.


    She hugged him wordlessly, not minding the blood as she tried to calm him down. Joffrey stood like a plank as she squeezed tightly, holding him no matter what, resisting his feeble attempts to shove her away.


    He broke.


    It''d been years since he''d last shed tears, but somehow they came; slowly, painfully, rolling down his cheeks as he bared his cursed insides to Sansa''s eyes and she didn''t say a word, her strong hug anchoring him and warding away the Purple.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 51: Gold.

    Chapter 51: Gold.The days and weeks passed quickly to Sansa; settling in the hostages from the Reach and overseeing the various effects of the war.


    Things had been not as bad as she''d first thought; the horror of the battle and Father''s, Jory''s, Lyra''s and many other''s harrowing funerals had tilted her perception of the world during the first months of her recovery.


    Mother and Robb came south, and she was glad the latter could serve the role of strong older brother to Bran and Arya. The tearful reunion almost ended with Mother bringing all her children back North, though Arya and even Bran would have none of it. After Father''s death he''d badgered Joffrey day and night for a place in the Royal Guard, and her husband had relented in the end. Both him and Arya now bore the bulk of Meera''s training time too, the Reed girl and veteran of the Howling of Wolves convinced that they were potential wargs as well.


    Her own training continued as well, but differently. Lady''s death had not affected the strength of her budding abilities, but it did change how easy it was to use them. She practiced with birds and hummingbirds partly as an internal joke with Joffrey, but also because they were much more mindless beasts than her fearless direwolf. Even thought they were of a much weaker will, Sansa still found it hard to even approach the strength of the connection she''d shared with Lady, and she could barely distinguish different colors when she saw through their eyes.


    Meera admitted there was not much more she could teach her beyond a few tips and book copies from Greywater Watch. The lore the Reeds had saved through the ages was patched and incomplete, and beyond the surprising revelation that her brother Jojen could somehow commune with Heart Trees himself, there was not much else in mystical matters she could teach her.


    Robb had looked like a caged Grey Wind when he''d reached the capital, long after the fighting had ended. He quickly perked up when Joffrey had a quiet word with him though, warning him of the Wildling Host. The full strength of the North would receive Mance Rayder this time, as well as half of the constantly expanding Royal Guard. The Riverlands would send their armies as well, their pride and honor basically demanding it after Joffrey''s gifts and the way they had been powerless to defend King''s Landing from Stannis.


    The Blackworks and the trading companies continued their operations, expanding and employing the smallfolk left with nothing after the war, bringing some much needed coin to the nearly depleted coffers of the Kingdoms and the enormous debt beyond them. Their plans for a Royal Bank of Westeros had to be postponed indefinitely, the loss of gold and the lack of competent administrators being an obstacle which perhaps could have been delegated to Tyrion, if he had still been alive. While Lord Manderly was a capable and loyal Master of Coin, he lacked that spark of innovation and creativity that had seen Tyrion integrating so smoothly into both her and Joffrey''s vision of Westeros.


    Joffrey himself had been unusually quiet after she''d told him about his mother. Tywin had sent her off to Casterly Rock with nary a word, content with being reinstated as Hand of the King. Joffrey had nodded slightly at that, before closing his eyes and saying that it might be for the best if they did something of the sort after their coronation, assuming they couldn''t stop the Long Night this time. Cercei was just too unpredictable, with just enough competence to muck things up but not enough to fix them or carry them through beyond her initial gains.


    She''s a liability, Joffrey had told her with a defeated look¡­ and it was better to send her to Casterly Rock than to have to do something¡­ more extreme. He''d been vulnerable during those days, thinking about the slaughter he''d unleashed upon the Narrow Sea after the anger caused by Stannis'' actions faded away, as well as the way he''d lost control during Varys'' interrogation. The ''cursed'' side of him -as he called it- found it easier to emerge when blood and endless war surrounded his life. He used it as a weapon on the battlefield, directing it against his enemies and being praised all the higher by the lords of the realm for it. The deeper he channeled it though, the easier it was for it to go out of control¡­ and thus he''d returned to his daily meditations under the Heart Tree, considering the corresponding time away from ruling a worthy exchange for some peace of mind and a return of the iron control he''d taken pride of before.


    The world kept moving.


    Ballads and songs sprung up and spread throughout the kingdoms, surprising even her with their popularity and strength. ''To Skin an Iron Turtle'' had been a favorite of the Stormlands; a raunchy, picaresque tavern song about the ''proud Lord Hunter'' doing his level best to hunt and skin a certain, stubborn Turtle that has ''the teme-rity to-take-a-hit and-keep-a go-in''. The song ¨Cof course- referenced Alrick Estermont and the incredible feat of stubbornness and resilience he''d undergone during the final night of Renly''s Folly. The confusion of the sudden battle inside Renly''s pavilion had seen the youngest Estermont fighting for his life, surrounded by hostile Reachlords as he tried to cut his way towards his gutted father. Dickon Tarly ¨Cwho had been by all accounts the jewel in his father''s eye- had tried to stop him¡­ and been promptly skewered for his trouble.


    If Randyll Tarly had been trying to stop the fighting before, he certainly hadn''t been trying too hard after that. The death of the Lord''s son and heir had seen the man explode into a berserker rage that had narrowed his sense of the world to a single target: Alrick himself. Lord Tarly had -by all accounts- been terrifying, a steady harbinger of death that saw the veteran swordsman tearthrough people and even tables apart as he sought to split Alrick in half with the monstrous two hander that was Heartsbane. The young man had prevailed though, and after a ludicrously long while -whether it had been minutes or hours nobody could agree on- Randyll had been tired enough to commit a mistake that gave Alrick the opportunity to kill him.


    Joffrey had knighted the young Estermont the following day, and the ''Iron Turtle'' as he had been known ever since had turned into one of her husband''s most rabid supporters amongst the Stormlords, being a common focal group for the bloodied young men settling into lordships and knighthoods all over the lands. His brother Lord Aemon had been named Warden of the South, since the Tyrell''s had been stripped of the title; the Estermonts would keep watch in the Stormlands, but they would not keep them. Joffrey had decreed the Stormlands themselves a possession of House Baratheon of King''s Landing -in perpetuity- to be handed down to their heir in time, as Dragonstone had been to the Targaryens.


    ''Antlers of Bronze and Iron'' was much more grim and ominous, a song to listen to while drinking peacefully to the memory of dead friends or as a reminder about why it was a bad idea to rebel against House Baratheon of King''s Landing¡­ or for playing a really bad practical joke on a Reacher. ''The King''s Fist'' and ''Blood and Mud'' were particularly popular amongst Guardsmen; the first had become something of an unofficial marching song for the First Regiment (itself something new to Westeros), while the second was sure to pop out whenever enough drunk Guardsmen converged on any given point in time and space.


    The sheer artistic creativity of her countrymen surprised her husband even more than herself. In time, he''d come to regard Westeros as nothing but a lost cause when it came to anything related to art or culture, at least when compared to the Free Cities or the Far East. Some of those notions had rubbed off on her, but she''d swiftly recanted after seeing the sheer display and artistic variety of not only bards and singers, but common smallfolk who converged on taverns during the afternoon and, finding themselves with nothing better to do, decided to create true art. The ''The Mourning She-Wolf'' was melancholic, the ''Last Dance of the Stag'' somehow brought forth both tears and laughter in equal measure, and ''Renly''s Rope'' was sad and incredibly dark, as well as having parts that were not really all that complimentary to King and Queen, or royalty in general.


    Joffrey had not had the heart to ban that one, even if he''d possessed the means of doing it without the whole thing backfiring.


    The songs had been all over the place, but Sansa was starting to understand that they could be directed, molded in a way not only to create fear like Tywin had done with the ''Rains of Castamere'', but also to inspire loyalty, a sense of belonging, or even further enhance a soldier''s prowess on the battlefield. It was an interesting development, and several ideas had been swirling her mind as of late about how to use those in the future¡­


    Time waited for no one but the Purple though, and the world moved on. The start of their reign had been crowned in blood, but its foundation had been solid enough. They ruled side by side, together as they tried to prepare for what was to come; regiments founded and the industry of the Crownlands expanding as smallfolk picked axed and shovel, saw and loom and halberd and crossbow. Prices decreased and demand rose as more and more silver began reaching the smallfolk of the Crownlands, their lot improved slowly as shops and trades opened all over the capital. The Riverlands as well; the banks of the Trident being served by a veritable trading fleet of river galleys as town charters were handed out like knighthoods. Westeros had enormous untapped potential, sporting a variety of important resources and a great amount of population¡­ but there was only so much time to create wealth before that very same prosperity had be used to transform the economy of the continent into a machine to fight the Others.


    The treasury''s balance was precarious though, and more than one time they had to go to the Iron Bank for loans¡­ fortunately, their previous life in Braavos proved profitable, as they knew exactly what to say and what to do to generate a good impression on the bank''s representative. Lord Tywin''s support had been altogether more expensive¡­ but at least the man had been near the top of their list for the Handship anyway.


    They worked themselves to the bone as the storm peeked over the horizon, and the first tidings of war reached the capital¡­


    -: PD :-


    Almost three and a half years after Joffrey woke in Westeros, the Wildlings attacked. They were met by the imposing might of a plentifully manned and stocked Wall. It was said Lord Commander Thorne almost wept when he saw the supply trains making their way up the Kingsroad, northmen, guardsmen, and riverlanders arriving in force to ready the defenses. Five new castles were restored. Trebuchets and catapults were constructed and manned. Arrows fletched and armor shipped.


    Both Joffrey and Sansa knew that every dead body north of the wall would be an enemy soldier come the Long Night, but the destruction brought on by the war and its myriad complications swamped their time irrevocably. Joffrey had never before ruled for such a long time, and Sansa didn''t even have that experience altogether.


    They were inexperienced and it showed. Dealing with a hundred plots, a thousand complications, a million little projects in need of oversight. They simply had no time for it all, no time to leave the capital at such a juncture for extended negotiations and war in the North¡­ and so it was that Joffrey sent Lancel and Olyvar to negotiate with the Wildlings, along with the entirety of the First and Second Regiments of the Guard.


    Without the King or the Queen present to negotiate in person, the outcome was predictable in hindsight. Terms were bandied back and forth, but the wildlings would have none of what Lord Robb would find acceptable, and vice versa. The wildings attacked, and the wildlings were slaughtered and subsequently routed by the knights of the Riverlands.


    News from the North were far away from Joffrey and Sansa''s minds though, as another development-to-be had followed neither time nor location. Ravens had come from the Vale, bearing grim news; Targeryen banners flew from Gulltown''s battlements.


    -: PD :-


    "I can''t believe this¡­" Sansa muttered as she flicked through the letters, almost all of them reports from their spy network or from lords around the Vale. "How could we miss this? Varys¡­ he¡­" she trailed off, reading one of the letters again, "And our spies in Lys¡­"


    Joffrey sighed deeply, pacing around the deserted small council chambers, "He must have had an uncompromised communications channel across the Narrow Sea¡­ and with agents in the Vale itself as well," he muttered. "Leaving him alive after the coronation may have been a mistake," he grumbled.


    "He must have been ready to subvert at least part of Littlefinger''s assets in the Vale; there was a big window of opportunity between Baelish''s ''disappearance'' and our own spy network taking meaningful action," Sansa sighed.


    Joffrey breathed slowly as he leaned over the table, gazing at the map of the Vale of Arryn. "They have no hope of taking Westeros," he said slowly, tracing his finger through the mountain roads. "They''ll seek to take and lock down the Vale before winter; with the mountain passes frozen with snow they''ll have a chance at securing it entirely, each month in rebellion adding a tiny sliver to Aegon''s legitimacy," he mused.


    "How many men are we looking at?" he asked her.


    "Ten thousand Golden Company regulars, around three thousand other sellswords of various stripes, and at least a dozen elephants," she said grimly. "They won''t be able to secure the mountain passes before our forces get there though," she said as she shook her head slightly, "Their plan has already failed."


    "That makes sense with the contradictory letters we''ve been receiving throughout the day," Joffrey agreed, "Whatever your aunt Lysa was trying to do clearly didn''t work, seeing as the Eyrie declared for us yesterday¡­ a letter which was pointedly signed by Lord Nestor Royce and not Lady Lysa¡­" he thought out loud.


    Sansa nodded, "Varys must have manipulated her somehow before we"- there was only a slight pause between the words -"killed him. She must have thought the whole Vale would rise up in rebellion at her word, and Varys was dead before he could turn that into anything approaching reality," she said.


    Joffrey grunted in a sort of guilty satisfaction, "The whole bloodshed these past few years has served its purpose at least¡­ the Vale lords are not stupid, despite what the songs might suggest¡­ " he said, the satisfaction vanishing as he remembered the cost, "At least most of them aren''t. That fucker Aegon must have expected the whole Vale to receive him with open arms instead of the quagmire he''s trying to get himself out of¡­ what''s the latest count again?" he asked Sansa.


    "The Graftons had Gulltown locked tight, and they''re sure to buy mercenaries now that the deception is over. Of the major families supporting the ''restoration'' there''s the Melcolms and the Waynwoods, as well as most of the Houses bordering the northern end of the Bay of Crabs¡­ though that''s more likely out of fear of the ten thousand regulars marching west than any sort of loyalty for Targeryen princes¡­" she said.


    Joffrey grunted again as his eyes followed the map, "Barely a quarter of the Vale''s strength then... With Iron Oaks and Old Anchor they''ve got a solid lock around the bay though, especially if the news about Runestone falling by surprise are true¡­ that would complicate any attempted landings through the south," he muttered, his eyes returning to Sansa''s.


    "What are you going to do?" she asked him, grim.


    "We have to stop them cold. There''s no time to bleed them, and the terrain around the Vale would make that tricky anyway¡­ no," he said as he squared his shoulders, "I''ll have to hack my way through, it''ll be costly but there''s simply no time to waste now that autumn is upon us¡­"


    "The Guard all but drained the Crownland''s manpower, and they''re fighting up north anyway along with half the riverlords¡­ and we can''t move the Stormlords lest the Dornish make their move¡­" she mused before frowning. "So who are you going to take?" Sansa asked him, already knowing the answer as she finished the sentence¡­ though she didn''t like it.


    Joffrey nodded slowly, "It''ll have to be Grandfather. It''s time the Westerlands fight for their King," he declared.


    Sansa gazed at him for a while, biting her lip before he grabbed his head almost forcefully, staring at his eyes. "Don''t let it control you," she told him.


    "What, Tywin?" he asked half-jokingly, only for Sansa to shake her head slowly.


    "Joffrey¡­" she muttered, worried.


    He took one of her hands, squeezing it gently. He bit down the denial before it could leave his throat, and he scowled, "It''s all this fighting, Sansa, all these wars and rebellions one after the other¡­" he whispered, "The fury, the madness of the battlefield¡­" he trailed off, but Sansa''s gaze was relentless, and for all that Joffrey could fool himself, he couldn''t do the same to her. "¡­It brings old shades back, like a sickly grasping hand¡­" he muttered as he squeezed his eyes shut.


    "You vanquished it before, brought it under your own will. You can do it again," she said with absolute certainty.


    Joffrey breathed slowly as he looked at her again, the certainty in her voice anchoring him once again. "I won''t let it control me, not again," he promised her.


    I''ve fought kings and sorcerers, dragons and monsters. I won''t be defeated by this curse, not again¡­ By the Old Gods I swear this, he promised in the privacy of his own mind.


    -: PD :-


    The stench of the battlefield was an old smell to Lord Tywin Lannister.


    He strode with confidence around the dead bodies, quickly so but not so much as to seem hurried. Lord Marbrand nodded deeply as Tywin passed him by, the lord directing a couple of serjeants as they moved bodies out of the way for the coming wagons.


    His banners had marched well enough, their entrance into the Vale uncontested. Lord Nestor Royce ¨Cthe Keeper of the Gates of the Moon- had swiftly arrested Lysa Arryn''s beffudled attempt at rebellion, securing the Eyrie with barely any bloodshed and with it the rest of the Vale to the north and east.


    Tywin almost smiled as he gazed at the broken bodies of the Melcolm and Waynwood armsmen, sprawled over the small field where battle had been joined this morning. The lords of the Westerlands had given a strong showing, smashing right through the paltry banners of this ''Aegon'' pretender. He was honestly surprised the transparent ploy had worked as well as it did for the supposed Targeryen; the deception was obvious to anyone who''d been inside the Red Keep that day, years ago¡­


    Elia Martell wouldn''t have cried like that for some tanner''s boy, he mused as he kept walking.


    Unlike what previous behavior would indicate, Joffrey had agreed with Tywin''s own assessment. There was simply no time to brook the insolence of open rebellion in exchange for lesser casualties. If this rebellion was quashed quickly and without mercy then there was no doubt in Tywin''s mind that his grandson''s reign would be secured until the day he died.


    Joffrey himself was sitting on a stool, still armored as he gazed at the road beyond and the distant call of the sea. He reminded Tywin of himself, when he was around that age¡­ Decisive, brooking no squeamishness when dealing with traitors such as the Reynes and the Castameres.


    These last few years had been eventful for House Lannister. One¡­ son had died, and a daughter had been shamed and rejected from the capital. A King of Lannister blood sat on the Iron Throne, displaying the best qualities of both Baratheon and Lannister, along with the support of most of the Seven Kingdoms at this point in time.


    For all the flaws his daughter had ¨Cand they were legion- she''d accomplished the most important task her house had bestowed upon her, and that had been well worth a dwarf. He''d been satisfied with the final outcome of the seed he''d planted all those years ago, the moment he knew of Lyanna Stark''s death. So satisfied that he''d¡­ almost relented on his daughter''s pleas.


    Almost. A widowed Lannister still capable of having children was too important an asset in the game of thrones to simply let be, after all.


    "Grandfather," Joffrey said courteously, an edge of steel in his voice as he tilted his head slightly, looking at him through the corner of his eye.


    An excellent outcome indeed¡­ even if the boy was a little unsettling at times¡­ to the lesser nobility.


    "You Grace," he said gravely as he bowed in the way appropriate to someone of his station, Joffrey tilting his head to follow him with both eyes.


    "The Westerlands took to the field with courage," the King commented idly.


    "They were eager to demonstrate the might of the Westerlands, Your Grace¡­ especially since they missed most of the fighting down south," Tywin said smoothly, unable to repress a slight tinge of disapproval from his voice.


    He was still irritated with that. Half his strength had spent the war camping near the Ocean Road and threatening the Reach through the north, while the other half had barely reached the capital in time to take a pathetic slice of land from a few Narrow Sea lords. Their near absence from the Dance of Stags had been humiliating¡­ fortunately though, he was here today to rectify that mistake.


    He and twenty five thousand swords, the best of the Westerlands. Tywin gazed at the column of Belmore and Corbray armsmen marching by them, and noticed that they seemed just as determined as the westerlanders. The lords of the Vale had been even more eager to prove their loyalty, being the first to smash against the forces of the rebel lords last week.


    Joffrey nodded easily. It was always an odd mix of courtesy and aloofness that greeted him every time he interacted with his grandson, even when discharging his duties as Hand in the capital. "The true slaughter is yet to come, my lord," said the boy, his eyes shifting back to the road that would take them out of the hills and bring them all the way to Gulltown. A secondary host had split off under the command of Lord Crakehall with orders to take all rebelling castles north of the bay, while the rest of the men marched on to Gulltown and the bulk of the enemy''s forces arrayed to meet them.


    Joffrey stood up, seizing Tywin once again with hardened eyes before nodding and setting off, putting on the antlered helmet the lesser lords seemed to love so much.


    Perhaps offering Cersei to Oberyn Martell was too much, given the scale of her success. Maybe a marriage within the Westerlands would be in order, a reward to the vassal that proved himself the most dependable during the current campaign¡­


    -: PD :-


    "The center is buckling," Jon said urgently as he gazed through the far eye, Joffrey swinging his own as well as he focused on the line of Valemen being steadily ground back by Golden Company armsmen.


    "Fuck. Archers!" Joffrey bellowed, "Concentrate on the center!" he roared, swinging his hand as serjeants picked up the orders and volleys were redirected towards the center of the battlefield. ''Aegon'' or whoever the hells he actually was had decided to force a battle after learning of his disastrous loss a few days ago. His whole campaign had been partially fucked the moment less than a quarter of the Vale had actually raised their banners in rebellion, and the situation had only deteriorated after the Battle of the High Hills. The Waynwood, Wydman, Ruthermont, and Melcolm men had apparently been tasked with holding and fortifying the passes into the bay as long as they could, buying time for the Golden Company to whip the plentiful levies of Gulltown into a vaguely respectable force so they would have a better chance of defeating him¡­ and perhaps march upon the Bloody Gate before reinforcements from the rest of Westeros could arrive.


    Joffrey had just pushed through, painting the passes with the blood of friends and foes alike. He''d abused his numerical superiority until the rebel lords had broken, and then Aegon had had to choose whether to try and hold up inside Gulltown or take to the field against him. Between the prospect of being blockaded by the reconstructed Royal Fleet, and losing even more sellswords and lords to defection, the outnumbered boy-king had apparently decided to throw it all for a small chance at victory.


    Joffrey had maneuvered the lumbering host as best as he could, with adequate if not impressive results¡­


    At least I haven''t smashed any fingers off my vassals yet¡­ he thought ruefully for a second, considering the buckling line. The Golden Company was a superior fighting force to any single household formation of professional men at arms. They had taken the best of westerosi warfare and used Essos as a grindstone to sharpen it until every single soldier and officer knew their role to perfection, optimized for carnage.


    He waited, assessing the lines. The right was holding magnificently under the command of Lord Banefort, and Joffrey''s lips curdled in resigned disgust as he saw the Mountain tearing a gaping hole through a mixture of Golden Company armsmen and various other Essosi mercenaries. The man was using a gigantic longsword with one hand, and a wooden shield that wouldn''t have been out of place protecting a Camel Ballista, wading through a sea of lesser men and splattering blood everywhere.


    "Seems Lord Banefort has a tight hold there," Jon commented idly.


    "I hope he reigns in the Mountain though, they''re to hold, not advance," Joffrey muttered.


    Jon snorted, returning his gaze at the center. The line had stabilized but the Valemen seemed ragged.


    "Not yet," Joffrey answered the unspoken question, "They haven''t shown their little trump card yet," he mused.


    "Little? That''s a funny word," Jon huffed back, making sure his helmet was locked tight.


    Joffrey waited, tapping his fingers impatiently. He wanted to be there, helping to end this whole waste of time and making the enemy bleed¡­


    "That''s a nice ribbon you''ve got there," he said instead.


    Jon turned red, shuffling like the worst liar in the world, "I like green," he clipped.


    "Of course," Joffrey agreed easily. "It''s a nice color¡­ it reminds me of a certain House though¡­ something to do with bogs and lizards," he mused with a frown.


    "We haven''t done anything improper," he said quickly, his voice oddly tight.


    Joffrey snorted, "Relax Jon," he said after a small chuckle, amused at the veteran legate being more nervous about a maid than the battlefield in front of them¡­ though granted, Meera could be pretty scary with a net and a trident. Joffrey tapped his leg plate as he kept gazing at the battle, breathing slowly.


    Not yet, he thought.


    "I''ve¡­" Jon trailed off, sighing before giving Joffrey a rueful smile, "We''ve already decided. I''ll draft a letter to Lord Reed when we get back," he said, oddly serious now.


    Joffrey smiled as he turned and slapped him on the shoulder, the plate creaking. "I''ll send a letter as well, as your proud sovereign," he said with a rakish smile. "Though I doubt it''ll be needed¡­" he trailed off, amused at Jon''s expression.


    "Do you know something?" he asked urgently.


    "Sansa seems oddly wistful whenever I bring up the subject, so I think she''s already spoken to Lord Reed¡­ with successful results I presume," Joffrey confided.


    "That''s-" Jon''s smile vanished as he looked at the center again. "They''re not going to hold," he sentenced before turning back to Joffrey.


    "It''s too soon¡­" Joffrey muttered before squaring his shoulders. "So be it," he sentenced gravely as he put on his antlered helmet.


    "Blood and Mud Joffrey. I''ll signal the regiment," Jon told him as walked quickly to the side, shouting at the waiting formation of halberdiers standing some distance behind the carnage.


    "Blood and Mud," Joffrey muttered, studying the battlefield for a second longer before turning.


    "Lord Brax," he called out calmly.


    "Your Grace," said Lord Andros Brax, who had been standing slightly behind his King, respectfully. The Westerlanders which had shown even a modicum of flexibility had risen high indeed in Joffrey''s council.


    "Take the horse and push through the last knights by the left flank," Joffrey said quickly as he aimed beyond the left flank of the battlefield, where the decimated remnants of the Golden Company knights were fighting a delaying action against a group of bloodied Arryn and Runestone knights. "Then smash their infantry and rout the Grafton contingent," he commanded.


    "It will be done, Your Grace!" said Lord Brax as he smirked slightly and mounted up. The man had been chomping to be left off the leash¡­


    Half of westerosi warfare was all about picking the right man for the job, Joffrey was beginning to understand. Simple in theory, but ''right man'' could carry a wide variety of meanings from the economical to the political to the prestigious¡­


    "Messenger!" barked the King as Lord Brax rallied the waiting half of the Westerlands'' cavalry.


    "Commander!" said the Messenger as he ran here steps and saluted by his side.


    "Tell Lord Tywin to redouble the assault on the left. Once the Grafton and Gulltown men break he is to envelop the center," he said rapidly, studying the battlefield. The first few Valemen in the center were beginning to rout already, running from the golden slaughter that was the disciplined core of the Golden Company. Steel Plate, hammers, poleaxes, and longswords ran with blood as the Targeryen banners peeked over the sea of gold, and Joffrey smiled.


    There he is¡­ he thought in anticipation.


    "Aye Commander!" said the messenger as he ran for the left flank. The Guard made up a tiny percent of his overall force, but Joffrey had been relentless in his use of Messengers to communicate with all his forces.


    "Commander! At your word!" Jon called out loudly, closing the visor on his helmet as the single, reinforced cohort at his back roared once. They were the skeleton of what the Third Regiment was supposed to be, but the early nature of Aegon''s landing during this life had caught the Guard with only a thousand men, the First and Second Regiments far away and fighting in the North.


    "Go!" Joffrey bellowed as he took both hammer and arming sword, joining Jon as the Legate turned to his men.


    "First Cohort! Loose formation!" he roared, "March!" he commanded, and the men responded by lumbering forward with decision, halberds held at sixty degrees as they neared the almost broken line of Valemen right in the center of the battlefield. The waves of the bay crashed in the distance as the slightly steep, wide plains of wheat were trampled into mud, valemen retreating behind the wall of steel and adding their momentum as the first rank reached the Golden Company armsmen.


    Spoiler: Music


    Set to loop.


    "Cold Steel!" roared the soldiers as they charged the last few steps, slamming halberds and crossbow bolts against the enemy. Tolosi slingers rained lead from above just before the clash, one ball tearing the jaw out of a guardsman right next to Joffrey as men screamed and steel found flesh. The pretender''s Essosi backers had ample coin for mercenaries, and it showed on the battlefield.


    "Fire and Blood!" roared the armsmen as they fought back with longsword and mace, poleaxes covering their comrades as bolts pierced through eyes and chests. Guardsmen and Valemen were torn apart by the rhythmical, enduring advance of the Golden Company as javelins moved almost sluggishly through the air, coming down with deceptive force and piercing armor and flesh.


    "Blood and Mud!" roared Joffrey as his men picked up the cry and he lifted his hammer, the antlers on his helmet glinting as he tore into the enemy in turn, his mace and sword disarming defenses and killing all who stood in his way. Jon was right by his side, his halberd a methodical instrument of death as he covered Joffrey from the sides, Ghost guarding Jon in turn as the wall of steel advanced, pouring bolts and steel and death.


    They formed the tip of the spear puncturing into the armsmen, trying to reach the Targeryen banners. Joffrey could see through the corner of his eye as the left flank collapsed under the charge of the Westerlands, the Gulltown levies breaking at the seams as the Grafton armsmen tried to retreat to the center. Grandfather was already carrying out the envelopment, more than seven thousand men grinding the survivors against the center of the enemy army. It wouldn''t be long now¡­


    "The horn!" Jon roared as he slammed the halberd against an armsmen''s chest, the tip puncturing the plate and bathing the man''s golden bracers with red.


    "What horn-" Joffrey trailed off as the Golden Company started to march back, leaving gaps in their defense as they formed columns.


    Fuck, Joffrey thought as the horns of the Guard bellowed again, signaling for his contingencies to snap into effect. He could barely see his Raiders and skirmishers riding out from the flanks, pelting the approaching stampede of flesh going for the center. Arrows and javelins peppered the approaching elephants, but their hardy skin and their golden gambesons blunted the worst of it as only two or three collapsed.


    The remaining score or so of the beats kept charging right towards Joffrey and the center.


    "Brace! Prepare to receive cavalry!!!" Jon bellowed desperately as Ghost howled. More elephants trumpeted their angst as ballista bolts leapt from behind the line, piercing flesh and taking out a few more elephants as Joffrey''s half assed attempt to create a field artillery formation did their best. The lack of time showed though, and over fourteen of the beats reached the columns formed by the Golden Company, funneling the long tusked killing machines as Guardsmen roared shaken defiance and crossbows sang, halberds at the ready.


    The things hit them like the Smith''s Hammer, long white tusks adorned with golden chains and iron tips devastating the line of halberds as the tusks swept Joffrey''s men like grain, dying to bolts and halberds even as they went berserk and stampeded all over the shredded line.


    Jon and Joffrey were bellowing their defiance with a score of valemen and guardsmen as the elephant due to hit them trumpeted to the heavens, its lumbering bulk pouring shadows over the shaking halberds. Ghost leapt in front of the line before the beast reached them though, snarling like a raging Devil and eliciting some sort of primal fear within the trained war machine. The elephant reared back in shock, its riders and archers tumbling to the sides as Jon took the opportunity to dash forward like a madman. He slammed the halberd through the elephant''s guts like a butcher, opening its belly as the beast trumpeted again and fell sideways, smashing the charging men of the Golden Company.


    Joffrey was busy bellowing orders, cursing as the valemen broke and the halberdiers seemed to do the same; stumbling back after the harrowing losses inflicted by the elephants and the devastating charge of the Golden Company''s armsmen right after¡­


    The men around Joffrey had been spared that though, its corresponding elephant screeching despair as Jon climbed upon its fallen form and planted his halberd through the thing''s neck, half of the charging golden armsmen smashed under the bulk of the beast.


    "My White Fists!!!" Joffrey roared as he hefted his sword, "WITH ME!" he bellowed as he charged through the gap, surprising the second line of armsmen. He deflected a poelaxe just before he reached them, planting his hammer on the man''s jaw before spinning past the second poleaxe and diving into the formation, sword slicing through necks and elbows. The charging halberdiers reached them a second later, roaring with their King as a sudden mass of steel pushed through the disorganized formation of enemy soldiers.


    "There they are!" Jon shouted as he pointed with one hand, the Targeryen Three Headed Dragon intermingling with both the White Fist and the Stag and Lion of Joffrey''s house. The battlefield was reduced to a single fight, a single struggle as Joffrey, Ghost, Jon and over two score of halberdiers and valemen slammed against the elite of the Golden Company, banners intermingling.


    "Finally we can get this over with!" Joffrey muttered in satisfaction as he sliced the back of a grizzled veteran''s knee, making him fall on one leg before he planted the hammer on the side of his helmet. He leapt forward past the body, jumping right against a silver haired young boy in fine golden armor, wearing a bejeweled crown for a helmet and sporting an engraved three headed dragon on his chestplate. The boy buckled down grimly, retreating a few steps and blocking Joffrey''s strikes with a shield. Joffrey saw the glint of Valyrian Steel right before he dodged, the sword sailing above and cutting off his antlers.


    "Fire and Blood!" the boy-king screamed in between strikes as Joffrey feinted wildly and hammered Aegon whenever he let his guard down. With him dead the Company would break, and the whole host with them. He could hear fighting all around him, the chaos caused by the elephants and the encirclement turning the battlefield into a madhouse.


    "Blackfyre eh? I think I''ll put it on the Throne!" Joffrey laughed, stepping aside and letting the predictable vertical slash sail harmlessly by¡­ though a bit closer than he''d calculated. Valyrian Steel made for fast blades. "What do you say, Waters?" he tried to rattle him as he hammered the boy''s arm and Aegon retreated, his expression a mixture of outrage and fear before Jon struck low from Joffrey''s side, his halberd licking the boy''s leg piece.


    "Connington! Protect your King damnit!" roared a young knight in understated panic, a tabard of ducks upon a field filling Joffrey''s vision as the knight struck. Joffrey parried the longsword, trying to close in with his new adversary as Aegon kept retreating.


    A knight wearing the tabard of the Conningtons emerged from the roiling mass of steel and death all around them, forcing Jon back. The legate reacted magnificently, jamming the tip of his halberd against Connington''s sword, tearing it sideways and repeating the first disarming move Joffrey had taught him, years ago.


    Connigton barely had the time to draw his dagger before Jon tore the man''s head apart with the axe head, advancing unto Aegon as Guardsmen and gold clad soldiers fought and died all around them. Ghost made sure to keep Jon''s back cleared, snarling and mauling any who dared to close from behind.


    "Jon!!!" screeched the boy king as the Connigton knight fell, bellowing in fury before meeting Legate Snow halfway, clashing brutally.


    Joffrey raised his eyebrows as the Duck knight feinted expertly, moving sideways before going for a thrust. The halfswording technique worked perfectly and punctured a hole in Joffrey''s chest plate, piercing shallowly before the King hammered the knight''s hand and retreated.


    This one is good, he thought as he bit down the pain, reassessing his opponent. He feinted and probed, getting a feel for the man as Jon and Aegon fought by his side, Jon shuffling backwards as Blackfyre mangled his vambrace.


    "Watch that blade! It''s lighter and faster than it looks!" Joffrey bellowed with a tinge of apprehension as he parried the slash from the duck knight and he kicked him back.


    Best to end this quickly, he thought as he closed the distance with the knight. He tried to ward him off with the longsword but Joffrey locked the blade between sword and hammer, reaching the man''s face and headbutting him.


    Fucking Aegon cut off my antlers, he grumbled as the bruised knight stumbled back and he parried the sloppy slice from the longsword. Ghost gave a harrowing howl as Joffrey closed in and jammed the arming sword through the stunned knight''s elbow, and the hair at the back of his neck tingled as he turned to Aegon.


    Jon was looking at a deep gash that ran from his shoulder to his throat, his plate mangled and twisted as he held two distinct pieces of halberd. "For Jon Connington!!!" roared Aegon as he ran him over with Blackfyre, the black-silvered blade emerging from the back of Jon''s torso.


    Joffrey''s face twisted as the red haze slammed into him, a wordless, shrill roar crawling from his throat as he slapped aside the duck knight''s longsword with a gauntlet and he planted a mace on the man''s face.


    "Today the Three Headed Dragon rises again!!!" Aegon roared in triumph as he realized he''d just killed an officer of the enemy force, turning to Joffrey as the ragged men of the golden company cheered him on, victory and anger warring in his face as he realized the duck knight was dead.


    "The Blade of Kings!!!" roared the nearby armsmen in victory, the guardsmen snarling back and gazing at each other and their King as they fought, shaken at the loss of the legate.


    "Fancy this is a song?" Joffrey asked darkly as he walked quickly towards the son of a whore, striding over the dark red haze as he discarded both hammer and sword.


    Aegon snorted at that, "So this is how it ends," he said with a surprised smirk, "This one''s for Duck," he said angrily, like a rightful knight from a tale, slicing down with Blackfyre and angling for a sweeping cut through Joffrey''s plate.


    Joffrey didn''t change his stride. Instead, he brought his hands together and materialized Brightroar through a swirl of Purple fractals, the golden blade emerging into reality and stopping Blackfyre in its tracks.


    The strange, dissonant clash of Valyrian Steel rang through the battlefield, knights and levies and soldiers turning to watch the cascade of distorted light that illuminated the battlefield for a brief second.


    "What?!" Aegon stammered, eyes wide before Joffrey slammed a gauntleted fist on his face. The brutal blow made him stumble back, and Joffrey stalked forward with a contained snarl. Aegon kept shuffling back, returning Blackfyre to a low guard as he eyed Brightroar in incomprehension. "Kill him! Kill him now!" he bellowed in near panic.


    Two grizzled veterans of the company jumped at him, but Joffrey slipped past their strikes and sliced one''s leg in half, leaving him screaming on the ground before ducking below the second one''s strike. He jammed the blade backwards, piercing the second man''s spine cleanly through the back plate, his stride towards Aegon relentless.


    "True Songs are a dark and terrible thing," Joffrey told him as he stepped left and right quickly, disorienting Aegon before slamming Brightroar sideways in a brutal cut. The parry screeched throughout the battlefield, Joffrey twisting in a circle and cutting the top part of Aegon''s shield.


    "Kill him! Kill him right now!" screeched Aegon, but the men of the Golden Company were breaking, running as the banners of the Westerlands flew nearby, Lannister Lions shaking wildly under the winds as lances tore through plate and flesh, an armored Tywin riding tall at the head of a wedge of knights slaughtering their way to Joffrey.


    "Thought they''d just hand you the Kingdoms?" Joffrey growled, moving minutely to his left and letting the blade whisk through. "They all think the same," he said lowly, fury and resignation coloring his voice as he sliced Aegon''s hand cleanly with a quick uppercut, the shield falling to the ground with a torrent of blood.


    The boy king screamed as the stump kept squirting blood, his crazed slash barely phasing Joffrey as he preempted it entirely, grabbing the boy''s sword hand and twisting it sideways; baring it like butcher working with a pig. He slammed Brightroar through it, the brutal cut parting plate and flesh. Blackfyre fell on the mud, Aegon''s hand still grasping it tightly as his scream redoubled in intensity.


    "Die," Joffrey whispered in the boy''s screeching face, aiming Brightroar for a thrust through the neck before a growl stopped him. The men were fleeing all around him, some of the Golden Company armsmen dropping their blades as they looked at him, agape as their liege kept screaming and Ghost turned from the body of his fallen partner, red eyes gazing at Aegon the Sixth.


    "He''s all yours," Joffrey told the direwolf as he threw the crying pretender to the ground. Ghost tore through the boy''s throat like scythe, ending him swiftly and brutally with a snap.


    Joffrey breathed shallowly, and a tiny part within him screamed in despair as he realized he was not yet satisfied.


    Jon was worth a score of them put together, he thought as he turned towards the scrambling and surrendering soldiers of the Golden Comapany, smiling darkly as he advanced upon them. Brightroar felt as light as a feather in his hands, and he struggled to breathe as he hefted the golden blade. s?a??h th? N0??F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Don''t let it control you, whispered a voice deep within, and he was paralyzed as he gazed at the shaking, surrendered armsmen. The blade trembled in his hand before he took another deep breath, war and blood and death calling to the thing he wanted nothing but to bury forever.


    Jon was worth a hundred of them, he thought, his snarl growing twisted before he heard Ghost moving away from Aegon''s corpse. The direwolf was now by Jon''s side, licking the boy''s face halfheartedly.


    He breathed deeply one more time, and turned away from the trembling men, walking towards Jon and kneeling right beside him.


    What would he think, to see me like this? He wondered, and it was that thought that carried him the rest of the way past the red haze.


    He spent a moment staring at him, trying to understand how he could see his friend die so many times and not go mad every time he saw him again. So many times he''d seen him die¡­ By his own hand, by those of his enemies, by his side, fighting for his life, for revenge, for his friends, for his family¡­


    He cradled Jon''s head between his arms, wondering if he''d ever see him grow old and have grandchildren, or if the sick cycle of the Purple would deny him even that. He wondered if he''d ever knight his brave friend''s sons after the Cycle was vanquished and his curse over.


    The men gave him a wide berth, watching him in awe or terror depending on the color of their banners. The might of the Westerlands ran down the routing infantry as guardsmen and armsmen secured the surrender of the rest.


    Just another day in Westeros, Joffrey thought darkly, turning his eyes to Aegon''s body. He took a few minutes to memorize the boy''s features before he stood up again, the duties of kingship already calling as lords and officers came to him for orders.


    Next time we meet, your end will be far less glorious, he promised, letting the mantle of the warrior king envelop him again as Messengers and Lords arrived in search of orders.


    Westeros needed its King.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: AN


    This may be moving at too fast a pace, with a lot more tell than show, but ultimately I decided to keep it compressed rather than powering on for a few more in depth chapters and stalling out.

 Chapter 52: Undying.

    Surprise!--------------------


    Chapter 52: Undying.


    Joffrey''s knights swept throughout the northern ends of the Bay of Crabs, taking out deserters and holdouts as they marched on Gulltown. They quickly realized there would be no siege though; the city had already been set ablaze. Aegon''s sellswords had been the first to flee the battlefield, and thus the ones which had suffered the least amount of casualties. They had turned on their masters pretty quickly after news of the defeat had reached them, pillaging the city and trying to get a hold of anything which could float, trying to escape back to Essos and away from Joffrey''s reputation.


    It reminded him of the chaos he''d seen when he''d arrived at the Dawn Fort, marching at the head of a column of soldiers and finding absolute madness of a wholly human nature. Much as he''d done before, Joffrey led the slaughter of the panicked sellswords as he entered through the opened city gates, the Royal Navy intercepting the ships that managed to leave the harbor.


    He''d learned from his mistakes in the Reach, taking the time to settle the issues surrounding the rebel lords. Hostages were taken, keeps and lands exchanged and the King''s Peace restored even if part of the Vale had been devastated by the fighting.


    Lord Royce was made Warden of the East until young Robyn Arryn was of age. The Royces of Runestone had been put to the sword after the Golden Company''s surprise attack, and the lord of the only surviving branch had been Joffrey''s stoic supporter ever since¡­ The Vale would do well under his guidance.


    The stories about how Brightroar had come to his aid in his time of need grew more exaggerated by the telling, and Joffrey was deeply amused by the reaction of his countrymen at the blatant show of magic. He hadn''t cared much for it during the heat of the moment, when an awe struck soldier asked him how he''d done that. ''I needed a sword to even the fight against the usurper'' had been a particularly lazy answer, but his troops had bought it whole, hook line and sinker.


    Magic hadn''t even entered the discussion. Of course Good King Joffrey, warrior and scholar, had nothing to do with the likes of Bloodraven, accursed and feared sorcerer. Every Westerosi knew that someone in shiny plate who led from the front was incapable of otherworldly horrors¡­ No, Good King Joffrey''s Valyrian Steel sword was but a sign of the heavens themselves favoring his cause and lineage.


    Joffrey supposed he painted a distinct image quite at odds with that of a sorcerer. Goring his enemies to death with a set of bronze antlers might have had something to do with it¡­ After all, who would ever think the son of Robert Baratheon sorcerer material?


    He didn''t know if that reaction was because by now he was undisputed as King of Westeros, or if it was because the people truly thought the whole farce to be true¡­


    Then again, Sansa''s quiet visit to the Sept of Baelor and the High Septon''s subsequent confirmation of the ''miracle'' must have helped a bit.


    Joffrey himself was received like a hero back in the capital, though all the flower petals and the cheering smallfolk couldn''t quite take the edge off the wound Meera left in his psyche, her hollow expression seared in his mind as she gazed at Jon''s casket and the mourning Ghost, who had not left his side ever since.


    Sansa had been strangely stunned by the news. She''d never gotten along with Jon before this life, for reasons she had trouble putting into words. To learn that he''d died fighting to protect her husband had left her slightly dazed, thinking about memories of her early childhood in Winterfell and Jon''s presence in them, Catelyn''s glare a constant specter feeding into her own uncritical disdain of the brave boy.


    Lancel and Olyvar wrote that Robb''s great victory in the North had been overshadowed by the death of his half-brother, and he''d cut off the celebrations so he could return to Winterfell and bury him in the Stark''s own crypt. Mance Rayder and most of the wildling leadership was dead, the host''s constituent tribes splitting apart. Those few who survived kneeled to the Lord of Winterfell and were finally granted passage south, to the southernmost North and away from old grudges. Rumors about the White Walkers were pretty much ignored by the northern lords, and Joffrey knew the time to reveal the truth of their ultimate enemy was fast approaching. The invasion itself was bound to occur around six to seven years after he''d woken up, given the presence of Frey wights in the midst of the Dawn Fort''s siege and some haphazard calculations¡­


    He was fast approaching the fifth year of this life.


    Their preparations would soon require everyone in Westeros to know the truth, and Joffrey dreaded the panic and disbelief that was to come. Kingsguards were replaced, Ser Jaime taking the mantle of Ser Barristan and all the more uncomfortable for it. The Small Council was filled with lords from the coalition that had supported the royals from the beginning; riverlanders, northmen, and westerlanders forming the bedrock of it while the Vale and the Stormlands filled secondary positions around them. The Reach had nothing but hostages, and Dorne was as silent and surly as ever, a constant concern on Sansa''s side¡­ The Iron Islands were similarly quiet, their lords dispersing after having carried out some sort of meeting on Pike, the more radical elements choosing to raid Essos instead.


    The last potential problem before the Long Night that Joffrey could think of was Daenerys, but the scattered rumors coming from the east pretty much all agreed on her being hopelessly bogged down in Slaver''s Bay, even crowning herself the Queen of all three slaver cities and vowing on their conquest. There had been constant battles near Yunkai and Mereen as a coalition of slavers marched their armies against her, war ravaging the land and showing no sign of ending within the next five years.


    By then the world would have other concerns¡­ if anyone was left alive to have them, that is.


    The banners of war in the west were being stored, at least for the moment. Now it would be a waiting game, harvesting as much grain as they could as the roads were expanded and the Wall reinforced¡­


    -: PD :-


    "I still feel her sometimes. Lady," Sansa said absently as they cuddled in their bed, the concerns of state over for the night.


    "How so?" Joffrey asked from behind, one hand gently stroking her hair.


    "Like¡­ as if she were right there, by my side. But then I realize she''s not and it physically pains me," she said thoughtfully.


    Joffrey kept scratching her head as he thought, eyes cloudy. "It makes me remember how it felt when I lost my arm, back in the Beyond," he said after a while.


    Sansa turned to face him, grabbing his hand gently and tracing the contours of his arm. "Did it¡­ burn?" she asked.


    Joffrey tilted his head slightly before resting it completely on the pillow, "Yeah, that would be a way of describing it," he said.


    "A warg," she mused idly, "I suppose a warg without her companion would be akin to losing a limb," she mused as she felt Joffrey''s forearm, looking at his scars.


    "I still can''t get over that," Joffrey said with a gentle smile, "My very own sorceress," he quipped.


    "I wish. Still, looking through the eyes of eagles or owls or something should be worth more than a thousand soldiers right? To a competent commander at least," she asked him.


    "More like hummingbirds," he said cheekily; Sansa was convinced he''d never tire of that joke. She pressured his arm until she wiped that grin off his face, "Ow. Yeah, very useful. A million soldiers," he grunted.


    "Ow! I''m serious Sansa!" he said with a small huff as she pressured him some more. "If you could get a mouse or something into the enemy''s command tent¡­" he said longingly, as if he were about to devour a smoked roll after a session in the yard.


    "I was thinking more about putting a big chainmail over Lady and riding her into battle by your side," she said instead.


    Joffrey laughed, but the glint in Sansa''s eyes made him wary, "Sansa, the battlefield-"


    "What Joffrey? Is no place for a woman? Really?" she dared him.


    He huffed instead, looking away before trying again, "My strength is on the battlefield and its environs, yours is on the court. Someone has to man the political front while I''m out there breaking skulls," he reasoned.


    "What a fine, neat division of labor you have there dear," she said drily, "It''s not as if that theory lasted less than a single life before it was torn to shreds," she told him. "Westeros isn''t nice like that. Nor is the rest of the world. Circumstances change and plans crumble, and I will end up in some sort of battlefield sooner or later¡­ so you better get used to the idea," she said defiantly.


    Joffrey sighed as he blinked lazily, looking at her deep blue eyes, "I know," he muttered.


    They spent a while there, gazing at each other as they remembered the colossal task on their shoulders. It was easy to forget about it when in the middle of things, and the gravity of it seemed all the greater when they remembered.


    "Does it get any easier?" Sansa asked suddenly, remembering Lyra''s face as she squirmed in surprise and Ser Davos'' sword tore through her.


    "Yes," Joffrey whispered after a long moment, "I''m afraid it does," he said.


    "Good," she murmured in turn, holding his hands close. "Together," she whispered.


    "Together," he swore.


    -: PD :-


    "I understand your point very well, Your Grace, but I still fail to understand the necessity of it," Tywin said drily, gazing at his sovereigns.


    "Rest assured Lord Tywin, the gravity of the affair cannot be understated," Sansa rebuked her Hand gently.


    "A gravity which needs to be resolved by a Grand Council? I hope you understand the implications of calling one at this juncture, after all the rebellions have been quashed," Tywin said sternly, still standing up in the Small Council chambers. The other members had long since left, and Joffrey sighted as he looked at his grandfather.


    "We''ll inform you when we have the evidence to back the claim in our hands, which shouldn''t be long now. Until then, we require patience," Joffrey told him seriously.


    "Very well then," Tywin finally sighed in defeat, standing up reluctantly and bowing. He was hallway towards the door when he suddenly stopped, turning to stare at Sansa like some sort of mechanism. "If I may be so bold, is this matter related to the realm''s lack of an heir?" he asked gravely, almost woodenly as he stared at her.


    Sansa placed a hand on Joffrey''s shoulder before he could take a step forward, and she spoke before he could get an angry word in edgewise. "Of course not, you can lay those concerns to rest my lord," she said.


    Tywin bowed again, oozing curdled relief and suspicion before leaving the room altogether.


    "I swear, dealing with him is like trying to get juice out of a Grey Cacti," Joffrey muttered angrily, "And the juice is freaking poisonous," he added with a grunt.


    Sansa patted him on the shoulder again, "Now now, no insulting the Hand of the Realm lest his pride prickles again," she said with a wayward grin.


    "It''s just- the sheer gall of the man, from this to stuff as petty as being the last to start on his dish when the rest of the council is dining together," Joffrey huffed as they walked out of the room and along one of the Red Keep''s long corridors. "I gave him Blackfyre so he could stop hemming about Brightroar, but that just rechanneled his damned pride," he grumbled before taking a deep breath. "How was your morning anyway? Couldn''t ask before Lord Manderly was all over the table tossing parchment like coppers," he asked her.


    "Quiet, actually," she said, smoothing the small coronet over her head. "Had an early lunch with Maergery; all smiles and compliments," she said.


    "That bad huh?" he said.


    "Talk about cacti, this one''s as thorny as they come," she said, resigned.


    "Told you. That apple didn''t fall far from the tree¡­ or the pollen didn''t fly far from the rose¡­ though Olenna is a Redwyne by birth so I guess a ship carried the pollen?" he mused out loud.


    "You''re not making any sense Joffrey, bard thou are not," she said, amused.


    "I was getting somewhere with it," he complained.


    They crossed the threshold into the next hallway, a few servants bowing respectfully as they carried dirty laundry and food. "Stormking!" clipped an armsmen from the Stormlands as he straightened even more ¨Csomehow- standing guard over the next door.


    Joffrey nodded at the man as they passed him by, and Sansa looked at him until he had the decency to smile a bit. "Tell them to stop, I can''t handle it any longer," she told him, unable to repress a chuckle as they neared the next corridor, this one deserted as it guided them to the outer courtyard.


    Joffrey didn''t deign that with a respond, except to frown as he pushed out his chest. "In a coat of gold or a coat of black," he said gruffly, quickly as he tumbled over the words before Sansa could stop him, "A stag still has antlers and-mine-are-long-and-sharp-my-lord-as-long-and-sharp as-" he was interrupted as a yellow finch flew from the nearby window like a javelin, striking Joffrey in the center of his forehead with a clipped beak.


    "Ow!" Joffrey grumbled, trying to catch the finch as Sansa chuckled again, directing it towards Joffrey''s hair.


    "He''s not finding any antlers," she said innocently, still walking as Joffrey struggled to catch up, trying to ward off the bird as it tried to rummage through his hair.


    "Come on Sansa! It''s a good song!" he complained as he reached her, the finch flying to her extended index finger.


    "No its not. It''s a blatant copy with zero originality," she huffed, taking a few small seeds from the discreet pouch by her waist. "Not antlers yet hm?" she asked the cute yellow bird, smiling as it gobbled down the seeds.


    "Anyway, any progress with her yet?" Joffrey asked, regaling the finch with a glare.


    "I''m getting a handle on the woman''s character alright. She''s pretty good at this¡­ though not as good as she thinks she is, I''d hazard. She lacks a certain bite," she said as the finch leapt off, flying away through the next window in the hallway.


    "Maybe I should see her myself, it''s been a long time¡­" Joffrey mused, looking at Sansa through the corner of his eye.


    "No, it''s not necessary. I''ve got her under control," she said quickly.


    Too quickly.


    There was a pregnant pause before Joffrey gave her a rakish grin, and Sansa groaned internally.


    "Sansa¡­" he said slowly, tasting the word. "Are you worried?" he asked as his eyebrows rose higher and higher.


    She knew her husband enough by now to not even try to deny it, "I''m not worried, not exactly," she almost grunted.


    Joffrey kept staring at her, and Sansa grumbled before speaking again. "She''s pretty," she admitted after a moment.


    Joffrey kept staring at her with that damnable smirk.


    "She''s gorgeous Joffrey, I''m not blind!" she finally let it out. "All composed and dressed up like a peacock, and strutting like one as well!" she grumbled.


    "Afraid she''ll woe me like the errant kitty I am?" he asked suggestively.


    "I know it''s idiotic," she mumbled self-consciously, avoiding his gaze.


    "Hm, she does have ample¡­ qualities," he mused as he walked closer to her.


    "That finch is still out there," Sansa warned him.


    "Don''t worry Sansa, she''s got nothing on your butt," he quipped as he discreetly bumped his waist against hers.


    "You would know hm?" Sansa said as she bumped him back, cornering him against the wall as she pressed against him. "You''re certain you died before consummating that particular marriage?" she asked with a gimlet eye.


    "Never did the deed!" he swore as Sansa stared, suspicious. The damnable finch flew from the window again, coming to a stop atop her shoulder and glaring at him with its little beady eyes.


    "¡­ I did see her naked ¨Conce- okay!?" he confessed. "She has nothing on your thighs as well," he added after a moment, feeling his wife''s long legs with both hands.


    She seemed undeterred as she huffed, the finch pecking Joffrey''s forehead again. "Not good enough dear," she said before kissing him strongly.


    "There''s the bite," Joffrey chuckled before returning the favor, Sansa''s hands roaming his breeches as they breathed harshly. "Lord Darry''s supposed to be waiting by the Sept right?" he said reluctantly.


    "What''s the point of being royalty if you can''t have a little fun now and then?" Sansa reasoned, and Joffrey found the argument very convincing as he flipped their positions, pinning Sansa against the wall.


    "A servant is bound to find us," he said between kisses, "Royalty has beds too," he remembered as the poor finch seemed to grow dizzy; tumbling around them for a few seconds before flying out the nearest window as fast as it could.


    "There''s a storage room nearby," she whispered in his ear, sighing when Joffrey''s hands wandered upwards.


    "For old times'' sake?" Joffrey agreed with a lusty chuckle.


    Sansa suddenly grew wooden in his arms. "Stop," she told him.


    "Why? Fuck Lord Darry," he said with feeling before frowning, "Actually scratch that plan," he said with another chuckle, tasting her neck and the Myrish perfume she loved so much.


    "Joffrey, stop," she said again, an edge of panic in her voice as she grabbed his shoulders tightly.


    "What''s the matter?" he said as he looked around them, eyes cycling around the two ends of the deserted hallway. "Sansa?" he asked as her face grew pale.


    "The birds¡­ the birds are scared Joff," she stuttered as she rubbed her neck in anguish, the sparse little hairs on her arms standing on edge.


    "Scared? Sansa what are you- what birds?" Joffrey asked her as he drew his arming sword, placing her at his back and leaving a hand free to summon Brightroar at a moment''s notice.


    Spoiler: Music


    ------


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    "All of them," she whispered in terrified awe, and an earth shattering roar punctuated her words as the stones of the Red Keep trembled.


    They ran to the nearby window and saw a black shape diving for the harbor, leaving a sea of bright red fire in its wake as it set the docks ablaze, the ships of the Royal Navy burning at anchor as two other shapes flew close by, incinerating the harbor itself and sections of the wall, scores of fishermen and sailors screaming as the flames ate them alive before they could reach the water.


    "No¡­" Joffrey muttered as he gazed at the three dragons; a silver, long haired figure riding the black one. The bells of King''s Landing were tolling, the whole city screaming as the black shape turned around for another pass. Its wings stretched by more than ten meters from tip to tip, black scales and eyes as red as the inferno it unleashed upon Baelor''s Sept, melting the great bronze bells into slag as it perched upon the tallest tower and rained fire from above.


    "Daenerys¡­ she was supposed to stay in Mereen¡­" Joffrey whispered in stunned horror, watching as his city was set ablaze by three dragons. The green scales of Rhaegal shimmered as the beast flew low over the Street of Seeds, vomiting liquid fire and leaving a gash of red over the city. "She''s going to burn down the entire city¡­" he muttered in horror as the flames leapt higher and he remembered the other time King''s Landing had burned, at the hands of the Red Wolf.


    He turned his gaze to Sansa as she snarled lowly. "That bitch is not going to burn downeverything we''ve accomplished here," she vowed as she grabbed the windowsill with both hands, clamping down her eyes and showing her teeth as she inhaled sharply, as if she were lifting the weight of the world.


    Joffrey leapt on the window by Sansa''s side, looking down at the chaos of the outer courtyard. Men were running around in a daze, some trying to get buckets of water as others ran from the towers, strapping armor as they battered panicked servants out of the way.


    "TO ARMS! MAN THE BALLISTAS!!!" he roared as he materialized Brightroar in a flash of eldritch light, "CROSSBOWS TO THE WALLS! OURS IS THE FURY!!!" he roared above the din, cutting through the panic as men turned to stare at him.


    Sansa moaned, tilting her head slowly as Drogon wobbled in the air, her moan morphing into a scream as the dragon roared to the high heavens and turned to stare right at them from across the city.


    Sansa screamed again as blood run from her nose, Joffrey holding her by the shoulder as she shook wildly and almost fell through the window. "I, I can''t- He''s so angry- too strong- " she moaned incoherently, breathing harshly as Joffrey vaulted back to the corridor, putting her hand around his shoulders and half carrying her through a set of stairs as a distant roar increased in intensity and a flash of heat erupted above them, the screams outside magnifying by a thousand as Sansa shook her head wildly and she straightened.


    "You managed to stun him somewhat!" Joffrey bellowed over the cacophony as they ran down the stairs, "Can you do it again?" he asked her as they emerged into the courtyard. The section of the Red Keep where they''d been but seconds before was now in flames, and Sansa nodded decisively as she took in a breath of fresh air.


    "I- I can try!" she said as she blinked the white out of her eyes. "You won''t have much time!" she said with growing confidence as they ran across the courtyard.


    "The green one''s coming for another pass!!!" shrieked a Guardsman as Joffrey grabbed him by the shoulder.


    "GET THE CROSSBOWS ON THE WEST WALL!" he roared in the man''s face before shoving him towards it. Men bellowed as the bells kept tolling and Guardsmen and Redcloaks ran for the walls, officers hollering as teams carried lighter ballista pieces up the stairs and servants searched desperately for buckets.


    Joffrey and Sansa ran for the stairs as well, the shadow of Drogon spinning away as Rhaegal came in for a pass, flying past the burning silhouette of Baelor''s sept and heading straight for the Red Keep. The crossbowmen looked too shocked to run, ashen faced as stone-like hands followed the drill they''d been hammered on month after month.


    Joffrey strode through the front rank, just a step away from the crenellations as the city burned and teams of shaking Stark guardsmen loaded the nearby ballistae; long wicked bolts of iron peeking from the siege engines. "We''ll have but one chance!" Joffrey bellowed as he hefted Brightroar above, walking amongst the soldiers along the westernmost battlements, reaching Sansa who''d ran up to one of the crenellations and was staring at the approaching glimmer of green that was Rhaegal. "Wait for my signal!" he roared as more soldiers climbed the stairs and kneeled by the crenellations, the clanking of reloading crossbows an enveloping sound that almost managed to drown the city''s screams as Sansa breathed deeply.


    "This one''s weaker," Sansa whispered, breathing harshly as Joffrey held her tightly, Brightroar still held aloft. "The other one ¨CDrogon- there was this presence¡­ fury¡­ madness¡­" she whispered as she swayed, each breath tilting her back and forth as she blinked repeatedly.


    "Do you have a feel on it?" Joffrey asked her as Rhaegal cleared the flames of Baelor''s Sept, each wave of its wings a crack of sound as it raced for the Red Keep like an arrowhead.


    "Yes," Sansa whispered as her eyes turned completely white and her breathing turned mechanical, regular.


    "Wait for my word," Joffrey whispered, gazing as the green beast as it crossed the Hook.


    "Here it comes!" screeched one of the crossbowmen.


    "WAIT FOR MY SIGNAL! AIM FOR ITS MOUTH AND WINGS!" he bellowed, quivers rattling inside their crossbows as the men shook and a few ran for their lives.


    "HOLD!... HOLD!!!" Joffrey roared as the wind picked up and Sansa''s grip on the wall turned bloody, her nails breaking.


    Rhaegal roared as it opened its maw, vermillion flames dripping from its maw as it reached Aegon''s High Hill and Joffrey squeezed his wife''s arm.


    Sansa twisted her head harshly as the green dragon convulsed in midair for a moment, mouth agape and wings held wide as it wobbled in a daze that lasted a single second.


    "LOOSE!!!" Joffrey roared as he slashed down with Brightroar, crossbows singing to the wind and ballistae shrieking defiance as the air was filled with iron and wood. Scores of bolts materialized all over Rhaegal''s wings as thick ballista bolts tore holes through its gaping maw. The beast shrieked as it lost altitude, men screaming and running out of the way before the dragon crashed against the wall with a brutal snap.


    "FINISH IT OFF! FINISH IT OFF!!!" Joffrey roared as he took a loaded crossbow from a stunned Guardsmen''s hands, standing over the crenellations and aiming below. Rhaegal had caved part of the wall they were standing on, one of its wings a mangled wreck and two of its legs broken. The beast seemed dazed, moving its long neck wildly as if trying to get a hold of its caved head.


    Joffrey swore as he missed the eye by an inch, crossbowmen leaning on the crenellations and shooting the beast to no effect.


    "Sansa! Can you hold it steady for two seconds?!" Joffrey asked her as he took another crossbow from a soldier, the tip of the bolt following the beasts shaking head as it tried to stand up.


    "It''s in pain¡­ scared¡­ it''s mother''s call a distant one¡­" Sansa muttered as she leaned on Joffrey, staring at the beast. She closed her eyes, frowning, "It''s hard," she said in anguish, squeezing her eyes as tears descended down her cheeks and Joffrey breathed deeply, the sounds around him dissipating as he aimed his crossbow at the beast''s eyes.


    Come on Sansa, come on my love, he prayed, white noise enveloping him as Rhaegal almost managed to stand up, its motions interrupted as it turned its long head sideways suddenly, almost brutally, its eye staring directly up at Joffrey for a second.


    Chrrick.


    The bolt pierced cleanly, even the feathers lodging themselves tight within the beast''s skull as it screeched in its death throes. Sansa screamed as she held her own eye, stumbling wildly before Joffrey dropped the crossbow and held her close, trying to soothe her as the door to the tower by their side slammed open and more crossbowmen streamed through.


    She couldn''t stop trying to feel her left eye with her hands, and Joffrey grabbed them both tightly as he slammed his forehead against hers. "You''re here Sansa! You''re here!" he shouted in her face, her mad breathing steadying a bit as she blinked repeatedly.


    "I--¡­ I''m okay," she croaked, swallowing heavily as she held on to him and the soldier''s ragged cheering turned into screams.


    "Right above us," she whispered as she blinked, and Joffrey shoved them both through the opened door to the tower by their side, narrowly avoiding the jet of flames that incinerated his soldiers.


    "RHAEGAL!!!" screeched a voice outside, followed by a mind numbing roar as the tower itself started to heat up.


    "We have to get out of here!" Joffrey shouted as he helped Sansa up, carrying his limping wife as they descended the stairs and the stones around them shimmered. The tower creaked ominously as they tried to reach the lower levels, stones slamming around them as the whole thing tilted sideways slightly. The roaring and the buffeting of sheer fire against the tower turned worse as Joffrey looked up, the whole tower tumbling sideways as streams of fire emerged from sudden holes in the stonework. Bricks flew like shrapnel all around them, one of them hitting him in the forearm before the whole structure came down upon them and he tried to carry Sansa to the door right in front of them-


    -: PD :-


    ¡­


    ¡­¡­.


    ¡­¡­¡­¡­


    His mouth had been overpowered by an ashen taste. It felt dry, painfully so.


    Joffrey tried to open his eyes, forcing through the strange lock keeping them closed. He blinked slowly, trying to shake off the cobwebs with one hand before he screamed lowly, biting his lips in pain.


    He turned his head slightly and realized he was half buried in stone and bricks, his right forearm clearly fractured. His other arm was buried in debris, along with both his legs and part of his chest. He moved his right arm carefully towards his face, trying to carry his palm closer. He ignored the spikes of pain, finally managing to clear the dirt off his face and getting a somewhat clearer view of his surroundings.


    A heavy curtain of ash seemed to have surrounded the outer courtyard and beyond. It stuck to his face, hot and sticky as he moved his head slightly, peering at the desolation around him. Bricks and mortared stone seemed to be everywhere, a few wisps of fire burning here and there around the stables and the Godswood behind Maegor''s Holdfast. Whole sections of the Red Keep seemed to have been subjected to dragonfire, half collapsed buildings showing their blackened wooden ribs to the air.


    He was surrounded by bodies; armsmen and halberdiers strewn about like discarded toys, their armor a bloody mesh of broken steel. Servants were scattered around the clearing and hanging from windows and crenellations, missing body parts or burnt to a crisp.


    Joffrey coughed drily as he tried to move, barely capable of breathing under the weight that covered half his chest.


    "Hey Joff," said a weak voice to his right.


    Joffrey tilted his head slowly, following the sound. S~?a??h the Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    He swallowed the choking horror in his throat, smiling gently as he found his voice. "HeySansa," he whispered slowly, gazing at the broken body of his wife as it lay sideways, only a few meters away.


    She was looking at him, half her face burnt away as she blinked lazily with one eye. A third of her bloodied chest lay crushed under stone, both her legs bent at strange, horrific angles that showed bone around the parts that weren''t covered in soot black bricks which had once been red.


    The bricks must have been scalding hot when they collapsed over her.


    "It doesn''t hurt as much as it looks," she enunciated slowly, her voice shaky as she blinked slowly.


    "Don''t worry Sansa, don''t worry," Joffrey rasped as he tried to dig himself out of the debris. He shoved against the broken stone, grunting in effort as the weight barely moved. He bellowed in exertion as he tried again, blood running down his right arm as he tried to get himself out of there with all his might.


    "Joff¡­ please don''t¡­" she muttered, gazing at him. It seemed the only part of her body she could move was her eye. Darkness was steadily descending around the Red Keep, the eerie silence only punctuated by the occasional swelling of hysteric voices coming from the city, though they grew muted as time passed.


    "We''re ending it right now Sansa, don''t worry," Joffrey promised as he tried to move again, screaming as he willed his body to move. A few of the bricks tumbled down, but he was still trapped tight as he bit his lips, hazy agony seeping through every muscle in his body as something inside his chest snapped. He coughed blood, almost choking on it before he spat the rest.


    "Please stop¡­ I don''t want to see you suffer like this," Sansa muttered, the angst and the sadness in her voice breaking him as she kept staring.


    "Okay, okay," Joffrey managed between heaving breaths, spitting a bit more blood. He closed his eyes as he tried to steady his chest, trying to focus on the depths of his soul and the embodiment of it that was Stars.


    Gentle bumping of branches¡­ swirling red leaves¡­ he thought incoherently as he tried to bring the silver lion forth.


    He coughed more blood, his head pounding like the Smith''s Anvil as he tried again and again, each time less successful than the last until he couldn''t even concentrate on his breathing.


    "Is¡­ Is there anyone out there?!" Joffrey bellowed weakly, coughing again as the hot ash got into his lungs. "Your liege needs assistance!" he bellowed, his voice breaking halfway, "I know of a secret passageway. I can help you escape- COUGH!" he rattled, sized by a coughing fit as he leaned his head back for a second, taking just a few moments to rest.


    He gazed at Sansa, struggling to regain his breath as she looked back. "It''ll soon be over love, can''t be long now," he said with a weak smile.


    "Do you think Bran and Arya¡­ burned?" she asked after a moment of silence, having trouble with the last word.


    "They were with Meera by the inner courtyard, lessons¡­" Joffrey struggled to remember through his hazy memory. "Alyn was with them. Dependable, good head on his shoulders," he said.


    "Bran would have wanted to fight, Arya too. They''re so brave¡­" Sansa whispered.


    "Alyn wouldn''t have allowed it. And Meera knows almost as much as we do about the Red Keep''s tunnels-" Joffrey trailed off, a coughing fit interrupting him as he struggled for fresh air. The damned heat was choking him, and he could barely breathe with so much ash in the air.


    "Arya hid for a week after she learned about Jon," Sansa whispered. Her eye seemed lost as she gazed at him, "Remember how we found her?" she asked.


    "Half-starved and stabbing wooden buckets with that rapier of hers," Joffrey remembered with a grim smile.


    "She wanted to go and kill Aegon''s Essosi backers¡­" Sansa whispered. She flinched lightly as she took a deeper breath, coughing gently a couple of times. "We used to fight so much¡­ so stupid¡­ I never¡­ I never told her I loved her¡­" she said almost reluctantly, as if she were confessing a terrible sin.


    Her voice was broken as she stirred lightly, "Do you think she knew? Before she-" she was beginning to sob, blinking rapidly in grief and pain as the stress made her shake slightly, one of the brick tumbling down and bumping the rubble over her chest.


    "You''ll see her again soon," Joffrey interrupted her, "All of them. Jon, Bran, Ned¡­" he said as Sansa rode out the harrowing pain of the small impact, squirming gently against the rubble in blind pain. She breathed raggedly once it passed, returning her gaze to him.


    "I''m sorry¡­ what did you say?" she asked.


    "You''ll see them soon, all of them," he repeated.


    She smiled at that, "I''ll hug her for a whole day, we''ll escape Septa Mordane together¡­" she said wistfully, a trickle of blood running down from the corner of her mouth. "I''ll train with Bran¡­ maybe even smuggle¡­ a few lemoncakes¡­ for Jon¡­" she said mischievously, her words slow.


    They stayed quiet for a while longer, night descending on the keep. He stared at Sansa, wriggling slightly within the stonework when her gaze wondered. He couldn''t free himself however, no matter how persistent his efforts.


    The contingencies were not enough¡­ we should have had four times as much artillery¡­ he thought, enraged. She seemed reasonable back at Quarth¡­ she should have negotiated¡­ he thought in fury and despair.


    The Red Keep looked almost like Harrenhal in the darkness, twisted shapes and silhouettes that deepened as the moonless night covered the sky. Joffrey''s pounding headache made his mind wander, remembering the time he''d seen the great fortress from a distance. It was a frequent stop in his imaginary journey around the rivers of the Riverlands, calm winds propelling his small yacht with only his wife and maybe a friend or two as company, no worries in the world.


    "Joffrey¡­ how much longer¡­ do you think¡­" Sansa whispered. Joffrey realized she''d been crying quietly for a while now, silencing the agony that he could see written all too clearly on the unburnt half of her face. Joffrey shuddered to imagine the level of distress it must have taken for her to even voice that question.


    "Not much longer love, you should be fading in and out of consciousness soon," said Joffrey, his voice thick and raspy, "Too much blood loss. It can''t be long now," he said forcefully, grunting as he tried to move again.


    "I was so stupid¡­" she whispered, "I should have sent an assassin for her, we were too confident¡­" she said in between shakes, her teeth rattling.


    "Don''t think about that now," Joffrey told her, "Just rest, rest for now," he begged her.


    "It''s too bloody cold to rest¡­" she half grumbled, "Half the city burning and I''m so cold," she whispered, disbelief writ clear on her face.


    "Look at me Sansa, focus on my voice," said Joffrey, trying to distract her.


    Her gaze wandered back to him, slowly focusing on his face. "Tell me that story again¡­ the one about the shadowcat and the Mountains of the Moon¡­" she whispered as she shivered.


    Joffrey wanted nothing more than to make her warm again, to end the pain¡­ but even Brightroar was out of his mind''s grasp as he blinked slowly. "Tyrion gave me the idea¡­" he whispered with a slight smile, "It sounded like a fun challenge, something incredible I could prove myself against¡­ that I was the one in control of my fate¡­" he said, eyes heavy in recollection. He told her of the intensive training, of the wild drinking competition with the Umbers, of the freezing blizzards and the heart stopping thunders that sought to deafen him as he scurried under caves and overhangs, Fate''s fury seeking to cast him down.


    He was hallway through his first encounter with the shadowcat when he realized his soul ached. It was a strange, deep sense of hollowness that couldn''t be pinpointed, couldn''t be expressed verbally. He blinked as he stared at Sansa, the thin trickle of blood still descending from the corner of her mouth and pooling by her side. Her eye was unmoving, her frame still.


    Joffrey sighed, leaning back on the stones. He looked at the night sky as he awaited the Purple, looking at the malevolent, vermillion slash that was the Red Comet, its baleful influence flooding the world and the far north with sheer thrumming power.


    Always late when expected, always early when not. Truly the Purple is the worst of guests, he thought with a scowl, blinking heavily ¨Cimpatiently even- until darkness claimed him.


    -: PD :-


    Something''s wrong, was the first he thought he had as he tried to get out of his bed. He could feel two strong arms carrying him, one by each side. He blinked wearily, gazing at the way his legs dragged, listless as they carried him forward. He recognized the decoration of the Red Keep, patterns in the stonework interrupted by the occasional body or piece of broken masonry, his boots drawing a wake in the ash that covered almost the entirety of the floor.


    He craned his neck, looking at the soldier that carried him. He was lightly armored, walking with decision but lacking a certain¡­ wakefulness. He didn''t look at Joffrey as he strode at the same pace as his companion, the both of them dragging him below broken thresholds and collapsed gates.


    Astapori light armor¡­ he thought groggily, Unsullied, he realized as he blinked repeatedly, the orange sun of the late afternoon blinding him for a second before they carried him to another building. He narrowed his eyes, trying to shield them as he surveyed what he realized was his own throne room. A gaping hole had been torn through the western wall; a big, black dragon had made a nest of the broken masonry around it. It screeched hatefully as it saw him approach, and he scowled back at the ugly beast as the unsullied suddenly halted their advance, two thirds of the way to the Iron Throne itself.


    Joffrey grunted as he tried to stand up. His stern guards did not react as he found his feet, supporting his own weight as he finally processed the full sight in front of him.


    The hall was full of some sort of Essosi irregulars distinct from the far more professional unsullied, wielding mismatched weapons as they cleared the remains of people Joffrey could only assume had been eaten by Drogon, blooded gambesons and heraldry strewn around the floor.


    The Iron Throne was flanked by a few Dothraki bloodriders, bloodied arakh''s in their hands as they kept watch over the hall. Right beside the Iron Throne was a woman Joffrey could only assume was Daenerys Targeryen¡­ though she seemed¡­ odd.


    Her hair was long, reaching past her waist and almost to her legs, the vibrant silver Joffrey had seen in Qarth turned a dull almost-grey. Her nails were long as well, curved things that rattled off the throne as she felt it with her hand, the other arm held close to the chest. She was entranced by the sight of the Iron Throne, almost hypnotized as she rounded it, coming to a stop right in front of it before she finally sat down.


    Her face was locked in child-like wonder, awe even. She smiled widely as tears streaked down her cheeks, accommodating herself in the throne as the ever fickle thing stabbed her lightly, tiny rivulets of blood flowing from her arms and back. "I made it¡­" she whispered in infinite contentment, "Home," she whispered in ecstasy.


    "Khaleesi¡­" muttered a gruff, white haired knight standing a few steps below, watching the blood with worry. The man looked spent, sporting sunken eyes and a wide scar that travelled from the corner of his mouth right to his ear. He looked familiar to Joffrey, faded laugh lines and the strong frame making him think of a certain, mace wielding handmaiden¡­


    "Mormont??" Joffrey asked after a moment, stunned.


    Jorah''s expression of hollow despair evaporated as the man turned to stare at him, face curdling into distaste. "The Usurper''s get is here, Your Grace," he said diffidently, signaling at the unsullied holding him by the arms.


    Joffrey bit down a scream as the mechanical soldiers carried him forward, his right forearm and his broken ribs protesting the rough handling as they made him kneel a bit closer to the throne.


    "Daenerys¡­" Joffrey muttered, looking at the woman as the wide smile slowly transformed into pure fury. "What did they do to you..?" he whispered as he gazed at her arm, blackened and rotten. The strange, twisting putrefaction reached just past her shoulder, almost to reaching her neck.


    "Oh, you mean this?" she asked him as she looked at the bound arm, "It was a gift from the Warlocks of Qarth. Thought they could kill a dragon with simple poison¡­" she said as if she were explaining it to a child. "They were wrong," she continued, a sick grin overtaking her as she leaned back on the throne, "Astapor, Yunkai, Qarth, Tolos, New Ghis¡­ I showed them, I showed them all how wrong they were," she said as she bobbed her head.


    Surely she isn''t¡­ she isn''t¡­ Joffrey''s mind stuttered at the implications.


    "You''re insane-" he said before Daenerys exploded.


    "BE SILENT!!!" she screeched, Drogon roaring as the unsullied by his side held his broken arm, squeezing it and making him squirm.


    "The Keep is secured my queen," said a big, fat warrior of nut-brown skin as he entered through one of the side doors, hefting a big arakh in one hand as he bowed. He threw Lancel''s head at the steps of the throne, like a cat carrying tribute. "This one was the false king''s cousin. He fought well," he said.


    "You son of a whore¡­ you''ll die for that," Joffrey promised, enraged.


    "Thank you Belwas," Daenerys told him, her expression changing from rage to kindness again within the span of seconds.


    "You fool¡­ you idiotic madwoman¡­" Joffrey muttered, spitting blood as he gazed at Daenerys and then at Ser Jorah. "Do you understand what you''ve done?!" he asked him, "How could you allow this to happen?!" he spat at him, "Mad Aerys reborn on the Iron Throne!" he roared as the unsullied twisted his arm again.


    Ser Jorah said nothing as he stared at him, his uneasy eyes betraying his stern fa?ade.


    ''Belwas'' was less circumspect, walking to Joffrey before planting a fat fist on his belly. Joffrey dry heaved, spitting blood and saliva as Belwas shook his head in contempt.


    "And this is the Sunset Land''s famed warrior King?" he said in contempt, his low valyrian strangely stilted, speaking as if he were a native Ghiscari speaker.


    "That''s enough, Brave Belwas. We have matters to attend with the false king," Daenerys said as she gazed at him, smiling wide again. "Madness¡­ such a petty word to describe dragons," she mused thoughtfully, hand twirling one of the Iron Throne''s sword pommels. "Maybe I am. Mad. Fitting; for what are dragons if not madness? The power¡­ the majesty¡­ How fitting that mortals should name us mad, for how else could they lay their eyes upon the lords of Fire and Air, and not despair?" she reasoned. "We are the heralds of magic, of power, our rebirth foretold by the very skies¡­" she said joyfully as she gazed through the giant hole in the room, at the Red Comet shining above.


    Joffrey was appalled. "You burned King''s Landing, the very city your ancestor built. How-"


    "AND I WILL BURN AS MANY I HAVE TO!" she screeched, Drogon growing weary at its mistress'' distress. "The Sons of the Harpy! The Warlocks and the Pureborn and the Sorrowful Men! The Iron Legions and their Ghiscari Masters! The Red Priests and their Red Lies and they will all burn until they bow!" she rambled, "I will rule and break the wheel of thrones! I will break the cycle! They won''t deny me now. They won''t deny my home!" she kept going, growing visibly agitated.


    "Khalessi¡­" Ser Jorah interjected respectfully, "The city is yours and the hour is late, perhaps we should adjourn matters of the court for to-"


    "NO!!!" she roared, "They took my brother and my sun-and-stars! They murdered my sweet Missendei! They turned my Daario against me with their lies!" she said in heart wrenching angst, her face returning to satisfaction as Ser Jorah paled and she nodded decisively. "Yes¡­ I shall pass judgment!" she said triumphantly as she leaned back, gazing at her knight.


    Ser Jorah grew visibly agitated at that last word, looking behind him at an unsullied standing almost half hidden behind a pillar, some sort of slave commander who looked back at Jorah with the merest of flickers, communicating silently as they stared at each other.


    The unsullied commander shook his head slowly, and Ser Jorah sighed minutely. When he turned to look at Joffrey he seemed sorry. "Joffrey Baratheon, you are charged with the crime of high treason. Your vile actions sought to destroy all that was cherished by our Queen, Daenerys Targeryen; Stormborn and Mother, Breaker of Chains, the Undying Dragon, and Scourge of Slaver''s Bay," he recited as if from memory, the words curiously familiar to his lips. There was not an inflection or a shred of doubt, as if he were reading from a script.


    He''d done this before this day. Many times.


    "Feed him to your Drogon my Queen! It has a taste for Lannister''s now!" crowed Belwas, gazing at the tattered shreds of red armor amongst the veritable pile around Drogon.


    Is that¡­ Joffrey thought as he gazed at the familiar cape.


    Tywin Lannister, devoured by a dragon.


    There was something absolutely hilarious in that thought, and Joffrey had to bite his tongue. It was his concussion''s fault, surely.


    "Nono, Brave Belwas. Joffrey is my subject. He needs to be tried first," she scolded the big warrior as if he were a child.


    Joffrey snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. This¡­ this was something else. He''d really thought he''d seen it all by this point.


    Fuck you all, fuck this, he raged as he chewed something sour. He spat a glob of blood, before giving Daenerys a red smile.


    "Piss on your judgment, you crazy bitch! You claim to deliver royal justice?! Fine!" he spat, "I demand that most illustrious of Westerosi legal traditions! Trial-by-Combat!" he called out.


    Belwas was already moving to strike him again, but Daenerys stopped him with a word. She was looking at Joffrey, bemused, as if he''d walked right into her trap.


    "Very well then," she said with a savage smile, "Then I name Drogon as my champion, the Black Dread Reborn!" she crowed, relishing every moment of it.


    Drogon huh? Joffrey thought with a huff, looking at the snarling, ugly beast. Its scales were pitch black and its breath utterly odious. Never thought they''d grow so fast, he thought, remembering the time he''d seen them in Qarth; barely larger than a small dog.


    He took a deep breath, preparing himself for his coming demise. At least he''d make a show of it¡­ and who knows, he was planning on taking quite a few of the crazy ones with him¡­


    He frowned when nothing happened, the unsullied still holding him as Daenerys kept staring at him with that penetrating, vaguely hollow gaze, her expression slowly morphing into confusion.


    Joffrey looked behind him, examining the half opened doors and the ruined masonry, soldiers and cowed servants skittering about and avoiding the gaze of the Dothraki. So, it''s already started¡­ he thought, anger growing within him as he imagined the rapine already inflicted on the capital¡­ or whatever survivors were left. He hadn''t gotten a good look, and for all he knew his city might have burned to the ground.


    Joffrey looked back at Daenerys, the same curious expression on her face. "I''m sorry," he said, looking back again and then to his sides, "Are we waiting for someone? Oooorrr¡­?" he asked tentatively, gesticulation slowly with his good arm. He realized there were a few nobles by the other side of the room, surrounded by watchful unsullied. They seemed to have been judged worthy enough to avoid death for now, and they all had this respectful posture that tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. He thought he could spy an ashen faced Lord Darry, and a Maergery Tyrell that seemed one step away from crying, for all that her mask of composure sought to show her as a powerful noble in complete command of her faculties. She would have her work cut out for her in this court¡­


    "You will fight against Drogon!" Daenerys declared again, tilting forward on the throne.


    "¡­ Yes, you already said that," Joffrey told her, nodding. "I will fight for myself. Not that there''s anyone alive to do it for me," he added sardonically, as if he were explaining it to a simpleton. When that was not enough to elicit a reaction, he looked at Ser Jorah in incomprehension. "Is this some sort of Ghiscari ritual or something..?" he asked before trailing off, understanding reaching his mind as a small chuckle tried to emerge from his dry throat.


    "Oh! I see¡­ I see¡­" he said, trying to repress it, "Not the reaction you were expecting huh?" he said in between guffaws.


    "You WILL fight Drogon!!!" she screeched.


    "Oh no! I''m sorry Good Queen Daenerys!" he called out shrilly, "Please don''t let that ugly flying deformity come close to me!" he shouted. "Please don''t let it- it- it," he trailed off as he laughed compulsively, holding his belly as his ribs flared in pain. He laughed as Daenerys shook her head in incomprehension, the people around the hall looking at him as if he were the crazy one, "You really think your pet lizard scares me?!" he called out loud, howling in laughter.


    "Come on!" he snarled suddenly, the unsullied struggling with his arms as he tried to charge forward, his boots slipping on the ash. "Let''s do it! Right here! Right now!" he said, his blood singing.


    Ser Jorah frowned, "Khaleesi, Joffrey Baratheon will serve as a fine hostage for now, perhaps-"


    "NO!" Daenerys screamed over him, "The Red Comet guided us here, heralding the renewed reign of Fire and Blood! Summoned by the rebirth of the Lords of Air and Fire! It has decreed that fire consumes the Usuerper''s spawn-"


    "THE RED COMET?!" Joffrey bellowed incoherently, "My, my. What arrogance! That red vessel of power in the sky heralds nothing but death for all life you imbecile!" he roared at her, thoroughly fed up with this stupidity. Whatever sympathy he''d had for Daenerys evaporated as he stared at her like the idiot she was, "The birth of your dumb beasts are nothing more than a fart of cosmic power, feeding off the repository of eldritch horror flying above us," he explained to her, "Do you really think the birth of these glorified reptiles is responsible for the return of ritual magic from Asshai to the North and Beyond?" he shouted, the disbelief too much to be contained. "The shadowsthicken under the grey pyramids of dread K''Dath because you hatched Drogon here out of some petty blood sacrifice¡­?!" he trailed off, shaking his head as he cut himself off. An unnatural silence stretched throughout the throne room, and Joffrey simply laughed again.


    "Alright, I''m just wasting my time here. This is what we''re going to do," he told her patiently, "I''m going to shove a sword through your pet''s eye, then I''ll ram it through your chest and pin you to the throne you seem to love so much, understand?" he explained patiently.


    Daenerys screeched in disbelief and fury, "DROGON! DRACARYS!!!" she screamed. That got a reaction from the unsullied, their arms growing lax in surprise. Joffrey took that second to slip, rolling on the ground as Drogon roared and bathed the place where he''d been but moments before, burning the unsullied into charred flesh as he dived for the nearby pillar.


    His mind hadn''t been pummeled enough to forbid his connector, and he roared as he ran from the other side of the pillar, straight towards Drogon as Purple fractals broke into reality and multiplied exponentially, drawing the contours of Brightroar as the dragon reacted by instinct and tried to rake him with a paw.


    Joffrey twisted, Brightroar in one hand as the paw almost tore his bad arm. He spun past it, cutting deeply into Drogon''s paw and painting the floor with black blood. The dragon screeched in pain and tried to retreat backwards, opening its maw to blast him at point blank range with dragonfire.


    "He''s undisciplined," Joffrey called out disapprovingly as he moved with him. The colossal beast which had guarded fallen Valyria had been smarter than this, years of life moving it beyond simple instinct. Drogon was pure savagery, and he''d expecting more from a beast bonded to a human.


    Whatever the beast had expected, it wasn''t this. He closed the distance instead of retreating from the sharp teeth and the ominous orange glow at the back of the beast''s throat, slamming Brightroar upwards through the dragon''s palate. The Valyrian Steel went upwards with a wet sound, and Daenerys screamed in horror as Drogon convulsed. "Belwas! KILL HIM!" she screeched.


    The man moved to comply, but Joffrey was already jumping atop the rearing Drogon, climbing its spikes one handed as the beast tried to spit Brightroar, which he''d left in its mouth. He quickly reached the top of it as it thrashed around the room, barreling over unsullied and panicked servants and guards.


    "Watch out Lord Darry!" he called out as the Lord tried to scramble out of the maddened beast''s path, getting stomped for his troubles as Maergery screamed and ran in the other direction. "Bad Drogon! No randomly slaying nobles of the realm!" he scolded the beast before materializing Brightroar again and slamming it brutally into its eye from above.


    Daenerys gave a harrowing scream as the beast tumbled to the ground, convulsing as Joffrey rolled on the ground, using the momentum of its fall to sprint towards the throne as he spat blood. "Time for the real fury, Targeryen!!!" he roared as he ran, but Belwas intercepted him and tried to cut him in half with that monstrous arakh of his and a bone rattling bellow that left his ears ringing.


    Joffrey dodged the blow but the fat warrior followed it up with a bash from his bronze buckler, scattering half a dozen of his teeth all over the ground. He tumbled to the floor and barely rolled out of the way of a stab, coughing blood all over the place as he stood up.


    "VISERYON! VISERYOOON!!!" Daenerys screamed like a frightened child as the Dothraki and Ser Jorah stood in front of her, wielding a bastard sword with both hands as Joffrey fainted and went for Belwas'' sword arm. The man parried and dodged a second blow, barely avoiding a deep cut on his shoulder. Brightroar licked his scarred chest though, drawing a small wound before the man grabbed a hold of his sword arm and pulled it up with superior strength. Joffrey was breathing harshly as he tried to get his mangled right arm towards his boot and the hidden obsidian dagger within, but Belwas swept up with his arakh, too quickly for him to react. He cut off his sword arm with the brutal swipe, just above the elbow.


    Joffrey screamed in agony as he fell on his knees, propelling himself against the man''s rotund belly with a headbutt. Belwas tumbled backwards by the force of the surprise attack, and Joffrey sprinted like a bleeding madman past him and towards the screeching Daenerys.


    He was almost upon her and Jorah before Viseryon carved a new hole into the throne room, desperately getting its long neck in the way and unleashing a storm of fire at point blank range. Joffrey screamed as he kept running, the remains of his armor and clothes evaporating along with his hair and face as Belwas bellowed in pain behind him, part of the man roasting along with a few more slave guards and unsullied.


    Joffrey was propelled backwards by the torrent of flames, crashing against a pillar and shattering what was left of his spine. One of his eyes must have melted because half his vision was gone, and he managed to take in a choking breath of air before he rattled, chuckling drily at the hilarious expression of terror in Daenerys'' face.


    He tried to get up and murder her, but when he tried to inhale again he found he couldn''t, and his head slipped forward as he stared at the floor and Purple tendrils emerged from the masonry, curdling around the stonework''s indentations as if it were blood, forming a sea of fractals as they multiplied and enveloped him in pain.


    Hey Sansa, he thought as he felt her presence, letting himself be swept by the Purple tide upwards towards her, upwards as the world twisted.


    -: PD :-

 Art Omake: Steel on Steel.

    There are two written Omakes done by NoahP.Larose at AH. if thee has an acct. there, first one is about Varys & the next one is about Jaime NoahP.Larose.AH..CH_Omake6 - Cersei&Slynt


    NoahP.Larose.AH..CH_Omake7 - The WhiteCloak


    Regardless...


    Here is another PIC Omake of nJoff doing battle with fAegon below...


    Alas, poor Jon S Stark...He needs a Valyrian sword likewise someday..


    Purple Days - Blinding Attack S?a?ch* Th? N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Omake: The White Knight.

    FINALLY! It took me forever to finish this. I''m as bad as Martin So anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by how much people liked my Varys omake, so I decided to try my hand at this again after demand for more omakes and inputs from other characters. I put this off after baurus rapidly finished this loop, but I decided to finish and post this anyway since I had already put so much work into it. Don''t know if anyone''s really gonna care now that the current loop, and maybe even this arc, has been over for so long. But since it''s been a while since the last update, and the thread hasn''t been all that active, I decided to go through with this anyway to get some more conversation going.


    At any rate, here''s a (long) snippet of what I suspect Jaime''s had to deal with since he returned to King''s Landing and was appointed to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. And a proper farewell for a character whose death I felt was kinda glossed over. Hope you guys enjoy... maybe.


    Omake (The White Cloak):


    "How about Ser Raynald Westerling?" Ser Balon Swann asked from the right.


    "Hmmm..." Jaime pondered the name for a bit. "He does have quite a bit of potential. But... too young. And immature. He still doesn''t see war and fighting for the horror it truly is. We need more weathered men for the position."


    "How about... Ser Lyle Crakehall?" posed Ser Arys Oakheart from the left.


    "Now there is a man with the mind for this order," Jaime nodded his head. "He has the strength for it too. He could tear down a fully grown pine tree with only three swings of the axe, I heard. Although, I''m not sure if guard duty is really something he''d be willing to commit to. The man enjoys his freedom."


    "Then... Ser Brynden Tully?" asked Balon.


    "The Blackfish?" asked Arys. "The man''s older than my lord father. Has to be past his prime. Wouldn''t have the vigor to protect the queen if an attack like Stannis'' besieged the capital again."


    "Surely you jest," Balon replied, slightly miffed. "Ser Barristan was even older than him, and you''d still be hard pressed to find a more skilled warrior throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Tully would make a worthy contender, though. Did you hear that he and Robb Stark tore through the regiment of sellswords and Narrow Sea houses harassing their forces at the God''s Eye?"


    "I agree with Balon regarding the Blackfish''s capability," Jaime pressed before Arys could retort. "The man may be advancing in years, but he is as shrewd, skilled, and honorable as they come. He has the accolades as well; a lauded veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings and Robert''s Rebellion. His fame will do well to give the Kingsguard some memetic status. Young blood is always welcome, but with Ser Barristan gone, we need some wisdom and experience from the older generations to draw from."


    That put that argument to rest. Jaime returned his gaze to The Book of the Brothers, continuing to think on the implications of appointing the Blackfish to the Kingsguard. He had always held an admiration with the Tully knight and his deeds, a main source of inspiration for him when he was training to become a knight during his childhood years. Brynden was truly a good fit for the depleted order, but it was his honor and emphasis on virtue that posed the biggest drawback. He had been amiable enough during their few interactions when the Tully host linked up with the Royal Guard towards the end of the war, and had showcased his tact and combat skill in the few battles the Rivermen and Northmen were needed for, but if he fell into the company that relentlessly vilified Jaime for killing King Aerys Targaryen...


    He wouldn''t be the first of the order to call me Kingslayer, Jaime thought darkly, but he would be a lot more deliberate about it. I certainly don''t want someone like that under my command.


    He half listened to Ser Balon and Ser Arys bounce other suggestions off each other. Jacelyn Bywater (killed during Stannis'' assault), Lucas Blackwood (far from skilled enough), Ser Robar Royce (one of Renly''s Rainbow Guard, and dead), Beric Dondarrion (already the lord of Blackhaven), one of the many Freys (HA!), and so on and so forth until someone knocked on the door and Jaime bid them enter.


    His new squire, a clumsy and unassuming boy named Podrick Payne, peered in and gestured to Ser Jaime. "Forgive me, Lord Commander. The King and Queen have called a small council meeting and your presence is requested."


    "Yes of course. We''ll join them shortly." The two other whitecloaks followed Podrick out the door, leaving Jaime to stare at the White Book wistfully, still having trouble coming to terms with his new position.


    To be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard... he had dreamed of the white cloak since he was a boy, thinking it would be the greatest testament to his skills and dedication to becoming a great warrior to wear the same armor as living legends like the White Bull, the Sword of the Morning, Barristan the Bold and others, protecting the king and ensuring that the king could govern the realm and its people. That dream was shattered when Aerys Targaryen did everything he could to prove himself a king not worth protecting. The legends he once felt honored to walk amongst also sullied his ideals when they did nothing to stop the vile man from enforcing his will and wiles on the population. The very people he killed the Mad King to protect continued to rub salt into his wounds when they cast him down for doing the very thing they had strove to do for years.


    But now, all of that disappointment and bitterness seemed to be slowly ebbing away into the corner of his mind. Things had changed. Jaime now had the power to turn the sullied order into something worth respecting again, and for some reason, he felt a deep and almost incessant obligation to do his duty with utmost devotion and earnestness. To reform the Kingsguard into a force as strong and worthy as the king they sought to protect. To ensure that the king he served, and the knights who would serve under him, would never trail down the paths that he and Aerys had so many years ago.


    Awful memories and future prospects swirled in Jaime''s head as he made a brisk march from the White Sword Tower to the Small Council Chamber within the main keep. He nodded to Balon and Arys to hold post outside the doors as he stepped inside.


    Two of the legates of Joffrey''s Royal Guard, Lancel Lannister and Renfred Rykker stood against opposite walls observing the meeting with a laxness that Jaime now knew belied their vigilance. The lords sitting at the table included Grandmaester Pycelle, looking attentive and diligent in a way Jaime rarely saw from the old coot, Varys who was oddly grim and even more observant than usual, Uncle Kevan who seemed perfectly placid and comfortable, Robb Stark near the far end focused with a weight to his posture, and a few others he didn''t recognize.


    Queen Sansa sat demurely left of her husband, managing to look graceful even with a slight red slash mark on her left cheek and her right arm bandaged and wrapped in a sling, courtesy of the wounds she had taken from her remarkable charge during Stannis'' attack. His father Lord Tywin looked as stern and formidable as he had ever seen him to the king''s right, casting a critical eye to his work on the table and occasionally at the others in the room. And of course King Joffrey at the far end of the table, seamlessly projecting discipline, authority, and intelligence with his fists held under his chin and his green eyes looking through everyone in the room. He looked dignified, confident, and in tune with his power in a way that neither Robert nor Aerys ever hoped of matching in all their years of sitting in that very seat.


    "Lord Commander," Joffrey addressed him. "Thank you for coming. I hope I didn''t tear you away from pressing business."


    "Not dire, Your Grace," Jaime replied as he sat next to Kevan. "I''m still looking to see who will best fit the vacancies in the Kingsguard as per your request." He had asked Joffrey a couple of days ago if he could relinquish of any of his Guard officers for the White Cloaks, but the King was insistent that his Guardsmen had to remain distinguished from the other branches of military, and that they would not fit well with the subculture of chivalry and honor of knighthood. Jaime was frustrated that so many capable recruits were denied to him, but he understood Joffrey''s reasoning. Those Guardsmen had that edge to them that true veterans of battle were cursed with. War was not a sport to them, as knights were brought up to believe it was.


    "Let me know when you''ve assembled a complete list for me to ratify," Joffrey then turned to a large pot-bellied man in green robes with a gold trident sewn on the front. "Lord Manderly, you''ve been given all of the previous Master of Coin''s accounts and ledgers as well as my own documents of all the setbacks the Blackworks is currently facing. Are you certain you are willing to take up this post and all of its tasks? I will not hold it against you if you find the workload overwhelming."


    "You need not worry for me, your Grace," the Lord of White Harbor answered in a cheery tone and heavy Northern accent. "I do not claim to be the prodigious financer your dearly departed uncle was, but I assure you I can and will handle the responsibilities set upon me with utmost dedication."


    "See to it that you do," Joffrey replied amiably. He then turned to a middle aged Crownlander lord wearing a pin of golden antlers over black and blue armor. "Lord Buckwell, do you accept the position as Master of War? This city is in dire need of a constant military command after my march and Stannis'' attack."


    "I do accept the responsibility, Your Grace," the Lord of the Antlers bowed lightly. "Though I must confess I do feel rather... auxiliary. I hardly see what invaluable contributions I could bring to the city''s arm forces given the brilliance with which you and your Royal Guard commanded the tides of battle during the war."


    "You sell yourself short. You were the most distinguished and successful of the Crownland commanders who answered my call, and proven yourself the most loyal. As the Night of the Wolf showed, I cannot always be there to protect the capital from outside threats, and I will not leave the city without adequate command and defenses again. Can I count on you to make up for that shortcoming?" S?a??h the N?v?lF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "You can, Your Grace. On that you have my word."


    "While on the subject of armed forces," Joffrey turned to Kevan, "how many of your men can we expect to reinforce the city watch?"


    "8,000 Your Grace," Ser Kevan replied. "All of whom are trained, bloodied, and have agreed to take up the posts of the city watch officially. I''m still enlisting more, but that is all I can offer primed and readied at the moment."


    "They will suffice," Joffrey nodded gratefully to his great-uncle. "Now that those postings are sufficiently filled, let us turn towards the rest of the realm. Lord Varys, what news from the Vale and Dorne?"


    "Prince Doran of Sunspear has yet to respond to requests for men," the Spider replied smoothly. "Nor to your offer of a betrothal between Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane. Forgive me, Your Grace but I would not count on any cooperation from Dorne in the foreseeable future."


    Joffrey grunted in agreement. He''d obviously been expecting as much. "Not what I was hoping for, but understandable given Dorne''s... difficult history regarding relations to the crown." The king gave Tywin a pointed look, and received an annoyed scoff in return.


    Father was not a man to tolerate criticism for, what passed in his mind at least, necessary and justifiable courses of actions. He was obstinate and undeterred in his ambition, sometimes to the point of defiance and at risk of alienating everyone around him. Jaime couldn''t help but give him a subtle glare of disapproval himself. He would stand by his decision to kill the Mad King to his deathbed, but the defilement of Princess Elia and the butchering of her children...


    Jaime swallowed something sour as he recalled the mangled corpses Father''s men presented to Robert that awful day. He often wondered if Father had anything resembling a conscious left in him in his old age. There seemed to be no low he wouldn''t stoop to to protect and bolster his all-important legacy.


    "Regarding the Vale," Varys continued, "Lady Arryn remains silent as well, even more so than Dorne it would seem. She has ordered all her lords to limit communication to the other kingdoms to just matters of trade and news. Lords Redfort and Royce however have offered me quiet correspondence."


    "And what do they have to say regarding the actions of their Lady Regent?" asked Tywin.


    "They are growing worried and displeased with Lysa as of late. Her frantic state of mind since the death of her husband and her old friend Baelish''s disappearance has taken an unsavory toll on her judgment. Apparently she has taken to spending all her time delegating rule of the Eyrie to her castellan and servants while mollycoddling her sickly son Robin. A pity what has become of such a tender woman. To lose her loved ones so abruptly."


    "That does not excuse her sitting around and ordering all her lords to do nothing while the rest of her family is fighting for their lives," Robb Stark rebuked tersely. "Her good-brother was murdered here in the capital, her nieces and nephew nearly met the same fate, and the houses of her father and sister are at war while she¡ª"


    "Robb, hold your peace!" Sansa ordered. "Lysa will answer for cutting the Vale off from the Crown''s authority in time, but let us exercise patience and contend with the problems we have in front of us."


    Robb deflated and sighed ruefully, acknowledging his sister''s authority. "Forgive me Sansa. Forgive me Your Grace. I spoke out of turn and let my frustrations take hold of me."


    "It''s alright, Lord Stark," Joffrey addressed the Warden of the North. "We all know this has been a trying time for you and your family."


    "I''m afraid the North has more trials yet to face," Grandmaester Pycelle croaked, holding out a raven scroll for the Young Wolf to take. "A raven arrived this morning from Castle Black. Dark wings, dark words I warn you."


    "Lord Commander Mormont was killed during his Great Ranging north of the wall," Robb sighed after reading the note. "An enormous wildling host is on the march. 100,000 strong according to the Night''s Watch reports."


    "Impossible," Pycelle bristled. "The wildlings are even more savage, undisciplined, and prone to infighting than the mountain tribes of the Vale. No man could gather such a host from such men."


    "The warning of the coming winter is an efficient motivator for Northmen, Grandmaester," Robb replied. "Even more so for wildlings. After such a long summer, this winter will hit long and hard. This army will hit the Wall even harder if I don''t return north with my men to help defend it."


    "The North is obligated to move and fight wherever the King commands," Tywin reminded his fellow Lord Paramount. "And given the fact that the northern army was almost entirely absent from the war here in the south¡ª"


    "I seem to the recall that the men of the Westerlands didn''t arrive in time to join their King until after a good portion of the fighting had ended," Joffrey''s words cut through the budding tension like a knife, ending an argument Father had pressed for before it even began. "You''d do well to remember that Lord Lannister, as well as the fact that I do not need you to lecture lords of their duty on my behalf."


    The air in the room felt colder as the King and his Hand stared each other for a moment. Everyone else in the room looked on in shocked silence as the fearsome Tywin Lannister was told off by a teenage king of two scant years. Father was looking at Joffrey with his famous glare of cold contempt that normally made lords of great houses and hardened knights tremble with fear, but Joffrey challenged him with a look of stern discipline that seamlessly brushed off Tywin''s attempt to intimidate.


    Jaime was for the umpteenth time stunned by just how powerful and self-sufficient his nephew had become. He had never made an attempt to grow close to any of... Cersei''s children as they grew up, but having watched Joffrey all his life, he began to secretly dread the day Joffrey inherited Robert''s crown and became king. Sure he''d nod and offer a dry agreement whenever Cersei would boast of how bold, willful, and perfect her golden prince was and how she couldn''t wait for Robert to finally drink himself to death so that Joffrey could assume the throne, but in the privacy of his thoughts Jaime would count Joffrey''s many flaws and even wonder how many of his shortcomings he shared with the Mad King. Cersei would have insisted all she wanted, but Jaime had little reason to believe that the realm would be any better off with Joffrey as ruler as opposed to Robert, regardless if the succession was peaceful or not.


    But Seven Hells did Joffrey change his mind. Seemingly overnight the boy just... matured. Became every bit the warrior, intellectual, and sound moral authority that a king should be, in Jaime''s opinion. He often wondered where this drastic change in character came from. Sansa was obviously a good influence on him, with her charisma, intelligence, and unexpected strength, but this had to be because of something within Joffrey, from before he met her. Was all of this in Joffrey all along? If so, why hide it all for so long under a veil of stupidity, cowardice, and cruelty? Where did Joffrey''s astounding character come from to begin with? It couldn''t have been from Robert, or Cersei, or... anywhere else. So many questions, so few answers.


    Joffrey continued to stare back at Tywin until the old man had finally relented and offered the closest thing to a condolence he could make. "Understood, Your Grace,"


    Joffrey nodded and returned his gaze to the rest of the council. "Regardless of their location, capability, or influence, an army of wildling invaders will only further damage the realm if they manage to breach the wall, which I should mention has not been properly manned or supplied in years. Something that the crown must rectify." He turned to Robb. "I will grant you leave to head north and aid the Night''s Watch, but I ask that you stay here for at least a couple more weeks until we can get the matters of reconstruction and reassignment over and done with. I''m also planning a memorial service for your father and the fellow Northmen who died protecting the city from Stannis. Surely you should be here to honor them before you take their bodies back to Winterfell."


    Robb''s expression softened at the mention of his fallen brethren. "Of course Your Grace. And gratitude for the consideration you showed to them."


    Joffrey nodded and stood up from the table. "I believe this meeting''s business is finished. You are all dismissed. Grandmaester, Lord Tywin, you two remain. I have private matters to discuss with the both of you."


    Everyone else save those mentioned cleared from the chamber. Tywin mouthed for Jaime to remain outside, prompting to take post outside the chamber and wait for his father and Pycelle to head out some twenty minutes later.


    "What more did His Grace discuss with you?" asked Jaime as the fell in step.


    "Your sister," Jaime immediately stiffened at the mention of her. "Queen Sansa and Pycelle have confirmed that Tyrion''s murder was at her hand, and after hearing from Tommen and Myrcella of her behavior leading up to that night, it''s become clear what we must do about her."


    "You don''t mean to try and convict her, do you?"


    Tywin looked his son as if he were a simpleton. "Publicly charge the Queen Mother and sole female heir of House Lannister with murder, treason, and kinslaying? Do you honestly believe I''d allow that to happen? No, of course not. She may have sullied the family name and made a mockery of her son''s reign, but she can still carry out her duty while serving out her sentence. Joffrey''s commanded for her to be sent back to Casterly Rock, and after a year I will be allowed to arrange another marriage for her."


    Jaime always had difficulty keeping his face schooled whenever Father spoke of Cersei''s marital status, but after hearing of what she had done to Tyrion, doing so became much easier. "She will not at all appreciate being stripped of her authority here."


    "She lost all right to her power when she made such a damning, stupid decision. She can cry, scream, and plead all she wants, but she has utterly failed in her duty to the crown. The least she can do is provide House Lannister with a few respectable heirs while she is still young and fertile and that is precisely what she will do."


    Jaime was sorely tempted to make a snide remark on Cersei''s marriage prospects suffering a huge downgrade since her youth, but thought better of it seeing what a dour mood Father was in. As if this latest stain on the Lannister name wasn''t enough, the fact that Joffrey had risen Jaime to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, cementing his place in the order beyond dispute and ruining any chance of Tywin making Jaime heir to Casterly Rock only confounded his irritation. Jaime could tell Tywin was incensed by the fact that Joffrey would not be swayed on the matters regarding his two remaining children, and the fact that he wasn''t willing to put any effort into refusing the position or suggesting someone else made it worse.


    What cruel, yet delightful irony that the wealthiest, most influential man in Westeros could never seem to get the one thing he wants most of all no matter how much he tries.


    "I should have been here," Jaime muttered. "I should''ve stopped her from doing something like this. Her own brother..."


    "You were carrying out your charge to serve and protect the king. That Tyrion was too distracted by his whoring and drinking to realize the danger around him is his own fault."


    Jaime clenched his fists in anger. Even with him dead and gone, his little brother was still little more than a waste of space in his father''s eyes. There really wasn''t much of a conscience or sense of sentimentality left in the Old Lion after all.


    "Oh don''t you start pouting. You are a man, not a simpering child. Fact is both your brother and sister condemned themselves with their actions. You are my only living child and sole progenitor of the Lannister legacy, despite the fact that you are restricted from inheriting all the rights and responsibilities that the position entails. Keep your head clear and attend to your duty with all the tact and vigilance your siblings lacked."


    "Of course," Jaime muttered. With that Tywin marched off, and Jaime huffed an exasperated sigh. The mighty Tywin Lannister, the greatest king that never was. Quite the prestigious legacy he was leaving behind.


    * * * * *


    The casket was stately and well-decorated, rimmed with golden prongs and locks with the Lannister lion sigil engraved on its center. So expensive and well-crafted was it that one could be forgiven for thinking that it was built to house the remains of the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands himself, or perhaps even a King of the Rock of the olden days.


    Father had ensured that Tyrion''s body would be sent back to Casterly Rock in only the finest wears. Not because Tyrion had done anything to merit such a send off in Father''s eyes, gods forbid. For all of Tyrion''s supposedly many flaws and disappointments, he was still a lion of House Lannister. Gold had surrounded him when he came into this world, and gold would see him to his final resting place in turn.


    Jaime caressed the fine ivory box slowly, the candles he had lit around the sept doing little to stave off the cold, solemn air that chilled him to the bone. His eyes were misty and constantly burning as he knelt before his fallen baby brother. This terrible numbness seemed to permeate his body, as if he was trying to subconsciously deny the horrible truth that he was staring at; that he had lost one of the few people he had been closest to all his life and that he was now essentially alone in this vast, cruel world.


    "Hello little brother," he said softly, his voice cracking with emotion. "I''m sorry I couldn''t have come sooner, but well... the war and... my other duties kept me from..." He trailed off. It seemed so asinine and apathetic to say that had been too busy to save Tyrion''s life, let alone to say a proper farewell.


    "So much has happened since I last saw you." Saw you last. "Joffrey has secured his status as the one true king of the realm. He utterly decimated Renly. Sansa protected the capital from Stannis and killed the man personally from what I hear. Those two are a force to be reckoned with. A king and queen the likes that this country has never seen..."


    Dammit, what was he doing? Why would a ghost need a catch-up on what he was missing in the world of living?


    He had never been good at processing and dealing with death, Jaime realized in hindsight. He cried for weeks after Mother died giving birth to Tyrion, ceasing in his misery only when Father harshly scolded him that Lannister men didn''t show such weakness. He nearly lost the contents of his stomach when he witnessed the executions of Brandon and Rickard Stark, reliving the horrific sights and screams in his head for days. And he internalized his murder of the Mad King and the consequences of the act for years, hating the world that had cast him down for it and drawing into himself for so long that the was hardly able to act in a social manner anymore.


    "I''ve become the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now. Something that I only thought could happen in my wildest dreams and shared with you and you alone. Do... do you remember how we used to fantasize of going on great adventures together? Of forgoing our family name and the baggage that comes with it, of leaving Father and the Rock behind and just doing what our hearts desire? You travelling the world, finding a woman to love you, and creating a vineyard or business to settle down with somewhere warm. Me becoming a legendary knight, known only for my skill and gallantry, or a sellsword who traversed the seas, fighting all manner of warriors across the world?"


    "I miss the days that life was that simple for us. When we could hide in the bowels of Casterly Rock and laugh and dream of things we could never be."


    A cold gust of wind blew from the entrance of the sept and made the candles flicker.


    "I... never told you this, but... when I talked of becoming a great warrior and chasing adventure wherever the wind blew... I always imagined you and Cersei would be right beside me. That we could revel and marvel at the world together. That one day, you two could finally grow to love each other and that we could have a great happy family amongst us three forever. But... I suppose I always knew that that in particular could never become real. Which is why I never told you... there''s so many things that I never told you. That I... couldn''t..."


    He choked on his last thought. He had put up a good fight, but he lost control of his strength and felt tears streaming down like rivers down his face.


    "I''m sorry. I''m so, so, so, so sorry, Tyrion. For so many things. For not doing more to protect you from Father''s wrath and disappointment, for not being around enough to keep you happy, for what happened with you and poor Tysha, for never being able to truly understand how sad and lonely you were..."


    Jaime took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "And most of all, for never being able to see why you hated and feared Cersei so much. I never understood why she hated you. I was never able to change her mind about you. I tried to, truly I did. But I always became so caught up with what I felt for her, and what we did together, despite how wrong it was... and I let my work, and my dreams, and my bitterness and selfishness and everything else distance myself from the world. And I sought comfort in her arms and I let her indulge in her hate and lust and hauteur until she... and you..."


    That black, trembling void in his heart that he felt since he first heard the news took hold of him and ripped a barrage of despair filled sobs from within. He leaned on the casket, crying as he hadn''t in years as the grief, disbelief, anger, hate, self-loathing, and emptiness built to a fever pitch inside him and spilled out all at once. The world except for the bleak sept ceased to exist as the white cloak poured his aching heart out onto his brother''s coffin.


    He didn''t know how long he stayed there, but when he finally got a hold of himself he knelt back up, wiped his face, and stared forward in silence, unsure of what to do or say to further express his regret to Tyrion''s spectre.


    A soft patter of footsteps sounded behind and Jaime whirled around. Queen Sansa was standing behind him in a black funereal gown holding a bouquet of flowers in her unbound hand. She looked quite solemn herself, and slightly flushed and guilty for intruding on such an intimate moment.


    "Your Grace," Jaime stammered, quickly rising to his feet and bowing appropriately. "Forgive me. I did not know you were here."


    "Please, none of that Ser Jaime," she answered. "I''m not here as your queen. I came to pay my respects to your brother, though I can see I am intruding so I''ll come back later."


    "No, it''s alright. You intrude nothing. I just... let myself go a little. You don''t have to leave on my account. Come, join me if you wish."


    Sansa nodded gratefully and came to his side, kneeling before the casket and placing the flowers before it. She then closed her eyes and whispered her prayers, apologizing to Tyrion for failing to protect him, thanking him for being a loyal servant and good friend, and wishing him peace and acceptance in the afterlife by the Old Gods and the New.


    The two sat in companionable silence for a while. Jaime felt an odd sense of comfort at the fact that someone else was here mourning for Tyrion, sharing the pain of his loss. He didn''t have much of an opinion of Sansa Stark prior to his departure from King''s Landing, but his brother had nothing but praise for her on the few occasions they spoke of her and Joffrey.


    "I appreciate you doing this for him, Your Grace," Jaime started speaking again without giving much thought to why. "Forgive me for saying this, but I had thought with what you were forced to endure, with the deaths of your father and so many of your companions, your attentions would be towards mourning them."


    Sansa cringed in pain at the mention of her brethren. "They do still weigh heavy on my mind, and I am still grieving them all, but with all the madness that ensued from that night, and the flood of responsibilities shouldered upon me after Tyrion''s death, I never got the chance to properly say farewell to him. He was of great importance to me as well."


    "I see."


    "He spoke of you often, your brother."


    "I beg your pardon?"


    "Tyrion. He often spoke highly of you, when I asked him of his childhood and those he held dear to him. He always held you in the highest regard. For your skill in battle, your sense of honor and duty, your kind heart. You were a hero and protector to him. You do know how much you meant to him, didn''t you?"


    Another ache stabbed at his heart and spread throughout his being, but he ruthlessly squashed it down to address his liege. "Yes, I did. Tyrion knew very little love and companionship in his youth. People almost always rejected him because of his condition. Our mother died giving birth to him, our father was constantly away and never held any sort of affection for him, our aunt and uncles were similarly busy with their duties, and our sister... well..."


    Sansa nodded in understand. "I can''t imagine how lonely it must have been for him. Nor how much it must pain you to know what she did to him." She shifted uncomfortably on his knees, looking supremely guilty all of a sudden and unable to meet his gaze. "I suppose you must hold quite a bit of resentment towards me. Condemning your sister for this and forcing such terrible situation onto you."


    Jaime closed his eyes as he recalled his reaction to the news all those weeks ago. Joffrey had summoned him to his tent in the Stormlands, looking pale and heartbroken despite his historic victory and barely able to meet Jaime''s gaze when he handed him the letter from Sansa.


    He could still remember the whirlwind of emotions that raged within him at Sansa''s accusation of Cersei. He had denied it at first, furiously shouting and insisting that it had to be a mistake, even channeling some of Cersei''s biased and poisonous diatribe about Sansa that she poured onto him during the nights they were entwined in bed in King''s Landing. That Sansa was the one responsible and attempting to undermine Joffrey''s authority in his shock, grief, and rage. Such treasonous words against Joffrey''s queen and beloved wife should have warranted severe punishment, but Joffrey had taken it in grim understanding and merely had Sandor Clegane and his guard officers restrain him until he calmed down. He refused to see his King for over a week afterwards, unleashing his pain upon the battlefield as the wretched sods still loyal to Renly and backing Stannis continued to harass Joffrey''s army.


    Once he had vented, Jaime began to rationalize, and came to the awful realization that it had to be true. He had seen with his own eyes how much trust and respect Tyrion had gained and reciprocated to Joffrey and Sansa, and heard from his own mouth how great it was to work with them and what great hopes he had for the couple during their reign. The evidence Sansa had compiled was also too damning to ignore. And beyond all that, he knew Cersei.


    He had always denied it, tried to insist to himself that the uglier parts of her personality and nature didn''t outshine the beauty. That for all she could hate, that for however conceited and fickle she could be, she had her restraint. That for all she seemed to project all her problems on Tyrion, that for all the times she vocally wished he was never born and claimed he brought shame and misery on their family, she couldn''t truly be capable of something like this. He was always beholden to her. She took advantage of that. And now, his brother was buried here, and his sister was so far removed from his heart, she was practically dead to him as well.


    "It was... difficult to believe," Jaime admitted after a long, dreadful silence. "I... said things that I should not have. I held you in great doubt. But now, her guilt is clear to me. I... I think I always knew and feared somewhere in me that she was capable of something like this. He was never fooled though. If only I were as wise as he was. I could have protected him."


    "Perhaps," she replied. "And perhaps if I had been more cautious, I could have averted all of this. We never know until it''s too late, it seems."


    Jaime nodded solemnly, watching as Sansa gently placed her good hand on the casket, a lone tear streaking down her face. Jaime thought back to when he first saw Cersei again upon his return to the capital. She was as beautiful as she had ever been, even clothed in a dirty rag for a dress with disheveled hair and a manic look in her poison green eyes. And yet that beauty that always took his breath away and weakened his reason and resolve barely registered when he had looked at her then.


    As soon as she laid her eyes on him in her tower cell, she leapt to him, smothering kisses on him and whispering of how delighted she was that he had come to save her. Cersei had wasted no time in slandering Sansa, calling her a corrupt, conniving, witless, poisonous whore who was out to destroy the Lannister legacy and place the Starks as the tyrannical rulers of Westeros, and how it was up to Jaime to kill Sansa and her family, return Cersei to her power, and help her ween Joffrey off of Sansa''s manipulation and set him straight and right again. So absorbed was she in her tirade that she was completely oblivious to Jaime''s cold and unresponsive glare, and made her shocked and horrified when Jaime made it very clear he knew she was guilty.


    The resulting argument had to have been heard by the half of the Red Keep. Cersei virulently cursed out him, Tyrion, Sansa, House Stark, Father, and all that she felt had conspired against her, all Jaime''s yelling and damning statements of her hatred for Tyrion, lust for power, and bitterness over her 17 years of marriage of Robert getting to her rebutted by insults of him being weak-willed, easily manipulated, cowardly, vain, and not fit to be Father''s heir. It hurt, but he had felt as though he had opened his eyes and truly seen his sister for the first time. All the subtle japes from Tyrion, the whispers of contempt of the smallfolk and other residents of the Red Keep, even the loud and frequent insults from Robert all seemed to make sense to him now. Jaime could feel nothing but shame at the fact that so many people had clued him in to how Cersei was not a redeemable person, and that it took so many of their deaths for him to finally understand.


    That guilt was only compounded when Sansa asked him, "I do not wish to probe, but, did Cersei always harbor such resentment towards Tyrion? The way he spoke of her, there seemed to be not a trace of sibling fidelity between the two."


    Jaime nodded glumly as flashes of some of the worst moments of Tyrion''s life flashed before his eyes. "Yes. My sister always made it very clear that she had not a shred of love for him in her heart. My father was of a similar mind, and also inflicted on him a great deal of pain in his life." He then proceeded to briefly explain some of the worst things the two had done to the dwarf, from Cersei''s abuse of him as a babe in front of the Martells of Dorne, their bias and stocked punishment towards them for any of his perceived wrongdoings, even the rape and defilement of Tysha, which nearly broke him in talking about again.


    Sansa took it all in as gracefully as she could, but even she couldn''t help the shocked looked of horror and disbelief on her face as she realized just how miserable her former friend truly was. Jaime didn''t know why he was sharing so much about his brother so freely, but he realized that some of the pain he now felt was ebbing away as he shared it with someone else. Beyond just trying to deal with his guilt, he realized that now more than ever, it was important that someone else understand why Tyrion was such an astounding person in his own right, and why he needed someone to understand the pain he carried and what shaped him as a person.


    Other than Joffrey, whose affinity to Tyrion after years of discrimination and contempt was a surprise to everyone, Sansa was perhaps the only person to truly look at Tyrion and see him for the brilliant mind, charming wit, and tender soul he truly was. It brought comfort and strength to Jaime knowing that this knowledge would help Sansa better understand him, and appreciate what he had brought to the table during his life.


    "I think I understand," Sansa replied after Jaime finally finished. "I also understand why he held you in such high regard. You truly are a great brother to him, even now with him gone."


    "Not that great, I''m afraid," he muttered looking down.


    "You mustn''t blame yourself for his fate, or what you failed to do for him. You were there for him in every way you could be, in every way a brother should. I wish I could connect with any of my siblings in such a way. I''ve never been truly close to any of them."


    "Truly? I find that hard to believe. Robb deeply loves and respects you, and sees you as an equal. Jon would give his life to protect you without hesitation. And the little scamps Arya and Brandon seem to worship your strength and virtue."


    Sansa chuckled lowly. "Regarding the last two, that''s a recent change in opinion. And even so, I wasn''t always so... worldly I suppose."


    Jaime nodded and the two slipped back into comfortable silence again. Amazingly, he felt better having opened up to his niece-by-law. The festering wound had been balmed somewhat by her presence and sympathy. The girl had an ability to listen and relate to people he realized. To help them feel comfortable and honest with themselves. There was a gentleness and subtle wisdom to her strength and courage, an understanding of the pain of living and a drive to overcome it and help others do the same. No wonder Joffrey was so enamored with and loyal to her. No wonder everyone praised what a remarkable young woman she was. She was certainly a better queen than Cersei, he could admit to himself now.


    The conversation died down after that, the two traded sparse insights and tales of their families before Sansa decided to end her respects and retire for the night. Before she could leave, Jaime called to her to say one last thing.


    "May I be frank, Your Grace?" asked Jaime.


    "But of course Ser, what is it?" the queen replied.


    "I must confess this. I never had a very high opinion of your family. Your father and I had many bitter disagreements, and I let his perceived obsession with honor and pacificity color my judgment of him and you in turn. I had little to no faith in your capability as a prospective queen."


    She didn''t visibly react to his words, just stared at him with a blank expression patiently waiting for him to get ot his point. Jaime didn''t know whether to feel unnerved or relieved.


    "However, for all my issues with him, I won''t deny that your father was a good man. A just and honest man, of the sort the realm rarely sees and direly needs more of. And he raised great children. In you and your brothers. I served under three kings over the course of my life, and the first two, Aerys and Robert, were colossal failures. One a murderous madman, the other a lazy, sloven drunk. I had all but abandoned the belief that there were such things as good kings in our time. You and Joffrey proved me wrong."


    Jaime stood straight and held his head high to look proud and sincere as he looked at her. "You are every bit the queen that Westeros needs, more so than my sister ever was or poor Queen Rhaella ever had the chance to be. You have already handled the precarious situation regarding your coronation superbly well, and I know you and Joffrey will continue to rule this country well in the years to come. I wish to see you two succeed and lead this country to a brighter future, and I swear on my honor that I will protect the both of you and earn your trust. I imagine that you will probably take the words from the Kingslayer with a hefty grain of salt, but for all that my family and I have done, I wish to atone for through my service to you."


    Sansa remained silent and her expression unreadable for an awfully long moment, before she nodded her head and offered a slight grin. "Thank you for your kind words, Ser Jaime. And let me make something clear in return. Do not think that I will hold you under the same scrutiny and scorn that Robert, my father, and so many others did. Whatever you''ve done in your past, as far as I am concerned, will remain in your past. So long as you stand by your words and carry out and your duty with integrity and assiduity, I see no reason why you can''t restore honor to your name."


    Jaime bowed, slightly stunned but greatly heartened by her words. She believed in him. Saw him for more than just a duplicitous oathbreaker. Trusted him even. For little other reason than for being her husband''s uncle and carrying out his duty of keeping him safe on the battlefield. Did the queen''s compassion know no bounds?


    She started to walk back out of the sept before she turned back to him one last time. "Ser Jaime. You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a high-ranking servant and advisor to the king and queen. And to me, that should not mean that you should delegate your duty to only being a glorified bodyguard. You have your own wisdom and experiences to share, and your own idea of what a good monarch should be. Do not keep that wisdom to yourself, especially if one of us should stray from the praise you''ve lauded on to us. If you ever see that Joffrey and I are doing something you do not agree with, or if we are failing in our duty to the people, come and talk to us. Be our council."


    "You''d have me make my own judgment to see to it that you and Joffrey remain good rulers?" Jaime asked. "Taking such action is what lead to me losing favor with King Aerys, and subsequently gaining my infamous moniker, in the first place."


    Sansa smirked slightly and turned back towards the door. "It should not be solely the responsibility of a king, or a queen, to ensure the prosperity or protection of the realm and its people." With that she walked out.


    Jaime stayed for a while longer, pondering the queen''s words. She wished for him to keep her and Joffrey steadfast and good? Sansa Stark truly was a fascinating woman.


    He''d often wondered what it would feel like to serve and fight for someone he believed in. What it would feel like to pledge his life to someone worthy of loyalty after years of disappointment and regret. Yet as he stood there, he felt a soothing warmth in his heart at the idea that someone still believed him to be a man of honor, and that inner, primal obligation to carry out his duty to the best of his ability burned within him, stronger than ever.


    Perhaps this is what it feels like, he thought to himself.


    He looked to his white cloak, folded and placed by the spot where he was kneeling before Tyrion''s casket. He picked it up and held it, remembering all he had done and neglected to do in the years since he first put it on.


    I have a second chance at honor and good service. I will not waste it this time.

 Chapter 53: Nobody.

    Chapter 53: Nobody."She must have overslept," Mother said with a little frown, looking at the closed door by the other side of the dining room.


    "Well, she should hurry if she wants breakfast at all," Father mused as he gazed at the window, luxuriating in the late morning sunlight streaming through it.


    Arya suppressed a smirk, but Bran could read her mind all too well as he chuckled.


    "What''s so funny, Bran?" Robb asked him with a knowing smirk.


    "Arya," he said innocently as he aimed at her with a fork.


    Arya showed him her tongue as Mother''s frown turned in her direction. "Arya," she started disapprovingly, "You shouldn''t take joy in your sister''s misfortunes," she sighed, and it seemed she was scolding her for something else beyond that little smirk.


    "I''m sorry she''ll get down for breakfast with bad hair," Arya relented, but Mother seemed far from satisfied as she shook her head.


    "Listen to you mother, Arya," said Father after she gave him a pleading looking, before hiding his half smile with a slice of bread. He munched on the scrambled eggs as Mother looked at him with another sight.


    Jon was -as always- seated on the farthest side of the table, as far away from Mother as he could. It wasn''t far enough for him to share a private snort with Robb however.


    "Any news about the deserter?" Robb changed the topic, bored with the familiar routine.


    "No word on that yet," Father said after a moment.


    "Ser Rodrik says they often die before making it past Last Hearth," Bran piped in.


    Mother looked about to intervene, when Father silenced her with a look. Arya daydreamed about having that power, if only for a single day¡­


    "It''s true. Deserters of the Night''s Watch are seldom well received amongst anyone, high and low¡­" he trailed off, nodding slightly. "If they find him, we''ll have to carry out our duty," he said as he turned to Bran.


    "He''s too young, Ned," Mother tried before Bran interrupted her.


    "I''m not! I''ll be good, Father!" he said boldly, straightening his back. Arya couldn''t help but huff as she looked at Father as well.


    "I can too!" she said, but she realized that had been a bridge too far as Mother''s frown turned into a glower.


    "Absolutely not!" she sentenced as Bran howled in outrage and smacked her in the arm.


    "You had to ruin it!" he raged, and Mother was about to stand up and exact retribution when the door opened and Sansa walked into the dining room. Arya felt a sort of vindictive satisfaction as she saw her sister''s hair. She clearly hadn''t taken even a second to work on it; something Arya knew would bother her for the rest of the day.


    "Someone had trouble getting out of bed today," Father called out.


    Sansa didn''t seem to hear him, walking almost blindly to the table as she massaged the right side of her face. Arya smirking again as she prepared her fresh quiver for the day. Sansa hated being teased about her hair, especially when it was true!


    Sansa sat beside her, blinking slowly as she looked at her plate. She looked almost haggard, dazed as she rubbed her eyes.


    "Forgot your comb?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, her tone perfectly innocent and leaving no way for Mother to scold her.


    "Hey," Sansa whispered as she saw her, ignoring the words as she blinked once more. "Hey," she whispered again, hugged her intensely. Arya was kind of stunned, her protests lingering in her mouth as her sister squeezed tightly.


    What is going on?! She thought in a daze, wondering if she should pull Sansa''s hair to make her go away.


    She started to struggle when she realized this would be the perfect opportunity for her sister to smear an itchy make up or some other terrible substance all over her head¡­ Sansa let her go almost immediately though, strangely reluctant. Arya was relieved and somewhat befuddled when she found no trace of a revenge prank on her hair or clothes... not that Sansa was particularly fond of them, but last night''s little prank on her sister''s room had left Arya a bit weary; on the lookout for possible retaliation no matter how unlikely.


    Her sister seemed to be really seeing her surroundings for the first time, her face shifting through a dozen emotions in half as many seconds before settling in an oddly polite, neutral one. "Good morning Jon," she said as she turned to him, smiling almost apologetically as she reached out and squeezed his shoulder, a sort of acknowledgement in her gaze. Her half-brother ¨Cwho had been smiling at the unusual behavior up till now- seemed extremely uncomfortable, smiling woodenly at Sansa as she fumbled for a second.


    "I''m sorry, it''s just¡­ I had a nightmare," she said by way of explanation as most of the table looked at her in mild shock.


    "Must have been a bad one," Mother said in confused sympathy, Robb trailing away from the conversation and gazing at Jon in disbelief. He shrugged back awkwardly as Sansa turned to her left, giving Bran a tight hug as she tickled him.


    "Hey little knight," she greeted him warmly, messing up his hair. There was something odd in her voice, it sounded vaguely choked.


    "Hey!!!" grumbled Bran, and Sansa chuckled as he struggled. She called out to Robb and Mother as Father stood up, placing his napkin on the table before walking around the table. His breakfast was done and a long day waited for the Lord of Winterfell.


    "Glad you managed to get up on your own; it would have been the first one in years," he said as he passed her by, patting her shoulder. He was startled when Sansa stood up though, hugging him fiercely.


    "Father," she said with a tight smile. Father seemed almost as befuddled as Arya herself as he rubbed Sansa''s back, looking at Mother as if demanding an explanation.


    "Must have been a terrible nightmare," he said awkwardly. Sansa was trawling her arms through Father''s back, as if to make sure he was real. She was breathing deeply, her face buried in Father''s shoulder as if she were five years old again. With a start, Arya realized Sansa was sobbing.


    They were few and far between, but the muffled sound was unmistakable before she let him go, smiling apologetically and cleaning a few stray tears with her sleeve.


    "Sansa, what happened-"


    "It''s just- I had a really bad nightmare¡­" she said as she swallowed another sob. "I''m glad you''re okay," she said meekly before returning to her seat, taking a deep breath before looking at the table. "I''m glad you''re all here," she said after swallowing one last sob and grabbing one of the freshly baked loafs on the bowl. She chomped it down quickly, ignoring the confused looks all around.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    Joffrey cleared the last of the underbrush, slipping into the familiar clearing around Winterfell''s heart tree. Sansa was leaning on it, gazing at its blood red eyes as Joffrey quickly walked towards her.


    "Left me a little concerned when you didn''t show up in the courtyard," he said as he embraced her from behind.


    Gods I missed her, he thought as he breathed in her scent. Sansa''s mind seemed far away though, grabbing one of Joffrey''s arms and placing it around her belly as she kept staring at the Heart Tree.


    "You alright? None of the wounds aching or hurting?" he asked her, concerned as Sansa kept looking at the Heart Tree.


    "No, not really," she said after a moment.


    "You don''t sound convinced," said Joffrey, smiling lightly as he saw Lady sitting by her wife''s side. The little pup seemed oddly formal, sitting back and gazing at Joffrey for a moment before yawning.


    Sansa sighed, keeping a grip on Joffrey''s hand as they sat on one of the white roots. "I felt so powerless¡­" she began, trying to give words to the feeling which had been gestating inside her during the past month.


    "We''ll take her seriously this time," Joffrey told her earnestly, "I''ve already got a few preliminary plans for a repeating ballista, as well as a variation on the mangonels used by the Dawn Fort."


    Sansa smiled as Joffrey squeezed her hand, gesticulating as he kept explaining. "We''ll burn down a few warehouses, but when I get the firepowder right we can set the ground for when the bitch returns¡­ or rather, the skies," he said.


    "Oh?" Sansa asked, humoring him.


    "A trick I learned back in the Dawn Fort. Paint the sky red with incendiary and shrapnel charges; we could take out Daenerys pretty early in the battle if we time the first volley just right. With her gone the dragons should be a lot more stupid, and we can bait them into prepared killing grounds after-"


    "We could also just send a killer after her, a competent one who''s not in Varys'' pocket," she pointed out.


    Joffrey stopped mid explanation, hand in the air as he mimed the great explosions of the concussive charges. "Right, we could do that too," he said after a pregnant silence.


    Sansa smiled wistfully before shaking her head, looking at the freshly fallen summer snow. "I''m not just talking about the dragons," she said finally. "Them, the shadow, Lyra''s death, the war that is to come¡­ the Others¡­" she trailed off before her voice her gaze hardened, "Seeing my own father getting stabbed to death by a shadow right in front of my eyes and not having a clue about how to stop it just put it all in perspective."


    "I can go to Dragonstone around the fifth month or so," he pointed out, "Stab Melissandre in her sleep. In and out, no one will know."


    "You''re being foolish again, love," Sansa told him with a familiar sigh. "Racing around to fix my ills," she said warmly, caressed his hand.


    Joffrey smiled sheepishly, "Wouldn''t exactly help with the feeling of powerlessness, right?" he asked after a moment of introspection. "Gods know that having the might of the Seven Kingdoms under my thumb didn''t help me back then," he said.


    "It''s not just about me, it''s about having all the tools we can at our disposal," she said with a decisive nod, "It''s about carrying my half of your burden, it''s about making sure my family and my friends make it out alive from it all, it''s about stopping the Red Priests and the dragons and the White Walkers and whatever other horror decides to come after the people I love," she said.


    "You have another plan for this life," said Joffrey, and it was not a question.


    "Magic," said Sansa, Joffrey''s eyebrows shooting upwards and hiding under his long hair.


    "Never could get my head around that," he commented idly.


    "But I can. How did you put it? ''My very own sorceress''?" she asked with an impish smile.


    "Something like that," Joffrey smiled back.


    "I know I''m a warg, but I just know there''s so much more I could do," she whispered, "The blood of the First Men sings true within me; I know this Joff¡­ What if instead of spending a fortune preparing for Daenerys, I could face her mind directly, beyond the dragons? What if I could scout beyond your armies'' van, rooting out enemy scouts and plans? What if we could¡­ gaze beyond the frosts at the enemy''s lair?" she said the last in a hush, a small undercurrent of awe within.


    "You want instruction," he said.


    "Yes," she answered back.


    He stayed quiet as he studied the silent determination writ clear in her expression. "I''ve seen magic, Sansa. What it does to people, what it can turn them into if they''re not careful¡­" he said as he gazed at her eyes.


    She didn''t have to tell him he''d be there for her. Her guardian against the madness and the insanity.


    "Partners," he said after a moment.


    "Partners," she said as well.


    Fight fire with fire, he thought as he leaned back, letting the weight of the moment settle around them.


    "Where do we go? The far north? If the rumors are anything to go by then there''s more knowledge about warging there than in any place in the Seven Kingdoms," he said.


    "I need more than warging, Joff," she said as she shook her head, "A lot more," she whispered as she swept Lady up in her arms, the tiny direwolf looking back seriously.


    "Qarth?" Joffrey asked, twitching his nose, "They knew of magic, but there was a sense of decay there, of faded glories gone stale with time¡­" he trailed off as he looked at Sansa, "Not enough for our purposes," he said as he shook his head.


    "Take us East," Sansa muttered, scratching Lady''s head as the direwolf yawned again, "Let me devote a life to understanding what I have within me, what I am," she whispered as she gazed at Lady''s drowsy eyes.


    "Yi-Ti, the fractured empire¡­ the land of a hundred princes and eternal civil war, of scheming chancellors and arcane tomes¡­" he mused, frowning in recollection.


    Sansa turned to look at him as he thought, his eyes heavy with memories of cultists and shadow weavers.


    "No, beyond," he said as he shook his head. "If we are to do this, then we will do it right," he sentenced, determination welling within him as well.


    "Straight to the source," Sansa smiled, "You were never one for half measures."


    "Not in a long time," he said as he took a deep breathe. "If there''s a place where magic is felt in the very air, it''s in the Shadow Lands," he said.


    "Asshai-By-The-Shadow," Sansa whispered as the hair at the nape of her neck stood on edge, Lady''s fur rising in unison as she stayed still, huddled within her mistress'' grasp.


    "And beyond, if we have to," he sentenced.


    "Together," she said as she squeezed his hand.


    "Together," he said as he squeezed back.


    -: PD :-


    "Take care not to touch the water, it brings only memories of deep sorrow," Zehian told them with the air of an oft recited saying. They crossed the ancient looking stone bridge quickly enough, same as the few local denizens of the city; all figures garbed in black and grey, hiding their bodies from the murky sunlight that struggled to reach the roads.


    "Talk about redundant warnings," Joffrey whispered in Sansa''s ears, her hand squeezing back in brief acknowledgement. Anyone foolish enough to drink water from a river that turned into a greenish black during nighttime deserved the consequences.


    Asshai-By-The-Shadow was a quiet city; murmured whispers carried far by gentle winds that seemed to flow unimpeded by the ever present banks of heavy fog. The sprawling city was as big as Volantis, King''s Landing and Braavos combined, but its population seemed perhaps a fifth of what it should have been. Figures between the mists were few and sparse, their masks and robes more in common with ghostly apparitions than flesh and blood humans.


    "What is that?" Joffrey asked their paid guide as Zehian brought them to a small plaza where purpleish bushes scrawled out of the mortared stone road with a will of their own, seeping through the cracks and giving the illusion of movement as they swayed with the wind. Lady regarded the Ghost Grass with suspicion, sticking close to Sansa as their guide nodded.


    "That is Master Hejias," murmured Zehian, gazing respectfully at the figure in the middle of the purple bushes. The man brought memories of cults and ancient whispers to Joffrey''s mind, as he shared the look of a Grey Whisperer but for the color of his robe; white instead of grey, of a color with his long beard. His eyes were closed, and ramrod discipline straightened his back; perfect posture, unmovable arms near the waist, fingers joined and legs folded with an air of long practice and diligence.


    "How long has he¡­ been like that?" Sansa whispered in turn as they stopped walking, gazing at the good five or so meters of empty air that lay between the floating Master and the ground. It was as if the old man were sitting on an invisible cupboard, sturdy and unmoving.


    "Decades, at least... Centuries, some whisper," said Zehian, only to hurry them along the almost deserted street.


    "Why is he doing it?" Joffrey asked as he reluctantly returned his gaze to his small guide.


    "The motives of the Aeromancers are not of this world. They seek beyond, to become one with the wind and be blown astray," he said before leading them through a side street. "Come, the day is short and there is much to see," he whispered urgently.


    Sansa shook her head lightly when Joffrey arched an eyebrow, and their search continued. Her gaze wandered through the towers of paper and dark wood that seemed to emerge from the mist every few blocks; artful designs of understated craftsmanship throwing themselves up into the sky and loosing themselves within the mists above. Small lanterns placed at the corners of each block swayed with the wind, old Yi-Tish script drawn upon them and pleading salvation for long forgotten gods. Robed figures avoided her gaze as they emerged briefly from the mist, only to disappear again. It was noon and the darkness was barely held at bay; light fleeing from the shadows as the sun swayed above back to its slumber.


    "The House of the West, blessed be they in blood," said Zehian as he stopped along with the road. The stones turned abruptly into a blackened dirt path, a snaking trail that turned upwards until the slope was crowned by an ancient manor, its windows barely bigger than the arrow slits of a westerosi keep. Unlike the rest of the city it was made out of chipped black stone and granite, topped by weathered pillars of twisting black that peeked from the mists above.


    Sansa nodded when Joffrey looked at her, and he nodded back. "I can feel the¡­ power. The weight of this place," she whispered as Lady''s fur stood on edge. Four Houses had they seen, and it seemed they had finally found their match, the strongest of the four.


    Tonight then, thought Joffrey.


    -: PD :-


    "More tea?" asked the masked figure, extending a delicate hand for the ornate pitcher. About the only fact that Sansa could deduce from her was that she was a woman, and skilled in shadowing her thoughts and emotions. Unsurprising perhaps, for someone who was in all likelihood a shadow weaver of great skill.


    Meheesa of the House of the West had been waiting for them the moment Sansa and Joffrey had knocked on the manor''s door, her face hidden behind a white mask and her body wrapped in a strange black garb that bordered between a robe and a multitude of interlocking bandages. She had bid them forward, and what had followed was one of the most tense conversations Sansa had ever had in any of her lives.


    "Yes please," she agreed, looking at the way Joffrey tensed, eyeing the room suspiciously as he''d done a dozen times since they had started talking. They hadn''t seen another soul since entering the House, but Joffrey was convinced they were being quietly watched¡­ her beloved had communicated that and many other things through his gaze, his slow blinking a sure sign of wariness.


    "There are few who would dare the path of shadows, even fewer still those who would hail from the Sunset Kingdoms in search of such a path," said Meheesa, revolving her tea with a small silver spoon.


    "Those who would dare seek the truths of this world are few indeed, both in my land and elsewhere. Is it not the nature of mankind to close its eyes and reject what lies beyond?" said Sansa.


    "Well spoken, especially for one so new to the language as you," the woman let slip the tiny bit of information.


    Sansa skipped the probe without a second thought, tilting her head, "Are we agreed then? Secret for secret, instruction for limited servitude?" she asked her would be tutor, the tongue of Yi-Ti and most of the true East flowing smoothly as she gazed beyond the mask, looking at her eyes.


    Meheesa tilted her head minutely, "It is a hard bargain you drive, young one. And you''ve given so few morsels of information¡­ so few prizes for knowledge that most in this city would kill for¡­" she trailed off with a whisper.


    "Knowledge of the future for knowledge of the past, practical instruction for temporal servitude; a more than adequate bargain for both our parts," said Sansa, her face giving nothing away as she sipped her tea. Lady was a statue by her side, following Meheesa''s every movement.


    "Perhaps¡­ what an interesting couple you both make," Meheesa said in turn, looking at Sansa''s ''bodyguard''. She took a long sniff of air, before letting it go with a pleasurable sigh, "So strong the power in both your bloodlines¡­ have you begotten a child with him yet?" she asked Sansa as her gaze lingered on Joffrey.


    Sansa frowned minutely, her teeth clenched for a moment as her composure fractured. Her mind moved quickly through denial to misdirection, racing through possible courses of action.


    She saw right through the bodyguard act¡­ She''s a powerful player, to have seen through Joffrey''s composure so quickly, she thought.


    "We have not. Such concerns are far from my mind at the moment," she said instead, smoothing her face back into blankness. Meheesa''s mask made reading her twice as hard, and left her at a disadvantage considering her own lack thereof.


    She seemed to eye them for a short while, before nodding lightly as she stood up. "I must confer with my peers. Please, make use of our hospitality in the meanwhile," she said as she waved at the room with a hand. There were bookshelves and small liquor cabinets arrayed throughout it; padded carpets and tropical wooden tables holding artwork and glass hookahs. Sansa ignored the understated finery, taking a deep breath of air instead. She nodded respectfully as she stood up as well, gazing at Meheesa as the hair at the nape of her neck tingling and her heartbeat sped up.


    Meheesa of the House of the West smelled of lies, lust, and sick, impending treachery.


    "Joff," she called out to him lightly as Meheesa turned her back upon them, walking towards the door at a sedate pace. Her husband understood her implicitly and acted without doubt; long strides carrying him to Meheesa''s back in but a second. Brightroar had not fully materialized when it pierced the shadow weaver''s back, the fractals mixing with her blood as Valyrian steel emerged through her heart and chest.


    "How many of them?!" Joffrey shouted as he extracted the blade from the gasping woman, shadows of blood and darkness forming around her wounds before Joffrey decapitated her cleanly in one swift cut.


    "At least six more, behind that bookshelf!" Sansa told him as Lady snarled lowly, the bookshelf in question collapsing down to the floor and revealing cloth wrapped men wielding long, curved knifes. They said nothing as they charged, Joffrey filling the silence with a roar of his own as Stars emerged into this world from behind him in mid leap, slamming into the first wave and savaging the men with claw and fang as he reached them half a second later, twirling Brightroar in a spectacle of golden light and severing limbs and heads.


    Sansa felt goose bumps around her right shoulder as Lady twisted around, and she ducked just as a small bolt flew past her. Daggers fell from her sleeves as she turned, jerking her head aside as a curved knife tore through her cheek. Her riposte was instinctive and instantaneous, cutting through the man''s hand with one dagger and piercing his throat with the other one. He gurgled as he tumbled back, replaced by another attacker as he leapt from a sudden hole on the ceiling. The black robed man landed on the floor with barely a sound, knives glinting and dripping with something.


    "More here!" She shouted as she stepped back, avoiding a flurry of strikes as Lady leapt at the man''s heels. Sansa spun and dodged, her reflexes barely keeping up with the whirling dance of death that was the black-bandaged man, but it was not enough. One of the knives sliced through the tendons on her left hand, and Sansa screamed through clenched teeth as she dropped one of her daggers. She took a step forward and received another cut on the shoulder before she could ram her remaining dagger through the man''s heart, making use of Lady''s distraction.


    She felt as if it had been her own heart the one which had been torn apart as wind blew throughout the room, putting out candles and lamps as shadows deepened. Lady mourned in agony as her own shadow somehow came alive; a twisting dark mass of viscous substance that strangled her in moments, covering her body completely and pressing her against the ground in a sickening crunch until she was dissolved to nothing in a second.


    "Lady!!!" Sansa screamed, feeling somewhat sleepy despite the horror. Joffrey was limping towards her, his sword held at the ready as a woman strode slowly into the room, garbed as Meheesa had been. Her mask was midnight blue instead of white, streaks of darkness running through it as blood bubbled out of the slain assassins. It seeped through the floor, reaching her heels and crawling up her legs as she raised her hands.


    "I''ve been poisoned," Sansa managed through the encroaching darkness both within and without, "They want our blood," she whispered, feeling weak, the shadows somehow growing deeper still as she realized the cut on Joffrey''s shoulder as well.


    They wanted them alive.


    "I''m ending it," he said as he reached her, holding her by the shoulder as Brightroar pierced her heart cleanly. Sansa gasped, blood bubbling from her mouth as Joffrey tore the blade through her wound in an instant of agony that soon gave way to seeping purple fractals. She fell on the floor as Joffrey turned the blade around, angling for his own heart.


    "Not yet," whispered the blue mask as Joffrey''s own blood erupted from his wrists, forming thick, dark red pillars that bound him to the floor.


    "S-S-Staaaaaarsss--" Joffrey gurgled as the Silver Lion blinked across the room, its form indistinct as it dissolved and reformed in front of Joffrey until it was almost gone, a lone, disintegrating paw tearing through Joffrey''s throat.


    "No. Tell me your secrets," whispered the blue masked figure as it reached Joffrey in but a second, hundreds of black tendrils emerging from her back and cradling Joffrey as if he were a child, darkness pouring into his mangled throat.


    NO, thought Sansa, folding within herself as the Purple squeezed, pulling his/her''s/the Purple Pillars with all her might as Joffrey gasped in surprise and the fabric of the encroaching Purple thrummed in strained harmony, his body jerking wildly for a millionth of a second as the world folded on itself and she felt him reach her, his presence reassuringly close as they directed their attention upwards and the Pillars pulled them backwards at unfathomable speed, pain blooming around them.


    -: PD :-


    "Your turn," Sansa told him with a wayward smile.


    "Right, sorry," said Joffrey, shaking his head lightly before returning his gaze to the cyvasse board. He spent a few minutes thinking of a way around Sansa''s trap before smiling deviously and arranging a double feint, moving his elephant forward as a fake sacrifice.


    Sansa hummed as she leaned on the table, her elbows holding her head up as she scanned the board.


    "More wine?" asked a brown skinned man, and Joffrey even managed to hide the scowl at the sight of his slave collar¡­ this time.


    "Please," he said with a nod, waiting for Sansa to make her move.


    "I don''t know how you can stand that wine," she said, still eyeing the board and pouting every now and then, her hand floating around the air in search of the right piece to grasp.


    "Persimmons are not that bad," he said, his gaze returning to the street in front of the small, open aired tavern. He examined the marching group of legionaries closely, nodding approvingly at the tight formation and stern gaze of the soldiers. Freemen and slaves moved aside quickly as the century marched through the street, the optio at the head carrying the thunderbolt wielding harpy of New Ghis, identical as the one drawn across the wide tower shields of the legionaries.


    He frowned when he gazed back at the board. "How did you know it was a ruse?" he asked her.


    "You''ve never liked sacrificing troops," she said after a little sigh, "You scrounge your eyelids a bit and your hands fist like a baby''s¡­ it always gives you away," she continued with a sly smile.


    "Oh," Joffrey nodded along, "I''ll be sure to keep my hands in check then. Especially when your eyes flutter like drunken butterflies."


    "Please don''t," she said as she blushed a bit, "It was only a jest," she clarified as Joffrey moved his elephant away from the failed ruse, rapidly coming up with another plan that saw two of Sansa''s siege towers destroyed.


    "I thought so," he said with a snort. The game continued for a while then, the patrons coming and leaving as they relaxed for the rest of the afternoon. Most of the others were freemen dockhands, working long shifts at the docks that kept the lifeblood of trade moving. A few sailors of the New Ghis Navy also called the Ghe''zeras home, coming in with happy smiles and leaving with brawls and scowls as they ran out of gold.


    "Do you think that other people¡­ see the Purple, when we die?" He asked her as the game flowed back and forth.


    "I don''t know¡­ maybe," Sansa said as she nursed her mug of strong ale, "Brightroar certainly gives out a light show every time you pull it out of your soul. Maybe it''s like that for our bodies but in reverse," she thought out loud.


    "Hm. If that''s the case then we must have left quite the riddle after every death¡­"


    "Have you ever thought about what happens to the worlds we leave behind¡­ the lives within it?" she asked after a moment.


    "Many times¡­ I reckon they all have their souls reversed as well, carried along with the rest of the cosmos and none the wiser for it."


    "To think otherwise would be madness," Sansa said after a while, nodding repeatedly as she gazed at the board.


    "Hm. The sheer amount of power though¡­ to make everything crawl back, years upon years," Joffrey trailed off as he moved his horseman to the right, slaying Sansa''s dragon.


    "It''s certainly on a scale undreamt of by any mage or sorcerer of our era, that''s for sure. How our¡­ creators managed such a feat but couldn''t bring an end to the Long Night itself is a question I''ve wrestled with a lot, some nights," she confessed.


    Joffrey snorted, "An endeavor doomed to failure," he said.


    "The Deep Ones seemed to have a pretty firm grasp of the order of things, and they were as mortal as you or I."


    "They also, oh, orchestrated a master plan spanning eons of foresight and dimensions beyond our comprehension. There''s a difference between mortal and mortal, Sansa," he said.


    "Hey!" he protested when he felt a muzzle emerge from between his arm and his waist. He was too slow, and before he knew it Lady was happily munching through his long slice of sweetened ham.


    Sansa was smiling and making baby noises as she scratched the happy direwolve''s cheeks, ignoring Joffrey grumbling. "You''ll be the one to bargain with the innkeeper for another loaf," he told her.


    "As if it were that hard. One little jiggle of these and he''ll sell us another loaf for a bent copper," she said as she moved her breasts slightly.


    "Using your own body as a weapon. Lady Teyia would be proud," he said after a hearty chuckle.


    "Her Braavosi ways would be wasted on this bunch," she said as she flicked her eyes towards the burly innkeeper menacing a long piece of iron at an arguing dockworker.


    "Hm, too much subtlety. And pelts, she did love her snowfox pelts," he added.


    "You did too."


    "They suit you rather well, what can I say?" he said with a smile.


    Sansa hummed as she smiled with him, her hand going for one of her footman.


    "He''ll get killed by my dragon," Joffrey offered.


    Sansa stopped, gazed at the board again, and tried to move her elephant.


    "He''ll die in two turns. Knights are powerful like that," he said. "Wisdom of our homeland."


    Sansa scowled, leaned back on her chair, and tapped her chin. She gazed at the board for a good long five minutes before grunting in exasperation. "Is there any way to get my Archon out of there?!" she asked him.


    "Nope."


    "But I had this double flanking maneuver prepared with this group of footmen that-"


    "Would have been stopped by that siege tower, once I moved it three squares up and two left," Joffrey completed the sentence as he pointed at his siege tower behind two footmen, strategically placed to block the whole future move.


    "I don''t like this game," she said with a grunt.


    "You liked it well enough back in Winterfell."


    "That''s because you were going easy on me!"


    "So you admit you''d prefer the easy way? I thought you didn''t want me to patronize you," Joffrey asked as he raised an eyebrow high, leaning on the last word.


    "Bleahg," said the once Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, weaver of mercantile plots, and warg. His wife truly was the peak of eloquence.


    "Best of five?" he said.


    "Gods no!" she said before standing up, giving a tiny bellow as she stretched like a lazy cat. Lady followed her motions as she shoved her paws forward, her tail wagging slowly as she blinked and stretched with an almighty yawn. "I want to go for a walk, stretch my legs. Besides, it''s getting late."


    "Good idea," he said as he stood up, bending his neck a bit and working out the cricks.


    Sansa paid the barkeep ¨Cleaning forward suggestively as she haggled the price- as Joffrey stashed the cyvasse set. Soon enough they were walking atop the cobbled streets of New Ghis, the yelling of a thousand traders speaking in a dozen tongues mixing with the high pitched shrills of the seagulls. They sorted through the jeering and partying privateers, slave hunters and dockhands toasting their meads of fermented milk, and walked past the great statues of dead generals and legates of ages past, born when the Valyrian Freehold was but a dream within the minds of errant goat herders. They took the high road away from the docks, up the cliffs and around the naval dockyards. From there they could see the high stepped pyramids of the city center; great bonfires roaring from their yellow tips.


    They walked with their hands intertwined, Lady chasing multicolored birds that sometimes swooped down to the earth and pierced the ground with their long beaks.


    "She''ll catch one one these days and end up with a hole in the head for her troubles," said Joffrey.


    "Direwolf''s skulls are made of sterner stuff," said Sansa, their walk carrying them through a dirt path overrun with cart grooves and the occasional tree looming over the road.


    "Don''t I know it," said Joffrey, hiding a smirk. They sat on a big tree stump to watch the sunset, Lady yawning again as she trotted to their side and lay on her belly.


    "¡­ The House of the West was a bad idea," said Sansa.


    Joffrey grunted acknowledgment, taking a deep breath. "Yeah."


    "¡­ I was thinking of trying for the House of the South," she said after a while.


    "What makes you think it''ll go any different?"


    "They''re the weakest of the four houses, for starters. Something happened about a hundred years ago that almost wiped them out, and according to what we found out in the Imperial Library they never really recovered."


    "Yei-Kuh was less of a historian and more of a buffoon. They almost laughed us out of the library when you asked for that tome back in Yin," said Joffrey.


    "You said his sources seemed legitimate enough¡­" she trailed off, "At least for his scholarly work," she added. "They won''t be in a position to gamble or backstab, not when what we offer could set them back on their local equivalent of the game of thrones."


    Joffrey tilted his head from side to side as he hummed, "We''ll need something more than mere information about the future. All this talk of ''secrets for secrets'' may sound poetic, but nothing prods greed like the physical... it would be a good idea to arrive bearing gifts."


    "What''re you thinking about?"


    "The Warlocks," Joffrey told her. "I remember the bastards had a Valyrian glass candle the last time I was there. The thing was just lying there atop a table as the Warlock used it on my tablet¡­ We should loot it from them, and maybe set the whole building on fire on our way out, do the world a favor."


    "We won''t lose too much time. We need to resupply at Qarth anyway," Sansa thought out loud.


    They trailed off into silence as they weighted their options; the way forward filled with unknowns. Joffrey stared at Sansa with slight smile until she blinked slowly, a smile of her own growing amidst the uncertainty. "What?" she asked him.


    He grabbed her by the shoulder and kissed her deeply, and she returned the kiss in full after a second. She leant on him until his back was against the stump, her red locks spilling over his chest as she rested her head over it.


    "We''ll be okay Joff," she whispered as she nuzzled his neck, holding him tight. A deep flame tickled her chest, her gut, and she held him close as she breathed slowly, "Nobody will stop us. Not Stannis, not Aegon, not Daenerys, not all the sorcerers in the world."


    "Nobody," said Joffrey, looking at the darkening sky and the seagulls whirling overhead, dancing in the air.


    Is this calm resolution what it feels to be an adult? Joffrey asked himself. Fate had never allowed him to grow old, to watch his body turn frail and see his seed grow into a loving family¡­ He didn''t know what was waiting for them in the Shadowlands, but his course was set; his motions sure. The Captain knows the way forward, the tiller is set.


    All that remains is to sail into the storm, for he can do no other.


    "Nobody," he repeated, holding his wife close. He let the sound of the sea wash over him, mixed with the gentle swaying of Sansa''s chest. "Don''t lose yourself," he whispered, stroking her hair as he remembered the shrieks of cultists and madmen, shadows and illusions warping their perception of the world into a mixture of pure madness and terrifying reality.


    "We''ll be lost together," she whispered back.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Qarth had brought mixed memories, old days of confusion and fear and wonder. Of Daenerys he''d seen nothing and heard little, for it seemed the latent madwoman had not yet reached the City of a Thousand Years. Joffrey had long ago learned about his curiosity, catalogued and ordered it, breathed and lived in it, and so he''d learnt to prioritize. For all his curiosity about the how''s and why''s of Daenery''s journey, the reasons behind her descent into madness, there were deeper and much more important mysteries still on the horizon.


    When the tablet disappeared, Joffrey made the journey to the House of the Undying. He had turned right again and again, right and up the stairs as the wisdom of the Undying demanded. He''d ended up in a circular room with no other exits, a lone altar in the middle of the room showing nothing for his efforts. S?a??h the N0??F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Your curiosity betrays you, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said Pyat Pree as he emerged from the only entrance. Joffrey gazed at him, watching the way his bronze rings jingled lightly around his unnaturally stretched neck.


    The man smirked as another one emerged from behind one of the room''s pillars. The second Pyat Pree''s eyebrows ¨Cthough he barely had them- were raised in apparent surprise as he examined him. "You are quite arrogant, little prince, to seek which was meant for greater minds," he told him.


    "Quite arrogant indeed," said another Pyat Pree as he hefted a chain. Joffrey realized his right hand had been clapped in irons from one second to the next, the chains appearing as if from thin air. "No matter," said another Pyat as he pulled from the chains clasped to his left hand, "Rejoice, for you shall be opened up for your secrets, your body a source of illumination so that the shade may run deeper," he intoned as both of Joffrey''s arms went taut, held horizontally.


    Joffrey sighed as he looked at the irons, "I feared you once, you know?" he said, tilting his head lightly as he gazed at the chains. The warlocks seemed slightly amused, and Joffrey smiled with them.


    "I''ve lived for so much time¡­" he mused, gazing at the manacle around his right arm, "There''s a sort of rhythm to this world, to existence perhaps¡­ a sort of raw stuff that floods silence and noise, steel and rock, water and sky, storms¡­ almost like a song¡­ its so hard to put into words¡­" he said before trailing off, eyes clouded. "Have you ever heard it? The¡­ melody? The harmony?" he asked them earnestly, almost pleadingly.


    One of the Pree''s scoffed, walking closer to him, "You are naught but dust and dreams, impermanent and mundane. How can you even try to understand what is beyond you?" he asked, his hollow voice rebounding within the room.


    Joffrey nodded thoughtfully, gazing at the man, "That''s the thing, warlock," he said, "If we are all but dust and dreams, then what is a dream''s dream?"


    The warlock frowned as Joffrey let out a big breath.


    "Less than nothing," he mused. The man stumbled back, mouth agape as Joffrey''s sight returned to his right hand.


    The manacle was gone, along with the chain.


    "The absence of the song gives the dream''s dream away," he told them, "Illusions of shadow and light which are not actually real¡­ as much as any of us can claim to be at least," he said as he materialized Brightroar and the room bloomed in eldritch purple light. He struck the sword against the other chain, the striking of Vlayrian steel against shadow and falsehood a sharp twine of noise which was gone as soon as it was felt.


    "What are you?" whispered the Pree who''d been in front of him, stumbling back.


    "A weapon," said Joffrey as he grabbed him by the shoulder and ran Brightroar through his chest. "This blade. My wife and I. We were made by the dreamers above us," he explained as the man gurgled and Joffrey twisted the wound open, extracting the blade upwards and tearing the man''s shoulder apart.


    "How many dreamers beyond them? What are we all to them?" he asked them as Pyat fell to the ground, the other Pree''s jumping at him with bared blades and blurred steps. He avoided their daggers as Brightroar carved long lines through their forms, cutting their unarmored bodies in half until the last Pree raised his hands to the heavens and took in a harrowing breath, staggering Joffrey.


    Joffrey felt as if his blood were boiling, an invisible hand choking him as he stumbled to the ground. He snarled as Stars roared with him, the Silver Lion emerging into reality right behind the last Pree and tearing the man''s head off with massive jaws. He breathed easily as he stood up, massaging his throat before Stars prowled to his side, jamming his big head against Joffrey''s thigh.


    "Good job," he said with a smile as he patted the lion''s head. He turned towards the door and made his way out of there, following the call of the tablet.


    "Let''s hunt," he told Stars.


    He started with a light jog, the tabled homing him in, Brightroar a flash of light in his hands as he cut down surprised warlocks. He was running now, mind adrift as he turned corners abruptly and crashed against trios of warlocks, their surprised expressions turning into disbelieving pain as Valyrian steel painted the walls red. He ambushed them with Stars, the lion renting them apart before they could work their twisted sorceries; panicked shouting turning into screams of horror that locked in their throats as Joffrey moved silently and let his ears guide him to the nearest prey in his way. He entered their quarters unannounced, walking behind warlocks as they desperately gulped down goblets filled with Shade of the Evening. The black, purplish liquid didn''t spend long inside them though; and the sorcerers gazed at their bellies in confusion, stunned as they watched the droplets of their hallowed liquid lazily travelling down Brightroar''s edge, the blade itself pinning them to walls and cabinets.


    He went up and down stairs, through thresholds of solid stone and obsidian, past twisted nightmares and illusions and startled yells as Stars roared and hunted the warlocks through corridors and ritual chambers. After confronting the horrors of K''Dath and the twisted cultists from the Beyond, after glimpsing the morsels of true darkness hidden between the crevasse of Asshai by the Shadow, after learning the harrowing truth of what most mortals called the Red Comet, Joffrey regarded the Warlocks of Qarth as little else but faded echoes of a long dead scream; shadows of shadows weaving dreams out of dreams, feverishly drinking their drinks and poultices in the vain hopes of reaching apotheosis.


    Once their coherence had been broken, their ritual circles torn asunder, the vast majority of the rank and file were nothing but petty conjurers.


    He emerged into a study he barely remembered, sheathing his bloodied blade in intricately carved dragonbone. There he found Sansa, red spear in hand as she surveyed the room. "Distraction did the job?" he asked her as he closed the door behind him.


    "Like a charm," she said, fascinated as she gazed at the twisted form of the glass candle. The thing was wickedly sharp; a twisting pole of obsidian no longer than Joffrey''s forearm and black as night.


    "Last time I was here that thing was warping color as if they were mere suggestions," Joffrey said as he approached the candle warily, right next to the whalebone tablet. "Did he give you any trouble?" he asked her as he gazed at the dead warlock.


    "None, he was too busy obsessing over the tablet¡­ and the glass candle. It was distorting light like nobody''s business too," she said, grabbing the artifact gently. "Think it''ll be enough? We could stay a while longer, look for more¡­"


    Joffrey bit his lip, gazing at the twisting candle. "Let''s not push our luck, by now they must be rallying," he said instead.


    Sansa nodded quickly as she grabbed a nearby oil lantern and smashed it against books and tables filled with parchment. She''d already grabbed a few of them and stuffed them in a satchel, but the rest went up in flames as Joffrey did the same to drapes and carpets, the fires soon raging out of control as they ran through the lower levels.


    They would stop in Yin as they''d done before, to gather supplies and a braver crew¡­ and after that, Asshai would beckon once more.


    -: PD :-

 Art Omake: The Glass Candle.

    Merry Halloween! Spoiler: Better Scan here


    And this one is the olde version:


    Spoiler: Light up your Glass Candles!


    Trick or Treat?


    Spoiler: There is some creepy shit in Planetos...


    The Lion of Night is a god in Yi Ti. The Faceless Men believe that is just another representation of the Many Joffrey BaratheonMany-Faced God.[1] There is a statue of it in the House of Black and White which is most commonly visited by rich men.[2]


    According to tales told by the priestly scribes of Yin, the Lion of Night fathered a son on Sansa Stark of Winterfell the Maiden-Made-of-Light. This son was the Warhammer Emperor of MamThe MessiathGod-on-Earth, who ruled the Great Empire of the Dawn for ten thousand year before ascending to the heavens.


    The descendants of the God-Earth ruled the empire after him, each ruling a shorter time than the previous one, until the brother of the Amethyst Empress usurped her in the Blood Betrayal and crowned himself as the Bloodstone Emperor, ushering in the Long Night. The Maiden-Made-of-Light turned her back upon the world and the Lion of Night came forth in all his wroth to punish the wickedness of man.[3]


    The Five Forts, which predate the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, are claimed by some to have been raised by the Pearl Emperor to keep Joffrey the Lion of Night and his demons away from the realms of men.[3]


    Eeek! Hope you guys like the fanart. I did after the last chapter were our heroes kick some magic Ass in the mistic distant orient. And since these loops our heroes will be in the Jedi route I put a nice Braavosi mask in Sansa since it seems to be the custom to the Sorceress there.


    I wonder if Break Havok in the Clone Magus house will influence the way Daenerys act in this loop... Are they the guys that send the poison that necrosed her arm right? S?a??h th? ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 54: Air.

    Chapter 54: Air.The leaves were wide and strong, of a deep green and riddled with yellow veins. Joffrey felt the texture gently, his fingers drawing the shape of the leaf as he followed the contours and then the veins themselves, feeling the sticky sap flowing within and beyond his grasp.


    The great tree itself was a living work of art; intertwined branches spreading away from the center as if the whole tree were a slowed down explosion, figs and broad leaves crowning the tip of the tree in a splendor of green and yellow.


    "Strong but bending; I wonder if that is what draws man to the greater trees," said a voice from behind him. Joffrey dragged his sight away from the monstrous fig tree that dominated the courtyard and regarded the waiting monk with a thoughtful expression. He wore clean white robes, and his head had been completely shaved except for a small grey beard which had been tied together into a compact form with two lengths of string.


    Joffrey returned his gaze to the tree. "They are admired for their strength in the midst of storms, and for the shelter and food they provide... But for me it is their surety of purpose, the¡­" he trailed off, frowning as he glimpsed the sun shining through the leaves overhead, "¡­ their serene presence in the moment," he murmured.


    "So they are the epitome of the present? Monuments of the now?" asked the monk. S?a??h th? N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Monuments of the now¡­" mused Joffrey. "But still in movement, always knowing where the sunlight is, always sure of their course as slow as it may be," he said as the monk walked beside him, peering up at the figs hanging above.


    "But they shall never reach their destination, the sun too high for their grasping branches. Does that not evoke hopelessness?"


    "Does it?" Joffrey answered with a question of his own, "They created their own journey, and lived through it until the end, whatever it was. Can anyone for ask more?"


    "So it''s not about the end, but the path itself?"


    "Can one exist without the other? Can the end have meaning without the road?" said Joffrey.


    "But doesn''t the end also define the road? The very meaning of the question tying both path and resolution?" asked the monk.


    "The serpent that eats its own tail. Meaning does not flow in a single direction, but spins eternally between both," Joffrey nodded after a moment.


    They spent a while longer in silence before they both turned.


    "Master Jeng," Joffrey said as he bowed, hands joined together at his chest.


    "Master Joffrey," Jeng intoned as he bowed in turn. They shared a private smile before Jeng reached for two of the tree''s lower hanging figs. He tossed one to Joffrey, who caught it easily. "Walk with me?" he asked before biting a juicy chunk out of the fig.


    "Of course, then the young ones can return to their studies," said Joffrey as he gazed back at the half a dozen peeking students, who all immediately found something more interesting to stare at. For all that most of them were older than Joffrey by at least five years, he couldn''t find it in himself to regard their curiosity and thirst for knowledge as anything but adorably juvenile. Perhaps even nostalgic.


    "Restless few days?" asked Jeng as they walked away from the tree and the dispersing students, walking over a cobbled trail as they left the main courtyard.


    "Yeah. They have once again locked my wife in for the week¡­ ''So she may study uninterrupted''. The House of the South''s need for secrecy borders on wanton paranoia sometimes," he said, a brief scowl marring the tranquility he otherwise felt in this place.


    "The secrets of the flesh are no less deep than those of the mind, but war and intrigue have marked the former far more than the latter in this city," said Jeng, their walk carrying them below an arch of intertwined wood that divided two sections of the same garden.


    Joffrey nodded before a small smile peeked through his lips. "You know why I''m here," he said, nibbling on the fig as the Master smiled.


    "Indeed. We are ready," said Jeng, opening the paper door to the small dojo by the side of the garden. Inside awaited two sitting monks, a Paigo table between them.


    "Master Joffrey!" called out the older one as he stood up, a brown skinned Ghsicary whose grandfatherly smile did little to hide the keen intellect behind his eyes.


    "Master Gaharz," Joffrey bowed with him, "I hope Master Wo-Ti''s blunders have not dulled your edge since last time?" he said.


    "Owh!" Master Wo-Ti called out from the floor, giving Joffrey a deep nod instead of standing up and bowing. Joffrey roughly translated that to ''Greetings Master Joffrey. Would you care to get your ass reamed in a match right now?'' in Wotese.


    "He has been most disrespectful in that regard, overturning all expectations," said Master Gaharz, folding his legs and sitting on the floor by the side of the table, leaving the opponent''s place free. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to make Master Wo-Ti remember his real skill level?"


    "And save us his boasting for the following month," Jeng added as he closed the door behind him.


    "It will be my pleasure," said Joffrey as he sat opposite to Wo-Ti. The fat, round headed master smirked at the presumption. Big, meaty hands emerged from the folds of his robes as he arranged the pieces with deceptive gentleness, not even asking which color Joffrey wanted to take.


    Because of course Wo-Ti would play black, ceding the initiative to Joffrey.


    "Feeling confident today, huh?" he said before Master Jeng sat by the remaining side of the small table, the dark-brown wood paneling muffling his movement until he was suddenly sitting by their side.


    "Heh," grunted Wo-Ti, which could be roughly translated as ''Come at me''.


    And so the game was off to a quick start. Wo-Ti played as he fought, ponderous and powerful swipes of action that gave way to long moments of stillness, giving Joffrey enough rope until the time was ripe and the Master struck. Joffrey preferred the classics of Fol-Fing rather than his disciple and foremost apprentice, General Be-Ming, and so he feinted and hid, seeking to wear down the black pieces through constant movement and fierce engagements.


    When he''d first arrived at the temple of the Aeromancers, high atop a large hill beyond Asshai''s limits, Joffrey had been seeking little more than peace of mind. Sansa had been staying longer and longer within the confines of the House of the South, almost like a Septa in a quiet retreat. The moments they''ve had to talk had been few and far between¡­ enough to leave Joffrey certain that she was safe, but not nearly enough to leave him untroubled.


    He''d barely spent more than a single day meditating by the shadow of the fig tree when Master Jeng had approached and engaged him in philosophy as an equal, and from there to meeting Gahzan and Wo-Ti.


    No matter how hard his denials and his lack of formal titles, all three monks insisted in calling him a Master, same as they referred to each other. In Yi-Tish the term spoke of someone possessing great wisdom and mastery of their own Way, and to be referred as such by the likes of them had been a profound acknowledgement of something, a something Joffrey was still busy deciphering.


    "Hm," Wo-Ti grunted. He was grudgingly respectful of the showing, but certain of his opponent''s defeat. He raised one bushy eyebrow, before extending one black bead forward by a single tile.


    "This was a mistake," said Jeng.


    "You have doomed us all, Master Joffrey," said Ghazan.


    "Hah," said Wo-Ti. Which Joffrey translated as loud cheering and rude gestures.


    "Well, this is unexpected," he said as he traced the brutal clash that would soon follow and wipe him out completely. Pure Be-Ming style¡­ Fitting perhaps, for the man did slay his mentor after all.


    "Sorry about that," said Joffrey, smiling sheepishly.


    "Zhezhezhe," rasped Wo-Ti with a wide smile.


    "Now you''re just rubbing it in," said Jeng.


    "¡­Best of three?" asked Joffrey.


    Both Jeng and Gahzan stared at him in mute horror. One victory was one thing, but two? Wo-Ti might actually speak after that.


    "Hmmm," said the burly Master, before nodding.


    Joffrey twisted his neck left and right, working out the kinks. This was going to be a long afternoon.


    Perhaps he would even stop worrying about Sansa for a minute or two¡­


    -: PD :-


    "You are distracted," rasped Calinnia. A twirling knot of unpleasantness curdled within her belly, and Sansa gasped.


    "Isn''t that counterproductive?" she asked before Calinnia waved her hand and another wave of pain rocked her belly as her own blood rebelled.


    "Insolent child. You are blessed by the gift and the blood of ancient times, and yet you disappoint at every turn," she said, and Sansa thought she could detect the faintest trace of jealousy in her mentor''s voice. She was a vaguely stooped figure, white bandages covering her form completely under a black robe, a green mask striped with red lines hiding her face.


    "Forgive me, Matriarch," she said as she bowed her head. The grey and bare basalt of the small chamber''s walls did strange things to sound, compounding and drowning it at the same time.


    "Return your mind to the present. The key to sorcery is blood, and to be attuned with it is to be attuned with power itself. Achieve dominion over your flesh, and the rest will follow," she said, repeating the same words which had been seared into Sansa''s mind for almost a year now. There was barely any light within the chamber; a single lantern above the door behind her that only served to deepen the shadows of the place.


    Sansa sighed, grasping the dagger once more. She bent her arm sideways, level with her head as she took a deep breath. She added another cut to the score others that peppered it, her heartbeat quickening as she gazed at the single drop of blood scurrying down towards her little finger.


    She breathed in harshly as the drop stopped its journey, all of her senses embracing its shape, its form, its warmth. They aided as much as they hindered, giving Sansa information about the droplet for all that there was something beyond it; an invisible tether of infinite length and gargantuan size.


    Within that drop of blood lay an ocean, and to move it was the task of titans.


    Sansa tilted her head slightly, teeth clenched as her eyes drooped under the strain, an all-encompassing sensation demanding she gasped and vomited, that she cried and screamed and tore her eyes out.


    Instead, she pulled.


    She felt as if a hair thin rapier were being extracted from her esophagus, a vertical string of glass that bisected her being from below to the skies, an impossibly taut string that made her shudder as she gazed at the drop of blood slowly making its way back from where it came. It crawled up her arm lazily, stuttering alongside her will until it finally reached the tiny wound.


    Sansa gasped as it entered back into her body for a single second, feeling strangely before it come back out along with a torrent red black blood.


    She screamed in agony as she bled out abruptly, two black garbed men stepped forth from the shadows and grabbing her tightly as another two swiftly wrapped her arm in white cloth, holding her strongly as she thrashed screeched. Calinnia placed a single thumb on Sansa''s forehead, her whole body growing taut like a bent plank, her agony peaking before it suddenly receded. The bleeding stopped immediately, but the savage pain kept rocking Sansa for an indefinite amount of time as the men left her, tasting of something familiar as it faded into the distance of her awareness.


    "Mediocre," said Calinnia, crouching beside her gasping apprentice. The green mask was unmoving as it beheld her, and Sansa thought she could glimpse red eyes behind it.


    "So much hesitation¡­ tell me Sansa, what do you fear so much?" she asked her.


    She said nothing, breathing slowly as she gazed up at the red eyes.


    Calinnia hummed, standing up before walking towards the door. "Don''t worry," she said, "It''ll go away eventually¡­ that hesitation¡­ it always does."


    She left the room and closed the door tightly, leaving Sansa on the floor as she tried to summon the willpower to stand up.


    So faint with praise, she thought, struggling to regain control of her lungs. She managed to shake off the cobwebs in her eyes and the shock that still had her numb, dragging herself to the most illuminated corner of the small room¡­ which was enough to see her palm when she extended her arm as far as it could go.


    There she grabbed her legs tightly, making herself as small a lump as she could. Her will battled her eyes as they grew moist, and after a brutal clash with herself Sansa managed to keep the tears to a slow, infrequent trickle that lasted less than a minute.


    To show weakness in this place would kill her more swiftly than a dozen Rejections of the Blood.


    Rejection¡­ she mused within her mind. Such an odd name. It felt vaguely insulting to call something so harrowing by so simple a word; such was it called when the Shadowbinder brought forth the power of blood, only to lose concentration in the midst of the work. The blood unleashed its power upon the body itself, with strength often proportional to the power of the bloodline being worked. The consequences of such a discharge could be fatal if aid was not administered by those versed in the lore, and soon¡­


    There was a reason why lone Shadowbinders were either weak in power or dead. To understand blood magic enough to tame it one had to travel a road filled with it.


    She leaned back on the wall, relaxing as Joffrey had taught her many years ago, letting her mind drift as she gazed within. Her husband had guided her through the method of sinking her consciousness to the depths of her own soul, to regard the contours of her very essence that resided at her core.


    She did so now, marveling at the fractal construct of light and line, letting herself be swept by the sight and forget about the world above and its pain and blood. She traced the lance of purplish gold light skewering her very being, a bridge that reached far into the void and not at all, breaching through to the cluster of light both right beside her and far away.


    -: PD :-


    "Get your head out of the clouds, Master Joffrey!" said Master Jeng.


    Joffrey huffed before bending his legs, propelling himself back on his feet with the strength of his legs and back.


    "The mind transcends the body, but neglecting the body brings shame upon the mind," said Master Gaharz, leaning his head on a hand as he sat by the side of the small garden.


    "Next time I''ll be teaching," Joffrey grunted as he massaged his shoulder, "I''ll introduce you all to something my homeland calls ''tourney swords''," he swore.


    "We''ll be looking forward for it, but for now your Ho leaves much to be desired," said Master Jeng as he repeated the kata, settling his hands in the middle of his chest before turning his feet slightly rightwards. "Ho!" he shouted as he extended one hand forward and placed the other one almost behind his head, extended backwards.


    "Ho!" shouted Joffrey, copying the motions. His knees were slightly bent, his back thick with perspiration; his whole body was a coiled spring, waiting for the moment.


    Master Jeng advanced upon him like a leaping storm, his barely audible grunts marking each attack of his fists and legs. Joffrey retreated instantly, redirecting the flurry of fists and open palms above his shoulders or away from his chest. He tried to sweep Jeng''s legs from under him, but the Master jumped just the bare minimum amount to avoid the sweep before he planted an open palm on Joffrey''s esophagus. Joffrey tumbled back, coughing as his own palm caught one of Jeng''s fists and he struck his elbow joint.


    Jeng retreated then, testing his arm as they circled once more. Joffrey couldn''t repress a slight smile as they kept turning, bare feet sliding over the grass slowly as they turned and Master Gaharz took a sip of tea. This time, it was Joffrey who struck first; legs whirling as he jumped in a strange mixture of Ho and Water Dancing, two strikes in quick succession. Jeng ducked below one but couldn''t avoid the other one, grunting as he stumbled back. The willy Master was undeterred though, quickly following up with a whirlwind of classic Ho strikes and dodges; Jeng''s preferred style was akin to the wind itself, quick and furious and nowhere to be found when you needed to grasp it.


    Joffrey tumbled to the ground again.


    "This was not what I had in mind when I asked you to teach me Aeromancy," he said drily, before standing up once more and bowing.


    "''True magic is the knowledge of thyself, to master both mind and body,''" Master Gaharz said again.


    Joffrey shook his head as he looked at the brown skinned Ghiscary, "I''ve a get a hold of those books you keep quoting, if only to make sure you''re not making this stuff out of thin air," he said.


    Gaharz regarded him for a moment before he frowned, "Your pun," he said, "Was awful."


    Joffrey waited.


    "¡­ But I''ll lend you Master Jue''s Meditations and Master Malayios'' Forms of the Wind," he added with a fake sigh.


    Joffrey smiled at the man before sitting next to him, taking another tea cup as Master Jeng sat by the other. Even though Joffrey had never tried to master an unarmed fighting style, it seemed some things were truly universal. After each Paigo session, the Masters liked to spar in their preferred styles, to loosen the body and let the mind drift after the matches.


    "Even though your grasp over Ho is almost nonexistent, your control over your own body is truly magnificent," Jeng said after a moment, "Where did you learn to move like that?" he asked him.


    "A lot of different teachers from all over the world, and a lot of practice over the years," he said.


    Master Wo-Ti grunted in what appeared to be disbelief. He was sitting behind them over a wide, blackened tree stump, eyes closed as his bushy eyebrows twitched lightly. Legends said that when the Poisoned Men of Ulthos breached the Temple of the Aeromancers with their breath of death and their bloated backs, Master Gyogi had leaned on a fig tree not too dissimilar from the one near the entrance, receiving the invaders not with violence but with reason. Through a whole day and a whole night he''d talked to the cursed men of Ulthos until they were enlightened, their madness condensing into the fig tree and burning it black. Master Gyogi had then delivered one, single blow to the tree with an open palm and a bent index finger; the killing blow of Fhe¡­


    The tree had toppled instantly, felled in half and carried away by the Master. It was said he''d tossed it into the depths of the Furious Sea to the far east, transferring the madness into the waters themselves.


    To think atop the blackened stump was traditionally seen as a way to meditate about the nature of reason and madness itself¡­ Needless to say, Joffrey was a frequent visitor of the tree stump, spending long afternoons meditating about the nature of what he''d long ago called the Red; the slaughter-loving madness that had always seemed a deep part of his self.


    He blinked away the errant thoughts and realized Wo-Ti had kept up the skepticism, staring at him with half lidded eyes. The Master eventually relented though, nodding slightly in what -for him- was a massive complement to Joffrey''s future abilities.


    "I think you''re right," said Master Grazhan, turning his sight from Wo-Ti to Joffrey, "The core of it is already within you; the awareness of the sitting warrior¡­ I dare say Joffrey, all you need to learn are the kata''s themselves and you could eventually defeat Master Jeng rather easily."


    "I''m flattered," he said, nodding lightly.


    Wo-Ti grunted harshly.


    "¡­ I don''t think I got that," said Joffrey.


    "He thinks your false modesty is unbecoming of you," said Master Gaharz, "No one moves like that at your age," he said as he eyed him strangely.


    "I-"


    "You don''t have to explain," he said as he waved a hand, "Your journey before reaching this place has been a long one¡­ I hope that what you learn here aids you when you return to it," he said as his gaze returned to the horizon.


    They spent a while in silence, and Joffrey took a while to bask in the strong scent of jasmine after he''d taken a sip from his own tea, looking at the horizon at well and upwards, gazing at the Red Comet above and its long tail, sailing through the void between the stars with destruction as it only purpose.


    The Masters had been teaching him their distinct styles. Master Gaharz dominated Yii, a style characterized by needle like strikes that made the Master''s fingers seem like daggers, every oddly stilted motion fluid on its own; a serenity of motion that left Joffrey permanently off balance. It was said that the Matriarchs of Asshai feared it, for the blows could even interrupt budding sorcery, hindering and slowing the flow of blood itself.


    Master Wo-Ti preferred Khai, a style Joffrey had been passingly familiar with. It lived by heavy strikes and powerful motions meant to stir the blood and stand ones ground. Designed almost as a counterpoint to Yii many centuries ago, it had been created with the use of armor in mind¡­ The Jade Scribes of the Dawn Fort had specialized in it, for its katas were renowned for their attunement to sorcery and Shadowbinding. Joffrey had learnt the basics of it many, many years ago at the instruction of his old friend and subordinate, Captain Jhos.


    The styles were more than mere fighting techniques though. They were consolidations of lore and Ways of thinking. Philosophies of the self and the world. Discussing their precepts and worldviews with the Masters themselves had been a favored past time of Joffrey during the last year, as Sansa''s stays in the House of the South turned longer and longer.


    He realized the Masters had drifted back to meditating, and Joffrey decided to join them. He descended deep into his self, not even needing the subtle pull of the tablet by now. He descended down the familiar paths, the depths of within drowning all that was without, as he arrived at the core of his soul and self, a state of being crossed by invisible purple tethers.


    He let himself drift in the timeless expanse, until a slight twinge startled him.


    It was not from without, but from within. Joffrey was surprised to feel¡­ something else, a lingering gaze from afar and beside. Joffrey found himself smiling without knowing why, his body knowing the reason before his mind.


    Sansa? He asked.


    There was no answer, but the comforting warmth was unmistakable. Awe traversed his being as he felt his wife in the distance, mind racing quickly as he tried to tie the dots.


    Brightroar¡­ the connector¡­ he thought slowly, focusing on the bridge of purple and gold that pierced his being. He could somehow feel her surprise, her awareness that he too was looking back.


    There were no thoughts, only errant emotions and textures of feeling that traversed through the golden bridge¡­ brief impressions of meaning which were soon lost to the void, but not before Joffrey tasted their meaning.


    How fascinating, he thought, watching the bridge. Sometimes it was easy to forget that they were not truly human, or perhaps not only so. Their stay in Asshai would apparently be a long one, but even then the time would eventually come¡­ the time where they''d either have to accomplish their purpose, or die trying to avoid it.


    The time of destruction.


    ¡­ It always did.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 55: Echo.

    Chapter 55: Echo.Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Asshai''s harbor was a district of its own, ruled by the merchants who regularly traded with the city. It had its own laws, its own private guard, and even a ruling council of representatives from the ten most influential trading concerns. It was a melting pot of Ghiscary expeditions and Qarthi merchants, a dock where Yi-Tish traders and grand carracks from Port Moraq mingled freely, a city within a city where a hundred languages mixed into what was known the world over as the trading tongue.


    Sansa had noticed something peculiar when she''d first seen the self-governing district. The sailors and the guards never stepped past the Grey Road, the path that divided the district from the city proper. Merchants sold their wares at the warehouses of the Council that lay just a few steps from the road itself; the only few places where the denizens of Asshai ¨Cthe Shadowmen- went forth to trade. Even thieves preferred to turn around and surrender to the brutal Council Guard, the prospect of forced labor as galley slaves a better alternative than what would happen if they were caught on the other side of the road¡­


    By ancient tradition, the Matriarchs of the city left the merchants to the harbor, to do as they saw fit. They saw their presence as a helpful luxury, but any who broke ancient tradition and stirred trouble beyond the Grey Road would¡­ Pay.


    There''s a reason almost no crime happens within the city, Sansa thought as she nodded at Calinnia.


    "Bring him forward," said the Matriarch.


    The two black garbed guards dragged the barely conscious man by the arms, settling him on his knees in front of Sansa. The black basalt halls of the House of the South were laid bare of tapestries and ornaments; only abstract designs showing in the distance as the stone hall stretched upwards.


    "Please¡­ I only wanted it¡­ to sell¡­" the man babbled slowly in Yi-Tish, in a trance wholly of his own making, fear and panic leaving him dazed in his hour of need. His gaze slowly drifted upwards as the guards stood back, meeting Sansa''s cold eyes. "Please¡­ only wanted to sell it, put a little coin in me'' pouch¡­." he said louder, his pupils shifting as he blinked in the midst of the penumbra. Sansa thought there was some primal instinct working within him, a primal fear just now whispering its gut clenching conclusion as the man started to shiver.


    "For the crimes committed beneath the Shadow, I condemn you," Sansa intoned as she raised her hand.


    He shook his head, really looking at his surroundings for the first time as the final piece of the puzzle settled. He was about to experience the reason why those who committed crimes beneath the Shadow of Asshai were never heard off again.


    "No, NO!" he screamed as he struggled to stand up, but Sansa took a step forward and planted a palm firmly on his chest, just over his heart.


    "For the gift of blood, I commend you," she said as the man stared at her eyes in horror. Sansa stared back as the man screamed, paralyzed in place as he trembled ever so slightly despite the harrowing pain now crisscrossing his body.


    Sansa gritted her teeth, feeling as taught as a string as she willed the blood within the man to come to her. She could already feel it, churning and bubbling beneath her grasp; but a hair''s breathe away from her. Calinnia could have accomplished this in a second, but her own inexperience showed, and the man''s scream turned shrill as Sansa bit her own lip and pUlLeD with all her will.


    The man''s scream cut off as he was left breathless, watching his own blood bubbled from his heart and through his ruptured skin, pooling around Sansa''s palm. The breathless agony was somehow worse, the man''s befuddled gaze turning from the strange sight of his own blood slowly being absorbed by Sansa''s hand.


    He stared at her half lidded eyes in incomprehension as she drained his life away.


    It tasted like a light summer wine, barely a drip of power flowing beneath the flavor, and it was still enough to leave Sansa in near ecstasy, the sweet treat entering her bloodstream and revitalizing her both in mind and body.


    The man''s silent agony did not cut off abruptly. It was more of a gradual descent into oblivion, his eyes slowly closing as Sansa withdrew her pristine pink hand and he swayed like a leaf in the wind. He collapsed backwards, partly shriveled as blood slowly oozed around him, pooling around the basalt tiles of the ritual hall. The six other masked figures watching at a distance were unperturbed, standing still as statues.


    "How do you feel?" asked Calinnia.


    Sansa took a step back, standing just a little behind the Matriarch before bending her neck a bit and sighing. "I feel¡­ invigorated," she said.


    The Matriarch murmured, and Sansa could detect the faint trace of a smile in her voice as her mask tilted downwards. "You absorbed more than half of it," she said with the slightest tinge of approval, watching the blood left by the corpse''s trail as it was carried away by the blackguards.


    "I have a competent teacher," said Sansa with a slight tilt of the head. Calinnia preferred her compliments to be simple and direct.


    She hummed in appreciation before waving off the rest of the audience, "Leave us," she said.


    The six figures -all masked in green - bowed before walking backwards, melding with the long shadows of the hall until Sansa lost sight of them.


    "Seven years," she mused out loud as she kept watching at the blood stains, "It''s been barely seven years since you arrived at my doorstep, and yet your control over blood now borders on competence," she said. "Tell me Sansa, what is the secret behind your progress?"


    "Study and dedication," she said.


    "Yes, you barely do anything beyond study¡­ besides going out with that boy every now and then¡­"


    The implicit threat was clear, but Sansa refrained from speaking out.


    "The latent power within your blood, perhaps? To be a Caller and a Vessel at once is a boon few possess in a given century¡­ but no, I suspect it is something else."


    Sansa was still, her pale hands behind her back.


    "Tell me dear, did you encounter something else before you came to me?" she asked as she turned, her green-and-red striped mask growing closer as she walked towards her.


    "None, Matriarch," she answered.


    Calinnia seemed to regard her with amusement for a moment, before she looked around the hall itself. "It''s okay dear, everyone in this accursed city lives by their lies and secrets," she said as she gazed at the blood stains on the floor, "From the tiniest of robber merchants¡­ to even the most astute of Callers," she said as she turned to Sansa once more.


    Sansa said nothing, one wrist turning slowly as she opened her hand. She felt the weight of the serpentine dagger in her sleeve, just a slight twist away from falling firmly in her grasp.


    Her next words took Sansa by surprise, however. "You''re ready. Or near enough it makes no difference. I''ll call for Noonshadow within the next month."


    Sansa''s hands fisted, her heart quickening before she managed to lick her suddenly parched lips. "Isn''t that premature, Matriarch? There are many of the higher mysteries I don''t yet understand," she said.


    "They are all built from the same foundations," she said dismissively, "After you''ve mastered the basic core of it all the rest is just a matter of time¡­ time and experimentation," she said while walking around her, "And you''ve taken to the basics quite remarkably. It''s something about the taste, isn''t it?" she whispered.


    There was a slight, unnerving spring to Calinnia''s step, a sort of repressed glee as she kept walking in a circle around her, "So few people get it. Even amongst the most gifted of Callers blood is seen as a mere instrument of power, or even worse; an intoxicant," she added in sudden indignation, "As if it were mere ecstasy what lies within its grasp¡­" she trailed off before leaning in on Sansa''s ear, her voice almost inaudible.


    "But you and I, we know better, don''t we?" she asked.


    Sansa shuffled, swallowing mechanically as her hands fidgeted. "Yes," she finally whispered.


    "The other Callers may indulge in days of stupor, generously sucking my harem dry in their intoxicated bliss¡­ and yet they don''t feel it," said Calinnia, as if she were confessing a great secret. "Tell me Sansa, beyond the bliss of fresh blood invigorating your being, what do you feel?" she asked.


    Sansa felt her mouth open almost against her will, not knowing what she was going to say until the words crawled out of her throat, "It has something¡­ beyond¡­ Beyond here¡­" she said. She was not talking about geography or time, and Calinnia knew it.


    "It''s not the ecstasy you and I crave," murmured Calinnia, "It''s the whispers of apotheosis."


    She laughed suddenly, chuckling lowly as she departed Sansa''s side. "No, you understand. The rest will come by its own will, in time."


    Sansa stood still until Calinnia had left her, and it was only then that she felt she could breathe again. It was only when she started walking towards the hall''s exit that Sansa noticed her slippers were caked in dried blood.


    She turned her gaze, and realized there was not a single drop of blood left on the floor.


    -: PD :-


    The House of the South had been chiseled out of the mountain itself. Asshai the city was nestled within the mountains of the Shadowlands of course, but the House of the South was a structure almost at the city limits, chiseled out of the nearest foothills. Raw basalt and granite had been molded into a structure that emerged as if from the mountain itself; intricately carved pillars and abstract designs peppered the outer area, and the light of the sun struggled to reach just past the threshold.


    Sansa walked quickly away from its shadow, her back straight as she walked past the two blackguards by the entrance. She did not pay them any mind, for they were little more than physical vessels for the will of the Matriarchs in the minds of the Asshai''. Indoctrinated slave soldiers descended from House harems whose blood had been deemed insufficiently useful.


    She went down the ruined alleyways of the abandoned streets surrounding the House, navigating them expertly before she turned in a whirl, serpentine dagger ready to cut her own wrist as she crouched.


    The black robed figure leapt from the second story of the ruined house by her right, landing crouched with barely a sound. He stood up like a panther, his movements almost leisurely slow and betraying a sort of coiled strength.


    "Joffrey. I thought we were to meet in the Temple," she said, slowly putting down the dagger.


    Joffrey took off the cowl as he walked towards her, sporting his usual half smile, "You know me, I got impatient."


    "Then you should learn to wait," she told him before storming off.


    "What? Sansa?" Joffrey called out, but she was already walking away.


    "Sansa!" he called out once more, "Sansa!" he said as he grabbed her hand. She twisted his as her dagger went for his throat, but he stopped her with a lock that bent her arm upwards.


    "What the hells are you-"


    Sansa swapped hands with her dagger, but Joffrey caught her other hand too and twisted in a semi-circle, ending with her back pinned against the wall by Joffrey.


    His confusion slowly gave way to understanding as he stared at her eyes and she struggled to avoid them, "They made you do it again, did they?" he asked her slowly, "You''re always like this after you do it¡­"


    Sansa kept trying to avoid his gaze, looking at the floor as she stopped struggling. "But never like this¡­ Sansa. Sansa look at me," he said as he bent his head slightly, forcing her eyes to meet his own. "You don''t have to appear strong to me. They''re not watching you right now."


    Her gaze seemed to pierce through his, and Joffrey took a deep breath. "We can take turns Sansa. We can take turns," he said, and the dagger slipped from her hands and fell on the ground as she closed her eyes.


    She laid her head against his chest gently, her hands untangling from the lock and grasping his back tightly. Joffrey said nothing as he hugged her back, her slow falling tears punctuated by lone, strangled sobs that dared to emerge every now and then.


    -: PD :-


    The small cabin was one of many that littered the second ''terrace'' of the grand work that was the Temple of the Aeromancers. Made of three distinct terraces carved out of the mountains themselves, all three sections served different functions. The second one hosted a litany of small wood-and-paper cabins built for the apprentices and acolytes which sought the illumination of true Masters in the Temple proper, up by the third level. The cabins themselves were simple affairs made of wood and treated paper, furnished with a chest and a small cabinet. Each held a miniature kitchen, a fireplace, a small table, and a cot.


    ¡­ The Masters had insisted that he''d settle in the third terrace, but he''d refused.


    For all that Joffrey had lived in great mercantile estates and castles fit for rulers of continents, he''d found that this little cabin ¨Cwhom he''d called home for over 7 years now- had something almost intimate, a deeper sense of self when inhabited by him. Perhaps it was the complete lack of servants, or the closed, single interior that guaranteed line of sight everywhere within the small cabin¡­ regardless, it made for a heavenly retreat from the intrigues of the city and the constant spars with the Masters.


    He sighed as he wiggled, molding himself to Sansa''s form as he pressed against her back, passing an arm over her and holding her gently. The cot was at ground level, but its small size could sometimes be a luxury of its own. Sansa grabbed his arm like a pillow, caressing it gently.


    "Did you defeat Master Wo-Ti this week?" she asked him.


    "Almost."


    "Must be tough, finding your match after all these years."


    Joffrey hummed, his mind drifting with the white noise of the crickets outside. Despite Asshai not boasting a single animal or plant except for Ghost Grass and the occasional visit by Lady, the Temple of the Aeromancers seemed to teem with life.


    "Not really. Back in the Dawn Fort there were plenty of people who could kick my butt at Paigo. Captain Sabu for one¡­"


    "You told me Sabu was a stoic man, akin to a rock in temperament. Master Wo-Ti sounds awfully familiar," said Sansa.


    "Perhaps there''s something to be said for the rock approach," he conceded.


    "Or maybe you just lack patience," she said as she turned his arm slightly.


    "That too," he chuckled.


    The rattle made by the enormous crickets outside was the only noise besides their gentle breathing until Sansa stirred. Lady''s head emerged from the mound of greyish white fur inhabiting the corner of the cabin, blinking slowly at them. She''d grown monstrously during the past few years, to the point she had difficulty entering the cabin.


    It''s serious then, thought Joffrey, bracing himself.


    "Calinnia is calling Noonshadow. The rest of the Houses will meet us in Stygai once the day comes. Within the next month I''ll be a member of the House of the South¡­ or dead," she said.


    Joffrey''s embrace turned even tighter, "I thought it took two decades to reach that level of confidence," he said.


    "Well, she''s convinced¡­"


    "And you?"


    The crickets answered for her, and Joffrey blinked slowly.


    "And you, Sansa?" he asked again.


    "Yes."


    "But¡­ that''s good right?" he asked, confused.


    "Yes Joffrey¡­ I''m ready," she said, her nails biting into his arm as she squeezed, "That''s the thing. I¡­ Ilove it," she said in dread.


    Joffrey kissed her bare shoulder, "I won''t judge you," he said quietly.


    "Blood¡­ no, the thing that blood holds¡­ Joff¡­" she whispered as she put his hand over her mouth in silent horror, "It feels like¡­ it feels like the Purple."


    Joffrey said nothing as his breath hitched, feeling pinpricks all over his back, still as a marble statue as Sansa breathed through his hand.


    "But it''s like¡­ like the other way around¡­ like the other side of it. There''s no pain, there''s just this all-consuming expanse of raw power that glimpses all too fast, too fast to understand anything¡­"


    "We knew blood magic caused feelings of bliss and euphoria on its practitioners, but-"


    "No Joff, this is different. Yes blood can feel like a summer wine or the purest Arbor Gold depending on its potency, and many Shadowbinders revel in that feeling¡­ but this goes deeper. I''ve never would have realized it if I''d not seen the full picture after every time we die. I don''t think most maegi even realize the sheer¡­ otherness that they are using. It''s, it''s-"


    "Transcendent."


    "Yes. Yes that''s it," she said, slowly lowering Joffrey''s hand and massaging it compulsively. "And every time I call it I want more. The power to destroy our enemies. The power to live our life the way we want it to. The power to traverse time¡­"


    "¡­ It''s all interconnected, dreams within dreams," said Joffrey, holding her close.


    "We live and die again and again, we peer into the deepest abyss¡­"


    "Each time closer to understanding it all¡­" Joffrey finished the sentence.


    "What will I become at the end of this? Joff, what are we turning into?" she said, slipping further down beneath the blanket and against Joffrey.


    "The captains of our fate," he said without a shadow of a doubt.


    "Dear, now''s not the time for your sailor''s wisdom," she called out halfheartedly.


    He responded by withdrawing his arm and massaging her back, slowly getting rid of the knots of tension that traversed its length. "The Purple¡­ it blurs the line between what the real and the imagination. Between the world and the mind," he said as Sansa sighed, his calloused hands working their way down, "But¡­ how real was the line to begin with?"


    He took a while to compose his thoughts, giving form to muddled sensations from within.


    He stopped the massage slowly, his thumbs tracing circles over Sansa''s skin, "I''m starting to think the distinction was arbitrary. It''s all interconnected, it''s all the same thing," he said, frowning. "I''d thought it was a characteristic of the Purple, but in truth it''s a universal constant."


    Sansa sighed, staring at the wood-and-paper wall and the shadows thrown by the striking moonlight. "You''re talking about that¡­ something that¡­ that permeates everything¡­"


    "Yeah¡­ Or perhaps everything is part of that something," said Joffrey, "The Song¡­"


    "I''m afraid Joffrey," she said suddenly, "I''m afraid what will happen when we peel away the curtain. I''m afraid to see the stage." Joffrey could feel her accelerated heartbeat, fear and awe warring within her soul as she confessed weakness.


    "We''ll see it together," he whispered in her ear, "Side-by-side, we''ll see beyond the curtain. We''ll become captains. Rulers of our fate," he said fiercely, possessed by an inner flame that fed off unbreakable certainty.


    "We''ll cut our strings," she said, "We''ll cut our strings, together," she whispered the last word almost breathlessly as she turned within his grip, her face but a hair''s breath away from his; deep blue eyes boring into his own.


    Joffrey kissed her savagely, and Sansa grasped him tightly as she climbed on top of him, deepening it. Her long hair was like a curtain around Joffrey''s head, and his hands felt the long scars crisscrossing her as she arched back in pleasure. They were gifts of her training, marks on the long road towards the truth; pain and knowledge held hand in hand. The crickets muffled their gasps as the moon crossed the night sky and the Red Comet glowed in otherworldly light.


    -: PD :-


    "I heard you''ll be leaving soon," said Master Gaharz as Joffrey reached the blackened tree stump. The Master of the Second Way was sitting in the green grass around the stump, his robes as pristine as ever.


    Joffrey sat on the stump itself, folding his knees into a half lotus position. The rest of the garden was deserted, the late hour seeing almost all of the students back on the second terrace. "I am. My wife will pass the test beneath the shadow of Fallen Stygai within this month."


    "And so her training comes to an end. Tell me Master Joffrey, what was the prize the House of the South asked in return for such instruction?"


    "A relic from the times of Ancient Valyria¡­ and twenty years of service," he said.


    "They will not let go of her before her time, I hope you understand that," said Gaharz, sorrow in his voice. "All Houses hold repositories with great amounts of blood extracted from each member. To renege on a deal with a patron House would be a fate worse than death, no matter how far you run."


    "I''ll keep it in mind," he said, nodding at the Master. "I wanted to thank you. I already spoke to Masters Wo-Ti and Jeng¡­ The ways you meld meditation and martial arts are truly a thing to behold¡­ I wanted¡­ to thank you, for the instruction."


    "In teaching, one learns," said Gaharz, before a small smile peeked through his lips. "Quite painfully too, those ''tourney swords'' of yours were hard to get a handle of."


    Joffrey grunted, smiling at the old Master, "Watching Master Wo-Ti trying to make sense of a two hander was a gift that I will always cherish," he said.


    They spent a few seconds in silence while Joffrey tapped fingers against his thigh.


    "And yet that is not the only reason you came here today," said the old Ghiscary.


    "No, Master."


    Gaharz chuckled, his eyes still closed as his frame wobbled lightly, "The power to tame that demon lies wholly between your own hands. You do not need my voice to guide you."


    "But it helps, Master. It helps me understand," he said.


    "¡­ Very well then, you know what to do," said the Master.


    Joffrey closed his eyes, leaving the ambient noise to fade into the background or be made part of his distant awareness. His mind was blank, like one of the fig tree''s leaves swaying through the wind.


    "Do you remember it?" asked Gaharz.


    "Yes," he said, feeling a deep thirst within him, the promise of all consuming joy so close at hand.


    "How did it feel?" asked the distant voice.


    Joffrey shuffled minutely, remembering the savage glee as he butchered Aegon Targeryen.


    "Good," he said. It had felt more than good. Power. Bliss. Joy.


    "Try to follow that feeling, trace it to your body."


    Joffrey did so, breathing slowly as he remembered the pleasurable blood running through his body. The savage joy of butchering his enemies and imposing his will upon them.


    "My chest," he said, breathing a bit more harshly.


    "How does it look? What are its dimensions," said the voice.


    "It''s¡­ it''s red¡­ it''s coiled in there¡­ a chained beast¡­"


    "What does it want?"


    "To be let out," he said quickly, his breath hitching. "To maim. Kill. He loves it. He loves it so much," he rasped, trying to give words to something deep within. A curse he''d known before even the Purple, though he hadn''t named it as such back then.


    "What is its name?"


    "The Red," Joffrey said immediately, remembering Ned Stark''s face as he twisted in agony.


    There was silence, the tree stump uncomfortable to sit on as he shuffled.


    "It''s true name," said Gaharz.


    "¡­ the Red!" he said again, remembering Nalia''s torn face.


    "It''s true name."


    Joffrey struggled to feel the beast, to look at its eyes and admit it.


    He clambered up to his feet, shaking the dust off his robes as he jumped from the stump. "Thank you for your patience, Master," he said with a bow, thoroughly ashamed with himself even if he needed to go right now.


    "You cannot escape from it, Master Joffrey. You cannot escape what is part of you," Gaharz called out as Joffrey walked away from the stump and the sitting master.


    "Goodbye and good fortune, Master Gaharz," he called out, bowing low before walking past the twin dojos and down the rocky arc that delineated the start of the path downwards.


    -: PD :-


    The road to Stygai was long and treacherous. They followed the dark Ash River through the Shadow Mountains, keeping to the black fused rock road that traversed its side. Ghost Grass grew in abundance there, pale purple stalks that never seemed to sway with the wind.


    The caravan from the House of the South was small but shrouded in power. Dagger armed blackguards carried small packs with supplies while Matriarch Calinnia herself was carried by palanquin. The black bandaged servants had hollow stares as they carried the scarcely adorned vehicle, itself guarded on both sides by two Shadowbinders,


    Sansa walked in front of the palanquin, her back straight and her unmasked face bare for all to see. This was supposed to be the last time anyone who was not from the House of the South would see her true face. Joffrey walked behind her with Lady, keeping an eye out for ambushes and other¡­ things.


    It was said that the Shadowlands grew wild and dangerous the nearer one got to Stygai. Otherworldly beings were said to inhabit the fallen city, fell dragons and shadow demons roaming its cursed depths. It was said even Shadowbinders feared it, but Joffrey had never heard them mutter a word about it.


    He could see it in the way they walked though. They were scared.


    To be part of a House meant being a part of the ancient compact that bound the Four Houses together. It meant protection against blood hunt from rivals, and the embracing of all the duties and responsibilities of your chosen House. It was much like being a scion of a Westerosi noble house, assuming its sins, duties, and privileges as your own. Unlike Westerosi houses though, there were no dynasties in Asshai. The mantle of the Matriarch passed to her chosen successor, and adoption was the only way the Houses grew. Children were born away from the city itself in secret, fortified locations; the product of carefully cultivated bloodlines that carried the power of ancient sorcerers. Those deemed of insufficient power were raised as blackguards or servants, while those who had the ancient echo of power within their veins¡­


    They were called Vessels, locked away inside the redoubts of the Four Houses. Blood Harems; their single purpose in life to feed blood to the Matriarch and her entourage. They were one of the deciding factors when measuring a House''s streanght against a rival one¡­ and their destruction or theft marked setbacks that could take centuries for a House to truly recover.


    To have entered that world, every Shadowbinder had survived Noonshadow. The ceremony killed the weak, and acknowledged the strong. It welcomed the new member into the compact or took their life in the attempt.


    "We''re here," whispered Sansa.


    Their timing had been exact. It was noon; sunrays descending from on high and illuminating a little valley in front of them. Joffrey blinked in confusion, taking a step next to her. "Are you¡­ sure?" he said, watching the small valley formed within the Shadow Mountains. The road sloped downwards at a light angle, reaching for the center of the barren valley.


    "I am," she whispered, watching the palanquin as the servants left it on the ground. Calinnia promptly walked out of it, surveying their deserted destination through the tiny holes in her mask.


    "I thought Stygai would be more¡­" Joffrey struggled to speak his mind, making a vague movement with his hands. "There?" he said, watching the way the other Shadowbinders kept a respectful distance from the slope.


    "Let us go. The sun won''t wait," she said as she strode towards the valley, her long robes hiding her legs as she seemed to glide downwards through the sloping hill. Sansa gave Lady a big hug before following Calinnia down.


    "Any of these crazies so much as twitch and you end them, alright Lady?" Joffrey whispered as he scratched the giant direwolfe''s fur. Lady gazed at him quizzically before ramming her large head against his chest and sending him on his way.


    Joffrey barely felt the sun as they descended, as if the rays themselves had lost all heat. The three of them walked alone, but he thought he could see other figures in the distance, closing in from the three other cardinal points.


    They were the first to arrive at an unspecified stopping point. Calinnia turned to them, "Do not interfere or you''ll both die," she told him with a negligent wave of her hand. Her eyes were for Sansa only though; she grabbed her by the shoulders painfully, and Joffrey had to resist the impulse to draw his blade as Sansa cringed ever so slightly.


    "Remember everything I taught you. You will pass this trial," she commanded, her voice descending to a whisper, "We cannot afford failure, not now. One more whiff of weakness and the House of the West will end us. Do you understand, Sansa?"


    "I do."


    She got even closer to Sansa, almost touching her forehead with the mask, "You will become a Caller of the South. In time, your power shall be the instrument through which our House will exact retribution on the West," she said with a barely contained snarl.


    Sansa nodded, and Calinnia returned it as she stepped back as composed as ever. "Do not die," she said.


    The three other groups kept getting closer, and Joffrey squeezed Sansa''s hand as they waited. She was shivering, her lips pale as she turned to look at him. "Remember, I''ll see you back in Winterfell all goes wrong," he said.


    She looked at him for a long while, before slowly shaking her head. "No one will stop us, remember?"


    "No one," he said.


    Calinnia raised her hands, addressing the first group to arrive. "Who dares tread in the Shadow?"


    The lead woman was a stooped figure, her mask the shape of the sun with rays erupting from its depths. "The House of the East comes. We''ll bear witness to this Calling," she said.


    "Kijima," said Calinnia, nodding at the stooped figure, "I see you are still infatuated with the fire peddlers," said continued, gazing at her two companions with disdain.


    "But it''s so easy to show them the truth," said Kijima as a bandaged hand emerged from the folds of her dark red robe. "The priestesses of the Red God are already halfway there," she said, giddy as if she were a child as she caressed the shoulders of her two masked companions, "For what is their Red God and fire itself without its shadow," she said as her two companions shivered, whether in ecstasy or terror Joffrey could not tell.


    The second group arrived from the north, garbed in bundles of dark silk which covered them completely except for their eyes. "Who dares tread in the Shadow?" said Calinnia.


    "The House of the North comes. We''ll bear witness to this Calling," whispered the lead figure of the three, all but indistinguishable from its companions except for the fact that she stopped walking a step ahead of them.


    "Jiia," said Calinnia.


    Jiia said nothing as she bowed, returning to her position and standing still with her hands behind her back.


    The last to arrive came from the west at a sedate pace. Joffrey''s breath hitched as he recognized the blue mask, hand squeezing the pommel of his sword as he flicked his gaze to Sansa. She shook her head though, staring at the masked figure. She walked alone, every step gracefully choreographed as she reached the group and gazed at Calinnia and Sansa.


    "Who dares tread in the Shadow?" said Calinnia.


    Blue Mask stared at them, tilting her head lightly as her gaze turned to Joffrey. "You have broken tradition Calinnia, bringing a Vessel to a Calling. Have you brought your entire retinue as well? Do they lie waiting in ambush?" she asked in a grave voice.


    "A Vessel here?!" said Kijima, nostrils flaring as she gazed at Joffrey in shock. "It''s true!" she said as Jiia''s hands returned from her back and she took a step forward.


    Show me your secrets, Joffrey remembered, and he was a second away from summoning Brightroar when Calinnia laughed. "Oh Wylla, you have grown senile in time¡­ Can''t you see how he looks at her? How eager he is to violence? How he seeks her gaze?" she said mockingly.


    Wylla was silent, gazing at Joffrey and back to Sansa slowly.


    "Ohhh¡­ a mate," said Kijima, as if it all made sense now. "Please excuse us, my friend," she said as she bowed repeatedly, addressing Joffrey directly for the first time, "I hadn''t realized¡­ Oh Calinnia, I should have known better than to doubt you¡­"


    "He''s still a Vessel under your thumb Calinnia, and a powerful one," said Wylla, blue mask glinting under the strange sun, "A Vessel which you could use as fuel for an attack while we are distracted with the Calling."


    Calinnia straightened, seemingly surprised, "I thought you weren''t scared of me. This is a nice surprise¡­ The great House of the West fearful of the South once more?" she mused out loud.


    Kijima spoke over Wylla immediately, before she could get a single word in edgewise, "It''s been too long since a mate was present for a Calling. And I thought we''d get another boring, quick show," she said, almost jumping from the excitement, "What was the last one we saw? Must have been close to forty years now¡­ what was her name--?"


    "Rominya," said Jiia, a mere statement of fact.


    "Ah yes, she was one of yours¡­" said Kijima, looking at Jiia, "Her mate kept desperately stabbing himself, trying to give her a bit more of an oomph¡­ of course, he only ended up prolonging her agony," she said with a distant voice. "Before he bled out himself," she added as an afterthought as she forgot about Joffrey and returned her gaze to Wylla.


    "It''s still too dangerous," said the Matriarch of the West.


    "He''s got a right to be here. I thought you''d know that Wylla, being as how the House of the West has always leaned so heavily on Tradition," said Calinnia, the last few words coming out a touch acerbically.


    "Ow. She got you there dear," said Kijima.


    "It is known," said Jiia.


    Wylla''s mask tilted from Matriarch to Matriarch, and to Joffrey''s ears he could detect the slightest of sighs before she nodded slowly.


    "Who dares tread in the Shadow?" said Calinnia.


    There was a slight pause before Wylla spoke, "The House of the West comes. We''ll bear witness to this Calling," she said, clearly enunciating every word.


    "Good," said Calinnia, "Though talking about traditions, is it not expected to come with two companions to Noonshadow?" she said.


    "It is only customary, not Tradition," said Wylla.


    Calinnia hummed, pleased. "Then we are settled," she said quickly.


    "Let''s get to it, I can hardly wait," said Kijima. With that all the other groups turned and walked towards their original directions, the three -soon to be four- points forming a circle around a small section of the empty place, centered on where they had just talked. Joffrey looked at the sun in confusion, then back to the small shadow at the center of the gathering.


    I would have sworn that was not there before¡­ he thought.


    "Well spoken, my Matriarch," said Sansa, "The House of the West will walk away from this diminished in the eyes of the others."


    "Bah, they can afford to lose a bit of prestige. No, they got what they wanted," she said, gazing at the sun.


    "¡­ Time," said Sansa.


    "Yes. It''s close to half past noon now. Do not dally," said Calinnia before striding south.


    Sansa nodded quickly, but Joffrey grabbed her before she could stand right in the middle of the great circle. "Sansa, what the red Matriarch said¡­ is it true? Could I shed my blood to power your magic?"


    Sansa frowned as he looked at him, "Yes, in theory. The traditions surrounding all this are very old and often nonsensical; they''re supposed to come from the time when Stygai was still¡­ well, still existed. One such tradition speaks about willing blood sacrifice during the Calling, though only¡­ mates or family were allowed to do so¡­"


    "So I could-"


    "It''s bound to hurt more than it will help Joffrey. Too much concentration split in multiple tasks¡­ it is said merely surviving the¡­ thing takes one''s entire mind."


    Joffrey sighed, tapping the hilt of his sword, "Alright. Take care," he said, hesitant to move.


    Sansa grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him before pushing him off, "Go! We have to be out of here in less than half an hour!" S?a??h th? ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Joffrey jogged back towards Calinnia, reaching her side just as the Matriarch raised both hands horizontally, seemingly staring at nothing.


    "She better make it out of this unharmed. For your sake," said Joffrey as he stood behind her.


    Calinnia snorted as the other Matriarchs swept their arms up, synchronized with each other.


    "You don''t believe me?" asked Joffrey.


    "Oh I believe you just fine, brave knight¡­ But I''ll have far bigger problems if Sansa fails¡­ One whiff of weakness and the other Houses will do nothing while the West destroys us¡­" she muttered as she sighed in mild unpleasantness, tiny rivulets of blood emerging from her nails and falling to the ground.


    "Callers, Shadowbinders¡­ whatever you want to call them. How many have you tried to induct during the last twenty years?" Joffrey asked her as he watched sprays of blood emerge from the other Matriarchs, the blood itself turning into smoke as it traced a circumference.


    "Too many. All failures¡­ your wife though¡­ Oh a reckoning will come¡­" she said, and Joffrey could hear the smile. She gasped, craning her neck as her blood connected with that shed by Kijima and Wylla. "Strange. There''s barely any pull behind Wylla¡­" she muttered.


    "Is that bad?" Joffrey asked quickly.


    "Perhaps. No reserves. She''d be left weak after the ritual¡­" she said before gasping again, her eyes turning white as she kept raising her hands and the connected blood line boiled, throwing up black smoke which started to construct a dome of shadow and black mist with Sansa right in the middle.


    "Wylla. That blood. I felt she had it. When we spoke," Calinnia stuttered quickly, "Now it''s gone. Somewhere. Beware treachery," she rasped before wheezing as if near death, shaking lightly as she raised her arms even higher and the bubbling smoke coalesced into an opaque dome.


    "Matriarch?" Joffrey asked, but she was in a trance, mumbling something in an ancient Yi-Tish dialect Joffrey couldn''t make heads or tails off. The other Matriarchs were doing the same, their voices rising in unison as the shadows deepened and they repeated the word again and again.


    -: PD :-


    Sansa was breathing deeply, forcing her lungs into a steady rhythm as a dome of raw power closed her off from the outside world. Not a single sound could be heard from outside it, and she knew the effect went both ways. She could barely glimpse Joffrey''s form as he ducked and struggled to look inside, his eyes unerringly looking for hers. He was worried¡­ after all, most Noonshadow ceremonies lasted less than three minutes, the candidates dead or worse.


    In tune with your own power. Feel the weight of it slithering through your veins, she thought as she felt it, her awareness growing to encompass the shimmering river of power coursing through her own being.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    She was ready as she opened her eyes, gazing at the whirlwind of smoke and blood forming in front of her. The blood demon was a construct that echoed the hate and fury that somehow permeated this place, given form by the power of the four Matriarchs combined and given a single will through words muttered in a language long dead, a single objective simple enough to hold such outpouring of power for a small bit of time. Sickly pulsating blood interwove with smoke, forming two grotesque legs before continuing upwards into a red torso of squirming darkness that sprouted bulky arms and a deformed, screaming head.


    Kill, the blood itself seemed to whisper.


    The blood demon screamed with a thousand voices, the screams of agony of all the people whose blood had been harvested to build the abomination. It sprung at her, a misshaped mockery of the human form now sprinting on all four limbs as Sansa stomped one feet on the ground and slammed her arms together.


    She gritted her teeth in pain as she felt her own blood emerge through her fingers, swiftly turning into a black smoke that scurried through the ground. Her will directed her essence, and she watched through half lidded eyes as chains of smoke tied the demon to the ground, though its screams never ceased.


    Khai or the Third Way was the martial art of sorcerers, devised in part to facilitate the flow of blood. Sansa followed its most basic forms, slowly arching her elbows and joining her fists by her belly. She let out a harsh breath as she pulled both hands downwards, the demon screeching as it slammed into the earth, her smoking blood covering it almost completely.


    Her heart hammered her ears as she stumbled towards the chained demon, the quivering mound of darkness radiating hate and fury and death. She bit her own tongue as she reached it and placed a hand on it, seeking to disrupt what tied it together.


    "Sleep," she intoned, her mind worming through the frontier where their blood mixed, seeking to grasp the demon itself and reduce it to nothing.


    She gasped when her mind slipped, bouncing against a wall of order and will. Everything the beast was not.


    The demon''s hollow skull gazed at her before its bulging flesh rippled, standing up in two legs as the chains of her will broke apart and it towered above her like a mountain. It roared with a thousand quivering voices as one brutish column of darkness and pulsing red blood raked her chest, sending her tumbling through the ground.


    Sansa gurgled, turning on her back and gazing at the great slash on her belly. She tried to build a bandage out of her shredded robes before the demon shrilled as it charged, four limbs striking the ground hard enough to leave marks as it rammed her with horns made of darkness.


    She gasped in agony as the rolling stopped, looking at the two holes puncturing her chest. Her trembling hands grasped her torn robes sluggishly, not quite sure what to do with them. She gazed at the blood pouring out of her chest in dumb amazement, breathing slowly as she died.


    No, she thought.


    She blinked slowly as she stumbled upright, discarding the piece of bloodied cloth. She took a deep breath that rattled her to her very being, her own blood answering like her direwolf as it scurried from all over the small circle, entering back into her bloodstream.


    You are mine. I command you, she thought as she willed the wounds closed, her own blood clotting rapidly. The Demon slammed its fists against the ground in an almost childish tantrum, screaming in frustration before suddenly leaping at her with arms outstretched.


    Sansa ducked and rolled sideways, letting the Demon fly past her as pools of her own blood tried to chain him to the ground again. They couldn''t, she couldn''t grasp the thinking illusion of death and madness. There was something else behind it, something protecting it from afar and slapping away Sansa''s efforts.


    The Demon turned like a cat, whirling to face her and lifting one great arm in the air.


    The blood of the Magnars of Winter runs through me, she thought as she cut her own wrist with her nails and she rolled away from the blow that shook the earth. She snarled as the blood from the wound turned smoky black and a blade of pure darkness as long as her forearm emerged into being.


    The legacy of the First Men Kings is mine to command, she remembered as she ducked beneath claws of blood and darkness, her own pale blade striking true and sinking into the Demon. She felt righteous, as if something deep inside her had always been meant for this. The thing screamed like a choir in disharmony as she twisted her hand, slashing outwards and gutting it. Smoke and boiling blood erupted from the wound, specks of it burning her face as the Demon convulsed.


    She felt the wave before she saw it; the blood of sorcerers emerging from the ground and fueling the gutted nightmare, lending it strength and agonizing existence.


    "Joffrey! They''re feeding it!" she screamed at her husband, who was silently shuffling around the borders of the dome, constantly moving as he tried to see what was happening on the other side. He stopped immediately, but though his mouth moved Sansa couldn''t hear anything about what he was saying.


    The dome, we can''t communicate, she thought before a shrill roar announced the pain that soon burned across her right shoulder.


    She screamed as she fell to the ground, rolling away just in time before the column like fists of the beast tore her apart. She centered herself as she stood up, one foot sliding back as her knees bent slightly and she jerked aside, avoiding another strike. She was pure instinct as she parried one tremendous claw after another, following the motions and movements Joffrey had taught her after years of training with her daggers almost every day. She mixed the attacks with the stances of Khai, seeking to empower herself with long, harsh movements that pumped her blood and made her scream in agony.


    No matter how brutal the cut however, the Demon managed to reform its limbs, each time driven to ever greater peaks of fury. It''s heavy strikes left craters on the earth, and its claws tilled the ground like the great iron ploughs sold to the prosperous yeoman farmers who lived near Winterfell.


    She traced the flow of power that seemed to be feeding it, her mind completely in tune with the present like never before. She followed the direction of the emerging blood, following the echo until it emerged nearby and she became one with Lady.


    One of her eyes turned white as she cut the Demon''s arm, but the sudden vertigo of living two realities at once left her ill prepared for the blow that left a long slash on her leg. She used the wound to fuel a short lived limb, a pillar of darkness that parried the next blow and allowed her to spin away with an Ibbenese feint.


    -: PD :-


    The desperate Ib-Makak left much to be desired, but it was good enough to see Sansa disentangle herself from the Demon in a whirlwind of movement, leaving her facing Joffrey. When he saw her looking at him, one of her eyes blue and the other white, he knew exactly what to do. Lady howled by his side as she reached the dome in seconds, looking at him before reversing course and running.


    Something was wrong, and his wife needed him.


    Joffrey abandoned the notion of gutting Wylla from behind and instead ran after Lady. The noon sun had already crossed that invisible boundary in the sky, descending ever so slowly towards the distant sea.


    We can''t have much time, he thought quickly, Maybe fifteen minutes or so.


    The shadows were growing deeper and darker, a fact deeply distressing to Joffrey as he gazed back and failed to find any structures around him whatsoever. As the sun moved, shadows seemed to sprung as if from nowhere. Soon the empty plain was filled with lengthening gashes of black that seemed darker than the void between the stars, the silhouette of a whole city emerging whole cloth as Stygai woke up¡­


    Joffrey dreaded to think what would happen if they stayed here much longer.


    Lady skidded to a stop in front of a wall that had not been there a second before, growling at the curious figures staring from the other side. They all wore masks of studded bronze, part of an enormous crowd of people swaying to the words of a distant speaker, raising his hands to the air in unison with the crowd. A few of them by the back of the crowd turned when they saw Joffrey, pale hands emerging from robes as they sought to grab him.


    "Stand back!" he roared as he hefted Brightroar, the figures recoiling back as he cut the air with it. Lady ran left, leaving the wall behind as Joffrey followed. She whimpered as the alleyway they were following ended in a dead end, scratching the wall as she looked up.


    "That¡­ was not there before¡­" Joffrey muttered as he gazed up at the dark tower. "Where to Sansa? Up?!" he said.


    Lady nodded franticly, so he took a few steps back as he sheathed Brightroar in dragonbone and pressed it against the belt by his back, next to his small backpack. He took off at a run, crawling up the wall with the momentum as his hands moved by a will of their own and he rapidly gained altitude. He grunted as he climbed at a steady pace, using protruding bricks and ornamental jades as handholds.


    Joffrey took a moment to gaze back and wished he didn''t. The silhouette of Stygai was now not even pretending to follow the shadows as laid by the sun. Instead, the shadows themselves seemed to be accelerating, as if it were afternoon already inside the accursed city. Ruined buildings emerged from the blotches of darkness in his sight, impossibly tall towers made of dark bricks and peppered with enough jades to buy a kingdom, long gardens filled with sub species of Ghost Grass that were liked sentinel pines reaching up into the sky.


    Gods¡­ what happened here must have made the Doom look like a fire at the local tavern, he thought in awed terror, before shaking himself and continuing the climb. He reached the top of it soon enough, vaulting through the opened window and finding not an army of specters, but two figures¡­ one of which was very familiar indeed.


    "Kill him," said Meheesa of the House of the West as she peered into a great bowl filled with swirling blood.


    Joffrey moved unconsciously, battle-hardened instincts honed through the centuries making him jump right and avoid a blur that would have gone straight to his neck. A woman garbed in the same black bandages as Meheesa, but sporting a cyan mask instead of a white one, was already by his side, iron hard fists blurring as they struck his chest.


    Joffrey grunted as he let himself fall backwards, rolling on his back and springing back up as he clutched his stomach in agony. Cyan mask strode fast and low, chopping the air with her hands and striking like a mace whenever Joffrey parried.


    He snarled as he ducked low and unsheathed Brightroar, the Valyrain Steel leaving a long gash by the side of the woman as she shrieked and stumbled back.


    "You fool! Do not spill blood here-" Meheesa cut herself off as she watched the way the blood arching through the air, flowing sluggishly from the wound by Cyan Mask''s side until it just stopped in midair.


    The room trembled, and Joffrey shivered as the blood turned flat and expanded into a sort of frazzled window with bubbling contours. Bronze masked people were looking at something outside through the same window Joffrey had used to enter the tower, but they turned quickly enough when they saw the shimmering oval at their backs.


    "Just sightseeing, don''t mind me!" Joffrey told the things as he dropped Brightroar and assumed a swaying stance, fingers bunched together and arms bent and up front, "YII!" he shouted as he finalized the stance, the shout itself serving as a sort of ritual focus for the mind and the movements that were to come.


    The woman attacked him from both front and back, a second Cyan Mask trying to hold him while the other jabbed a horizontal palm for his throat. Joffrey twirled his legs together and spun out of her grasp, his fingers striking like needles at the Cyan Mask in front of him. He was savage, delivering a flurry of stinging strikes backed up by the full force of his legs and torso, coiled muscles giving enough strength for his blows to tear flesh and purple her skin past the bandages that made her garb.


    Her technique was superb though, and she''d probably been honing her style of Khai for decades, whereas Joffrey had spent barely seven getting to know five different styles. Her blocks quickly adjusted, and Joffrey snarled when she locked both his arms with one hand and struck with her palm directly into his chest. He could feel the rib cracking, but he bulled through the pain and grabbed both her hands with his.


    He pivoted quickly and used her as a shield from the other Cyan Mask, her attack landing squarely on her own kidney. Both Cyan Masks recoiled in pain, the one that just attacked now holding her back in agony as the one Joffrey had in his grip bucked and twisted, moaning through clenched teeth. "Met this bastard once, Liosh, he really loved that trick," he said as he turned towards the window into the other place, "But I reckoned all those fragments of self must share a mind right?" he said before placing a leg behind her own and body slamming her just like the Hound had taught him once in a cool morning somewhere near the Ruby Fork¡­ straight against the shimmering window.


    Cyan Mask screamed as she touched the otherworldly window, the whole act somehow anathema to her existence as she disintegrated to nothing in a spectacular flash of eldritch light and the window shimmered strangely.


    "No," said Meheesa as she made to stand up, tearing her eyes from the great bowl of blood.


    "Sorry Meheesa," said Joffrey as he reached her before she could do more than stand, grabbing her neck from behind in a vise grip. "No one will stop us. Certainly not you," he whispered in her ear before he broke her neck in one brutal snap.


    Her body jerked wildly for a second, her legs buckling and kicking the great bowl filled with the blood she''d been using to fuel her efforts against Sansa.


    "Oh fuck," he muttered as the bowl tipped over, the blood scurrying slowly over the floor until it stood still.


    "Fuckfuckfuckfuck-" he shouted as he ran, getting a length of rope from his small backpack as a lot of light seemed to erupt from behind him. He didn''t look back as he jumped out the window, throwing the tied rope at one of the jade stones and roaring in pain as his thin gloves heated under the friction of the rope. He fell from the tower as more and more towers emerged into the skyline of Stygai, sharp needle like constructs of blackened bricks and opened wings. He managed to slow his descent enough that he merely tumbled the last few meters, landing on the street with a heavy oomph, only scarcely ahead of the scurrying blood from above that seemed to be distorting reality itself.


    He stood up to a world that didn''t make any sense. There were crowds of bronze masked people running everywhere, a few of them carrying the speaker he''d seen before in their arms as the man held his head in despair, wailing in an indecipherable tongue that had more in common with chirping that anything Joffrey had ever heard. He ran for the south, back to the road as the shadows kept growing. He felt his feet go out from under him when he fell through the shadow of one of the tall towers, his legs swinging wildly in the midst of an eternal void as his hands barely grabbed the ground.


    He roared as he tried to climb the ledge back into reality, but his tired and battered arms couldn''t lift his whole weight. He took his obsidian boot dagger and cut both of his backpack''s straps, and watched it fall downwards¡­ down and down and down into an eternal abyss.


    Joffrey realized the tiny pinpricks of light below him were stars, and his breath hitched when he felt the thought drowning thrum of pure might making its way towards him. He saw it a second later, the Red Comet sailing towards Stygai in all its glory, its tail a maelstrom of pure red large enough to fit the Crownlands themselves and more as it roared at the cosmos behind it, keep sized tendrils of power emerging from its depth and snaking for the world. Its surface was a work of crystal art only a madman could truly comprehend; swirls of crystal that refracted amongst themselves and curved inwards, its whole surface infinitely faceted as it propelled itself to him.


    "Ah¡­ ah¡­ ah¡­" Joffrey grunted in near panic, swaying his legs left and right like a pendulum, building enough force until he screamed, pure strength and force of will managing to raise him back to ground level. He stumbled upright to the sight of one of the figures on its knees, looking up at the night sky and the true direction of the Red Comet, the bronze mask lying by its side.


    It was not human.


    Its eyes were beady, almost hidden within the flurry of feathers that adorned its head. It''s beak like mouth was whispering something unintelligible as groups of other figures ritually sacrificed themselves by the hundreds, by the thousands as whatever ritual they''d concocted backfired, the sheer backlash from the repository of power known as the Red Comet distorting reality itself.


    It was then Joffrey realized the cold, the all encroaching shiver that seemed to settle in his bones. He ran as he watched what was perhaps the final battle of the previous Cycle, thrumming mortal power lashing out against the Long Night and finding itself thoroughly overwhelmed; the clash so mighty it still echoed in time.


    Joffrey screamed as he ran and ran and ran until he glimpsed just a tiny bit of sunlight beyond the road, groups of people running with him in fear and despair as clusters of ice seemed to shimmer into being everywhere, cold automatons surveying the area as they emerged into reality wielding long blades of ice, cutting down everyone in their path.


    Joffrey emerged through the mist and into the sunlight past the small valley''s limits, finding the four entourages already preparing for the journey south. Curiously enough, the House of the West was standing apart from the other three, almost shunned.


    Joffrey''s sprint gradually gave way to a jog, and then to a walk as he finally collapsed on his knees, breathing harshly. "By the Gods, you people weren''t joking around!" he said in between breaths, looking behind him and seeing only thick mist.


    "You¡­ you walked through livingStygai and lived to tell the tale?" said Jiia, as if the act itself were impossible. He could spy Lady behind her, wagging her tail animatedly as she looked at him.


    "You people are¡­ good to fear it¡­" he said in between breaths, "Yeah, definitively, the most¡­ no, second most fucked up thing I''ve ever seen," he rasped, collapsing on his back.


    "¡­ No one has ever set foot within Stygai an hour past noon and lived to tell what''s inside it¡­" she said.


    "Joff! I was getting worried," said Sansa as she emerged into his field of vision, hugging him fiercely. She was bandaged almost from head to toe, but she was alive.


    "I take it¡­ you showed that thing¡­ a thing or two¡­" he rasped in between breaths.


    "I manage to unravel it once you took care of its backers. We left the clearing soon after¡­" she said before tilting her head, "Just what did you see in there?"


    "Gods I''d kill for a drink. Remember me never to bother Robert about that again. He''s wiser than I knew¡­" he managed.


    "¡­ Just who are you two?" said Matriarch Kijima.


    Lady barked an answer, then promptly trotted towards Joffrey and licked him silly.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 56: Yellow.

    Chapter 56: Yellow.It seemed that whatever concessions Calinnia had extracted from the House of the West had left her in a giddy mood, as she''d even let Joffrey enter the sanctum proper, the House itself within the confines of Asshai. "My Sansa, you were magnificent!" she said in uncharacteristic, good natured glee.


    "Thank you, my Matriarch," said Sansa. She now sported a green mask of her own, a sad necessity of their damned traditions.


    "And you too boy," she added almost as an afterthought, "Well done gutting those bitches Tahsia and Meheesa. Now Wylla is down two veteran Callers and broke tradition by interfering in a Calling¡­ the blood price we exacted upon them after the ceremony is¡­" she trailed off, sighing in pleasure. "Sansa dear, you haven''t even started your service to me and you''re already delivering¡­"


    Shame those twenty years of service will never happen, thought Joffrey. The Houses usually kept vases with the blood of their Callers as deterrents to treason, but Joffrey doubted they would even get the chance to get such a tactic before they were all dead. There were already credible reports filtering from the far north that the Five Forts had been overrun¡­ despite his letter warning them about all he''d seen there years ago.


    It seemed his absence from that whole series of events, from his participation in the expedition to his last stand at the Dawn Fort, had accelerated the White Walker''s progress by at least a year or two; Legions of ''hungering dead'' were said to be devastating the northern reaches of the Empire, while news from the west were even more fragmented; distorted retellings carried by chains of merchants that spoke of great monsters and plagues hollowing out the heartlands of the Sunset Lands.


    When confronted with the information, Calinnia had shrugged, much as he suspected the other Matriarchs must have done when informed of the ''curse of undeath'' spreading in those faraway lands: Asshai had endured worst in the past, and stood all the prouder for it.


    Joffrey eyed Calinnia as she sat down on the luxurious carpet, leaning back on the cushions. Callers could only take off their masks when alone with other full members of their House, and so even now the old Matriarch was hiding her own¡­ though that didn''t prevent her from opening a small hole in her mask, just the right size so she could take a sip of what Joffrey hoped was wine but knew it probably wasn''t.


    He tapped his fingers absentmindedly, thinking about their options. Sansa had told him she knew everything she needed to carry out further studies on her own, so further instruction here was no longer necessary¡­ though staying certainly wouldn''t hurt either. The mysteries of magic were deep and complex, and he''d seen everything from reanimation to outright weather manipulation back in the Five Forts¡­ or at least the halting of such manipulation by the Walkers, thanks to the efforts of the Jade Scribes.


    He was interrupted from his musings as a Caller with a similar mask as Sansa entered the room, bowing thrice. "Forgive me Matriarch-"


    "Fiqua, I assume you have a pressing reason for interrupting?" said Calinnia, still somehow relaxed after the heavy blow to the House of the West''s prestige and assets. The concessions extracted from them had been heavy, according to Sansa.


    "Matriarch! I came as fast as he could but he-"


    "What is the meaning of this?!" she said as she stood up, the shadows around the room trembling as she straightened into a variant of Khai Joffrey had trouble recognizing. He stood up as well, hand near his sheathed Brightroar as Sansa stood up smoothly with her knees slightly bent, ready.


    Fiqua stood aside and kneeled in deep respect, and Joffrey watched the intruder in confusion as he strode into the room like he owned the place.


    "Hallowed Matriarch, I apologize for the inconvenience," said the Winged Man in Ancient Yitish, bowing lightly as his long wings touched the floor. He was clad in light cloth armor made of hideously expensive and resistant Asshai Silk, the middle of the armor painted a deep yellow of a color with the hanging rectangular medallion by his chest. S~?a??h the ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Curiously enough, instead of turning him into blood pudding, Calinnia seemed to be looking at the Winged Man in something akin to stunned disbelief. He looked at Sansa, but she seemed as lost as Joffrey himself.


    "The Yellow Sorcerer, Lord of Carcosa, and sixty-ninth Emperor of Yi-Ti, calls on the Houses of Asshai for aid," said the Flying Man.


    "¡­ Is the Emperor calling on the Compact of the Morn?" asked Calinnia, her voice almost shaky.


    "He is, Hallowed Matriarch," said the Winged Man, his long teeth peaking from his wide mouth.


    Calinnia nodded deeply, twice, "Then the House of the South shall answer," she said.


    "Thank you, Hallowed Matriarch," said the Winged Man before turning on his heels and walking away from where he came.


    -: PD :-


    "Sure, Carcosa, whynot?" said Joffrey as he gazed at the night sky and the Red Comet above. Sansa rolled her eyes as the ship swayed lightly beneath her, the black galley making a poor river boat as it sailed up the Ghost River.


    Joffrey was counting with his fingers as he rambled, "Bonetown, Stygai, K''Dath, Carcosa¡­ maybe we could ask the Yellow Emperor for a yacht and take a cruise around the Hidden Sea, visit the City of the Winged Men. It''s about the only place of nightmare I''m missing," he said.


    "I take it you''re less than enthused with this," said Sansa, following the same conversation again.


    "We might find something interesting there. Which doesn''t take away the fact that I''ve filled my quota of bullshit in this life."


    Sansa chuckled, shaking her head once more. "What happened to your sense of awe Joff?"


    "My sense of awe is so distorted I''m starting to find leaves breathtaking. Dear, I think I might be going crazy again."


    "You''ve always found leaves fascinating¡­ Can you aim for broody instead? You''re cuter like that," said Sansa, hiding an impish smile.


    "Wife, I swear," he said as he stopped leaning on the ship''s railing and caught her from behind instead, "If I see reality melting like putty in my hands one more time this life¡­" he said quickly before slowing down, smile growing, "I''ll kidnap you from Winterfell and lock ourselves in some nice, comfy hut in the middle of the Summer Islands," he promised.


    "Hm, I like the sound of that," she said as she stretched back, luxuriating in the embrace.


    "Six years and change of nice weather and tropical fruits, how''s that sound?" he said.


    "Really good."


    "Major Yham used to tell me they did all sorts of holy rituals back in his homeland," he whispered in her ear as she turned red, "Very religious people they are, those deviant Summer Islanders," he said before biting her ear lightly.


    "Sure," said Sansa as she elbowed him back, "We can have a feast with that ''Goddess of Tits and Wines'' Tyrion always talks about," she said as she turned and smirked at the sight of Joffrey massaging his sternum.


    "We could have a nice time," he said as he raised an eyebrow.


    "A nice time with me or with a few lusty locals?"


    "¡­ Can''t it be both?"


    "Oh, if that''s the way you want it," she said as she gave him her backside again.


    "¡­ Come on Sansa, I was just joking!" he said as he reached her side and she turned her head away, looking at the veritable sea of Ghost Grass that marked both sides of the river basin.


    "I''m so very'', very'' sorry with the offence given, m''lady," he said in Westerosi, rubbing it in with a vaguely peasant accent.


    "I should have your tongue cut, to say such things about a lady¡­" she said, still looking at the Ghost Grass.


    "I''ll take tha'' Black if ya'' come with me m''lady," he rasped with a nasal tone, now thoroughly into the territory of stereotypes and Tyroshi plays.


    "The insolence! The impudence! I shall call my loyal knight and see you cut down where you stand, you vile wretch!" She said loudly.


    "Then I raaather dieeeee than-see-my-heart plucked out! For it-is-hmmm-" Joffrey struggled to continue the song as Sansa jammed her hand against his mouth.


    "Joffrey, no."


    "Bhumt Smamsa!"


    "Joff, listening to a Tyroshi Opera is a fate worse than death, and smothering one''s husband is a justified course of action to avoid such fate," she said.


    He grumbled as she withdrew her hand, crossing his arms. "Then you wouldn''t like to hear my adaptation of our adventures?"


    "¡­ Oh Joff, tell me you didn''t."


    "I''m calling it ''A Speck of Purple''," he confessed his sin, "I''m still trying to work out the songs, but besides that Act One is almost ready."


    "There''s no way I''m going to avoid this, is there?"


    "None. In fact, you''re going to help me out with Act Two."


    "In your dreams Joff."


    He chuckled, "We''ll see¡­ unless you have some other pressing task to attend to while we rot aboard this tub?"


    Sansa snorted, looking behind her at the upper deck where the doors to the ship''s sanctum lay. "Don''t let Calinnia hear you say that, she''s pretty proud of the Yikeyin."


    "That just shows how little she knows about ships. This thing does the one thing it was designed for, and that is sitting at harbor and reminding all the merchants that the House of the South is always home. Actually sailing this thing¡­" he trailed off, looking below at the beautifully staggered yet horribly inefficient banks of oars. The whole ship was a floating palace, adorned with gold and silver trimmings as well as black sails of Asshai Silk. The latter of which, admittedly, Joffrey would have killed for the Royal Fleet.


    Sansa hummed in reluctant agreement. Perhaps if she aided him the result would be less monstrous? "What about the other ones?" she asked in the meanwhile.


    "The House of the East is the only one above the rest; they have a proper warship¡­ probably because they actually use it from time to time. They''ve got something going with the Faith of R''hllor¡­ or most likely a splinter sect or some such. They''d actually need to use ships on a regular basis, for communication purposes if nothing else," he said as he leaned on the railing and watched ahead. "At least they had the sense to put them first."


    Sansa did too, and spotted the red painted hull of the Sunchaser, the big war galley of the House of the East. Following close behind was the Promise, of the House of the North. Behind their own ship and last in line was the Juk, the House of the West''s double decked galley.


    Tellingly enough, it was the only ship manned by all four houses, and not only its original benefactors.


    "This ''Compact of the Morn''¡­ how many times has it ever been activated?" Joffrey asked her after he''d grown bored watching the ships again.


    "Only twice, according to Calinnia," said Sansa, "Both of them by the Four Houses of Asshai. The last one was six centuries ago when the ''Poisoned Men'' of Ulthos invaded from across the seas and even the Houses got scared."


    "So this is the first time the Lord of Carcosa has activated Asshai as a co-belligerent?" he said.


    "Yes, though technically it''s the Four Houses and not the city proper."


    "¡­ Ten red notes says it''s the Cycle calling on his doorstep," he said as he waved a handful of bills from the Golden Bank of Yi-Ti.


    "That''s a sucker''s bet," said Sansa as she shook her head.


    "It''ll be dangerous getting close to the Walkers¡­ you sure it''ll be worth it?"


    "We can only hope Joff. The more we know about how they operate, the better," she said.


    "I know that, still don''t like it. Getting near the critters is about as close to courting true death as we can get," he said, looking at the Mountains of the Morn in the distance. In less than a week they should be arriving at the end of the river, where they''d swap the galleys for carriages and take the hidden passages across the mountains, right up to the Hidden Lake and Carcosa itself¡­ and hopefully not into a faceful of wights, though Joffrey was pessimistic.


    The messenger from Carcosa had been sparse with the details, but Joffrey wouldn''t be surprised if the Walkers were as far south as the Cities of the Bloodless Men by now. They did know that the Cycle had been making tremendous inroads to the west of the great mountains, however. The imbecilic pretenders to the imperial throne of Yi-Ti were just now stopping their internecine civil war, agreeing to meet up in Yin to asses ''The True Needs of the Empire and the Divine Will of the Gods'' now that the literal dead were ravaging the northeastern third of the nation. Notably, General Pol-Qo, self-proclaimed ''Orange Emperor'', Hammer of the Jogos Nhai, and arguably the most credible contender to the throne as far as pure military strength was concerned, would not be going to the summit. He had reportedly left his interim capital of Trader Town and set out to the northwest, following the Steel Road to the northern Bone Mountains and western Essos, marching away from the Empire as fast as he could.


    The fact that several Congregations of Jogos Nhai were following his lead, apparently of their own free will, told Joffrey all he needed to know about who -or perhaps more accurately what- was on their tails. The zorze-riding Jogos Nhai were said to be the Horsechiefs slightly less fierce but much more technologically advanced cousins, and if they were half as capable of holding a grudge as a Horsechief then the mere fact that they were following someone widely acclaimed as ''The Hammer of the Jogos Nhai'' said all Joffrey needed to know about the numbers of the likely horde of wights trailing after them.


    Fucking Walkers, he thought, once again scanning the horizon. Sansa thought him paranoid, watching for wights so far south, but that just showed how she''d never actually lived through the actual Long Night.


    "Is that¡­" Joffrey muttered, placing a hand over his forehead and peering at the horizon. Please prove me wrong, please prove me wrong¡­ he thought.


    "I know that sound¡­" he said as strained to hear a low thrumming buzz.


    Sansa was straining to hear it when Brightroar leapt into Joffrey''s hand, and he turned to her with an expression he felt all too familiar. "Tell Calinnia we''re under attack from the air!" he said before running for the main deck.


    "We''re under attack! Ready those bows!" he roared in Yi-Tish, and surprisingly enough the blackguards seemed to heed his words. He didn''t know if it was because the Matriarch had taken him and Sansa into her confidence, or because they''d just been trained to obey that tone of voice, but they moved.


    One of them starting banging an oval-like, shrilly bell not so different to what the Aeromancers used to call their members to the dining table. It let out a pattern of two''s and three''s as the other blackguards took recurve bows from the warchests secured along the main deck, putting on their quivers as others readied katanas.


    "Form two lines! Archers at the front, swords behind!" He shouted as he pointed with Brightroar, the blackguards already notching as he turned to the helmsman. "Rudder dead ahead, slow down those oars!"


    He could already see the Flying Wights tilting to his left, huge swarms of them falling like stones from the sky, their blue eyes betraying their masters as they wielded broken swords or just their clawed hands. The Sunchaser loosed its mounted artillery of mangonels; incendiary charges exploding in midair and burning the Flying Wights, making others lose their trajectories and crash against the ground or the water. The rest braved the volley of crossbow bolts and crashed against the ship, reducing the range to melee.


    The flight of wights had already divided before that though, four different sections spreading out to encompass all four ships.


    "They''ll land behind the archers and try to gut them! Swords ready! Swords ready!!!" he roared as he raised Brightroar. The archers didn''t wait for his command though, loosing as one and nailing scores of the wights with incredible accuracy. The wounds were far from fatal though, and only one in three wights hit actually tumbled down from the skies.


    There were two more fast volleys before they landed on their midst, and then Joffrey was busy with Brightroar and his spare mace, cutting wights in half and smashing their skulls like the old days.


    Flying Wights were structurally weaker than wights made out of the other races of men, and they served as fast but brittle shock infantry to the Cycle. The Yikeyin was resisting the assault effectively though, blackguards forming circles and reacting with discipline. More and more Shadowbinders were joining the fray too, long lances of darkness arcing from their outstretched hands and striking wights from the skies.


    The tide was relentless though, and the deck started to get crowded when another flock of wights struck from the other side of the ship. The blackguards trying to form up by the other side were smashed apart, their katanas flying away as they tumbled through the deck, the claws of the Flying Wights close behind and finishing them off.


    Joffrey retreated upwards through an open aired staircase, batting a wight overboard with his hammer before he spotted Sansa defending the double doors that lead into the ship''s inner sanctum. Another Shadowbinder lay dead by her feat, slashed to ribbons as the gaggle of Flying Wights struggled to kill her too. Their steadily arriving reinforcements were already crowding the wooden balcony.


    He ran as fast as he could through the stairs that connected both sections, shouldering aside another wight as he tried to reach her. Sansa was stepping back, trying to work some sort of ritual with one hand while she used the other to fend off her attackers, her long smoky blade of darkness cutting down wights in half like pure steel.


    It was not enough though, and one of the wights struck her with a light saber. She recoiled as she reached her, a whirlwind of death as he cut them apart and smashed their rib cages with furious blows.


    "Joff!" said Sansa, jamming her black blade through one of the thing''s skulls in the confusion.


    "I''ll guard you! Do your thing!" he shouted. It turned into a roar as he hefted Brightroar in a brutal cut that severed two wights at once. The blade somehow stuck in the second wight, and he used his hammer as leverage to pry open the wight like a packed basket. He kept changing his grip and reach constantly, keeping the snarling wights on their toes as Sansa inhaled deeply. She extended a hand to her left, a torrent of smoke emerging from it and choking half a dozen wights. Joffrey covered her right side as she grunted in pain, slashing apart the two lightly armored foes trying to flank her.


    Sansa twisted her hand as she bellowed through gritted teeth, the chain of smoke around the wights throats crunching sickeningly as it coiled around their spines, their necks snapping apart as one of her eyes turned white.


    Lady had grown massive over the years, rivaling a small horse in size. She emerged from the melee carrying a wight by the neck, her raised fur making her seem twice as big as she slammed the wight against the deck and broke it in two. She swiftly let it go as she reached her mistress, bowling wights aside as she jumped from the lower deck right towards the balcony, smashing the gold and silver enameled railing apart. Between the three of them they managed to defend the double doors, and soon a prodigious amount of black smoke was emerging from the other side.


    "I think she''s ready!" shouted Sansa.


    "What?" said Joffrey before Calinnia glided through the doors, dozens of shadowy tendril emerging from her back as she swept the deck with one of her arms.


    "Die," she whispered, the tendrils bolting like spears and piercing the wights to the deck by the dozens. They screamed as Calinnia raised her arms to the skies and the wind picked up impossibly fast, bursts of airspeed that made the dead tumble out of the ship, catching those who''d extended their wings off guard.


    There were too many though, more and more of the cursed wretches flying in from the skies and landing on the ships while others crawled out of the water, climbing the decks with their talons. Joffrey soon realized the wights were seeking to exhaust the Shadowbinders through sheer attrition, because as soon as they ran out of blood the storm of darkness keeping them at bay would abate and they would all be overwhelmed.


    The Shadowbinders themselves had formed into small groups of two or three, and their ways of dispatching the wights were as many as were their numbers. Some seemed more like Sansa, conjuring tendrils of darkness that whipped around or through wights, while others joined hands and did strange things to the winds and the shadows around the ship, deep gashes of darkness that swallowed up wights with nary a sound.


    Joffrey was constantly scanning his surroundings as he rented the dead apart with hammer and sword, and that was the reason he saw them first. "More Flying Wights! Coming from the north east at high altitude!" he shouted, but he immediately noticed there was something radically different about that group of flyers.


    They flew like war galleys would sail just before battle, organized in several formations which filled the skies with triangles or boxes. There were dozens of flights of around fifty or a hundred each, keeping station with other flights at both lower and higher altitudes, most of them flying in arrowhead formations. Joffrey could see the lead figures of the first eight groups slowly tilting their wings to their right, losing altitude quickly as they plummeted to the earth. They carried flags of different colors and variable number of black marks, and others of the same groups followed the lead figures sequentially, a carefully choreographed dance that unfolded as they reached some invisible point in the sky.


    Their shrill battlecry sent shivers up Joffrey''s spine, so eerily familiar to the shrieking of the Flying Wights but not. It had been made right, high pitched and ululating; it was the battlecry of the Winged Men. They fell from the sky with long sabers like a storm upon the gaggle of disorganized Flying Wights mobbing around the ships, cutting their wings apart with precise but brutal strikes that sent their victims tumbling downwards in a rain of true death.


    The Winged Men did not reach the ships though, they angled their wings before reaching the deck, gliding back up as they started reclaiming altitude. Another group of saber wielders repeated the maneuver, clearing the skies before dispersing back to where they came as a heavy cavalry unit would do after a successful charge.


    Joffrey tripped a wight on top of another, piercing both their rib cages with Brightroar before parrying a katana with his mace, Westerosi steel blunting aside the blow and swiftly putting an end to his attacker''s skull. Sansa was painting a line of blood with her hand, standing back as the wights crossed it and promptly started to shiver wildly on the deck, giving Lady the opportunity to stomp them with impunity.


    Another battlecry -this one still high pitched but flat instead of ululating- made Joffrey stare at the sky once more .The Winged Men in the box formations were falling directly over the ships, wings folded at their backs as they aimed long two handed lances. They slowed down to half their speed just seconds before the impact, opening up their wings and raining upon the deck in a staccato of steel on bone and wood. They jammed their lances straight into chests and skulls, landing on top of the wights in concentrated groups before shoving their backs to one another, leaving space for the formations behind them to carry out the very same maneuver. Once they had all landed they twirled their lances as if they were long spears and advanced into the melee over the wrecked corpses of their former brethren, discipline grinding the enemy''s superior numbers to dust.


    They looked somewhat bulkier than their saber wielding compatriots, wearing iron lamellar instead of cloth armor. They looked stronger too, piercing wights and smashing them against the ground so the soldier behind them could finish them off. They relieved the beleaguered blackguards quickly enough, and soon one of them was climbing the stairs to the balcony.


    A soldier through and through, thought Joffrey as he nodded at the man. His lamellar armor had an upright yellow rectangle painted right in the middle, chipped away by the ravages of war. On its center was a single black line, representing one in classical Yi-Tish. "Honored Matriarch," he said as he half bowed, half nodded, "I am Suul; Greatborn, Wing Commander of the First Lancers, and by the divine grace of the Yellow Emperor, Mahil of Carcosa."


    Calinnia returned the half bow respectfully, not a hint of her usual disdain, "The House of the South thanks you, Mahil Suul. Our struggle here would have been a long one without the aid of the Yellow Emperor''s Wings," she said. Joffrey noted she said long and not doomed.


    Proud till the end, he thought, amused.


    "And you two must be Joffrey Baratheon and Sansa Stark," he said as he turned towards them abruptly, banging his lance on the floor. "My liege has been looking forward to meeting you both," he said with a pleased smile, showing long fangs.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 57: Shriek.

    Chapter 57: Shriek.The blackguards proved disciplined and organized, but they had not withstood the carnage of the previous battle all too well. Lacking armor and a robust chain of command, it was clear to Joffrey that they had not been created as a field formation. Line infantry they were not, thought the Matriarchs hadn''t seem too concerned by their decimation during the furious melee.


    It was clear that what truly made the Four Houses a near peer of Carcosa was not the strength of their indoctrinated bodyguards or the dubious worth of their ships, but rather the power and numbers of their Shadowbinders. The lances of darkness and shadow that had sought to strike the Flying Wights from the skies had been but the most obvious of their powers; behind their cover, strange rituals and incantations had resounded from the ship''s hold, making the living dead stutter or crumble to ash with but a whisper of wind.


    Joffrey counted a combined number of around a hundred and fifty Shadowbinders all told. A bit less than twenty for the South, thirty for the North, forty or fifty for the East and a bit over sixty for the West¡­ before they had been ''humbled'' at least. When combined and duly prepared, the Shadowbinders of Asshai made up a force capable of leveling small armies, and they were treated as such by their escort of Flying Men as they continued their journey upriver.


    The Yellow Wings were a sort of household guard to the Lord of Carcosa, though Joffrey assumed they were more of a small army. About five hundred of their numbers escorted the ships along the rest of the river. He often found himself watching them on patrol, as the development of their tactics to account for the air itself was fascinating, from a military point of view.


    He''d likened them to ships at first, but even that had betrayed his Westerosi origins. Dragon warfare, either during the Dance of Dragons or the rare Valyrian Civil Wars, had been more akin to that; ponderous, often massive dragons covering the blind spots of their brethren as they angled for fire-breathing runs.


    The Winged Men accounted for the art of aerial war in a very different manner, at least as far as Joffrey could see. Good individual mobility meant that the men must have been trained religiously in maneuver warfare to be so effective, including a respectable proportion of serjeant equivalents with good initiative.


    He''d had the pleasure of seeing them in action two more times. Once during an ambush from regular wights when the fleet stopped at an abandoned fishing town, and the other when they were jumped crossing the Mountains of the Morn. The vast majority of the Yellow Wings were made up of Slash Wings; fast, lightly armored, saber wielding flying infantry that specialized in air-to-air combat. They struck the wings of other aerial combatants, and served as light foot when the situation demanded it; though their effectiveness there compared poorly to other decent light infantry options.


    One in five made up the elite core of the host; Lancer Wings. Medium armor, fierce discipline, and wielding long lances; these shock formations excelled at striking down foes on the ground with both steel and terror. After landfall, they could also serve as decent heavy infantry in a pinch, as the ambushers around the Mountains of the Morn had discovered to their detriment later on.


    Still they soldiered on, the shimmer of the Red Comet above sending shivers of awe and suspicion through the Shadowbinders. By then even the lowliest of Callers knew something great and horrible was afoot, and the Matriarchs could all but smell the raw power in the air. A working with such a colossal amount of leakage was ominous, or so they said¡­ He''d told Sansa that the reports of ravaging hordes consuming the continent would have been enough to see to that, but apparently ''that is not the way they think''¡­ or so she told him.


    The Hidden Sea was not what Joffrey had expected. The valley and sea were nestled within the Mountains of The Morn, and the Hidden Sea itself was a deep chasm not unlike the Dry Deep, but filled halfway up with tempestuous waters. The sea roiled in permanent storms; great titan waves emerging from the depths and hulking above sea level like krakens on a regular basis, scouring the cliffs off climbing wights.


    Carcosa itself stood near the entrance to the river delta that left the Hidden Sea from the southeast, leading to the small but fertile plain of Ulan and then to Shatterpoint; the place where the Saffron Straits met the Furious Sea¡­ at least according to Mahil Suul. The capital of the Sorcerer Lord stood atop a tall island that emerged from the chasm of the Hidden Sea, a black patch of land no bigger than Tyrosh connected by two great stone bridges to both sides of the delta.


    It was in effect the biggest moat Joffrey had ever seen, though the nature of the region''s local inhabitants made that less of a strategic advantage, he supposed. The city was one great spire of black bedrock, its wide base steadily giving way to a sharp tip of pure topaz from where the Yellow Emperor was said to rule supreme, always gazing over his dominion.


    Their entrance into the city was uncontested as they marched swiftly under the city''s great gatehouse, though Joffrey had been able to see flocks of Flying Wights in the distance when they did. He was impressed when the bridge was revealed to be a draw bridge in truth, a big section of it rising into the air as massive counterweights dropped from the other side of the great spire.


    They walked their way up the spire in circles, and the great avenues that made up the main arteries of the city seemed a bit crowded to Sansa, who asked about it to Mahil Suul.


    "Many people from the north have taken refuge under the hospitality of the Yellow Emperor, to escape the blight that crawls from beyond," said Suul, "His generosity has seen all who dwell here fed, as long as they do their part for the continued survival of the city."


    Well, that doesn''t sound sinister at all, thought Joffrey.


    "There haven''t been any food riots?" Sansa asked him.


    "Only a few panics, all quickly contained. The Yellow Emperor, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to fully restock the city''s reserves months before the first wights arrived."


    "And tell me, esteemed Mahil, how has the war been progressing for the Emperor?" Joffrey asked him. If anyone was to know, it would be Suul. If he''d understood things correctly, the Mahil was a sort of castellan and lord commander of all forces under the oath of loyalty to the Yellow Emperor.


    He seemed to think over his words as they kept marching up the great road, the people giving them and the palanquins behind a wide berth. Joffrey could see everything from Bloodless Men to Winged to Yi-Tish to the pale denizens of the Beyond, all intermingling within the city with a wary, uncertain rhythm. "It has been slow," he said at last, "The Yellow Wings have managed to keep the land bound, eastern approaches clear, but the Enemy have been making gains by the other side of the sea during these past few months, seeking to cut us off from the west entire," he said, watching as the lancers clearing the way ahead had to forcefully move a wagon off the sloped road.


    "So the City of the Winged Men has fallen?" said Joffrey.


    Suul chuckled, "What a strange name. I assume you are talking about Zennibir?" he said.


    Joffrey gave him a self-conscious smile, "The maps of my homeland turn quite sketchy around these parts I''m afraid," he said.


    "Then your homeland must be quite the ways away, Joffrey Baratheon," he said as he frowned, showing his fangs again. "Zennibir fell a month ago, and the final outcome of that siege has been a constant thorn on our side."


    Joffrey thought it was remarkable how, in the end, all species of men shared variations of the same core emotions, be they winged, brindled, tall, pale, it really didn''t seem to matter in the end.


    "I have a hard time believing that, having watched the Yellow Wings in action," he said as he watched the soldiers practice around the citadel, moving through the air in formations.


    "Stop drooling dear," Sansa told him with a lopsided grin.


    "Just two of those Lancer Wings, Sansa. Only two," he said as his heart ached with bitter envy. "With them, the Raiders, and the better half of the Crownlands''s chivalry I could bleed out Renly in a week," he said in Westerosi.


    "The Emperor is honored by your words, but the Yellow Wings only number around seven thousand. The rest of our current war strength is composed of Irregular Wings from fallen Zennibir and the Cliff Towns around the northern ends of the Hidden Sea. They are as likely to run as to charge the enemy," he said before scowling. "It''s often better when they fly away, at least then they don''t add bodies to our foe," he said before walking ahead of them.


    "Excused me, honored ones. My presence is required," he said before taking off into the air with two powerful flaps of his muscled wings, making speed for the altercation with the fallen wagon at the front.


    "Damnit, I wanted to ask him about the Emperor again," said Joffrey.


    "Me too Joff, though I doubt he would have answered anything else than a tired old retread of ''he has been expecting you''." Sansa was still wearing her green mask, a fact that marked her as a Shadowbinder to the people of the city; they gave her a wide berth, even more so than to the escorting Yellow Wings.


    Calinnia had been equal parts intrigued and wary, and she''d all but ordered them to proceed with utmost caution. The line of the Yellow Sorcerers was a long one, and he was not a figure to be trifled with lightly, least of all east of the Mountains of the Morn.


    They kept walking up the spiral as the houses turned more and more elegant, though trying to make a distinction between the tower itself and the houses sometimes seemed futile. They appeared to be melded with it, part of one great structure that was the city itself¡­ almost as if the houses themselves had been chiseled out of it. The architecture itself varied wildly the further one climbed the spire, with the upper houses showing a distinct disregard for common sense; things such as main doors at second story levels, wider windows, and even great holes around the sides for the bigger residences.


    "Most of the Winged Men live near the top of the Spire," Sansa noted. "Living closer to the ruler of the city is usually a sign of greater prestige and social status."


    Joffrey grunted, "You think he uses the Winged Men to oppress the masses of common human stock around the lower districts?" he asked her.


    "Perhaps¡­ most likely he leans on them to man his bureaucracy and elite military units," she said.


    "That makes more sense. It also fits with what we saw down below¡­ No one in the Hidden Watch seemed to have wings, and they seemed decently drilled and armed for a major city guard. I doubt the Emperor would have gone to such an effort to train and arm a mob that would like to see him dead."


    Sansa nodded, looking behind at the lead palanquin. They would soon be reaching the Topaz Palace, ruling place of the Yellow Sorcerer and now Yellow Emperor. "Do you still think he wants to use us as fuel?"


    "I don''t know Sansa, but if there''s anything I learned when dealing with Shadowbinders, present company excluded of course"- he added with a sly smile -"is that they are unpredictable. If he looks hungry for some high power blood we''re downing the pouches immediately. Are we clear?" he said, brooking no disagreement.


    "I know I know," she said as she held her hands up. Ever since their first encounter with the Matriarch of the West, Joffrey had been adamant that they carry small pouches as pendants, pouches which held tiny crystals of Niamba. Joffrey had turned the raw plant into a highly potent and fast acting poison after subjecting it to a complicated alchemical treatment. They should be dead even faster than it would take to bleed out from the heart.


    "Seems we''re here," he said as he gazed up. The road ended in a great plaza which surrounded the entrance into the top of the Spire proper; a golden arc of glittering topaz and emeralds surrounded the entrance itself while the spire continued upwards now like a proper tower, a great balcony just peeking high above.


    -: PD :-


    "Honored Guests, I am pleased to present the Matriarchs of Asshai and their retinues, blessed be they in blood," said a Winged Man in elegant yellow finery as he bowed almost to the floor, holding one hand near his chest and the other wide open, signaling the newcomers.


    They walked into the hall of the Yellow Emperor in a hush of whispering voices, a multitude of different kinds of men turning to see them. The hall seemed to have more in common with a reception at a Braavosi evening than a royal court hearing in Westeros; the guests of the Yellow Emperor formed groups around the ground floor, while the second held a massive throne filled with topaz from which a shadowed figure watched them all. He wore a topaz encrusted tunic which fell from his shoulders in wide pieces of fabric, all of them intermingling as they seemed to fuse into a vest by his chest. His head was almost completely hidden by a hood though, the angle of lighting around the place making it hard for Joffrey to define any features at a distance.


    The Four Matriarchs stepped forward as one, bowing in deep respect. "Hail, Emperor of Yi-Ti and hallowed Lord of Carcosa," said Calinnia.


    "We come forth by your call," said Kijima.


    "To honor our word solemnly given," said Jiia.


    "To give mutual aid, in the name of the Compact," said Wylla.


    The Emperor seemed immobile, and only after a minute of silence did his make a small gesture with his hand.


    Then came the gifts. Wylla presented a topaz encrusted short sword of extraordinary craftsmanship, its hilt adorned by a replica of the Spire so detailed that even at a distance -standing with Sansa by the side of the hall with the rest of the Shadowbinders- he could see the various roads and gates of the great city.


    Jiia laid down a small chest on the floor before opening it smoothly; it revealed a single, bent, bronze studded mask that left many of the Shadowbinders by Joffrey''s side shuffling lightly. It seemed so old it was one wrong breeze away from crumbling to ash, but that only seemed to add to its allure.


    He''d seen the mask before; Calinnia had two in the House of the South and proudly presented them as ancient artifacts of their ancestors¡­ salvaged from the ruins of Stygai centuries ago. After his brief, nightmarish visit to the City of Night itself though, Joffrey was pretty confident that the creators of said masks had nothing to do with any of humanity''s branches. They''d likely been extinct for tens of thousands of years before even the First Men looked up at the sky in wonder.


    Kijima brought forth a multi-faceted ruby the size of Joffrey''s fist, a thousand cuts bending the light within so it shone with an inner brightness which mesmerized many of the onlookers around the hall.


    And then it was their patron''s turn. Calinnia did something with her robes, and from one moment to the other held the Valyrian Glass Candle in her hand, the one they had stolen from the warlocks and given to her as a sort of down payment for Sansa''s training. The Shadowbinders gasped ever so slightly, shuffling in mild shock as the Yellow Emperor extended a hand by an inch or two.


    Sihua -the finely dressed herald which had announced them- sprang forth immediately. He held the Glass Candle reverently, carrying it forth through the oval shaped steps towards the topaz throne.


    He prostrated himself, holding out the Candle without looking as the Emperor grabbed it. He held it in his hands for a few seconds, turning it slowly before his yellow hood turned towards Calinnia. "The House of the South is generous," he said, his voice thick and barely audible.


    Calinnia nodded gracefully, and then the Emperor made another gesture. The Herald was back at ground level quickly, clapping twice as servants emerged from side doors carrying all manner of dishes and beverages.


    "His divine majesty, the Yellow Emperor, wishes to celebrate the arrival of our old allies. Let all guests under his roof make merry and celebrate with him, lifting our dreams to higher ends," said the herald. Calinnia was already by their side, talking quickly with Fiqua and another of the green masks before turning to them.


    "Mingle with the guests, find out as much as you can about them and the state of the city. Be careful," she said, pausing to look at the Yellow Emperor from the corner of her mask. He stood unperturbed, as unmoving as he''d been when they''d first arrived.


    "I take it he has a different definition of ''mingling''?" said Joffrey.


    "Do not be impertinent," she snapped, "He could end half this room with a flick of a finger, including you and your disappearing sword."


    "He''ll behave, Matriarch," said Sansa.


    "See that he does," she said before walking back to the other Matriarchs, which were being catered lavishly by groups of servants carrying twisting glass cups filled with red liquid.


    Joffrey doubted it was Arbor Red.


    "Quite the presence the man has," said Sansa as they locked elbows together and walked away from the Matriarchs in search for an interesting group to settle for a while. They were old hands at this game, and Joffrey could already see her cycling through guests. He was more interested in the Emperor''s decorations though, gazing at the great sheets of parchment hanging from the second story; great and intricate designs of a wholly abstract nature that tickled Joffrey''s curiosity.


    "¡­ Yeah, has the sorcerer king vibe down pat," he said absentmindedly.


    There''s something awfully familiar about those sketches, he thought.


    "Any priorities you have in mind?" said Sansa.


    "Hmm¡­ you know me."


    She sighed theatrically as she guided him between groups, nodding at the common men that served as servants. "Those soldiers over there then?" she asked him, looking at a group of ten or so armored men of distinct Yi-Tish stock.


    "Yeah I¡­ wait, I know that sign," he said as he gazed at the trio of crossed bones tied to their iron lamellar breastplates. "I''ve definitively met these guys before¡­" he said as they approached.


    "Dangerous?" Sana asked as she brought one hand next to the other. The group was armed, most of them carrying sheathed heavy sabers though one or two had bamboo sticks slung from their backs.


    Primitive Fire Lances, thought Joffrey, the flotsam of recognition floating closer.


    "I don''t think so," he said as they reached them. They all looked pretty sunburnt, toasted almost by harsh winds and long days. One of them turned and bowed as they joined the circle, the one with the longest bones nailed to his chest piece.


    "Let me extend the Guild''s gratitude for your arrival in person," he said as he faced Sansa, "With Whisperers fighting by our side the advance of the Returned should be slowed down significantly." He seemed polite enough, though he kept eying Sansa warily despite his words, scars bulging by the right side of his face.


    Slowed down¡­ not stopped? Joffrey asked himself silently, still looking at the three crossed bones.


    "¡­ The Soldier''s Guild," he said, nodding at the man in recognition, "You are a long way from Bonetown, Guildmaster¡­" he said before trailing off.


    "Guoyin. Guildmaster Guoyin," he said, smiling for a bit when Joffrey offered his arm and they clasped.


    "Joffrey," he said before looking at Sansa, "And my wife Sansa." If Guoyin seemed curious at his apparent marriage to a Shadowbinder, he didn''t show it.


    "Do you know of these fine warriors, dear?" Sansa asked him.


    "They were a common sight when I made it as far east as Bonetown, selling my wares," he said.


    "A bone trader then? Did you depart the city before the caravans?" asked Guoyin, the other members inching closer with interested looks.


    "Not quite, though I heard about what happened there after you left," he said, unable to keep the slight disapproval from his tone.


    Guoyin frowned, though Joffrey thought he could see the slightest glint of shame in his eyes before they hardened once more.


    "There was no way to hold the city¡­ You would have run too if you''d seen them¡­" said one of the younger looking members, his voice vaguely hollow before his companions shut him up with disapproving looks.


    But I didn''t¡­ I didn''t run, he thought as he felt an abrupt pang of loss before putting the memories away.


    "My apologies," said Sansa, "My husband did not mean to cause offense. Having seen the Reanimated with my own eyes I struggle to think what else you could have done."


    Guoyin tilted his head down, "Thank you. I''m sorry if we''ve all been a bit wary around you, previous experience with Whisperers have left us¡­ on edge," he confessed.


    "Rest assured, the madness of those cultists couldn''t be farther away from the discipline of the Four Houses," said Sansa.


    "Indeed, though having slain more than one Grey Whisperer in my time, I can thoroughly empathize with you Guildmaster," Joffrey added.


    One of the men scoffed, but Guoyin was watching at him with a knowing look. "High risk trader?"


    "Straight to K''Dath," he said with a smile.


    "Quite the story your life must make¡­" said Guoyin, looking at Sansa and then at Joffrey with appraising eyes.


    "Perhaps we could trade tales about our journeys? His Yellow Eminence doesn''t seem to be in a hurry," Joffrey said as he gazed at the statue-like ruler of Carcosa. Some of the men recoiled in fear at the blasphemy, but Guoyin -if anything- seemed more at ease.


    "Perhaps we can," he said as he chuckled. One of the servants came close, and all but Sansa took the opportunity to help themselves with the small, boiled fish lanced by small wooden rods.


    "So how did you end up here?" he asked him, relishing the spicy seasoning which was so scarce back in Westeros.


    Guoyin scowled immediately, "We went east around the Dry Deep; hardly anywhere else to run to. To reach the Cities of the Bloodless Men we had to cross the Cannibal Sands through the southeast¡­" he trailed off, several of the men shaking themselves off discreetly, "We had experienced traders with us, people who''d been born tracing the same route over the sand just as their fathers had done¡­ and yet the sandstorms still blinded us, made us lose our direction no less than four times¡­ Easy pickings for the cannibals; sometimes scores of them would fling up from the dunes and rush us before we could circle the wagons, it was a bloody slaughter¡­ and then the dead cannibals¡­" he trailed off with a fierce shake of the head, "Barley half of us made it to Blhadahar."


    Joffrey nodded in sympathy. He could imagine the harrowing journey all too well¡­ "Bloodless Men let you in?" he asked, as relieved as him at leaving that part of the tale behind.


    "Hm. For the better half of our bones; decades of building up our warchest only to lose them to a jumped up border lord¡­ didn''t do ''em much good when the dead arrived though," he said with careless shrug.


    "Weren''t the Bloodless Men prepared for the advance of the dead?" Sansa asked him.


    "They thought they were prepared alright," scoffed the younger one again.


    Guoyim snorted as he looked at the young man, his trio of bones the smallest of all the company, "Captain Zenim has strong opinions on the subject," he said, motioning him to continue.


    "We just kept running south," said Zenim, "By the time we heard vaunted Blhadahar had fallen we were around Bol-Qobam, and Bloodless from almost all the city states were there with weapons and armor. Fools thought they could stop the dead in a field battle."


    "Didn''t work out, I presume," said Joffrey. He certainly wouldn''t take the walkers in open battle unless he was well prepared for the occasion¡­ or incredibly desperate.


    "Not for a lack of trying, they managed to assemble a mighty host, after all¡­" said the Guildmaster. "High Warlord Ka-Jan almost conscripted us too, but we marched away before he could add more numbers to his ''arguments''."


    "Seems that didn''t work out for them either," Joffrey told the young man before looking behind him.


    Far from ''freely intermingling'', Joffrey thought the groups were pretty clear cut. Most of the Winged Men stayed in their own groups, keeping the distance with the Bloodless and the newly arrived Shadowbinders. Another curious difference was between the Winged Men themselves; those of greater stature and physical bulk didn''t really interact much with those who were not as well endowed. The ''Greatborn'' which composed the ranks of the Lancers and most senior military positions of the Yellow Court formed a distinct social class all of their own.


    "We were a month''s worth of hard marching from Zennibir when we found out what eventually happened. They had three big field battles trying to relieve Bol-Kalayak before they were enveloped and overrun. High Warlord Ka-Jan preferred riding to his death than facing ''dishonor'' though, leaving his realm without a Warlord while it crumbled on top of their people. Shows what a lack of blood can do to man," said Guoyin before shaking his head.


    "Idiots still hate us for that," said Captain Zenim.


    "How so?" Sansa asked him.


    "Everyone needs a scapegoat, and we were the easiest targets," said Guoyin.


    "Three thousand foot and a handful of armored sandrakes wouldn''t have made any difference. They say the horde sieging Bol-Kalayak numbered over two hundred thousand for the Night Lion''s sake!" growled one of the officers.


    "We barely even stopped at Zennibir, kept going straight down the Cliff Road to Carcosa," said Guoyin.


    "And now they''re refugees, just as you," said Joffrey as he gazed over the hall once more. The Bloodless Men made up a substantial presence, the core of them concentrated around a young, pale man of great girth. He was armored in a sort of iron-plate reinforced chainmail hauberk, the same as half of his companions. Unlike the others though, the young man''s turban was bright red, and it barely wobbled as he gesticulated wildly with great, sweeping gestures. He was arguing about something with Mahil Suul, whose wing''s were swaying in what seemed mild consternation.


    "Here we go again¡­" muttered Guoyin as he chomped on his fish stick like a veteran campaigner, watching the Bloodless warily.


    "So why stop at Carcosa?" Sansa asked the officer which had spoken up.


    "There''s no other strongpoint to hold them off further south. The Mountain passes to the west are full of Returned freshly carved out of the Yi-Tish heartlands, as I''m sure you found out. Taking a small host south through the Shadowlands would be suicide¡­ and that only leaves the Ulan Plains to the south east."


    "The Yellow Emperor''s demesne," said Sansa.


    "The one thing keeping Carcosa fed," said Guoyin, looking back from the gesticulating Bloodless. "There''d be no point though. Only Shatterpoint has any walls there and by all accounts they aren''t very impressive. We''d have to build ships to either force passage through the Furious Sea and probably drown in uncharted waters, sail south to Ulthos and choke to death, or sail west and hope we don''t die of scurvy before reaching Asshai. No, the Yellow Emperor''s walls are good and his coin too, this is where we''ll make our stand," he said with a decisive nod, though Joffrey could see some of his officers were less than enthused, especially young Zenim.


    "Please excuse us," said Joffrey, subtly pulling Sansa''s elbow as he inched away from the group.


    "We hope to see you later Guildmaster, captains," said Sansa, nodding apologetically at the group.


    "With your story, I''m sure," said the bemused Guildmaster, holding up his cup.


    "Of course," she said, the group of Guildmen disappearing behind the shuffling of the guests. "That was incredibly rude Joffrey, they won''t open up so easy next time."


    Her husband didn''t respond, practically pulling her towards the left side of the great hall. He stopped in front of one of the hanging sheets of wide parchment, extending a trembling hand as he traced the twisting lines that bent over themselves, circling recursively.


    "Sansa¡­ this is¡­" he trailed off, swallowing drily as he looked at the other parchments. "It''s a diagram of my soul¡­" he whispered.


    "I- Like the bone tablet?" she asked him.


    "Yeah¡­ they''re incomplete, and some parts make no sense, but¡­ " he trailed off again, feeling the texture of the rough parchment, "I think it depicts another module¡­"


    "Do you like it?" asked a voice behind them. Joffrey whirled in a half second, hand over Brightroar''s hilt as he felt Sansa''s arm increase in temperature, her own blood singing within her body.


    The man was dressed in the simple yellow tunic of the servants, only a small black mark by the center of the doublet signaling a higher rank than them.


    "The design is truly beautiful," Sansa said as Joffrey regained control over his heart.


    "They''re depictions of the ancient art held by the great obelisks that once dotted the Ulan Plains, thousands of years ago. The first of the Yellow Sorcerers sought to copy the artwork¡­ or what was left of them, at least," he said.


    "Then he was wise beyond measure," said Sansa, "Excuse me, I didn''t quite get your name¡­"


    "Call me Vajul," he said. The man''s bow was so pronounced that his forehead almost touched the ground.


    "Do you have anything to do with the other servants here?" Joffrey asked him, hand still over Brightroar.


    "Yes, I make sure all guests here have as amenable a stay as possible¡­ I hope that has been the case for the both of you?" he asked, before looking at Sansa in slight shock, "Please, forgive the oversight," he said quickly, signaling a servant.


    The servant arrived with a cup of twisted glass, holding it to Sansa a he lowered his head.


    "I- thank you," she said, accepting the beverage. She gazed at the deep red fluid, twirling lazily around the cup.


    "It is to your liking, is it not?" asked Vajul. He looked at the servant and frowned, the man almost shrinking into himself.


    "No, no. It''s quite alright," she said, her mask still as the cup trembled lightly.


    Joffrey squeezed her hand gently, and she took a deep sigh before opening a small clasp in her mask''s lower side. Joffrey couldn''t help but notice how the blood was already springing forward without the aid of gravity when it reached Sansa''s lips, crawling up as if by its own volition into her mouth and leaving not a stain behind.


    "It''s¡­ ah¡­" she whispered, looking down for a moment before recomposing herself, "Your liege has a¡­ fine vintage," she finally managed.


    "He has," said Vajul, looking pleased.


    Sansa was of the line of First Men Houses that existed since the Age of Heroes, Starks and Tullys and Blackwoods, all shrouded in great and terrible workings of sorcery if one gave the ancient stories more than a perfunctory glance. That made her a potent Shadowbinder, because unlike the vast majority of them she could actually use her own blood as fuel worth the name¡­ though that didn''t mean that a little extra was useless.


    Joffrey had been about to ask Vajul about the obelisks when he heard a commotion coming from the center of the hall: The young Bloodless was now shouting, walking away from Suul and back to him again as he raved. "Enough is enough, Mahil! The hospitality of Carcosa has been without equal, but the time for action is now!"


    His armored companions all grunted fiercely, banging their armored gauntlets against the shields strapped to their backs, while the unarmored ones nodded in approval.


    "For the Bloodless they might as well be cheering like madmen. They''re usually very reserved," said Vajul, somewhat amused.


    "Tell me Vajul, who is the young one in the middle? The one with the red turban," said Sansa.


    "That is High Warlord Ka-Mil. He has been leading the hosts of the Bloodless since his late father fell in battle¡­ what''s left of them, at least," he said.


    "If you wish to assault the wights on your own, then you and your army are more than welcome to sally out the gates," said Suul, growing irritated.


    "And be defeated piecemeal?!" he scoffed, "We have done nothing but skirmish with the Damned since we arrived here! A change of strategy is needed if we are to survive this invasion!"


    "You must be patient, young Warlord," said Suul, "The Emperor knows-"


    "Patient? Mahil, I have been patient," he said, "Bol-Kalayak dead and in ruins, Jehmk reduced to nothing but ashes and dust, Holy Bol-Qobam overrun with the Damned! Nine in ten of my people lie dead or worse!" he shouted, "The time to wait is over!"


    Suul banged the butt of his lance against the floor, "Once the Houses of Asshai have recomposed themselves from their harsh journey, then the -"


    "I spit on the Blood Drinkers!" he interrupted the Mahil, swiftly following his words with action as he spat in the direction of the Four Matriarchs -to the sudden gasps of pretty much everyone present but the Bloodless, who if anything seemed even more exalted- "Some of the Sacred City''s westernmost holds might still be alive, awaiting relief! Now that we have the strength we should march north at once; keep the wights off fresh bodies!" he snarled.


    "Little more than mining towns and lookout posts hugging the Mountains of the Morn. They all fell within weeks of Bol-Qobam," said Vajul.


    "How do you know that?" Joffrey asked him.


    Vajul just gave them a wan smile, "I saw it. Ka-Mil didn''t, but he knows that the likelihood of even a single one of those population centers surviving by now are as near to zero as can be."


    "So this is all just theater," said Sansa, considering the High Warlord. "At least some of that anger is real though."


    "Indeed," said Vajul, "He has felt the loss of his people most keenly, but the young warlord is not nearly as useless at politics as many think him to be. He inherited his father''s girth but his mother''s wits," he said approvingly.


    "I see¡­" said Joffrey, more focused on Vajul than on Ka-Mil.


    "He''s shoring up his position with this," Sansa realized.


    "He is. His leadership has been polarizing, especially since he all but abandoned the southernmost cities to fend for themselves. After the disaster at Bol-Kalayak, it was the only sensible course of action."


    "You were there then, with the Bloodless," Sansa asked him.


    "No, not in person," he said.


    She looked back at Joffrey, who stared at her for a moment before returning his gaze to the young warlord. He''d missed Mahil Suul''s response, but one of the Matriarchs had pushed him slightly to one side, interrupting the exchange.


    Kijima was twirling her cup of blood, flanked by her two red-masked Shadowbinders as they stood in front of the king. "Resorting to insult already?" she said, seemingly disappointed. She was looking at the High Warlord as if he were some sort of abomination, scanning him from head to toe as she twirled her cup. "Here, I think you need this more than I," she said as she tilted her glass, emptying the blood on the floor.


    "¡­ You dare¡­" he rumbled almost quietly. Different from his earlier anger, this undercurrent of rage seemed a thousand times more real to Joffrey. The armored Bloodless were shuffling too, placing hands over the pommels of the long, ball-like maces they carried by the waist. They formed a line around their warlords, exchanging silent glances and positioning themselves for battle as the two Shadowbinders with Kijima stopped clasping their hands and stood on the tip of their toes.


    "¡­ How bad was that insult?" asked Joffrey.


    Vajul tilted his head lightly, still looking at the group, "Bloodless Oral tradition holds that their ancestors ripped the blood and sinew from their own bodies in fell rituals and sacrifice, the screams of the willing victims still audible to this day in the city they now call Bol-Qobam. After the War in the Morn and their subsequent exile from Asshai, the descendants of those who would eventually call themselves the Bloodless swore to never again be used as food by the Shadowbinders."


    "¡­ They did it to themselves?! Surely there must have been another way to¡­" Sansa trailed off, her hand grasping air as she shook her head. The people around the High Warlord and the Matriarch were stepping back as they kept trading insults, while Mahil Suul slammed his lance against the floor to no effect.


    "The ones who fled south instead of north certainly thought so," said Vajul, "Sadly, those who would later be called the Poisoned Men lost their minds as well as their blood," he said as the Warchief took his hammer from his belt.


    "This isn''t looking good," said Joffrey.


    "Indeed," said Vajul, looking at the Yellow Emperor in his throne of topaz. The Lord of Carcosa raised a palm into the air, and suddenly all sound seemed to die within the room. Warchief Ka-Mil''s mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out of it. He turned around in incomprehension, his mute companions flailing amongst themselves as Kijima turned towards the Emperor and swiftly prostrated herself on the floor. Not a single voice could be heard in the hall.


    "The evening is over. We give thanks to his divine majesty for his generosity," proclaimed the herald, his voice loud and clear. High Warlord Ka-Mil gave the Emperor a shaky bow before turning on his heels and storming out of the hall, his followers close behind.


    "That''s-" Sansa cut herself off, her voice sounding painfully loud in the midst of the silence.


    "Effective," ended Joffrey, his own voice similarly unimpeded as the mute guildsmen by the other side of the hall turned and looked at him.


    "Would you mind walking with me? I''ve been waiting for this conversation for quite some time," said Vajul, odd lights glinting beneath his eyes.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    They were led through old tunnels and staircases that had been carved out of the Spire''s black rock foundation itself, a triangular pattern that carried them to the top of the city. They emerged into a light rain, and Joffrey couldn''t help but find the terrace somewhat familiar. He walked to one of its edges as he traced it with his hand, Sansa squeezed the other.


    Joffrey squeezed back, and she took a deep breath before they both turned. Vajul had a wan smile on his lips as he gazed downwards, looking at the city as the sun hid almost completely past the Mountains of the Morn.


    "I hope you liked the candle¡­ getting a hold of it wasn''t easy," Sansa said almost whimsically.


    Vajul held out a hand, and a shimmer of smoke and light hovered above his palm before the shape of the Valyrian Candle resolved itself. It wasn''t there though, it was more of a mirage, a shifting reflection of the real thing. The light around the top of the tower echoed strangely, colors turning warped as the image acquired definition.


    "It''s little more than a focusing devise for what should come naturally to the Self, an aid for those who are blind to the currents under the sun and moon," he said as he gazed at the candle thoughtfully, "And a damaged one at that," he added as the wan smiled disappeared.


    "How do you know of us, and why do you care?" Joffrey asked the Yellow Emperor, holding a hand on Brightroar''s pommel.


    Vajul nodded lightly, as if conceding a point. "I''ve often liked to watch my surroundings. One can lose the track of time gazing at all the wonders of this world," he said, letting his hand fall. The warping smoke and shimmer didn''t abate though, but expanded. The shimmer surrounded all three of them in a sort of dome or torus, the image of the Valyrian Candle atop the desk losing clarity until it was no more. Color lost all bearing as blues turned to reds and yellows to greens, black turning as dark as the void between the stars as a slight thrum reverberated throughout the terrace. Joffrey could see the City of Asshai around them, viewed from several locations above it as if from a thousand impossibly-high flying seagulls. He could see the ships of the merchantmen docking at harbor, the quick walking of the local Shadowmen with their red masks, even the Temple of the Aeromancers growing in size until Joffrey could see Master Wo-Ti sitting in silent meditation. The Master opened his eyes, frowning as he gazed around him slowly before looking almost at the point of view itself.


    "You''ve been watching us," said Sansa, her voice almost drowned by the otherworldly thrum.


    "Since you arrived at Asshai," he said.


    "Why?" Joffrey asked him.


    The thrum reached a fever pitch of intensity, a high whined noise that tattered around the edges as the shimmer surrounding them retreated abruptly, collapsing on the original point from where it had first expanded.


    The Yellow Emperor gave a small sigh as he gazed beyond the railing, down at the titanic waves periodically sweeping the climbing wights off the base of the island, far below. From up here Joffrey could make out the original symmetry of the structure, beyond the additions carved into it or otherwise constructed on its sides. It was a straight, massive triangle projected downwards, its edges frayed by the passage of time.


    "I''d stop the storm, but then the legions of undead would swarm us within the hour," he said with a sad shake of the head. "The Hidden Sea is usually quite beautiful at this time of the day too," he said while gazing below.


    But Joffrey could the base of the tower, its original shape and form, its architecture unmistakable.


    "You''ve seen me before. A carving."


    "Yes," said Vajul.


    "Show it to me," he said.


    Vajul nodded, and he led them down the original set of stairs constructed by the Deep Ones; right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs as the murals around them depicted great masses of stick figures, periodically swarming the whole tunnel and the lone figure guarding it, only to disappear once more.


    "Death and destruction on an unparalleled scale, a cycle repeating with no end¡­ by the time I realized this ancient prophesy was coming true, it was already too late," said the Emperor.


    Sansa felt the carvings with her hand, tracing the figures that swarmed the tunnel periodically before the three reached a great hall of oily black stone. Joffrey could feel the great waves of the storm surging above them, the whole of Carcosa hanging atop them as the stairs carried them below the Hidden Sea and his eyes were drawn upwards.


    "Sansa, its-" Joffrey swallowed drily, feeling dizzy as he shook his head, "Its- one of the waypoints," he whispered.


    Sansa took off her mask as she looked up and saw her husband''s first death.


    He was in so much pain, she thought, thrashing as he clawed his throat and the eldritch twists of the Purple expanded from his throat, surging like lightning bolts across the walls and forming the eternal recursion of fractals she''d seen so many times before. She could see the carved, weathered figure of Jaime Lannister shaking him as Cercei despaired, guests standing up in panic as the Kingsguard hefted their swords.


    She saw herself, almost at the edge of the grand carving, running with some sort of court fool who was incomplete, bisected by the sudden ending of the mural. Her eyes were looking back at the choking Joffrey, carrying a multitude of meanings tied and twisted with one another; Surprise and shock and fear and triumph and joy and horror, so many of them lovingly crafted into her chipped frame. Most of all was the sheer, undiluted terror that entranced her so, the sort of heart clenching despair that arose from the powerless. I was an echo that she felt deeply within the bottom of her soul, old memories coming to the forefront of her mind.


    "I think I forgot to breathe when I saw the two of you in Asshai," said the Yellow Emperor with a touch of humor, gazing at the choking Joffrey before his eyes cycled around the guests of the wedding, settling on the scared Sansa above. "So many of my predecessors devoted their lives to unearthing the true meaning of this mural, of this structure, left behind by beings which by rights should have gone extinct eons before the first man killed his brother with a sharpened stone¡­" he trailed off, an unwilling smile starting to dominate his features.


    It suited him badly, distorting his face in ways it was not meant to be. "A most exquisite irony," he chuckled, "The keys to the puzzle that had plagued half of the Yellow Sorcerers of eras past, walking around the Endless City just as the world draws to an end."


    "We¡­ we are the reason why you activated the Golden Compact?" asked Sansa, though it had more the air of a statement.


    "You don''t think you can win this," Joffrey realized.


    "Mahil Suul was quite impressed with your knowledge of warcraft, Joffrey Baratheon. So tell me, what are the prospects of Carcosa and the assembled might¡­ or should I say the remaining dredge of southeastern Essos?" said Vajul as he turned to look at them. "Two thousand Lancer Wings, five thousand Slash Wings, ten thousand Carcosan ground militia, and over fifteen thousand Irregular Wings," he said, closing his eyes. "Eight hundred Bloodless Immortals and over twelve thousand regulars from the Holy Cities. A bit less than three thousand veteran guildsmen and twenty-two armored sandrakes," he said as the room thrummed strangely, blacks turning deeper as the oil lamps fluttered. "Over four hundred blackguards, less than a hundred and fifty Shadowbinders, and Four Matriarchs¡­" he said as the thrum increased in intensity and strange distortions of air and smoke began to open windows into reality, showing an eternal column of marching wights. They stretched over the horizon; the skies the color of dead grey as legions of flying wights covered the setting sun itself.


    "Tell me, how will they fare?" said the Yellow Emperor, staring at the hundreds of Walkers leading the eternal, marching column of dead beings along the edges of the Hidden Sea. There were Shrykes and Legionaries, Westerosi and Yi-Tish, Bloodless Dead and Flying Wights, undead sandrakes and a hundred and one monsters of twisting bone and sinew marching tirelessly south.


    "Gods¡­" Joffrey muttered. Sansa was holding her mouth with both hands, her mask discarded by the floor as she gazed at their dead blue eyes and their slack, hungering jaws.


    Joffrey stared at the marching wights again before shaking his head, "There''s too many of them. They''ll swarm us until the defenders can''t lift their arms from exertion, and then they''ll keep coming," he said.


    "I thought as much," said the Emperor, the grey vision distorting itself until it dissipated in smoke. "Even if we could somehow resist it would be of no use. That red Thing up in the sky is still channeling essence to the north, power never-ending the likes of which no living being could even comprehend. So much power mortals and Gods would scream and burst were they to receive it¡­ So much power¡­" he whispered.


    It was not awe or lust in his voice, but sheer mind-breaking terror. Here stood a man who could silence a room with a flick of a finger, who could peer beyond continents and oceans, who could summon storms to shake seas¡­ and he was terrified.


    Joffrey felt a strange kinship to the man, for he was a fellow witness. A witness to the reality that most were so blind about.


    He seemed to recompose himself, blinking slowly as if to burn an afterimage off his eyes before walking around the carvings and stopping around the central circle below the choking Joffrey. He kneeled, pressing a hand around the half faded constellations and eroded letters of the common tongue, "I would like to know the meaning of this message before I died, if you would be so kind. Your possible futures were nothing but nonsense, and your past incoherent with the dilemma at hand," he whispered.


    Joffrey looked down at the constellations, barely making out the Longship and the Bannermen, the others all but illegible under the harsh passage of time. "It led me to a Structure far to the west, similar to Carcosa''s original shape but much thinner and longer. It reached down to the bowels of the earth, holding a message addressed to me¡­ a message from eons past," he said.


    Vajul craned his neck, gazing at Joffrey with a serene expression, "What did it say?" he asked.


    "It had answers," he said as he sat down next to him, "Answers that I''d been searching for a long while. That my wife and I were but the latest incarnations of a long line of weapons designed to destroy The Long Night, a cyclical phenomenon that exterminates all sentient life on our planet every eon."


    Vajul turned back to the carvings, nodding slowly, "I see¡­ you''ve failed then? Like your predecessors?"


    Joffrey looked at Sansa. She held him for two full seconds before giving him a single nod.


    "Yes¡­ in this life," he said.


    "We''ve died many times, trying to stop the Cycle," said Sansa, "When we die, our minds return to a summer morning about eight years ago, and we try to either stop it or search the knowledge that will help us do it."


    Vajul was -for the first time since Joffrey had met him- speechless. He was still gazing at the carved letters, but his eyes were unmoving, unfocused.


    "I sense truth in your words¡­ but the sheer power to reverse the world¡­ to carry two minds through time itself¡­ yes¡­" he said, blinking slowly, "Yes¡­ such power befits those who would dare oppose such a mighty thing as this Cycle, this scourge which has ended all life in the Cities of the Bloodless Men, in the Winged Principalities, in half of Yi-Ti and the Sunset Lands and beyond¡­" he said before trailing off, standing up and smoothing his yellow robes.


    "We will all be dead before morning, when the combined dead of half a hundred cities slams into Carcosa like the Night Lion reborn¡­ but you two¡­" he said before shaking his head, "I would say I envy you, but in truth you are the bearers of the cruelest curse imaginable by mortal minds."


    "We can help you," said Sansa, "If we could contact you somehow, we could warn you every life. You could prepare southeastern Essos for the arrival of the Long Night, keep them contained between the Five Forts and the Dry Deep."


    He seemed almost amused at the notion of fighting the Cycle, considering the notion as he walked around the carvings with his hands behind his back, "I could reinforce Blhadahar with the Yellow Wings and perhaps aid the Five Legions with sorcery¡­ but I suspect it wouldn''t be enough, in the end¡­"


    "It wouldn''t, not on its own," said Joffrey, shaking his head. "But it would help our own efforts in the Sunset Lands. Every wight bogged down here would be another wight not assaulting the Seven Kingdoms. By presenting a harder front here, you''d deprive the western front of reinforcements through the land bridge north east of K''Dath¡­ at least before the Cycle loses patience and escalates its power," he said.


    The Yellow Emperor closed his eyes, tilting his head slowly as he thought, "You think you can end it somehow, before it ''escalates'' as you say."


    Joffrey sighed, looking at Sansa before returning his gaze to him, "We don''t know exactly how, but every wight standing in our way is bound to make our task more difficult. Trying to fulfill our purpose will be hard enough without half of the Yi-Tish heartlands swarming in from the north," he said.


    Vajul seemed to lose himself in deep concentration, standing still for a minute before he suddenly opened his eyes. They almost seemed to glow as he walked down the hall in a hurried stride, "A letter would be too unreliable a method of communication, I''ll need to see the both of you to believe your words," he said.


    "But Carcosa is too far away," said Sansa as they hurried after him, catching up with his quick strides, "We wouldn''t be able to make the trip here and keep the Sunset Lands from falling into chaos before the Long Night even starts."


    "That is why you won''t come here. There are ways to see beyond eyesight¡­ ways to make your mind reach across oceans and continents," he said as he reached a door seemingly made of pure topaz. He placed his hand over it, pushing it aside gently as if it weighted less than a feather.


    They entered a place very different from the opulent grandiosity of the Topaz Throne; a great study room filled with bookshelves and scrolls, wide pieces of paper hanging from the wall and bearing indecipherable runes. "This way of looking and feeling the world is not something which can be taught, not if you wish to achieve true mastery," he said as he reached a small table.


    "I thought you said the Candle was not needed to¡­ see what is beyond eyesight," she said as Vajul took it from the desk and showed it to her.


    "It''s not, and most of those that use it never learn to see beyond its limitations... But you have seen time reverse, you have seen the inner skein of our reality, have you not?" he said.


    Sansa seemed physically stunned by the question, her mouth pantomiming the start of a dozen explanations before settling on a simple "Yes."


    "Then use it as a blind man would use a stick. And when you''ve gotten your bearings, open your eyes," he said, passing her the black candle.


    Sansa held it uneasily. Even though she''d held it before -back in the House of the Undying- this time the thing felt full of portents and frightful news. "But¡­ how do I use it? How can I¡­" she trailed off, thinking about that uneasy, string-like tension and frowning as she turned her attention to it. She delved into it as she''d done before with her own blood, and stumbled as her vision turned blurry.


    A corner of Vajul''s mouth had risen ever so slightly, "Not a second of hesitation¡­ you''ve really seen it, felt it¡­ that whisper¡­"


    "My husband calls it ''the Song''... he¡­ Joffrey?" she said as she turned.


    Joffrey was staring up at the great, hanging sheets of paper. He was tracing his hands over the twisting lines, following the intricate patterns of fractals and recursions. "How many of these replicas do you have?" he asked urgently.


    "Many more¡­ I take it you know they are more than art?" said Vajul.


    "Aye¡­ they''re¡­ instruction sets¡­ clues left behind by a previous civilization which was extinguished by the Cycle. They are diagrams of my own soul, sketches so I can guide my awareness towards sections of it and discover¡­ parts of me. Parts of the weapon," he said.


    "The Archive holds hundreds of them," he said, and Joffrey almost fell on his knees.


    "Take me there. Please."


    Vajul did, leading them up a flight of stairs and past strangely colored wooden door. There were scores of wooden tubes held in racks all throughout the Archive, and Joffrey immediately took one and opened it, spreading the parchment held within all over the floor.


    The light of the lanterns had sparked to life as if with a will of their own, the silhouette of the Yellow Emperor shading the fractals as he stood behind Joffrey. "I''ve known for quite some time that they had something to do with this tower and the prophecy¡­ the patterns seem to whisper deeper truths to those who care enough to look beyond, and many of my predecessors lost themselves trying to understand them."


    "Do you know of any more?" Sansa asked him.


    "None," said Vajul, "I''ve made my interest known to others who possess old lore, but alas they had nothing but lies and greed¡­"


    "They''re incomplete, sections of it all are wrong¡­ The obelisks must have been massively deteriorated¡­" Joffrey said as he kept examining the parchment. He cursed, "There have been embellishments placed on the parchments themselves, probably to make the missing parts flow smoothly to the eye¡­"


    "How many of the modules are there?" Sansa asked him as she opened another tube, placing the parchment on the ground next to another one Joffrey had pulled from the racks.


    "¡­ I think only one¡­" Joffrey said as he examined yet another scroll. "They knew the obelisks would likely end up destroyed or missing, so they repeated the same pattern instead of trying for many and likely failing completely¡­ the same pattern over all the obelisks in¡­ where did the first Yellow Sorcerers find them?" he asked Vajul. s?a??h th? N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "The Plains of Ulan, to the southeast of here. There were hundreds of them, according to the records; most of them barely more than smoothed blackstone. None remain to this day."


    "I¡­ I can make use of this. How long do we have?" he said.


    "Hours. The thing''s puppets are still marshaling their forces fifteen leagues from here¡­ they''ll likely attack after midnight," he said.


    "Joffrey, no," said Sansa, "It''s too dangerous, we can come back here during our next life."


    "But Sansa it''s right here! A component of the Purple!" he said.


    She looked at the sheer hope in his eyes, a sort of almost childish wonder as he held the frayed parchment. "Sansa¡­ this¡­ they''re part of us," he said slowly.


    She sighed explosively, shaking her head, "Lady will keep an eye outside the room. We drink the poison the second I tell you, alright Joff?"


    "Yes," he said immediately.


    "How easy you talk of death," said Vajul, shaking his head in amusement. "I had been thinking about offering tutelage for the both of you, after you''ve reversed the flow of time within this world ¡­ but in truth, you already understand," he said.


    Sansa looked shocked, "But that couldn''t be farther from the truth! There are countless things I can''t even-"


    "Knowledge is easy," he interrupted her, his voice deep and powerful, the wind inside the room picking up and almost blowing the parchments away as the Yellow Sorcerer spoke. His words were slow and harsh, their weight inside the Archive palpable to all senses, "Insight is paramount. Those worthless fools to the west could drink gallons of Shade of the Evening, sacrifice a thousand Vessels and drown in their blood, and still they would understand nothing," he said, eyes boring upon them.


    "Nothing but Silence," he added after a moment, amused.


    Joffrey thought he could understand his vehemence, as the sorcerer''s eyes met his own. That disbelief that others would be so blind to the greater reality of the Cosmos. How petty their ambitions seemed under that grandeur.


    "The Song¡­" muttered Sansa.


    Vajul nodded, "You''re already halfway there," he said. "Seek my mind after you''ve mastered the candle. Carcosa''s Spire glints strangely through the Second Sight, use its distortions of light as a beacon," he said before he turned, walking towards the door. "And try to find a Candle that is not half broken, it will help." he said almost negligently.


    "How will I know? Will the shadows turn differently? Will the Song sound distorted?" she called out.


    "No," he said as he reached the door and looked back at them. "It''ll be green instead of black," he added, and Joffrey thought that was the first time he''d seen him smile. Truly smile.


    "You didn''t really want to be Emperor," Joffrey ventured.


    Vajul''s smile grew, as if he found his impertinence endearing or perhaps simply refreshing, "I thought I was being deposed, when I heard the First Lancers barging through the windows," he said almost fondly, "I wouldn''t have been the first Yellow Sorcerer to be slain by the Greatborn¡­ Alas, imagine my surprise when they carried me down the roads of Carcosa on a bed of crossed lances. ''Emperor'', cried the commons. ''Emperor'' roared my Yellow Wings¡­"


    He seemed lost in the memory for a second, before gazing back at them with the hard face of the Lord of Carcossa.


    "End this ''Cycle''. Destroy it," he said before walking away, the stones themselves trembling as Sansa shivered, feeling the coming outburst of power as the storm above them snarled.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    They manhandled the wooden tubes, ripping the priceless sheets of parchment as they tried to join them together like a jigsaw puzzle. Joffrey took feather and blotter from the great desk at the end of the Archive, drawing great sweeping lines which connected sections and scratched errors. The hours passed like minutes as they rearranged the patterns on the floor, Joffrey''s concentrated voice guiding Sansa''s hands as she replaced sheets or added marks of her own.


    The outbursts of power from above made the hair on Sansa''s arm tickle, standing and ducking as moments of stillness gave way to breathtaking might that saw the Spire tremble, the assembled might of a hundred and fifty Shadowbinders, four Matriarchs, and a single Yellow Sorcerer going out in a blaze of glory enough to make her dizzy and lose focus. The warp and weft of power fueled by what must have been thousands of sacrifices was so mighty that at times they couldn''t breathe, dizzy like children in a cog pummeling through the Sunset Seas. They lost consciousness two times, the tower groaning like a gasping old man as they woke up slowly and tried to finish their task.


    "They want me to bend it¡­ to bend the Purple? Spread it outwards¡­ over me? How¡­" Joffrey whispered as he crawled over three pieces of parchment mashed together, eyes clouded as he gazed at the pattern. "Would it afford protection? Or would it attack the Cycle somehow..? Sansa, I think I''m close¡­ just a few more matching scrolls¡­ I¡­ Sansa?"


    Sansa was not paying attention though, blinking slowly as something above changed. Joffrey swayed as he leaned on his knees, dizzy again.


    She realized that they were on the onset of another loss of consciousness, the defenders of Carcosa channeling another great ritual¡­ but something was different this time. Joffrey suddenly grabbed her arm like a lifeline, panic writ clear on his face. "It''s escalating," he groaned in bone deep certainty.


    Sansa could feel it as she gasped, the eye of the Red Comet shifting its gaze from the far north and blinking at Carcosa. She screamed as reality seemed to fray, the walls wobbling strangely as the weight of the Repository asserted itself within this world. With the city. Within the room.


    She slammed her arms against the floor, willing the Archive to resist the onslaught of red enveloping their existence, but her power was a puny thing compared to the repository of the Cycle''s might. All the power of her bloodline, all the blood she''d mercilessly stolen from prisoners, from the House of the South''s Blood Harem, all the essence she''d stored inside her, it was nothing under the escalation.


    The world screamed as whirlwinds of shrieking snow began drawing themselves throughout the walls, red tendrils of light coalescing as the long hand of the Red Comet grasped the Archive. She trembled when she realized this was but one of the many places within Carcosa which was now being torn apart, the Red Comet''s energy flooding it like a tidal wave as jagged edges began to appear within the whirlwinds of incredibly cold air.


    It''s not enough, she thought as the drowning sound of the Comet''s stare made blood leak out of her ears, dripping down and touching her shaking palms. Blood is not enough, she thought as Lady disappeared from the awareness of her mind in a heartbeat. She gazed at Joffrey as he clawed through the floor towards her, his nails leaving bloody trails on the floor as deformed Walkers gazed from within the jagged tears in the walls, freshly created hands grasping for the edges of reality as more and more holes tore reality open like knives in the dark, letting in gashes of red light throughout the room.


    The sight was enough to make her remember.


    ''Autonomous Defense Administrator'' the Deep Ones had called her, and though she didn''t understand half of what that meant, she had the gist of it.


    She would protect her husband.


    She screamed as she reached beyond the power of blood, staring at the contours of her soul and bringing it out into the physical world, seeking to weave part of herself between them and the Comet. Purple fractals erupted from her hands in all directions as they carved themselves into the floor, crawling up the walls and multiplying exponentially over the ceiling. She sought the discordant tune and smoothed the Song as the Red comet thrummed in recognition.


    Joffrey had told her many times, but it was then when she realized emotionally, that the Purple was them.


    -: PD :-


    From one moment to the next the pressure was gone, and only silence remained. The windows into the Red Comet were no more, only piles of snow dotting the floor as Joffrey stared at the pattern on the black walls, the floor, the ceiling. It was Sansa''s soul writ clearly over stone; the afterimage of it having triumphed over the might of the Cycle, fractals and twists drawing the contours of it over solid stone.


    His wife was still kneeling over the floor, gasping for air. "Joff, now," she managed in between breaths.


    "Just... one¡­ second¡­" he mumbled as he stared at the parchments.


    "Joffrey! The poison! Now!" she screamed, holding her own pouch with one hand as she stood up.


    He stared at the parchments one more time, searing the half completed pattern into his retina. It would have to do.


    "Joff!" screamed Sansa as the now carved door bent and exploded in a shower of splinters, revealing an oddly tilted hallway that was filled with frost; even the black stone lay cracked and torn. What immediately caught Joffrey''s attention was not the hallway though, but what lain within it.


    The White Walker seemed deformed somehow, bloated. It''s misshapen head laid bent and hanging sideways from its neck, one of its eyes staring at them as two enormous, misshapen limbs tore a bigger hole through the stones. It ripped them apart after a second''s worth of effort, revealing more of its hulking brethren standing by its sides. They stood taller than normal Walkers: trunk like legs made of snow supported their weight, and their sword arms had lost all definition and seemed barely more than long blades protruding from their forearms. Red veins fresh with the power of the Red Comet thrummed through them, their eyes twin orbs of light which seemed to stare into their very souls.


    Sansa ran to his side she emptied the pouch over her mouth, and Joffrey swiftly did the same. The bitter poison went down quickly, and he materialized Brightroar and Stars as bladed shadows emerged from Sansa''s wrists. The walls to their sides bent and cracked, revealing more of the Red Walkers as they tore the stone apart. Some had weathered the infusion of power better than others; heads lay encrusted in ice deep within chests, eyes still moving, while others had seen one or two of their legs vaporized. Those crawled using their long arms as canes, ripping apart the tower''s structure as they slipped from holes in the Archive''s ceiling. Their presence seemed to not only freeze the stones themselves, but Joffrey swore he could hear the shrieking of the Red Comet emanating from them as they got close.


    "Watch out!" Joffrey roared as he leapt and slammed Brightroar into the chest of one of the Walkers trying to force open the wall right beside them, cracking its outer layer and piercing the skull held within. It vaporized into scalding hot snow as Sansa and Stars tried to hold off the ones by the entrance. They only needed a few seconds until the poison killed them cleanly and abruptly.


    She cut her wrist shallowly as she slashed down with it, spraying blood over the enlarged door frame and forming a sort of invisible wall that made the Red Walker smoke and partly dissolve as it tried to cross it. It stood back before all three charged in unison, Sansa grunting and biting her lip bloody as they were barely slowed, surging through the breach in a shower of steam. She and Stars were a whirlwind of motion then as the Silver Lion grasped hands and legs with its huge maw just in time for Sansa to cut them apart with her blades of smoke. Joffrey slew another of the struggling abominations as it tried to emerge from the ceiling, ripping its chest apart as he pulled Brightroar sideways¡­ but there were too many of them, far too many as Stars was stabbed and slashed into dust and pain, Sansa screaming in agony as one of them parried her blow and another cut her arm in perfect synchronization, freezing the stump immediately.


    "Joff it''s too slow," she gasped in between breaths as she retreated back towards him, swaying as the Walkers strode behind her. He ran towards her and held her tightly, seeing the Purple crawl into the room.


    Too slow, he despaired as he blinked slowly, his awareness dissipating far too slowly. He decided to run through his wife''s heart with Brightroar as the Purple seeped from the edges of his vision, but before he could even lift his it a Walker''s thick arm emerged from below the floor and crushed his leg within its icy grip. He screamed in pain as blood trickled down Sansa''s nose, her eyes closing slowly as the press of bodies was too great and scores of hulking Walkers flooded the room, grabbing them from all sides. None of them said anything as their freezing hands tore flesh and froze blood, their bottomless red eyes peering into the depths of their souls as they loomed over them in dreadful silence.


    Why is it not working? Why is it so slow? He despaired as the Others pummeled them into the floor side by side, each Walker holding a limb as he convulsed weakly and finally, finally breathed his last, his head leaning to one side and meeting Sansa''s eyes.


    "Joff¡­" she whispered before a blade of harsh white light slammed into her.


    No, he thought, feeling an indescribable agony at the core of his being even as another blade slammed into him, the Purple''s advance slowing down to a crawl as it slithered to the center of his being, each second slower than the last.


    He couldn''t even scream as he felt the blade somehow reach the core of him, time turning slow as he felt his very soul start to unravel, watching Sansa''s dead eyes as the blades turned red. He felt the floor go out from under him, the Purple Pillars creaking and fracturing as something reached from behind. The Cold Wind flaying his soul was but the wake of something far grander approaching at immense speed; he could feel its incomprehensible presence roaring towards him, a mind-breaking shriek that grew and grew and grew until Joffrey blinked and realized he was staring at the crystal face of the Red Comet.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 58: Absence.

    Chapter 58: Absence.Spoiler: Music


    ----


    ----


    Joffrey blinked his eyes open.


    He swallowed sluggishly, feeling a deep source of distress within him, a slow unraveling of the self as he breathed in slowly.


    It got me, he thought in dawning despair, blinking again and again as the image didn''t go away and his chest twisted.


    He gasped for air, looking around himself. He could barely move his head, gazing at the winter frostland which had once been his chambers inside the Red Keep. Furniture had been cracked apart under the sudden onslaught of winter; the sudden, massive drop in temperature had twisted and buckled materials as if he were still inside the Purple, as if reality itself had started to melt.


    He could barely hear anything; shuffling steps and distant voices. He blinked and saw the Hound trundling over the snow which now covered the floor, carrying a stack of wet wood and slamming it down next to his bed. Heavy furs wrapped his armor, and he was shivering wildly as he turned and stuttered something to a group of servants and armsmen wielding puttering torches, many of them wrapped up in torn curtains or bed sheets.


    "G-G-grandm-master''s¡­ dead¡­ Ser¡­" said one of the servants as he reached the Hound.


    "Set the f-fire going," rasped Sandor.


    They tried to light a fire next to him, but the cold was pervasive. One of the blue-faced servants fainted, falling to the floor with barely a sound as another one took over. Joffrey could see snow by the other side of the opened door, a few men moving every now and then carrying stretchers with people in them.


    "D-Don''t w-worry," the Hound said as he appeared within Joffrey''s field of vision again. "S-Soon as we m-melt the ice, we''ll g-get y-y-you out," he managed despite rattling teeth, one of the servants almost jutting a torch into Joffrey''s shoulder. He had somehow been frozen to the bed itself, the ice forming a whole between him and the sheets.


    "I-I-It g-g-got m-m-me," stuttered Joffrey, trying to make him understand. He had troubled breathing, his whole body oddly still as he felt the Cold Wind still ravaging his soul, the silhouette of the Red Comet still closing upon him as he blinked repeatedly and it remained there; seared into his retina, an afterimage of crystal slowly twisting along its own axis as plumes of red erupted from its back.


    Every second it came nearer. Each second saw it just a tiny bit closer than before. It was massive, by far the biggest thing Joffrey had ever seen, a crystal landscape that filled the ghostly afterimage of his eyes.


    His lungs sought air once more, and then realized they did not have the strength to do so. Joffrey suffocated slowly, the pain a distant nuisance as he gazed at the gently twisting construct of unknowable origin and pure purpose. The panicking voices lost definition as he gazed at the face of eternity, its red arms reaching for him and seeking to make them one as the Purple fractals melted away under its onslaught.


    No, it can''t end like this, he thought, watching the slowly tumbling sea of crystal, its chiseled edges so similar to the landscape of his own soul. He screamed at the void, holding unto the creaking Purple Pillars as he tried to wake up again, to feel the edge of reality once more, to rewind time and live.


    He took a shuddering breath as the Pillars shattered, opening his eyes to life once more. The air was so cold it burnt his lungs. Great piles of snow covered his room, and a part of the ceiling had caved in and deposited shards of ice next to the window. He waited for Sandor to burst into his room, but he never came.


    He heard the blizzard before he saw it; it howled like a caged demon, periodically gaining in strength only to grow quiet again a few seconds later. He could see it past his room''s window; a harrowing gale of ice and snow blanketing the horizon and everything beyond it. He couldn''t see nor hear anything else, not the hammers of the smithies, not the training armsmen of the Red Keep, not Robert shouting for his horse.


    King''s Landing was quiet.


    He didn''t feel any pain, though he seemed unable to blink anymore. He breathed his last as the Pillars squirmed inside his mind, their shattering forms giving way to the Red Comet as it moved past them like a whaler past flotsam, its form unperturbed, still spinning on its own axis in a beautiful kaleidoscope of red mirrors. He stood in awe of its silhouette, trying to comprehend the sheer magnitude of its essence, the weight it had in the present moment.


    It was the most peaceful thing Joffrey had ever seen.


    "What is it sweetling? Is the Hound frightening you? Go away with you dog, you''re scaring my lady. I don''t like to see you upset," he said as he acted like the charming prince his mother had commanded.


    The brief breath of reality was over in an instant, his awareness buckling under the pressure of the Red Comet as the Purple howled with him.


    "Ow!" he gasped.


    "Please, its nearly healed," said his mother.


    "It''s ugly," he said.


    "A king should have scars. You''ve fought off a direwolf, you''re a warrior, like your Father."


    "I''m not like him, I didn''t fight off anything. It bit me and all I did was scream¡­ and the two Stark girls saw it; both of them."


    "That''s not true, you killed the beast"- the image trembled, the smell of summer dissolving to nothing as his mother''s voice became intermittent ¨C"someday you will sit on the throne and the truth will be what you make it."


    Joffrey squirmed against the approaching weight of his end, the end of his iteration and his self. The end of the Purple and the world and all the races of man.


    Ser Barristan looked perplexed, "Your Grace the Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood-"


    "You let my father die, you''re too old to protect anyone," Joffrey spoke over him, the condescending tone a slap on the old knight''s face. A great part of the court was in attendance, standing around the throne room as they witnessed the end of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. His mother was gazing at the knight with a gentle expression that hid her satisfaction, and Baelish was all but smirking as Janos Slynt shuffled nervously. Even worms knew enough to fear old falcons.


    He could feel Sana''s presence as he looked at her, slowly diminishing as the Comet approached. She was terrified, struggling against the monstrous weight with all her might as she tried to reach him. He tried to hold onto her, trying to resist the pressure of the Cycle before it ground them to dreams and echoes.


    Varys was talking now, nodding along with his words as he delivered them regretfully, "We have nothing but gratitude for your long-"


    Joffrey squeezed his eyes shut, a low squirm sneaking out of his mouth. He opened them in an instant, breathing harshly as Varys started and turned to look at him.


    Joffrey turned his head towards his wife, "Sansa," he said loudly.


    She was dressed in a simple, bluish dress as she gazed at him. "Joff," she said, her face squeezing in pain, "It''s not stopping!" she cried.


    Joffrey screamed in agony, the weight too great as the Pillars tumbled and the Face of the Red Comet stared at them, the crystals glittering inside the throne room.


    His mangled soul kept falling, his awareness of the outside diminishing.


    This is it, he realized, the weight of his own mortality settling within him, a different pressure than the Red Comet; a certainty, a decree.


    "So long as I''m king, treason shall never go unpunished," he proclaimed, pride and savage joy bursting within him as he gazed at Sansa and then Ned, "Ser Illyn, bring me his head," he shouted, the crowds of King''s Landing taking up the cry as Sansa screamed and his own court tried to stop him, to no avail. He fought against the pull, his soul feeling like a sailor who briefly manages to break the waterline, hungering for that tiny breath of fresh air as the storm seeks to pull him under again.


    He could somehow feel her presence as they managed to lock gazes. "I''m so sorry," he told her as he turned towards her. There was a knight holding her as she looked back, her screams and struggles stopping abruptly as she let out a long breath of air.


    "It can''t end like this," she whispered as her head swayed, trying to look at him through a veil of titanic exertion, and he somehow heard her despite the roar of the crowd.


    "It won''t. I won''t let it," he said through gritted teeth, the Red Comet emerging above them in a whirlwind of distorted color and nonexistence.


    It''s presence was a muffle on the Song, a dampening of the subtle melody of existence as it pulsed and its arms extended towards them.


    He could feel Sansa holding on to him, and they fought desperately against the red worming towards their souls, the Pillars still collapsing under the strain as the Comet lurked behind them and he tried to extend his awareness towards the fleeting gasp of reality, the fleeting wisp of existence sounding like an almost forgotten song of childhood; Sansa added her will to his own as they tried to remember.


    They tried to remember what it sounded like.


    "No please no!" she shouted.


    "This one''s your Father''s, look at him and see what happens to traitors!" said Joffrey, holding a hand out towards Traitor''s Walk and the heads that now adorned the pikes.


    "You promised to be merciful!" said Sansa, Ser Meryn holding her by the shoulders.


    "I was. I gave him a clean death. Look at him," he said, his smirk growing as he strutted over the small wooden bridge, looking at the impaled heads.


    "Please let me go home, I won''t do any treason I swea-" she cut off abruptly, taking in a harrowing breath of air.


    The smirk felt strange on his lips, a fading echo dispersing with the wind. "Sansa," he muttered as he felt dizzy, holding his head with one hand, "We died before it grabbed us completely I think, but the Purple¡­ we¡­ we aren''t stopping it." Massive pain assaulted his head, the swift emergence into reality almost too much for his senses. He rested a knee over the small wooden bridge, trying not to fall by the side of it and down the abyss where the Red Comet lurked.


    "Watch your step, it''s a long way down," said the Hound as he shoved Meryn Trant aside, reaching Joffrey and holding him up. "Are you alright?" he asked after a moment of hesitation.


    "Joff, we have to keep fighting it. I, I-I think we might be slowing it down," said Sansa, her voice thick with fleeting hope. Ser Meryn was still holding her, looking at her and then at him with a puzzled expression.


    "Sansa, what will happen if- if we reach my wedding? My original death?" he said as he stumbled towards her.


    "We can''t let that happen, we-" she cut herself off, tears slipping down her cheeks as the heard the thrum, "Joff, it''s coming again."


    No.


    He pushed Ser Meryn away from her before hugging Sansa fiercely. "Don''t let go," she said as she embraced him, holding tightly into each other as reality trembled.


    "I won''t," he said as the thrum reached a crescendo, "Search for me in the Song."


    "We''ll pool out strength. Together," she said as the thrum reached a peak and they gazed up.


    The Red Comet was relentless as it tore reality wide open, fractals multiplying everywhere Joffrey looked, turning everything into itself. He struggled to maintain his existence, even a single train of thought as the Red Comet thrummed once more and he screamed in torment, bursts of Cold Wind ripping him apart even as the Comet''s advance slowed.


    He could hear the Song as he fell eternally; he reached for it, extending his awareness to that subtle constant that permeated everything. He concentrated on the song of existence as he pulled it, seeking to align himself with it. He felt Sansa adding her will to his, the Red Comet sinking into the distance as its red tendrils kept up their advance, the Song reaching a crescendo as reality passed by like lightening and he grasped for it and he-


    Blinked.


    The clear break was so sudden Joffrey almost fainted. In but a moment he was assaulted by reality; smells and noises and textures vying for his attention as the Song bloomed so strongly it turned into white noise.


    He was standing, the remains of a smirk and an unfinished sentence echoing within him as he swayed, focusing on the frantic beat of his heart as adrenaline flooded his body from one moment to the next, his hair standing on edge as his body caught up to his state of mind and he wondered if the Red Comet was still reaching for him.


    He realized he was staring at Sansa. She was kneeling on the floor; streaks of tears marred her cheeks, and her dress had been torn from behind.


    "¡­ Sansa?" he said.


    "Joff?" she said as she blinked slowly.


    "That''s your King you''re talking to!" said a man to her right, slamming the flat side of his sword against her back and eliciting a pained, surprised grunt from his wife.


    Joffrey was by her side in an instant, delivering an extended Ho-Qing straight into the man''s throat. He gasped for air as he stumbled back, but Joffrey''s initial trajectory made him close the distance in a half second; his fists blurred as he followed up with two Joint Palm strikes that broke the armored man''s jaw and then his nose. He seemed out of the fight as he collapsed backwards, so Joffrey abandoned the incipient killing blow and instead opted to retreat backwards to Sansa, trying to cover her right as he made ready to summon Brightroar.


    He was breathing harshly, trying to control the flow of adrenaline through his body as his tunnel vision expanded slowly, surveying the area for his next assailant and his next strike.


    He was very disorientated when he realized he was staring at the throne room, courtiers standing back in shock as both him and Sansa twisted by instinct, cycling constantly so as to disorient the next foe to attack, their backs covering each other. "Joff, what¡­" Sansa stammered, still shaking from the experience.


    Joffrey frowned as he looked at Sandor, a hand over the pommel of his sword but otherwise standing still as he stared at him. He thought it was one of the few times he''d seen him so confused, though he was not the only one. Joffrey was surprised to see him sporting a white cloak of all things, standing by the dais before the throne.


    "What''s the meaning of this?!" shouted someone as he made way between the crowds.


    "Uncle Tyrion!" Joffrey realized as he turned, his voice thick with relief and vaguely hysterical. He kept listening for the thrum of the Red Comet, but the Song remained the same, reality stable as his eyes kept scanning the throne room. He eyed the armed man walking behind his uncle as he walked past the audience with a decisive stride, his face grim.


    A sellsword of some sort? He thought, already plotting the trajectory of the kick that would leave him on the floor, a summoned Brightroar ending his life with a quick stab to the neck. The adrenaline burst was deserting his body, and a strange sort of unreality was settling his mind instead.


    "Somebody get the girl something to cover herself¡­ with¡­" Tyrion trailed of, his walk slowing down as he stared at the armored knight shuffling weakly on the floor and the couple at the center of the throne room.


    "Joff, what''s going on?" Sansa whispered as she abandoned the First Stance of Khai and put her hands over her tattered dress instead, covering her breasts as she looked around her.


    "I don''t know," Joffrey whispered back, still trying to make sense of the situation. It was clear something horrible had just happened¡­ but they''d escaped the Red Comet, he couldn''t feel its presence any more, closing in with the calm patience of a thousand stars and the power to boot. Sansa seemed equally confused, though rapidly assuming a courtly demeanor that only served to make her look¡­ uncanny in that torn dress.


    "What happened here?" said Tyrion, confusion warring with anger as his eyes cycled from Joffrey to the mewling knight to Sansa''s torn dress.


    "Tyrion," Sansa nodded politely, "My husband was just having a bad day and, well, hence all this show," she said with apologetic smile, dismissing the matter with a precise wave of the hand. She sniffled, and frowned when she touched her face and realized there were tears there.


    Tyrion looked at her as if she''d grown a second head, "¡­ I fear Ser Meryn''s blows might have left you¡­ confused, Lady Sansa," he said, "¡­ You are not yet married to my nephew."


    "Oh¡­" she said with an easy smile, as if it had been a simple slip of the mind. "Thanks Sandor," she said as the Hound walked in from behind her, putting a white cloak over her. He was looking at her as one might watch a Leviathan slowly emerge from the waves.


    Tyrion gazed at her in incomprehension before turning to Joffrey, "Joffrey¡­ were you punishing her?"


    "I¡­" he hesitated, looking at the throne room again. The courtiers were murmuring between them, and he could see Lancel swaying one way and the other. He was white faced, a hand over the pommel of his sword as he seemed to struggle between striding towards them or running away¡­ and settling on doing neither.


    This¡­ This has happened before¡­ he thought as he blinked slowly, his gaze returning to Tyrion and the anger behind his eyes.


    Has it? Had it?


    Sansa exhaled, holding the white cloak tightly as her other hand held Joffrey''s. "It''s been a long day, we''ll be adjourning the royal court until tomorrow," she said loudly.


    No one seemed to move, the courtiers looking between themselves as Lancel took a step forward and then thought better of it.


    Tyrion nodded slowly, "Please, my lady. Come with me," he said as he extended a hand towards her. Sansa demurred, turning her hack on him as she smiled and squeezed Joffrey''s hand.


    "Joffrey, snap out of it!" she whispered in his ear.


    He shook his head again, feeling an alien weight over his it. He felt the ornate crown with one hand, tracing the gold lines with his fingers.


    "Leave us, court is over for today," he said, his voice rebounding cleanly within the throne room.


    That seemed to do the trick. The courtiers bowed quickly, leaving the room through the main doors as a gaggle of minor Lannister handmaidens approached Sansa warily. They seemed to flutter around them indecisively before Joffrey frowned.


    "¡­What are you doing?" he asked them, fighting off another massive headache.


    "Your Grace, well, we are waiting for, ah," one of them half stuttered as she looked at Sansa.


    "Go," he said as gestured at the doors. The handmaidens all but scrammed towards it, curtsying and murmuring apologies. "And fetch the Grandmaester!" Sansa called out before they closed the doors, looking at Ser Meryn Trant as he tried to stem the bleeding from his nose, still squirming on the floor.


    "Uncle, would you walk with us?" said Joffrey.


    -: PD :-


    "Yes, there was a battle a few days ago¡­ that''s the reason you''ve been¡­ in a mood, Your Grace," said Tyrion, still not quite getting his bearings as he accompanied Joffrey and Sansa throughout the corridors of the Red Keep.


    Joffrey had been visiting several rooms, growing more frustrated by the second before he''d finally asked for the way towards Lady Sansa''s current chambers.


    Under normal circumstances, Tyrion would have urgently tried to channel his nephew''s attentions towards other things, fearing for Lady Sansa''s very life and dignity¡­ alas, these were no normal circumstances.


    Sansa herself was walking with her torn dress as if it were but the latest fashion in King''s Landing, her dignified stride a strange counterpoint to Joffrey''s prowl. As the lady nodded and smiled at the frequent passerby''s, Joffrey stalked through the halls like a caged lion, his body holding an easy tension which seemed a second away from a sort of violence leagues away from his usual tantrums.


    "Yes, the battle, of course," said his nephew, "What was the name again? I seem to have forgotten it," he said.


    "Oxcross, Your Grace. Robb Stark shattered Ser Stafford''s host around Oxcross, three days'' away from Lannisport itself," he said, as if explaining to a simpleton.


    "Oxcross¡­" Joffrey muttered, "Oxcross¡­ Oxcross¡­" he said as he frowned.


    "Yes, the battle was fought around Oxcross," said Tyrion, studying his nephew.


    "¡­ Tyrion, how long ago was Jon Aryn''s death?" Sansa asked him.


    "More than a year ago¡­ I take it you forgot about the date too?" he said as he watched the composed woman, her eyes still puffed and red even though she gazed at the corridors as if she owned them.


    "Oh¡­ Well, it''s been a tough few days," she said as she smiled apologetically, raising her eyebrows as if to say ''what can you do about that?''


    "Is this it?" Joffrey asked as he opened the door.


    "Yes, that''s where Lady Sansa has been staying these past few months¡­"


    He heard Joffrey scoff after he''d entered the room. "You, out," he said, and Tyrion stood aside to let another of Sansa''s forced handmaidens shuffle away from the room, holding her dress tightly and looking only at the floor.


    "Room''s clear," Joffrey said as he held the door open.


    "Thank you Tyrion, you''ve been a wonderful aid," Sansa said as she entered the room. Tyrion''s last efforts to save his future goodsister tried and failed to emerge from his throat. Instead, he hummed acknowledgment.


    "Yeah, thanks uncle," said Joffrey, before looking behind him. "Hey Sandor!" he called out.


    The kingsguard had been following at a prudent distance, and blinked at the Prince''s unusual form of address.


    "Yes, Your Grace?" he said warily.


    "Mind the door, would you? We are not to be disturbed," he commanded before closing it with a thud.


    Tyrion looked up at the burnt half of the Hound''s face.


    "What the Seven Hells was that about?" he asked, mostly to himself.


    That was definitively the strangest conversation I''ve ever had¡­


    "Fuck if I know," he said with a massive shrug. He stared at the door for a few more seconds, as if trying to extract secrets from it, before walking towards it and leaning on the wall. "I''ll¡­" he seemed to hesitate for a second, looking away from Tyrion, "Interrupt if¡­" he couldn''t finish the sentence, looking uncomfortable before he shuffled within his plate and turned to stare blankly at the other end of the hallway.


    Tyrion shook his head, deciding to go back to the throne room and to interrogate a few witnesses.


    -: PD :-


    Joffrey closed the door with a thud, allowing himself a second of respite from the constant battle awareness. "Sansa," he whispered as he hugged her.


    "I thought we were going to die¡­ to truly die," she said as she seemed to melt within his grasp, letting out a long breath of air.


    "Me too, me too, dear¡­ Wine?"


    "Anything," she said with a weary sigh, kissing him before letting him go. Joffrey went to the nearby cabinet as she took a moment to survey the room, fingers tracing the hanged clothing and various other knickknacks ordered around the cupboards.


    "This¡­ these dresses are mine," she said as she held one against her shoulders, looking at the bright green cascading over her chest.


    "This has all happened before¡­ the Red Comet must have¡­ Gods¡­" Joffrey muttered before taking a long sniff from a jug by the cabinet at the other side of the room.


    Sansa ripped apart what was left of her torn dress, leaving the broken rags on the floor as Joffrey returned with the pitcher and two cups. "It''s more water than wine, but it''s something," he said as he placed it over the small table by the front of the bed. He trailed off when he looked at her bare body. "Oh¡­ Sansa¡­ I''m so sorry," he whispered as he looked at the bruises around her belly.


    Those must have come from ''yesterday''¡­ because of me¡­


    "I''m fine," she said as she shook her head, her elaborate braids half collapsing because of the sudden movement. She took one of the served cups from his hand, taking a long sip before frowning.


    "It''s something at least," she said with a self-depreciating smile before downing the cup in one gulp.


    "Indeed," he said, his voice far away as he gazed at the watered wine swirling inside the cup. Sansa took a deep breath before leaving it on the table and walking back to the side of the bed, where she''d left the green dress.


    "Ugh¡­ It''s one of those," she said as she held it on front of her. "Help me out?"


    "Sure," he said after downing another cup. He walked behind her, helping her don the fine dress which Sansa distantly remembered had been one of her favorites about twenty-five years ago.


    "Hrm," she grunted as Joffrey tied the lace at her back, "Tight in all the wrong places too," she said.


    "I think the last time I saw you wear one of these was before you greeted the Purple," he said as he finished the knot. "Ser Meryn left a pretty nasty bruise back here; sure you don''t want me to treat it?"


    "I''ll be fine, it didn''t even draw blood," she said as she turned. "And you? You holding up okay?"


    She caressed his cheek, examining the younger visage of her husband. Far from the hard, taut rope of muscles he became mere months after wake up, this Joffrey''s physique looked almost indolent.


    "I''m fine¡­ looking forward to meeting the Red Comet again in my nightmares," he said as he closed his eyes and leaned on Sansa''s hand. She smiled, but found out she couldn''t keep it going. She sniffed as she hugged him again, and Joffrey returned the embrace wholeheartedly. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, clasping each other tightly and shivering ever so lightly.


    They could still feel the cold.


    "I can''t seem to stop sniffling," Sansa complained as they sat by the table, Joffrey serving himself another cup of watered wine. He raised an eyebrow when she shook her head, leaving her own cup empty. "Feels like I''ve been crying for a whole week," she said as she massaged her face.


    "You probably were," said Joffrey, looking at the red puffs around her cheekbones. He nursed his cup of wine close to his forehead as he shut his eyes.


    "Your doing?" she asked him gently.


    "At my command." He was filled with shame, his eyes still closed. "''A King should never strike his lady''," he quoted in disgust.


    "Never saw that side to Ser Meryn¡­ or, well, never remembered it at least," she said with a warped smile.


    "¡­ Joff," she called out to him.


    He opened his eyes almost against his will, gazing back at her with a tired expression.


    "We''re past our time then?" she said.


    "By little more than a year, I think."


    "And we''re¡­ we''re in our original lives, before the Purple took us for the first time."


    "Seems so," said Joffrey. "Seven Hells¡­ what a fucking mess this is."


    Sansa stayed silent for a while. That just about summed up the situation.


    "The Red Comet almost got us¡­ I could feel the tendrils of its might reaching for us," she whispered after a moment, "Forever grasping, even as the shockwaves left by its movement flayed our souls¡­"


    "The Cold Wind a mere wake left by that thing¡­" said Joffrey. He didn''t even want to think about what would have happened if they''d not already been in the throes of death when the Walkers impaled them. The red tendrils had not caught them, but it had been a near enough thing.


    "Joff¡­ what if the Purple¡­ what if we got damaged?" she said, a horrible vision clogging her throat, "What if this is as back as we''ll ever go again?"


    "It would be bad. Really bad," he said, eyes glazing over as he thought about the implications.


    "We must be smack in the middle of the War of the Five Kings¡­ that means¡­ Oh¡­" she trailed off as the implications set in.


    "Lady is long gone and I¡­ I executed your father already. And Robb¡­ Oxcross¡­ I don''t remember that battle, but Oxcross is right in the middle of the Westerlands. This must be the high point of his campaign against the west," he said, flinching at every word.


    "Lady¡­ Father¡­ no¡­" she stuttered before shaking her head and staring at him like a hawk. "What about Arya? Bran and Rickon? Jon?" she asked urgently.


    "Arya had not been seen since the day Robert died¡­ as for Bran¡­ He''s crippled, can''t walk. I remember¡­" he trailed off, shaking his head.


    "Remember what Joff?"


    "¡­ Theon killed him, after he took Winterfell. Rickon too I think... I''m not sure if that''s already happened."


    Sansa cupped her mouth between her hands, blinking slowly as her eyes swelled again.


    "Jon must have already sworn himself into the Night''s Watch¡­" he whispered.


    Each lone tear that fell from her cheeks was a fresh wound on Joffrey''s heart, and he didn''t have the moral fortitude to stand up and hug her. How could he, when all that was happening right now was his fault? His original actions that ended up seeing half her family dead. His idiotic choice back in Carcosa when he could have been patient and killed himself right away, biding the time for the trip there again.


    This whole life was a nightmare to Joffrey, every stare from every servant and courtier and old friend serving to carry him back to a past he''d though ground to dust long ago.


    Sansa sighed, massaging her temples. "This body seems all too willing to cry at the slightest prodding," she complained after a few sniffles, standing up angrily and ripping another chunk out of the tattered dress over the floor. She used it as a makeshift handkerchief as she sat back down, cleaning her face.


    "I''m sorry," said Joffrey, feeling hollow.


    "That was more than a century ago Joff. You might as well have been another man," she said.


    The air he breathed in felt poisoned, heavy. "And back in Carcosa?"


    "That was utter stupidity¡­ you headstrong idiot," she said as she slapped the handkerchief down on the table. "I told you, but you just wouldn''t listen! You''d think over a century of life would install some Gods-be-damned patience on you!" she screamed, breathing harshly as she settled back on the chair, her angry expression melting away into wariness.


    Joffrey closed his eyes, unable to look at her.


    They stayed like that for another while, and the sun had moved meaningfully when Joffrey managed to open his eyes again. Sansa was leaning on the table, fiddling absentmindedly with the makeshift handkerchief.


    He moved his hand towards hers, but they retreated below the table.


    "Do you think the realm can be saved, at this point?" she said after a moment.


    He sighed. "I don''t know¡­ there''s too much animosity against the Lannisters. Large sections of the Riverlands have been razed, and the North and West have bled a lot of manpower. Stannis, Renly if he''s still alive, and Balon are all in open rebellion¡­. And there''s still Aegon and Daenerys unaccounted for¡­"


    "The Crownlands should still be mostly intact," she said.


    Joffrey massaged his face, trying to get his mind back to the game of supplies and mathematics, troops and lords, loyalty and betrayal; the Game of Thrones. "Hmm¡­ Around seven thousand men plus whatever Lannister forces remain around Harrenhall¡­ Yeah, I could stop Stannis when he comes knocking, and the Reach¡­" He grimaced, "We''ll hold, but it''ll be bloody¡­ there''ll be widows from Maidenpool to Highgarden¡­"


    "You could marry Margeary," she said, her eyes hooded, "I''ll be your Mistress of Whispers. With the Reach and a hundred thousand men we can take care of Balon, the Vale, Aegon, maybe keep Dorne in check. Give Robb the North, it won''t matter in a few years." s?a??h th? N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Sansa, no," he said as he shook his head. "We don''t even know if this is permanent, we''re building castles over clouds."


    "The Purple''s raw Joff, tell me you don''t feel it."


    He shuffled, looking away from her.


    "It feels wounded," she whispered.


    "Wounds can be mended."


    "You don''t know that Joffrey."


    "The Red Comet didn''t subsume us, it didn''t make contact with our souls," he said, slamming his hand against the table. "We''re still alive, and until we know if this is the new normal I won''t stand for¡­ insane plans."


    Sansa looked away. "Insane was delaying our deaths back in Carcosa¡­ this¡­ this is just controlling the damage," she whispered.


    Joffrey worked his jaw as he leaned back on his chair, letting out a mighty sigh. "We''ll have to wait a few days, weeks maybe. See how the Purple looks then¡­"


    "And what if we can''t go back? What then Joff?"


    "I¡­ I don''t know. I don''t know Sansa," he said, feeling ice in his belly.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 59: The Red.

    Chapter 59: The Red."What about Stokeworth?" Cercei asked Bernadette. The handmaiden looked troubled as they walked down the stairs, grimacing at the bad news to come.


    "Lady Tanda was thoroughly unreceptive Your Grace. She gracefully implied that Castle Stokeworth would not be up to Prince Tommen''s needs¡­ "


    "That idiotic sow of a woman is already thinking about jumping ship." She scowled, rounding the last set of stairs and reaching the small tower''s doors. "Rosby could be another option. We have to get my son out of the capital before Stannis reaches the walls, do you understand?" she asked the Lannister handmaiden.


    "Yes Your Grace, I shall coordinate with the Grandmaester and send a letter for Rosby this very evening," she said quickly.


    Cercei nodded, pressing her lips and hiding another scowl. Between the unruly mob and the approaching specter of Stannis the city could no longer be considered truly safe for her children. If the capital were to fall then at least they would be safe and out of the hands of the traitor, perhaps able to link up with her father further north¡­


    The couple walked through the outer courtyard at a sedate pace, as Cercei knew that the essence of rule was to project control at all times... and she needed every ounce of it. Her imp of a brother had been steadily chipping away at her power within the Red Keep ever since he''d arrived from the Riverlands, reassigning guards and servants and changing the days Joffrey held court.


    Lysa Arryn had him right in front of her, surrounded by a hundred loyal swords ready to do anything for her ¡­ and she botched it. The depths of the woman''s ineptitude never ceased to amaze her.


    She was distracted by the sound of constant drill, an accelerating cadence of steel on steel.


    Strange, Tyrion rescheduled yard drills yet again the other day. It should be empty right now. She altered her walk slightly so she could see what was going on, and almost had a heart attack when she saw Joffrey standing in the middle of the yard, no armor at all and barefoot, only breeches and an arming sword on his person.


    Surrounding him were men of the Red Cloak garrison and, while they seemed rightfully afraid of her boy, that didn''t take away from the fact that they were wielding swords against him.


    She strode like bottled fury, dress fluttering behind her as Bernadette struggled to catch up and she took in a breath of air-


    She didn''t get to make a sound though. From one moment to the next Joffrey had leapt into one of the circling, terrified Redcloaks. He didn''t say anything as he feinted two times, the third a real strike that sneaked past the man''s desperate parry and caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled back, and Joffrey turned and deflected the blow to his back from another Redcloak, his palm flat as he slammed it against the man''s face. He pivoted as the Redcloak fell to the ground, his sword a blur of grey as he tapped another half a dozen times in a single second, the last strike right in the sternum and depriving him of air. On and on her son danced, squeezing in between combatants and using them to block each other, his sword always in motion as his other hand slammed into arms and faces, disarming or bloodying mouths and noses. Soon, all six Redcloaks were on the ground, moaning or struggling to get up.


    "¡­ Joffrey?" she asked, hesitant. Sweat was evaporating from his bare back, his eyes closed as he breathed slowly.


    He seemed disappointed. "Again," he said, and this time he threw his sword aside. The Redcloaks didn''t want to, some looking away as others tried to crawl out of the yard.


    "Your Grace¡­ the men¡­ perhaps some could use a replacement?" said Ser Collyn, the Red Keep''s current Master at Arms and a loyal Lannister man. They hadn''t even looked at her¡­


    "See to it," said his son as he turned, his face inscrutable as he saw her. "Mother."


    "Joffrey¡­" she said, uneasy. Ever since a month ago, something had happened to her boy. He hardly spoke to her, and he seemed to brood more and more often instead of holding court. He''d suddenly turned thick as thieves with the doe eyed Sansa Stark, and everything had been subtly different since then. The unseemly beatings had stopped, but every look between the two seemed to carry meanings she could not understand. There was a tension between them altogether different than the usual torment her son had inflicted upon the Stark girl, and she couldn''t understand it.


    That was not to be tolerated.


    "Soon you''ll be a swordsman as great as your uncle," she said in the meanwhile, and every bit of her admiration was genuine for all that it was mired in confusion.


    "I''d like to fight him, one day," he said absentmindedly, hand tapping impatiently against his thigh as he waited for a few of the watching armsmen to replace their falling comrades. There was silence around the yard, most of the watch staring from the battlements and the walls where they thought no one could see them.


    "That''s a fight I''d like to see," whispered Tyrion, and Cercei belatedly realized the Imp had been watching all this time, his small stature hiding him from first sight as he gripped the wooden fence with white knuckles.


    She ignored the little pest. Acting Hand of the King or not the people inside the Red Keep knew who they answered to.


    Perhaps the first man to know of Joffrey''s sudden change of mind held the key of the matter? "Joffrey¡­ why did you hit Ser Mandon?" she asked after a moment.


    "He struck Lady Sansa," he said.


    Oddly enough, that simple sentence left very little room to move the conversation forward. Instead, she chose a different track.


    "Who taught you how to fight like that?"


    "Hounds and whalers," he said as he stretched his right wrist, "Wise men from the east whose white beards reached the floor. Hardy sailors and venture captains. Brave soldiers and generals who painted the grey sand with their own blood," he said as he craned his neck, ignoring the thick drops of sweat that crossed his face down from the hairline.


    Cercei blinked, looking at the Imp. He was staring at his son though, not saying a word.


    "Again," he said as he turned to the new batch of Redcloaks.


    "But Joffrey, you''re unnarmed-" Cercei started, but her son was already a blur. He grunted as he bent his knees lightly, one arm completely stretched as the other curled over his chest and stayed still over his heart. He advanced quickly, long sideways strides as the armed Redcloaks spread out and charged him. He bent right and left in quick succession, avoiding sword and spear thrusts, his left arm still straightened as if it were a sword. He scuttled forward like a spider, his hip lowered as his arm delivered two precise strikes on a man''s throat and he fell on his knees clutching it. He roared as he rolled under a spear thrust, unbending his left arm and locking the spear in place while the other palm slammed into his attacker''s nose.


    "Reyk, Golland, take his flanks and move as one!" shouted one of the Redcloaks as he feinted back and forwards with his sword, but Joffrey didn''t give the others time to get in place. He slammed into the man to his left, his forearms jerking both of Golland''s arms aside and leaving his chest open. His fists were like whirlwinds as he delivered a flurry of punches unto it, the man convulsing backwards and going over the fence to land on the other side of it, splattering mud all around.


    The two remaining Redcloaks seemed unwilling to initiate the next clash, keeping the distance as Joffrey struggled to control his breath, pacing around them like a caged tiger. He blinked slowly when he passed by her, looking down at the mud. "Do you remember that conversation we had a long while ago, about the nature of truth and thrones?" he asked her.


    Cercei looked at the trembling Redcloaks, keeping their distance and using their swords as shields against her son. He''d stopped pacing, still staring at the mud by her side. "I remember," she said with a small smile.


    "''One day, you''ll sit on the throne and the truth will be what you make it''," Joffrey said slowly, considering every word. "What do you think of that, uncle?" he asked.


    Tyrion just looked at him, not saying a word. He''d shared little of what he''d discussed with her son, but it was clear the little pest was just as confused as her with his sudden change in demeanor¡­


    Cercei shook her head, "I remember what I told you sweetie, what of it?"


    "You were wrong. Some truths can''t change," he said, eyes faraway. "All of our actions have consequences, cause and effect." He scowled, his eyes returning to hers, "You forgot that, or else never knew it¡­. You¡­" he took a deep breath, holding the railing with one hand as if to steady himself. He opened his mouth two times, each time closing it shortly thereafter. When he finally found his voice, it came in a rush, "You act as if you''re the only person in the world, mother. The only valid experience is yours. The only true feelings are your own."


    Cercei reared back, stunned, "Joffrey, I don''t know what-"


    "That''s why you failed!" he shouted at her, "That''s why you caused all of this! That''s why you made me," he spat, his breathing working up as the words tumbled out of his mouth.


    She felt her face twisting into an inexplicable scowl as her son''s words made her chest burn. "Joffrey-!"


    "You are a world into itself Cercei! Whatever you feel for me or Tommen or Myrcella is because the only thing you truly love is you-"


    She slapped him. From one moment to the next she slammed his face with everything she had, her palm tingling numb as Joffrey''s head recoiled to the side. The entire Red Keep seemed to hold its breath at once, absolute silence descending upon the yard like a choking mist.


    She held the trembling palm against her mouth, watching as her son took a long breath before he slowly brought his head back to bear on her. The entire right side of his face was turning red, three tiny pinpricks of blood marking where her nails had gotten him.


    He grimaced, staring at her eyes. He felt his face with a hand, putting it where she''d struck him.


    "You should''ve done that years ago," he said. With a single powerful roar he was upon one of the Redcloaks, already a step away from him before the man could react. He slashed horizontally with a two hander but Joffrey caught both his arms before it could connect, twisting them on their own axis and making him scream. One hit from his forehead and the scream cut off, the man collapsing like a torn puppet. Bernadette gave a startled scream at the force of the blow, but his son didn''t seem to hear it.


    "COME ON!!!" Joffrey roared at the last man, making him shout his own battlecry as he went for a lunge with a bastard sword. Joffrey pivoted out of the way sword''s way three times and slammed the side of his palm against the man''s arm, making him drop his weapon and grunt in pain. Two strikes to the head and another three to the chest saw him stumbling back, Joffrey adding his weight as he tackled him to the ground. He roared as his fists descended on the man''s face, one after the other as his son let go with all his strength, her hand stopping a scream as blood splattered from the Redcloak''s face.


    "JOFF!" shouted a voice which should have sounded familiar, but had nothing of the skittish fear and curdled regret Cercei had learnt to expect.


    His fist stopped in midair as his head whipped to the side, watching Sansa Stark as she leaned on the railing.


    Joffrey was breathing harshly, the Redcloak moaning lowly beneath him. He stood up as if from a trance, shaking off blood and mud from his chest as he made to walk one way, then the other.


    "Here," said Sansa, holding out his cloak.


    He took it, using it to wipe his face.


    Far from the scared doe, the Stark girl had changed as abruptly as her son, and all manner of silly rumors had started flying around the castle once Joffrey had foolishly removed the guards and handmaidens that served as Sansa''s jailors in all but name.


    "Deep breaths Joff," said the Stark girl.


    He looked around, eyes settling on Cercei¡­ which made her realize she''d forgotten to breathe too.


    "¡­ Thank you for listening," he told her.


    He vaulted over the fence and had a quiet word with Sansa. Before she could reach them though the two of them walked away, towards the Southeastern Tower.


    "Tyrion, you had something to do with this, I''m sure of it," said Cercei, still feeling as if her heart was about to burst.


    "I know as much as you, dear sister," the Imp said after a long while, "Except for perhaps one thing¡­ I know enough to tell he really needed to get that off his chest." He had taken to wearing armor these past few weeks as the preparations for Stannis'' reception accelerated. According to her spies it gave him a martial air which aided in getting the smallfolk to do what they were supposed to be doing, though Cercei herself found the sight almost comical.


    "It''s just the strain of his rule," she said immediately, her jaw feeling heavy.


    Tyrion merely hummed, tapping his fingers against the railing.


    "What did Ser Meryn tell you?" she asked him. She''d interrogated the Kingsguard herself, but it was only prudent to check. The man seemed a shadow of his former self, shuffling around the Red Keep like a particularly clumsy catspaw and avoiding her son like a beaten dog.


    "He said that Joffrey had been holding court after the news of Oxcross reached him, directing him to strike Sansa as ''punishment''¡­ He was saying something about traitors and the need for just punishments when a tiny breath of air escaped his lips and he blinked in confusion."


    "Had he been drinking something? Was he near Sansa?" she asked him.


    "No. The next thing Ser Meryn remembers is Joffrey''s face and blinding pain as he tried to stand up¡­"


    "I don''t like this one bit. We need to keep an eye on her," she told him, and she''d been doing just that.


    "Somehow I don''t think Sansa Stark is responsible for this." He looked almost haunted as he frowned, tapping his fingers against the training yard''s fence yet again. "Wise men and whalers¡­" he muttered before shaking his head, "I believe something altogether¡­ different may be at play¡­"


    "Your fondness for the girl will be the doom of our House." She lowered her voice so only he could hear it, "We need to keep looking for Varys too, he must know about everyone linked to the Aegon Conspiracy..."


    "You think Sansa Stark was embroiled in that?" said the Imp, looking at her like a simpleton.


    "¡­ I have people looking into it."


    "I must say I have my doubts about their finding anything at all¡­"


    Cercei smirked, "It was them who found the link to Littlefinger, not any of yours." To think the little bastard had been syphoning coin off the treasury for years, financing a Targeryen restoration of all things¡­ it made her blood boil. Petyr Baelish would likely find a very different reception than he was expecting, when he completed his mission and returned to the capital. A pike would suit him quite well.


    Assuming Renly didn''t cut off his head first.


    "That was pure luck," said Tyrion, as always trying to deny her triumphs. He smirked as he looked away from her and at the bruise covered sellsword that followed him everywhere. The man bit off a scowl as he emerged from the inner gatehouse, rubbing his arm. "Bronn! I see you''ve trained hard today," he said as the sellsword all but limped to his side.


    The man grunted what could be charitably called assent. The Imp patted him in the back as they walked away, "Sister," he said with a nod as they passed her by. "Now, I want you to tell me everything," she heard him say as they walked towards the gatehouse, to see to the defenses of the city again¡­ or most likely, the nearest brothel.


    She turned to Bernadette, "Double the men on Sansa¡­ and make sure that letter reaches Rosby," Cercei told her, all but storming off towards Maegor''s Holdfast. She''ll have to make a list of everyone who''d been there in the courtyard to witness her son''s inane ramblings¡­ her own handmaiden included.


    -: PD :-


    They''d been meditating together almost daily, sinking their awareness deep into their souls to survey the damaged left in the wake of the Red Comet. Sansa didn''t know if it had been the Purple itself or their constant attention and will to make it so, but after their extensive sessions feeling and breathing the fabric of their souls in unison, she could feel it just a tiny bit sturdier than before. The fractals felt a bit more complex, whole. The pillars solid, grounded. It was almost impossible to put the feeling into a coherent explanation, but Joffrey had. Predictably enough, he''d gone on to build an elaborate analogy of a sailor shaking off his hangover after a night of heavy carousing. Sansa felt it was more like getting her bearings after a particularly hard hit with a spear butt to the head, but in the end the point was moot.


    Mangled but not dead, that had been their diagnosis. What that meant for the coming lives though was not as easy to guess.


    Sansa had been living an uncanny few weeks inside the Red Keep, seeing strange, dark versions of people she''d grown to care for. Sandor had a sort of shadow over his face every time she looked at him, something slowly eating him from within. He seemed lonelier than she knew him, broodier somehow. Lancel -Joffrey''s fierce legate and brave commander- was but a mewling sycophant orbiting around her husband like a half starved fly. His frequent grandstanding and his bold demeanor did nothing to hide the hollowness behind his eyes though¡­ Sansa could see the boy was absolutely lost within himself, desperately clinging to the court as his soul ached in apathy and emptiness¡­ it was disconcerting how nobody else could see it.


    Cercei had been by far the worst. She seemed to have been unleashed by Robert''s death, and without the true Joffrey to hold her back she''d been ruling the Red Keep''s staff like a tyrannical petty kingdom, her schemes extending beyond it and grasping the happenings within the capital in all the wrong ways. She''d not taken her own change very well, but Joffrey''s had kept her off balance¡­ for the moment.


    Tyrion on the other hand had merely been¡­ strange. He seemed to treat her as a delicate glass doll, and she couldn''t feel anything but horror if that was the way everyone in the south and¡­ perhaps even her own family truly regarded her as. Perhaps that had been changing as of late though¡­ Tyrion had loaned his sellsword to her, and she''d been catching up on her spear drill as a way to focus and give some much needed hardness to this soft body. No doubt the man reported everything to him, but that didn''t concern her much¡­


    It had been a few long years in the East, and the change from being treated like a feared Shadowcaller to a helpless and ignorant little girl was eerie. Did her family treat her to a lesser but similar degree? Had they truly seen her as a sort of helpless invalid?"


    Perhaps the more important question was if she''d ever see them again.


    She let the thoughts fade away, concentrating on the task at hand as her eyes clouded white.


    -: PD :-


    Joffrey took a long drink from the wineskin, swallowing the thick vintage like a horse on water before tilting his head back down and taking in a big breath. He sat atop a small crate, looking around the small storage room indistinguishable from the scores of others which permeated the Red Keep. The trio of hummingbirds inside the room fluttered thro and fro, circling the room and landing to look through nooks and crannies. They chirped almost in unison before circling the room one more time and flying out the window in a hurry.


    Sansa let out a sigh as her eyes returned to their usual blue, the white still clinging to the edges of her pupils as she tried to blink it away.


    "Room''s clear," she said.


    "Tunnels?"


    "Them too, though I doubt any metaphorical ''little birds'' remain after you knifed Varys."


    "Never can be too careful," he said.


    "¡­ If only you''d thought that sooner," muttered Sansa.


    The words were like a stiletto past his ribs. "Yeah. If only."


    She sighed again, looking at his face. "You''ve got¡­" Her hand hesitated.


    He raised his own, touching his forehead. He felt the droplet of blood and scowled before wiping it clean with a sleeve.


    "¡­ I''m sorry, that was uncalled for," she said after a long moment.


    "But not untruthful. Save the apologies," he muttered.


    Sansa sat on another crate, looking as one of the hummingbirds came back and gently pried open a small crack in the wall. "It''s been wearing on us, both of us¡­"


    He grunted, "Bronn seemed like he could hardly walk. Been going too hard on him?"


    "I remember I could hardly walk after our sessions too¡­ You''ve always said it''s the mark of a good spar." She blinked away the memories of Braavos, "Anyway, Bronn''s pretty good; even taught me a few things. You could use him for the Raiders."


    He grunted assent. They''d been distant, this life. The weight of their mistakes, the uncertainty, the atmosphere of the Red Keep¡­


    "It''s like a nightmare¡­" he said after a while.


    "It''ll pass Joffrey."


    He gave her a whimsical smile before taking another swig of wine.


    "Wanna know something funny?" he said after a while, leaning back on the crates stacked behind him.


    Sansa leaned back as well, the hummingbird retrieving a small scroll and leaving it in her hand as she looked at Joffrey.


    "This room. There''s scores of em'' peppered throughout the Red Keep¡­ and they all look the same to me. Do you know what''s the first thing I remember whenever we walk into one?"


    Sansa tilted her head slightly, still looking at him.


    "Even after all this time¡­ It''s still that fucking cat," he said after a while, lips pressed together as he shook his head slowly. "One of Tommen''s¡­ I was so curious, so entranced by it as I wielded the knife¡­" His voice started to peter out, his throat locked. "The kittens¡­ they were born dead. Nature gave them that mercy at least."


    "And then?" Sansa asked, her voice light to the ear.


    Joffrey grunted, "I was so confused. Everyone in the Red Keep kept giving me these stares, from charcoal hauler to Kingsguard, even my own bloody father¡­ both of them¡­ but no one said anything. It was always a miasma of whispers and reproachful looks, but never did anyone bloody say anything. Not a single word of praise or condemnation. Robert drank, my mother scowled, Jaime redoubled his fake smiles, Tommen cried¡­" he trailed off, staring at his palms.


    "But that''s ancient history¡­ it grew along with me throughout the long journey, maturing in its own twisted ways," he said, and Sansa didn''t need to ask what he was talking about. "My¡­ rage¡­ I''ve spent decades thinking about it. Wondering," he said. "Sometimes, I was convinced it was part of my ''curse''. An incomprehensible component of the Purple. The Red."


    Sansa folded her hands over her lap, the scroll by her side as she listened.


    "Other times I was sure it was something rotten deep within me. An all too natural vine growing from the compost pit that was my true self beyond all the experiences I''ve had over the long journey¡­ and you know what, Sansa? I know which one it is now," he said with a wan smile.


    "I''d call it more of a flower than a vine. Granted, a carnivorous flower, like the one who took your pinky in Sothoryos," she said, mirroring his smile.


    Joffrey snorted, looking away. "I saw the Comet''s Red first hand, and it had nothing to do with me. It was pure purpose, law given ultimate form¡­ my red is nothing but a petty lust for violence."


    "I thought you''d given your red purpose as well."


    "I have. It''s shackled and only plays on the battlefield these days¡­ or the training yard," he muttered.


    Sansa looked at her hands, fiddling with them. "I think you''re looking at it the wrong way¡­ what you call the Red¡­ it''s you Joff," she said. "I think that as long as you keep it buried and ''chained'' you''ll never be able to truly understand it. Understand you."


    "Now you''re sounding like Master Gaharz," he grumbled.


    "As little as I may think about the merits of meditating over the stumps of long dead trees, the man did have his ways," she said, unable to keep a small smile from her lips.


    "It''s been ages since I started seeing it as something other than¡­ How to say it¡­ separate but inextricably linked to me¡­" he said, voice trailing off. "A curse¡­ Do you think I''ve been deceiving myself all this time, Sansa?"


    "Have you?"


    Joffrey was quiet, his eyes on her but seeing far, far past her, the wall, and the Keep. They spent a while like that, Sansa lost in thought as well as she fiddled with her fingers again. Joffrey let out a long breath as he leaned forward, elbows over his knees as he held his head.


    "Joffrey," he said after a long, long silence. "That''s what Gaharz always wanted me to say. That''s the name of it..."


    He lifted his head to look at her, stone faced as he nodded slowly. "Its true name is Joffrey¡­" he whispered, pondering that thought.


    "It''s not a curse. It''s part of what makes you. One of the parts that make the man I love," she said, the corner of her mouth tilting up as she leaned back on the crates.


    "I''m sorry about Carcosa, Sansa."


    "We''ve all made mistakes. It''s hard not to with never ending lives," she said after a moment. "Promise you''ll listen to me next time Joffrey¡­ or there may as well be no next life."


    "I swear it," he said, his eyes hard as he nodded slowly.


    He took another gulp from the wineskin before quickly bringing it down.


    "Sorry, I forgot. There''s still a tiny bit left though¡­" he said, offering the wineskin to Sansa. He trailed off when she shook her head lightly, a polite smile on her lips.


    "Shit, the courtier''s smile? This must really be serious¡­" he said half-jokingly, though he frowning when Sansa started on a shrug and then froze like a startled deer, slowly bring her shoulder down.


    "Sansa¡­ what''s the matter?"


    It was almost funny in a way, watching her cycle through a whole repertoire of polite, nonchalant dismissals. They were like her version of his battle instinct¡­ shrugs, dismissing smiles, dignified eye flutters¡­ she started on some variation of all of them in a second, she really couldn''t help it, only to abort them all as she knew he''d never be deflected by the likes of it.


    "Sansa what''s¡­ it''s just wine," he said, chewing on the last word as he frowned.


    She seemed to give up with a mighty sigh, blinking repeatedly. "You''re annoying sometimes," she said.


    "I haven''t done anything," he said, amused.


    She stayed mum as he looked at her, "Really hit a nerve huh?" he said after a moment.


    "It''s just..." She shook her head, letting out another big breath before speaking quickly, "I don''t like wine any more. Can''t stand it," she said, voice clipped.


    Joffrey kept looking at her.


    "¡­ it¡­ reminds me of¡­ the taste." She pressed her lips.


    "The¡­ taste?" he said. He frowned, looking at the wineskin in his hand. "Of blood¡­ it reminds you of the taste of blood," he finished for her.


    "Yes," she said, pursing her lips as she looked away. "Power to be had if I merely reach for it¡­" S?a?ch* Th? N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "It taunts you, doesn''t it?"


    "I taunts me every time I see Ser Meryn Trant. A bloodless husk would make a better Kingsguard," she said with a wry smile.


    Joffrey snorted, "It sure did make a better Master of Whispers though."


    Sansa snorted explosively, coughing bits of saliva as she wheezed. She patted herself on the chest as she covered her mouth with the other, looking at Joffrey with an accusing expression as she tried to stop laughing. "Gods Joff¡­ I suppose I rather agree with that assessment," she said in between coughs.


    Joffrey chuckled lowly, "The heroes we make, eh?"


    "The couple-that-was-promised indeed," she said, grabbing the scroll and waving it about like a proclamation. Joffrey kept chuckling, and delighted in the way a silly smile seemed to overtake Sansa''s face.


    They spent a little while savoring the levity, making time before they had to get back to finalizing the plan and then getting back into a broken world.


    "Going to open that?" he asked as he gestured at the scroll. "I don''t even know why you write it all down. We''ve got the plan all memorized anyway."


    "It helps me think," she grumbled before she hid it behind her back.


    Joffrey raised an eyebrow.


    "Not yet, I want a kiss first," she said matter-of-factly.


    "That''s mighty forward of you," he said, smiling fully. Sansa said it was like night and day compared to his usual grimace; it felt different for him too, his whole face engaged and tingly. He hadn''t known how much he''d needed it as of late¡­


    "There''s been too much negativity all around. I refuse to do anything until my demands are met," she said, leaning forward and letting her legs dangle petulantly from the crate.


    "Your wish is my command, Your Grace," he said as he stood up and Sansa tilted her head away.


    "Men," she scoffed as Joffrey gently grabbed the back of her head and as she turned to face him.


    "Wife," he said, stressing the ''W''.


    They kissed slowly, taking their time to taste each other''s lips for a moment before joining again, their noses tickling each other''s as they jostled for position ever so gently. They didn''t make love then, but stayed in each other''s embrace over Joffrey''s discarded coat, kissing and caressing as the scroll lay by the side.


    The plan could wait another day.


    -: PD :-


    "It''s hard not to pay it any mind," Sansa said out loud. They were both lying on Joffrey''s discarded coat, side by side. They should have been out and about around two hours ago, but Sansa just hadn''t had it in her; to jump back into the fray of a broken world, a broken time. Joffrey hadn''t said anything about it, and so they had lain in the storage room, uncaring of the outside.


    "I know," whispered Joffrey. The Red Comet stared down at the earth with its gimlet eye, periodically pulsing in purpose at irregular intervals. He could feel it even from here; it lay far above, making for the north, its approach slowing down by the day. He shivered when he concentrated on that distant presence, a second sun dark on the horizon of his mind, an eerie absence of the Song. Its mute tendrils reached down, deep into the Lands of Always Winter¡­


    Joffrey thought he''d always been able to see it, feel it. When he''d ridden Fallen Valyria''s guardian far past the tallest mountain peak, far past the cloud line that sometimes messed with the Maester''s far eyes; then he''d felt it, the pure purpose of the Red Comet and it''s patient arms enveloping the world from north to south. Sansa had felt it too, when they approached Carcosa and the Matriarchs whispered about the strange dissonance high in the sky. For Sansa the experience had been far worse, for she''d felt it as keenly as him.


    Now though, after so close a brush with their ancient enemy, it was impossible to ignore. Like a catchy limerick it stuck to their minds, a pattern seen that could not be forgotten for all that the link had been severed. It had not been a matter of infection or taint, but of simply knowing the face and presence of it. It was knowledge of the mind, impossible to forget.


    "The key must be somewhere beyond the North, somewhere in the Land of Always Winter. It''s where all the tendrils meet before spreading outwards¡­" Sansa whispered.


    "Where the scouts were created in the first place. Where they retreated after the First War for Dawn¡­ Gods, our plan is so insane¡­"


    It was a topic they often talked about. They had been made to interact with the Red Comet somehow, getting in the way of the transfer of power between it and the Cycle''s platforms, as the Deep Ones had put it. The problem was how to do so on their terms, and without getting swarmed by Walkers in the attempt.


    "I know it is, but we need to get all those Walkers and wights away from the Far North Joff, get the Cycle''s attention further south or else we''ll never have a chance of actually reaching the place."


    He breathed out. "It''ll be a hell of a balancing act. Losing slowly enough that the Cycle won''t escalate even as we thin their ranks, but not so quickly as to make Westeros collapse¡­ and that''s assuming Vajul can tie down a portion of the Walkers in the Grey Wastes."


    Sansa turned to look at him, twisting within his arms. "It seems like such a long shot, doesn''t it? So many things have to go right. The War of the Five Kings, Aegon, Daenerys, the Wildling Host, the East holding¡­ and then the real war. Getting the lords behind us, managing the retreat south¡­"


    "We need to be absolutely sure before we stake everything on it¡­ all the more so given that we don''t know how much more the Purple can hold," he said. It felt somewhat sturdier now, for the lack of a better word¡­ though still a far cry from the cathedral of purple pillars it had once been. More a patched up Dragonpit than the Sept of Baelor.


    Could it handle the strain of a new world a few more times? Could it two? One?


    "We have to go at it with everything we''ve got Sansa. We have to get back to that late summer morning by all means possible. We have to do it at leastone more time... And then we have to play every trick, every move, every magic at our disposal so we can get the Kingdoms ready¡­"


    She stirred, "I''ve been practicing, following Vajul''s advice. If I can follow the flow of power from the Comet to the ground, we''d know where to go. I still need a Glass Candle to get my bearings though; else it''s like trying to find a needle in a continent¡­"


    "We''ll steal it from the Maesters, the green one. I know my way around the Citadel... and getting ahold of Archmaester Vaellyn''s Key shouldn''t be too difficult."


    "Good." Sansa sighed, leaning on her back and staring at the ceiling. "I don''t want to be here when Stannis arrives. The whole struggle will be pointless¡­ all the more so if you get killed for the sake of a doomed world."


    Joffrey nodded, "We could use somewhere quiet to study. You need to master far sight and I''m still searching around my soul for the module we learnt of in Carcosa. Giving the Purple more time would also be wise¡­"


    "Somewhere quiet Joff. No intrigues, no Walkers, no battles¡­" Her smile turned wan as they felt the Red Comet blink in the distance like a gently flaring sun. "Somewhere peaceful," she whispered.


    "Somewhere peaceful¡­" mused Joffrey.


    -: PD :-


    The morning was beautiful, the sun warming the onlookers as flocks of seagulls circled above, crying down for fish at the fishing boats moored around the docks and the sailors atop them.


    "She''s braver than she thinks," said Sansa.


    "I know," said Joffrey, crossing his arms as he gazed at his crying sister, the barge taking her away from the harbor and towards the anchored cog past the breakwater. "I still have the urge to bellow at them to stop and come back."


    "That would only give Doran more material to sway the Dornish lords¡­ I may not agree with how Tyrion''s been playing the Game, but he''s already set the course."


    "Doomed world or not, I hate seeing her go to that viper''s nest," he whispered. He tried to shake off the guilt as he leaned on Sansa, "Our own ship should be ready the day after tomorrow."


    She nodded grimly, "Oldtown¡­ and then away. I''ll be glad to leave this all behind," she said, looking down below where Tyrion and Cercei were quietly exchanging barbs, and the general state of the run downed harbor and the unemployed dockhands. Only the bravest or fastest merchant cogs still reached King''s Landing, even though Stannis'' fleet still had a ways to go before completely closing off the city by the sea.


    By the time they''d realized about Tyrion''s scheme to make Myrcella a ward of Prince Doran, it had been too late to stop it without serious repercussions. Still, Joffrey remembered she''d been okay at least up to his first death, and she''d be too valuable for someone as canny as Doran to simply dispose of¡­


    He wondered why he cared so much about her fate, given that he''d all but condemned this world to die already. Was he a hypocrite? Was the specter of Myrcella freezing to death in less than ten years'' time somehow better than letting her die to Melissandre''s pyre? To Dornish poison?


    He thought so, though he didn''t know why. He''d been fighting against the inertia of fate for so long that to stop now, even in the privacy of his thoughts, seemed anathema. Even if their overall strategy spelled doom for everyone, he couldn''t simply close himself off to the suffering in the here and now.


    He snorted, adjusting one of the straps of his half plate. Wearing a little extra weight was a good way of rebuilding strength without devoting time specifically for it.


    "What?" asked his wife.


    "Brooding again," he told her with a wan smile, knowing she''d understand. He turned and walked up a few steps past the Great Septon still spouting off benedictions, and the gaggle of Redcloaks, Goldcloaks, and handmaidens waiting for the royals to get moving. "Let''s round ''em up and get going Clegane," he said as he passed near the Hound.


    He stopped when he reached his little brother though, and grabbed his shoulder. The sobbing boy started, looking at him in what could only be called fear.


    "Goodbyes are always painful," he said, grabbing his chin and redirecting the boy''s skittish eyes back to his. "It''s like a raw wound somewhere you can''t quite point to¡­ do you feel it?"


    He nodded jerkily.


    "In time it''ll feel lesser. It''ll scab. Sometimes you''ll pick at it and it''ll bring forth pain and bitter tears¡­. But in time it''ll heal and only a small scar will remain. Of that you can be certain, little brother."


    Tommen stared at him, very still. "¡­ Will I see her again?" he managed after a moment, swallowing snot and tears.


    Joffrey grimaced, taking a handkerchief from the small pouch affixed to his half plate and using it to clean his cheeks. "You have to be strong during these next few days, whatever happens. Be strong for Myrcella," he said, shaking his shoulder lightly, "Can you do it?"


    He nodded again, using the handkerchief to blow his nose. Joffrey smiled, "Good," he said before he walked up the long, open aired stairway, the Glodcloaks and Redcloaks quickly forming up around the group.


    The procession walked through the streets of King''s Landing, up through winding streets as they left the harbor and made for Baelor''s Sept. The harbor district was an old acquaintance to Joffrey, and he knew its layout as well as he knew the Red Keep itself. He''d skulked in the shadows, shoving Littlefinger''s patsies down rooftops. He''d bellowed and carried long pieces of timber, overseeing the reconstruction of the Royal Fleet after the War of the Three Stags. Here he''d often lost himself between the stalls so many years ago, just exploring the alleyways clogged with the scent of fresh fish and seasalt.


    Most of all, he remembered how it burned. The Docks had been amongst the first parts of the city to feel the wrath of Daenerys Targeryen. He still remembered the image very vividly; the soaring grace of Drogon as it tilted its wings, the white-haired and carefree woman splaying her arms upwards as the dragon flew away. The pure orange-red emerging from the beast''s mouth as it incinerated thatched roofs. The figures set ablaze as they fell to the ground, spinning.


    "Joff, Joff," Sansa whispered urgently as she shook his arm. "Hm?" he grunted as he felt his hand reach for his pommel.


    "Seven blessings upon ye Your Grace!" shouted someone from the roof of one of the houses.


    "And to you, Goodman!" Joffrey shouted back, eyeing Sansa sideways. "Trouble?"


    "Maybe. Look at their faces," she told him, and Joffrey realized the Goldcloaks leading the way had unwittingly led them through a crowded avenue, filled with the starving and the unemployed. He''d seen faces like that a thousand times. Hungry, angry, desperate. Some amongst the leering crowd were laughing, others just sat over low walls or abandoned merchant stalls, stone faced.


    "Please Your Grace we''re hungry!" shouted one.


    Joffrey grimaced, "Let''s pick up the pace," he said as he looked back, the Hound nodding as he relayed the order backwards. Tyrion was giving commands to Tommen''s guards when the noise seemed to intensify, shouts of ''Stannis!'' and ''Bastard!'' coming to the fore.


    "It''ll blow before we reach the Sept. We should hole up in that townhouse up ahead," Sansa whispered quickly.


    "Let''s do it, and-" Joffrey was cut off when something brown and sticky impacted his cheek, dazing him for a second before he recovered his balance. The shouts and even a few screams increased in fervor as Redcloaks took out their swords in a chorus of singing steel.


    "Sheath those swords!" Joffrey roared, turning back on the guards, "Sheath those swords!!!" he roared again, his voice cutting through the ambient noise and bringing down the overall racket.


    "But Your Grace-" started one of the Redcloaks before Joffrey was upon him in an instant, his face a hair''s breath away from his.


    "Now soldier!" he said as he stared into his eyes and willed him to comply.


    He did, and Joffrey nodded as he stood back, right wrist resting between the pommel of his hammer and his hip, the other ready to draw his arming sword. He surveyed the area as he scowled and forced his hands away from the weapons, looking at the crowd pressing against the Goldcloaks of the outer guard. If they made a run for it then today could end up a bloodbath.


    "Stay with Tommen," he whispered to Sansa as he walked past her, his calm stride getting him past the Red Cloaks and up to the Goldlcoaks and the edges of the crowd. The smallfolk shuffled back as he kept walking, the Goldloaks too stunned to intervene as he entered the crowd.


    Whatever the crowd had been expecting of their King, it wasn''t this. His calm stride gave the people plenty of time to shuffle aside, though it was fast enough that he didn''t become bogged down.


    They looked gaunt, angry, even terrified. The foodstuffs from the Reach and the Riverlands had ground to a halt because of the war, and his past self''s petty cruelty had deprived these men and woman of their only form of redress. Was it truly that surprising that the ''mob'' of King''s Landing was considered fickle and unreliable by the kings of the past?


    The noise had died down considerably as Joffrey gazed at each of his subject''s faces during his walk, the crowd parting from his path, unnerved by his steady walk. He committed their faces to memory; dirtied and sagging, sunken, holding that universal expression of pent up anguish. Joffrey reckoned that even half smeared with cow shit, his own face must have seemed like night and day compared to this sad gathering.


    If he could remember even a single face of those present here and suffering, even if only for another life, then he''d count it time well spent. A few were slower to move aside than the rest, hard looking men with cudgels or rakes, bits of wood with a nail or two tacked on one end.


    There must have been something in his stare, in the way he walked, for these men knew Joffrey felt no danger. One of them didn''t budge, a big brute with a cobbler''s hammer in his hands. He was leering when Joffrey came to a stop in front of him but a hand span away from his face, staring up at him.


    Joffrey had waded through battlefields and wastelands, slaughtered his way past terrified levies and hardened armsmen, pummeled aside shrieking wights and chanting Brindled Men. He breathed deeply as he gazed at the man''s eyes, not bottling the red whispers that begged him to smash the cobbler in two. He breathed them in, accepting them as he still did nothing.


    Its name is Joffrey. I am Joffrey, he thought, breathing it out. Now was not the time.


    The man stumbled away from him, white faced as he shoved people aside with trembling hands.


    Joffrey sniffed slowly, cocking his head lightly before he kept walking at a different angle. The shit and grime smeared on the left side of his face was already crusting, but he didn''t mind the feeling, nor the familiar smell¡­ it seemed a rather small price to pay. These people were the first to die whenever ambitions clashed. Starved to death when the lords battened down the hatches and stopped the grain shipments; slain in battle when pressed into the Goldcloaks to defend the city; taxed to poverty to fuel the latest vision of the latest king.


    The crowd kept parting as he reached a small half broken stall. Behind it hid a young man no older than perhaps fourteen namedays, pale faced and sweating like a pig as he frantically tried to clean his hands. He seemed petrified as Joffrey came to a stop in front of him, gazing at the dung by the ground before his eyes settled on him.


    "Why did you do it?" he asked him, and the question seemed extremely loud to his ears. The crowd seemed all but silent, barely a hushed whisper floating atop the eerie silence.


    "I-I- I''m sorry M''Gr-"


    "I didn''t ask you for an apology. I asked you why you did it."


    "¡­. I¡­ I was angry M''Grace," he finally stuttered, cringing.


    "Why were you angry?" Joffrey asked him.


    "I¡­ my belly, M''Grace. It aches somethin'' bad¡­" As Joffrey kept looking at him, he kept talking, "Lord expelled all the extra mouths from the keep, no work to be had in the country side with the war and all¡­"


    "And so you came here¡­" Joffrey muttered. With their focus on the Red Keep and their lack of a spy network within the city itself, getting information from the capital had been hard¡­ The situation seemed worse than they''d thought.


    Joffrey leaned into the cringing man, pressing a copper star into his palm as he whispered, "It''s not much given the soaring prices, but it''ll get you through the week."


    He seemed disbelieving as he stared at him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. "Thank you M''Grace, thank you!!!" he cried, standing up and all but running away. The bewildered onlookers stood aside as he ran by, then looked back at Joffrey.


    He turned around as he gazed at the crowd, looking up at the people perched on the rooftops. "I know you''re all hungry, and I know how you all feel," he said.


    Disbelieving cries immediately flew over the gathering, but Joffrey''s voice cut through it like a blade. "I know of the painful, empty aches. The way you drink water so you can feel something inside your belly. The way your skin burns when it peels off. The way your flesh shrinks and your bones stick up like torn tent-poles."


    There was deathly silence as Joffrey turned again, his armor jingling as his eyes swept up the people looking at him from low walls or alleyways, side ramps and market streets.


    "I know of your suffering, and every time I see your faces it fills me with grief. You didn''t start this war, but you bear the price of its creation¡­" The crowd rumbled agreement, still somewhat confused as they talked amongst themselves. Joffrey pitched his voice to carry further, cutting off the buildup yet again. "And yet, even the smallest child knows the old adage, ''words are wind''. Let it be known that redoubled effort shall be placed on the building of fishing ships, and that new work camps shall be created along the Kingswood to acquire the required timber. Good coin shall be given for honest work and such work will soon turn into sources of food. The Kingswood itself shall be temporarily opened to royal hunters that will spread their bounty every week from the Dragonpit for free, and¡­" He trailed off as he saw a skeletal-looking urchin picking through discarded, rotten fruit on the ground, not caring or perhaps not even aware of Joffrey''s presence.


    He shook his head, "Let it be known the Red Keep shall share part of its food stores tomorrow morning with those who need it the most. We highborn got you into this war, we should share its burden as well," he said.


    The noise picked back up with a will; the previous vicious edge to it fading into the background. The mob seemed abuzz with budding excitement and disbelief, people arguing with themselves as those closest to Joffrey kept staring at him. He walked back to the group, the crowd making way for him until he reached the procession.


    Sansa nodded at him from the middle of the group. She''d been distracting Tommen, but he didn''t miss the way her back was braced against a nearby wall, a score or so seagulls eerily silent as they lay perched atop windowsills and roof beams around her, awaiting but the silent command of their new mistress to strike and confuse the crowd should it all had taken a turn for the worse¡­


    "The Father''s own light shines within you, Your Grace," said the High Septon, wide eyed.


    Joffrey stopped and scanned from head to toes the man popularly known as ''the Fat One'', opulently dressed and living every letter of that name. "Perhaps Baelor''s Sept could also join in the Mother''s charity then, Your Holyness," he said.


    "I- ah-"


    "For truly are the Seven compassion itself, and so are their earthly voices. Are they not, Your Holyness?" he said as he tilted his head lightly.


    "Yes! O-of course!" he blabbered.


    Joffrey nodded, but before he called out for Sandor to make them all move again, his uncle grabbed his hand.


    Tyrion was looking strangely at him, ignoring the both the crowd and the dignified shrieks of Cercei as she dashed towards him. He passed Joffrey a handkerchief, staring as he cleaned his face.


    "Who are you?" he asked.


    He smiled wanly. "Joffrey. Just Joffrey," he said.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 60: Wood and Family.

    Chapter 60: Wood and Family.Joffrey swung the axe, striking the white tree with a grunt. He pried his tool out, and struck the hardwood again, this time bringing the great tree down with a harsh snap and a tremendous roar as it slammed into the earth.


    He wiped the sweat off his brow, taking a moment to catch his breath as he leaned on the axe. He could hear the distant mating call of the Silver Apes in the distance; long, ululating sounds which made his chest thrum in reverb. Crocodiles snapped at the unwary ones, their jaws snapping shut with sharp cracks that echoed throughout the vale and betrayed the presence of a river nearby. The rainforest was absolutely teeming with life.


    "This should do nicely," he said as he examined the fallen tree.


    "Do! Nicely!" someone called out. Joffrey shook his head, smiling at the red-and-purple parrot perched atop the tree to his side. It stared down at him, unperturbed before extending its beak to its left and gobbling down a hanging seed. The great white tree was identical to the one he''d just felled, and so were the scores of others which dotted the area; trunks straight as streetlamps and branches as gnarled as a kraken''s tentacles. Their wide leafs crowded the skyline, and were high roads of a sort for a whole civilization of worms, caterpillars, and blue-headed ants which scuttled from tree to tree.


    "Do! Do! Do!" chirped another parrot.


    "Oh boy¡­ don''t you all start," said Joffrey.


    "Nicely!" said the first parrot.


    "Do!" said the second.


    "Oh boy! Oh boy!" chirped one, unseen.


    "Nicely! Nicely!"


    "All start! Do!"


    Joffrey chuckled as he kneeled, measuring the fallen tree with a length of rope he''d tied to his belt. He examined it closely before making a notch on the wood with a serrated knife. The wood felt firm, not a sign of rot in sight. He nodded as he stood up, grabbing the axe with two hands. "All together now boys!" he shouted.


    "Together! All together boys!"


    Joffrey cleared his throat, waiting for a lull in the endless repetition before he called out with a clear voice, pitching it to carry. "A beaaaar there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair! The bear! The bear!"


    "Bear! Bear!"


    "Black brown! Black brown!"


    He brought down the axe, white splinters flying to the sides. "Oh come they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I''m a bear!"


    "Black brown! Black brown!"


    "-and covered with hair!" said Joffrey. Each time he brought down his axe he sang another verse, stressing certain words so his chorus could follow in true form.


    "The maid with honey in her hair," he sang, the axe sinking deep into the fallen tree.


    "Her hair! Her hair!"


    "The maid with honey in her hair!" Joffrey cleared the splinters from the gouge in the tree with a gloved hand, examining it with appraising eyes.


    He hefted the axe with a puff of effort and got to work again, cutting the great white log and leaving it at about four times his length.


    "My bear! She sang. My bear so fair! And off they went, from here to there!"


    "The bear! The bear!" parroted his chorus in a riot of rainbow colored feathers, taking to the air as Joffrey whistled for Stennis to come get him.


    "And the maiden faaaair!" he said, extending the last word and letting it hang into the wind with a grave pitch.


    -: PD :-


    The big log barely fit into the wagon, and poor Stennis had a hard time dragging the loaded thing past the rolling hills of the Sweet Lotus Vale. The big ox had a foul temper, and Joffrey had to keep him constantly bribed with tender buds of yellow lotus; else the beast was liable to feed on Joffrey''s own hand instead.


    He made good time, singing such timeless classics as The Bear and the Maiden Fair, Fair Maids of Summer, and TheFalse and the Fair. The rainforest kept well clear of the path, in no small part thanks to the efforts of the Prince''s men. Eventually the panoply of green and white gave way to tilled fields and orchards, sporting a dazzling variety of tropical fruits.


    Joffrey segued into Antlers of Bronze and Iron, and then into The King''s Fist, growing more nostalgic by the song. He refrained from singing Renly''s Rope though, as there was no better way to kill a pleasant noon.


    "OH there Stennis! Ho!" He reined in the stubborn beast, looking at the couple of Summer Islanders walking in the opposite direction. The man had teak skin, while the woman was of a nut brown complexion and somewhat taller than her companion. Both of them were clad in true islander fashion, sporting cloaks of red, yellow, and green parrot feathers.


    "Sweet day, Joffrey. Its good fortune we met you today," the woman called out, a surprised smile on her lips. Hara wore a revealing spotted panther pelt below her cloak of feathers, making her even more dazzling and, to Joffrey''s mounting curiosity, even more formally dressed.


    "Sweet day Hara, Zhantas," Joffrey called back in the Summer Tongue, nodding at the man as well. The tall, well-built Zhantas wore a long tunic dyed orange. It was spotted with countless yellow and red lotus flowers; the most formal attire he''d seen him wear since he knew him.


    "Bringing in the second outrigger for your little project?" Zhantas asked him, coming to a stop next to Joffrey''s seat atop the small wagon.


    "Right you are," he said, unable to keep the joy from his voice. It had been shaping up quite nicely¡­ He really couldn''t wait to sail it through even a moderately strong wind. He was half afraid it would fly.


    Zhantas mirrored his smile, though it petered off into something bittersweet soon after. Hara had come to a stop next to Stennis, glaring at the ox when it tried to butt his head against her hand. The beast shied away from the dark brown eyes, looking at the ground instead.


    "What are you two doing out here anyway? And in your summer best at that?"


    Zhandar looked at Hara, and Hara looked at Joffrey.


    "¡­ Hara?" said Joffrey.


    "We''re going to Nivanze. The last love calls to us," she said.


    Joffrey stared at the woman, stunned. "But Hara, I¡­ Isn''t this a bit premature?"


    "The first blizzards in living memory have reached Walano. It''s only a matter of time till they reach Jhala as well¡­ the Last Summer grows short," she said.


    "But that could still be a year or more away! I- Zhandar," he said, turning towards his friend, "We were going to sail the Sunray next month, I don''t see why you need to do this now instead of-"


    "We''ve been discussing this for months, friend," said Zhandar. "We decided last night, and already made our goodbyes. We''d waited for you but Sansa told us we''d find you on the road."


    "She hid her grief well, but everything you could think of she said so as well," said Hara, not unkindly.


    Joffrey sighed, jumping down from the small wagon and embracing Zhandar. "I''ll miss you on the foresail," he said.


    "It was not to be, friend," said Zhandar, patting Joffrey''s back strongly, "¡­ And despite your constant cheating, I''ll miss our late nights of dice too," he added, his voice growing thick.


    They separated. Zhandar cleared his throat before slapping Joffrey''s arm with one of his big hands, "Bonol and Talthas already have a cask of the finest rum to celebrate our passing. Tomorrow at the lodge, don''t miss out or my shade will steal your dice!"


    "I won''t," said Joffrey, feeling his own throat a bit tight.


    "Don''t miss us, it was meant to be," said Hara as they embraced as well. "Remember to move that shapely buttocks of yours from time to time, lest you grow roots into that weirwood," she added with a smirk.


    "I''ll try," said Joffrey, feeling a sad smile on his lips, "Take care, Hala. Thanks for everything."


    They departed, tracing the same road Joffrey had taken. Theirs would take them farther away though, up the winding hills and into the Temple of Nivanze, where they would eat bitter fruits and make love until they closed their eyes together.


    They would not open them again.


    Joffrey''s previous good cheer was in scarce supply as he guided Stennis, the wagon rolling up and down the hills as Ebonhead gradually came into view. It was the southernmost proper town in Jhala and the Summer Islands in general, straddling the mouth of the Jhol river and surrounded by beautiful swaths of black, tall ebon trees. It was mostly built out of ebonwood and other hardwoods, and most of the houses were raised on tall timbers above the wide river mouth, connected to each other by bridges. Canoes floated below, tied to pillars or in use by the town''s inhabitants¡­ of which there were fewer and fewer these past few months.


    The Rite of Last Love had been growing in its practice as winter approached and the prophecies written on the Talking Trees of Walano came true. It was said there would be neither life nor body left in Walano ¨Cnorthernmost of the three main islands- by the time the Walkers got there¡­ and Jhala would not be far behind.


    Joffrey kept Stennis on the right track, avoiding the town proper as he turned west, following the coastal road. Soon enough he was upon a lone house built of sturdy ebonwood, surrounded by white sand which shimmered under the sun. His house looked like the tip of a dark brown thumb jutting out from the beach, the waves gently lapping at the small pier a short distance away.


    Home.


    Joffrey guided Stennis into the small shed past the house, removing his collar and leaving him next to the water trough. He patted the white teak log, leaving it on the wagon for now. "Soon," he told it.


    He walked out of the shed, but before he made for the house a small bird of paradise perched on his shoulder. It trilled a sweet melody, the three blue feathers wobbling over its head as it looked at him. It took off for the tree line at the other side of the road, and Joffrey snorted before following.


    The rainforest was light around him, the canopy leaving wide belts of sunlight that streamed past the leaves. Joffrey followed the small trail through the rainforest, smiling when he heard the whirlwind of sound coming up in front.


    He found Sansa sitting below the pale brown Heart Tree, blood red leaves swirling away with the warm wind that carried echoes of frost. There must have been over half a hundred birds of paradise of different species perched around the Weirwood; wide swathes of cyan, vermillion, and scarlet. They trilled softly as they gazed at Sansa, the color of their feathers distorting into bright yellows and empty blues as the green valyrian candle in front of Sansa pulsed, small windows of change whirling around her.


    They''d taken the surprising presence of a Weirwood Heart Tree as a suitable omen for building their home, but the tree still seemed out of place to Joffrey. He''d grown accostumed to seeing it under grey skies or over freshly fallen snow.


    He gazed at the whirlwinds around Sansa as he came to a stop, leaning on one of the ebon trees surrounding the Heart Tree. Most of them showed endless expanses of snow; blizzards and snow dunes as far as the eye could see, Sansa''s eyes and ears as she searched for the place where the Red Comet felt the strongest. One did not show the Lands of Always Winter though, for all that it was covered in snow and freezing gales. There were about a thousand walkers standing in a great circle atop a frozen shore, hands interlocked with each other. Their eyes seemed ablaze with the Comet''s energy, their hands melding as they started to dissipate, the wind and the snow growing stronger each second until the frost made them one, an entire iceberg of sorts coalescing between them and growing taller and taller and taller until it approached the size of the Red Keep.


    The Walkers were soon overtaken by their creation, trapped within it. Behind them more Walkers and countless wights marched towards the construct of ice and red might, seeking to enter it before it froze over completely and it started its journey. Joffrey recognized the distant outline of Tyrosh, its great black domes wrecked and in ruins as thousands upon thousands of wights marched out of the city; exquisitely dressed magisters and collared slaves joined in death as legions of the end.


    Sansa took a deep breath as the thrum of the windows decreased in pitch, growing lesser until they dissipated into harsh colors that left Joffrey''s ears ringing, fractals peeking out of the edges of his vision. His wife had been experimenting, leveraging their understanding of their own souls to use the Purple''s own energy as a source of power, a replacement for blood in a way. Even damaged and battered, the Purple''s power, energy store, breadth of fractals¨Chowever one wanted to call it- seemed enormous compared to the minute cuts she''d been taking.


    The Deep Ones had said the Purple spent the eons between cycles recharging somehow¡­ and the passing of the ages showed.


    She smiled when she saw him, her right eye swirling from white to bright blue as the many birds took flight in a storm of squeaks and feathers. She hadn''t found the place yet, she would have told him immediately if she had.


    "You''re brooding again," she said.


    "I met with Zhantas and Hara on my way back¡­"


    Sansa grunted, standing up with shaky legs. Joffrey went to help her up, and they shared a kiss before they walked out of the clearing. "More and more people are taking up the Last Rite¡­"


    "I''d rather die sword in hand, but I admit there''s a certain allure to going out in a frenzy of sex," he said, smiling despite his will. He''d been surprised to find out that the Summer Islanders had a prophecy of the Long Night as well, though their version was surprisingly fatalistic given how normally outgoing they were.


    The innermost and most sacred trees, tended to in Tall Trees Town -itself a center of religion and tradition in the Summer Islands- held carvings which spoke of the end times. The times when snow would reach the lands of summer, when the dead would shamble from the far north across the sea and bring an end to the world entire. Perhaps it was not all that surprising that the people of the islands had embraced death on their own terms, after being confronted with the apparent truth of their teachings.


    "How far are they?" he asked her.


    "Those in the mainland? The southwestern force reached the Red Mountains yesterday, chasing the remains of Aegon''s supporters as they flee for Dorne. They''ve fortified the mountain passes as well as they can, but I don''t think they''ll hold them for longer than a month or two."


    "That iceberg in Tyrosh will be heading for them? Across the Sea of Dorne?"


    "I don''t think so, they were building it on the southern edge of the island. Walkers are straightforward, they might as well be pointing their fingers south en mass," said Sansa.


    "Hm. Lys then." Joffrey held Sansa''s hand as they reached the end of the rainforest.


    "Probably. There''s no need to hit Dorne from the sea, not with an undead dragon and thousands of flying wights bearing down upon the mountain passes¡­"


    "Their progress is accelerating¡­" Joffrey shook his head, trying to bring his mind to more pleasant thoughts.


    Fortunately, Sansa did it for him. "I saw you found the perfect wood by the White Grove."


    He smiled proudly, "I did. She''ll sail Sansa, oh she''ll sail," he said, filled with anticipation as they reached their little house by the beach.


    -: PD :-


    That night they cuddled side by side over their bed, the sheets of tropical silk and red feathers drawn up high. Sansa lied stuck to Joffrey''s back as they shared body heat, the pale yellow logs by the fireplace doing little to dispel the chill in the air.


    They''d lived a good life here, in the Summer Islands. They''d worked diligently to expand the Purple into what it had once been, using only sensations and vague feelings to try and patch up a working they didn''t even understand completely¡­ trying to mold it as Joffrey had done to include Brightroar''s sheath into the cycle. They''d made some progress, steeling their souls against the strain of death¡­ though how far back they could go again was still a mystery.


    For all that there''d been valid reasons to take their time this life, Sansa had enjoyed the reprieve from the constant danger and intrigues of the world entire. They''d needed the time so she could train with the candle they''d stolen from the Citadel, time for Joffrey to learn more of the module¡­ but she hadn''t truly realized how much she''d really needed this. Both of them. To truly rest after all the wars and the secrets. To just live day by day and not worry over the moves of lords and sorcerers, to not suffer so much for the fate of a world entire.


    They''d sailed under the summer sun and fished rainbow colored trouts. They''d made good friends with neighbors and travelling priests and merchants. They''d spent entire days lazing about in the house they''d built with their own hands. They''d made love under the stars, the warm sand keeping the cold at bay.


    And yet¡­


    "Feels guilty, just lying here," she said. Her arm was draped over Joffrey''s chest, feeling the slow cadence of his breathing.


    "Why?" he asked, playing with her fingers.


    "Robb''s out there in Tarth right now, killing and maiming and playing the general until he makes one more mistake¡­"


    "While we''re here biding our time?" he said.


    "He''s just a boy Joff, he shouldn''t be out there¡­"


    "They grow up quickly in war¡­ they always do," he whispered. "Have I ever told you about the Red Wolf?"


    "Once or twice," she said with a slight smile.


    He stopped playing with her hand suddenly, his fingers locked, "I still dream about him, some nights," he said, letting out a long breath of air as he resumed his fiddling, interlocking his fingers with Sansa''s.


    "I would find it hard not to."


    "It''s not the pain nor the violence that still haunts me¡­ the focus of the nightmare changed, sometime between the Citadel and the Dawn Legion," he said, now caressing her arm. "It was the hollowness¡­ Robb hadn''t grown into a man. No, Robb Stark was dead inside, and no matter how many times that hammer fell, no matter how many of my bones he broke, he knew he''d never be alive again."


    There was a moment of silence before Joffrey cleared his throat, "I''m not making it any better, am I?"


    "Hm no, not really," she said, breathing deeply from Joffrey''s hair and losing herself within the smell. Far from the stiff courtly perfumes, the sweat and grime and sea salt that often found its way into her husband''s unruly mop held far more cherished memories. She sighed lowly, leaning into him as her mind returned to her family.


    "It''s kind of like the way Meera looked, when you told her Jon had died," she said.


    "Similar in kind, though not in strength. I had taken everything from Robb, everything but war¡­ that seems to be a common theme in his life, his destiny if you will. The way things happen if we don''t oppose them with serious effort."


    "What about Arya? I seem to recall she almost killed you once."


    "Baelor''s Sept," he said as if the memory pained him. "She should''ve gotten me there, by the rights of gods and men¡­ She seems all over the place, looking back. Sometimes she fought and died after Robert''s death, others she was taken hostage, a locked hellcat inside the Red Keep¡­" he snorted, "Once, I smuggled her outside the castle through a covered wagon just so she would leave me alone¡­ only problem with that plan was that I didn''t know how to drive one," he said with a little laugh.


    Sansa chuckled with him; she could imagine it all too well.


    "Mostly though, she tends to disappear," he finished quietly.


    "I like to think she often makes it to Riverrun, and the Tully''s keep it quiet so they can use her absence from the Red Keep as a bargaining chip against the Lannisters. For the eventual negotiations."


    "¡­ I think you may be giving your cousin too much credit."


    She sighed, "Probably¡­ you think she''s alright? Wherever she is?"


    "That one''s willy, and hard to catch. For all we know she''s in Volantis right now, convincing the rest of the Red Priests to sail west..."


    She snorted, imagining her sister atop a stack of crates by the Red Temple of Volantis and pummeling every passerby with words¡­ and fists. A long sigh escaped her lips, "Almost convinced me there. Running Arya. Brave little Arya." She grew quiet, "It''s funny¡­ I remember being so annoyed with her all the time. Like, righteously annoyed, something you''d level at someone who caused grievous personal harm."


    "Like the Sealord after the table incident?"


    Sansa chuckled silently, hiding her face in Joffrey''s hair.


    "After all this time you''re still ashamed of that Sansa?"


    "And the First Sword just standing there like a marble statue¡­"


    They shared another chuckle at that.


    She took a breath of fresh air, resting her cheek on Joffrey''s head again. "Well, I suppose the hatred might''ve had a few similarities. But now when I remember my sister she just seems¡­ I don''t know, Impish? She''s so gods-be-damned precocious," she said with a fond smile. "Running around with that sword and hopelessly trying to avoid her needlework¡­ that really used to drive her up the wall¡­"


    "Does, Sansa. Does drive her up the wall."


    There was silence for a moment, and then Sansa breathed again. "We made fun of her, you know? Me and Jeyne¡­ We and the other girls around Winterfell, we called her Arya Horseface¡­ that was the least of the insults, though maybe the one she hated the most."


    "It was just teasing. Besides, from what I know she gave as good as she got."


    Sansa felt Joffrey''s hand with her own, tracing the old woodworker''s scars across the tip of his fingers. "Do you think she had a¡­ a bad childhood?" She asked him, cringing at how the question had come out.


    "All I can give is my opinion, and I think Arya is still a child and that she has a wonderful, caring family. That''s a rarity and something you should rightfully feel proud about."


    "That''s sweet of you to say," Sansa whispered as she leaned back, looking at the ceiling.


    Her sister was probably part of the horde shambling towards the Red Mountains, and yet here she lay, warm and comfortable. She dispelled the thoughts with a grunt, focusing on something useful.


    "You''re still undecided on Renly," she said.


    "He''s the perfect tilting dummy, why get rid of him early?" he asked as he turned to face her, supporting his head with an elbow.


    "Don''t be obtuse Joff, you know what I''m talking about. It''s not about ''getting rid of him'', it''s about making him an ally."


    "Can''t be done Sansa, he''s too enamored with the idea of being King. He''d grow to hate it, but he doesn''t know that."


    "Is it though? Is kingship what so obsesses Renly? He was not without reason when he fled the capital. Between Cercei and what he knew of the old you, he could have ended up¡­"


    "Like Ned," finished Joffrey.


    "Like father." Sansa nodded. "So there was a real fear for his life. Add to that the constant animosity between the two factions, and the fact that he''d been steadily sidelined from the keys of power by the Lannisters¡­ especially after Jon Arryn''s death¡­ it''s not hard to see why he would rebel."


    "That''s only part of the picture, dear. Renly thrives in court, he relishes the pomp and being at the center of it all, and I''m not sure Storms End is enough to sate his needs."


    Sansa hummed, "I think that if we befriend him at the start, get him on side, and depending on the circumstances around Robert''s death¡­ we could delay any rash decisions. Once Robert is dead he can''t complain about grasping Tyrell influence at court, so we could get them on side quickly as well."


    Joffrey looked like he''d chewed something sour. "Bloody Tyrells¡­ That''ll mean a betrothal at least, probably two."


    "Robb and Maergery could make a fine match, they cover each other''s weaknesses," said Sansa, though she couldn''t hide the slight animosity in her voice.


    "And fill his innocent ears full of Tyrell poison," grumbled Joffrey.


    "She''s not that bad," said Sansa, finding herself in the uncomfortable position of having to defend Maergery Tyrell of all people. "We merely have to redirect her impulses to something more productive. Besides, Robb may be clueless about some things but he''s enough of a Stark to-"


    He scoffed, interrupting her, "I have a counterargument to that. It''s called Jeyne Westerling."


    "Well of course the other choice is Tommen, how''s that for a sacrificial lamb to the Tyrells?"


    "Gods, please no."


    "I thought so," she said, crossing her arms.


    "Okay, get the Tyrells on board. Make Renly feel safe and¡­ I guess we could also make him Master of Ambassadors, that job will practically be pomp and feasting most of the time¡­ at least before the War for Dawn."


    "Good idea. We''ll have to handle it carefully so he doesn''t see it as a demotion from Master of Laws," she said. "What about Stannis?"


    "He''s in the shed, what about him?" he said.


    She resisted the urge to slap a hand over her face¡­ or his. "Honey, that joke grew old the day after you bought him from Bonol. "


    Joffrey smiled. She knew he was laughing on the inside, the damned joke never grew old on him.


    He grew serious after a moment, a frown dominating his features, "There I truly see no other choice. The man''s rightfully convinced I''m not Robert''s son and there''s nothing we can do to change his mind... besides, he''s the other readily available tilting dummy," he added somewhat sheepishly. "No short victorious war at the beginning and we''ll have lords chafing and testing the boundaries everywhere. We''ll be thrice as slow preparing the realm for Winter."


    Sansa hummed, deep in thought. "True. And from what we know of him he wouldn''t be deterred even if he only had a sword and one man to his name. Five thousand levies plus whatever mercenaries he manages to pick up¡­ they''re not the hundred thousand Army of the Reach. We won''t have as incredible a victory as last time¡­ "


    "I''ll just have to smash that Aegon dunce harder then. I hope you''re not going to suggest we befriend him too?"


    "Of course not." Sansa scoffed, "He needs to die, and preferably by your hand. It''s a self-feeding problem though¡­ With no warrior king reputation he''ll have an easier time gathering support. We don''t know how much of Varys'' work in the Vale was after Jon Arryn''s death. He may have been sowing the ground for a restoration decades ago; Aegon could count on half the Vale if he''s lucky and we''re not, or Dorne in its entirety if Doran backs him like in this life¡­ maybe even both. With those numbers it''ll be harder to get a crushing victory to truly cement our rule."


    Joffrey leaned back as he drummed fingers over his chest. "Regular victory would cement it too, just not in the same way¡­ We need to receive him on a prepared beach head, crush him utterly and hand out the Golden Company''s famed bracelets to the Guardsmen and the lords and knights¡­ it would be almost impossible to get there in time though."


    "What about catching him out at sea?"


    "That would be even better, though even harder to accomplish. No real way to intercept¡­ by the time we knew he''d decided on a beach head he''d be landing already. We could block off escape with the Royal Fleet though."


    Sansa brushed her hair, "What we need is information."


    "Varys won''t break."


    She looked down to her hands, examining her wrists.


    Her husband''s mouth twitched. "You''re planning something."


    "Just a second string for our bow. I''m not even sure if it''ll work. For now we should move forward on the assumption that both Dorne and the Vale will rise up in rebellion around year three or four."


    "Blood and Mud," said Joffrey. "¡­ Do you really think he''s a Blackfyre?"


    "The Illyrio Mopatis connection seems to point in that direction¡­ besides, his blood¡­ it was powerful Joff. The winds I brought forth from it almost tore the ship''s sails. We should have taken half as long to reach Oldtown."


    "Hm. That would explain why he was so useless promoting Daenerys'' and Viserys'' cause. It wouldn''t have made sense to just use her as an expensive distraction if he''d really been a Targeryen loyalist." Joffrey frowned, scratching his small beard. "Speaking of her, what about Daenerys?"


    "Joff, no."


    "I''ll wear you down eventually," he said with a goofy grin. s?a??h th? ???el F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "We handle her cleanly. No dragon choirs, no catapults, and definitively no exploding Harrenhall." Sansa''s cheeks turned red as she smiled. It soon dissipated though, as they remembered the specter of her second coming to Westeros. There would be no dealing with Daenerys and her dreams of righteous rule.


    Between rumor, word of mouth from merchants and then refugees, and plentiful use of the glass candle, Sansa had been able to reconstruct some of the broad happenings of her homeland these past few years. She didn''t know what changes had influence Daenerys Targeryen this time, but her initial conquest had been far less brutal in the beginning. Her conquest of King''s Landing had been much cleaner than last time, though her rule had been chaotic from the start. In time, the strain of rule had obviously been too much for the famously unstable Targaryen psyche to handle.


    The Faith Militant had been reestablished by Cersei in a fit of stupidity that had been out of all proportion even for her, and Daenerys had inherited the mess. Her attempts at dealing with them had swung from extreme to extreme, from bribing them with gold and privileges to holding public beheadings on Baelor''s Plaza. Aegon, her supposed cousin, had refused to recognize her authority, and she had refused his offer of marriage. Aegon himself had been pushed out of the Stormlands and back to Dorne by the Tyrells, where he''d decided to wait out the clash between Daenerys and the Lannister-Tyrell coalition.


    Said clash had been brutal. Tywin''s stratagem actually managed to kill Viseryon out near the God''s Eye, though it cost him his army and in all likelihood his life, for he was never heard of again. Most of the Westerlands'' chivalry perished with him.


    After the Second Field of Fire, Daenerys had grown even more erratic. The Reach devolved into a civil war of its own, and she flew there herself to aid her chosen factions. On her absence, the Faith Militant grew bolder, to the point of actually storming the Red Keep as their fanaticism spread to the countryside.


    Events grew less clear as the continent dissolved into anarchy, the march of the Others adding fuel to the fire. Robb led the North''s survivors back down the Neck as the Walkers marched behind them, his outriders pillaging what was left of the Riverlands and riding into the Crownlands. By then Daenerys had already burnt Baelor''s Sept to the ground with most of the upper leadership of the Faith and the Faith Militant still inside, unleashing wide scale religious war within the Crownlands as her unsullied were hacked apart in the streets by the smallfolk. Drogon had been carrying out fire breathing runs on Fleabottom when Ser Barristan Selmy had unclasped his white cloak, taken his sword out, and pinned Daenerys to the throne she''d loved so much.


    Three days later, when she''d carried her gaze across the sea through the glass candle''s distorted light, all that''d remained of King''s Landing had been a giant crater, still smoking with Wildfire.


    Burn them all, Daenerys had screamed as Ser Barristan ran her through. Sansa shivered.


    She was taken out of her reverie by the Red Comet blinking unknowingly in the distance, lying still over the frozen north.


    "¡­ We should do it soon. Safer than way¡­" whispered Joffrey. He was gazing northwards, his eyes peering beyond.


    Sansa looked at the things they''d hung over the walls of the small bedroom: Bright tapestries made of tropical feathers, wooden masks bearing prayers to the Gods of Love and Hearth, paintings of the Tyroshi skyline. Small model swanships hanged from the ceiling, the strong yet precise cuts revealing his husband''s chisel. "I don''t think we''ve ever lived so calm a life¡­ it''s eerie."


    "Feels like the quiet before the storm, doesn''t it?" he asked her.


    She sighed, gripping him tighter.


    "We''ll be ready this time. We were made for this," he said, his eyes alight with certainty. Small Purple fractals came alive over his hand, his breathing steady as he sought to bring forth his soul into their reality.


    "You''ve made progress," Sansa whispered, watching as his whole forearm glowed with Purple light. The fractals weaved over it, forming the outlines of a bracer and gauntlet.


    "The trick was to bring it to something physical. Something material our minds can imagine," he said, looking at his arm. The Purple was solidifying, the contours acquiring weight as Joffrey took another deep breath. He''d told her the module depicted the weight of the Purple streaming out of his own soul, surrounding it rather than holding it within. A way to bend the tune of the Song.


    "And of course the first thing you thought of was armor," she said, a chiding smile on her lips as she looked at the gauntlet. She was fascinated by the way it grew around his hand, slowly pushing hers away. It was black, sporting a million indentations so close to each other that it felt smooth to the touch; they were the fractals of the Purple, carved directly into the piece of armor in swirling patterns of right angles. Sansa swore she could glimpse stars far within the void of the dark gauntlet, the distant dots sweeping in and out of her vision as Joffrey tilted his hand. It still felt warm to her touch.


    "What are you thinking about?" she asked him.


    He smiled, "It''s hard to explain. Conversations with Captain Shah. The sound of my gauntlets striking Ser Robar during the battle in Renly''s camp. The feeling I had when I reached the peak of the Mountains of the Moon. The weight of my armor back in the Dawn Fort. My lessons with the Archmaesters; Benedict''s hands guiding my own as I held the hammer, Valleyn pointing to the stars¡­" he trailed off, looking at the gauntlet. "It feels as if I were giving voice to them. All those feelings. Experiences. Distilled into the Song right in front of me."


    Sansa caressed his hand as the gauntlet melted into nothing, her eyes finding his. They would make it right. For their friends and family, for the people they would rule.


    For all the living.


    -: PD :-


    The Pebble Lodge was a tavern in all but name ¡­ though perhaps calling it a brothel would not be incorrect either, from a Westerosi point of view. The building was held up by tall timbers over the mouth of the River Jhol; it was a homely affair of stools and tables, tall torches and thatched roofs. Half of it was bereft of walls, letting the warm breeze from the ocean carry on into its interior.


    Bonol was red faced, holding his fist over his mouth so the spittle wouldn''t hit Joffrey. "And then he said, ''tis only a little cat, Hara''!" he said.


    Joffrey slammed the table with his hand repeatedly as he struggled for air, "If that panther doesn''t kill you Zhantas then-"


    "-I will!" finished Talthas, chuckling loudly. The three of them were in one of the outdoor tables, looking out to the sapphire blue sea. The crystal clear water lapped gently against the tall timbers, rocking the tied canoes in a lullaby of creaking wood. Joffrey memorized the scene so he could paint it later.


    He knew the beautiful scenery was deceptive though. Not even the Summer Islands could be completely aloof from the end of the world, for the winter chills drew ever southwards, far in advance of the White Walker''s floating islands of ice. Raiders and Corsairs also drifted like flotsam from the north, the more desperate among them raiding the isles'' shores for supplies before making south for Sothoryos. The idea was to hug the great continent''s shoreline as they sailed south in search of warmer climates which would deter the Others. Hara had always pitied them, for all that she''d crushed their skulls more than once when they''d raided Ebonhead.


    "Hara." Joffrey chuckled, holding up his wooden mug. "Here''s to both of them."


    The other two Summer Islanders clashed their mugs with Joffrey''s, and all three downed the spicy rum in one quaff. Joffrey leaned back, the sweet spice tingling nostalgia, sorrow, and contentment. Celebrating the dead with rum was a time honored tradition in the Summer Islands, and Joffrey found the liquid oddly fitting for the task. The dead should be remembered with joy, for sorrow there was aplenty.


    They kept honoring their friends, the afternoon sun keeping the chill at bay as fishermen returned in their catamarans carrying clams, octopuses, and broad-leafed salmon. Joffrey leaned back on the pillar to his back, frowning when he heard that eerie laughter in the distance yet again.


    For all that the sound was pleasant to the ear, there was something about it that seemed deeply unnatural to Joffrey, though his friends all had blank stares when he asked them.


    "I need to pee. Don''t finish that bottle without me!" he told them.


    Bonol looked away innocently as Talthas winked at Joffrey. "I''ll keep it out of his grubby hands Joff, don''t you worry," he said.


    "Yeah, and keep it in yours," said Bonol.


    Joffrey walked through the men and women serving seafoods and carrying tall pitchers of rum or coconut wine, frowning again when he heard another run-away chuckle. He drifted past islanders embracing each other over long palm leaves that served as impromptu mattresses of sorts, sharing their passion with men, women; whoever wanted to partake in the moment. A Westerosi would liken the place to a house of pleasure, but in truth free love was a principle that was lived by in every corner of the Summer Islands. If anything, lodges were a bit more formal.


    He followed the unnatural sound through the indoor section of the Pebble Lodge as another runaway chuckle raised the hair at the nape of his neck, and turned around a wooden wall to the sight of Tywin Lannister laughing like a madman.


    He sat with two beautiful islander women perched atop his knees, the first as dark as the ebonwood around them, contrasting the much more clear nut-brown complexion of the second. Both of them were laughing wildly, red-faced as if they''d heard the best joke in existence. Tywin was dressed in islander fashion, with a cloak of bright feathers connected by a beautifully carved goldenwood brooch, worn over a more traditional doublet and ox-hide breeches. An arming sword was strapped to his belt, very similar to Joffrey''s.


    Joffrey stood there, stunned as Tywin said something that had the two women laughing again, his own deep timbered chuckle making Joffrey''s hair stand on edge. He shook his head good naturedly, gripping the ebon-dark woman''s buttocks as he leaned back, his relaxed gaze falling on Joffrey.


    He tensed, just as shocked as Joffrey as they stared at each other like gaping fish.


    Joffrey was still processing the sight of Tywin Lannister laughing when the man himself stood up, the women by his sides looking at him in confusion as he mumbled something. Joffrey was about to say something when the man suddenly bolted, making a run for the window.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Set to loop.


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    "Wait!" shouted Joffrey, breaking into a run and knocking a serving woman over, rum spilling over his doublet as Tywin leaped out the window. Joffrey reached the windowsill seconds after, watching Tywin break his fall with a perfect roll before regaining his feet and sprinting down the wide wooden bridge-street, running away from the beach and towards the tall houses of central Ebonhead.


    Joffrey leapt down one of the tall timbers instead, sliding down until he reached river-level. He sprinted through the tied canoes, long jumps carrying him from one to the other as he looked up and to his right.


    Tywin ran like a startled dear, knocking fishermen and port hands out of his way. Joffrey ran parallel to him, dodging the town''s pillars and using rows of jointly-tied canoes as an impromptu walkway. He cursed when he realized the line of tied canoes came to an end abruptly, his head swiveling widely for new targets as he refused to lose momentum and kept running. He leapt and landed on an untied one, the startled fisherman shouting at him before he jumped to another one. The next canoe tilted over as he jumped from it with all his strength, spilling both sailor and freshly caught fish into the river as he reached one of the tall timbers barely, a painful thump reverbing through his chest. He climbed upwards as the fishermen insulted his line up to three generations back, using the pillar and the discarded, tied lengths of rope as a ladder.


    "Sansa!" he shouted at the seagulls perched on the railing above him, startling them into a ruckus of shrill cries and feathers.


    This couldn''t be happening. What the hells was Tywin Lannister doing in Ebonhead?!


    He vaulted over the railing when he reached the top of the wooden walkway held by the pillar, now into the town proper as Tywin slid under a stand selling boiled clams, just a few steps in front of him. "Hey!" Joffrey shouted, running over a nearby table and scattering mugs and dishes as he used it to jump over the stall without losing speed. The Lord Paramount broke right, turning for an alleyway of sorts between two big ebonwood houses. Joffrey ducked below an angry butcher, pushed aside a startled peacock trader, and sprinted for a stack of crates. He jumped over one, then two, and finally a third as he leaped into the roof of one of the houses. The teak creaked under his feet as he scrammed after Tywin, the man making for the eastern edge of town as a wide winged pelican flew above him, periodically making out low, hoarse calls as it kept station with him.


    He leapt from roof to roof, the houses reaching dry land as the wooden boards below were replaced by sand and mud. Tywin looked behind him, his run losing speed for a second before Joffrey leapt from above, tackling him into the ground and making both of them roll with the force of the landing.


    Tywin''s expression seemed irreverent, and the mere sight made Joffrey shudder and loosen the grip on the doublet. "Come to take my head before the end of the world eh?! What did Tywin offer you? One last arselick before the Eternal Winter?!" he shouted, slamming his head against Joffrey''s nose.


    Joffrey recoiled, blindly blocking a haymaker with his right arm. He socked Tywin on the jaw with his other fist before they devolved into wrestling, spinning on the sand before they reached a deadlock of tangled arms and locked legs. He took the time to really stare at the man''s face, and frowned. It was eerily similar to Tywin''s, but seemed younger and filled with laugh lines for all that the man was scowling at him right now.


    Joffrey resisted a push to shove him aside, slamming back Tywin''s hands against the sand. His long blonde hair was braided in intricate, interlocking ponytails: southern islander fashion Tywin would have sooner killed himself than be seen sporting in public.


    "You''re not Tywin!" said Joffrey.


    "And thank the heavens for that!" said not-Tywin, speaking the common tongue with a thick Westerlands accent. "Else my diarrhea would have devalued the realm''s coin years ago!"


    "What?"


    "It''s the long-eels, very tasty but you might as well drink wildfire!" he said, using the distraction to change the lock on Joffrey''s legs and flip their positions. Joffrey went with the move, taking not-Tywin''s knee to the belly before he used the momentum to roll again and pin the man against the sand once more. He head-butted the bastard for good measure, leaving him slightly dazed.


    "Move and the sand will drink your blood, foreigner." Joffrey couldn''t see who had spoken, but he felt the edge of steel against his neck. He tilted his head minutely, spotting the same ebon skinned woman from earlier in the lodge out the corner of his eye. She held herself regally, standing tall and holding a short spear in her hands whose end could nick Joffrey''s neck in half a second.


    "Swanlord, are you unharmed?" she asked slowly, her tone far more formal than he''d heard her speak before.


    "He is, but you won''t be if you so much as scratch my husband''s skin," said Sansa, her voice coming from behind him as the woman grew tense and immobile¡­ probably feeling a dagger by the side of her neck right now.


    "Well, it seems we''re in a bit of an impasse," said not-Tywin. "And as much as your nubile body tempts me, I don''t do family... so you might as well get up and go back to Tywin with your tail tucked in."


    "You''re not Tywin," Joffrey said again, frowning.


    "Have you ever seen Tywin laugh? Seven hells, no wonder you look like you''ve seen a ghost¡­ Wait, does this mean you''re not a Lannisport cousin looking for my head on a platter?" he asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully.


    "Why would we want to curry favor with him? The Westerlands doesn''t even exist anymore," Sansa''s voice floated from behind.


    "Tywin laugh¡­ a laughing lion¡­" muttered Joffrey, staring at the awfully familiar man''s face. "Great-uncle Gerion?"


    "Surprise?" said Gerion, examining Joffrey''s face. He looked thoughtful, "Huh¡­ Great-uncle indeed. There''s no mistaking it, you look like Jaime''s spit at that age. You''re his or Cersei''s?"


    "Both," said Joffrey.


    "Oh," said Gerion.


    "Swanlord?" asked the spearwoman.


    The pelican landed next to Gerion with a thud, gazing at him closely with a beady eye.


    "It''s so uncanny," muttered Sansa. "Can you laugh one more time?"


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 61: Heralds.

    Chapter 61: Heralds."It was my greatest work. The best trick I ever played on Tywin." Gerion chuckled, leaning back on his wooden canopy chair. "It''s almost a shame he never realized how thoroughly he''d been fooled¡­"


    "So you never even set foot on fallen Valyria?" said Joffrey. He, Gerion, and Sansa were sitting back on the canopy chairs the islanders seemed to favor so much, which seemed more bed than chair to Joffrey in any case. They were resting on the Temple of Nivanze''s outer terrace, slightly tired after the long walk from Ebonhead.


    The place had a peaceful view to the west, the afternoon sun glinting slightly orange as it sought to sink beneath the Sunset Sea. The Red Comet was clearly visible by now, glowing crimson far to the North. Joffrey shuffled, scratching his neck. He wasn''t entirely confortable here¡­ For all he knew, Zhantas and Hara had died in this very room¡­


    Gerion snorted, "Valyria? Madness." He shook his head before sipping from the holed coconut in his hands. "I cared less than a rat''s arse for Brightroar and the supposed legacy of our House, may it serve as King Tommen''s tombstone¡­ though it seemed exactly the kind of idea that Tywin''s impetuous little brother would fixate on." Sitting beside him, the differences with Tywin were obvious. His features were less stern, less bundled up and locked away than his brother''s. The almost-brown tan should have been a dead giveway.


    "And what better place to ''disappear'' than Valyria?" said Sansa, smiling despite herself.


    "What better place indeed! It worked perfectly. Half my crew ''deserted'' in Volantis, making sure everyone heard we''d made it to the city and were preparing to sail east. The slaves we bought as replacement crew were manumitted two days away from the city, out of a supposed guilt attack on my part so I could ''make peace'' with the Father before risking my soul sailing into the Smoking Sea. That part of the cover story never got through though¡­ poor wretches were probably re-enslaved by the local magisters before they could spread the tale."


    "And then?" asked Joffrey.


    He leaned forward, growing more animated as he told the story. "We sailed to an abandoned bay near the Smoking Sea, where the ''deserters'' lay waiting for us. We repainted the Laughing Lion, changed the figurehead to a harpy, and cut our sails into a more triangular pattern while my carpenters changed the spread of the oars. The Laughing Lion sailed into the Smoking Sea and was never seen again, but the Zaqnak na Kamdz was just another Ghiscari trader sailing south for Walano."


    "That mustn''t have turned well when you reached Lotus Port though," Sansa said after a moment. "Islanders hate the Ghiscary and all but slavers avoid the Islands."


    Gerion chuckled, his cheeks growing a tiny bit red. "Well I didn''t know that back then. Never listened to my Maester all that much, and I was much more interested on the inhabitants'' other qualities... In the end we sorted out the misunderstanding though. Some of the crew were happy in Walano, but I wanted to put as much distance between myself and Tywin lest he learned of my presence somehow. I figured I''d make a quiet living here in Jhala, fishing out of Ebonhead or hells, maybe even entertaining the locals. That would have given Tywin a heart attack if he''d found me!"


    "Another layer of security," said Joffrey, hiding a smirk. For all that Gerion had striven to get away from Tywin''s shadow, it seemed a tiny bit of its shade still clung to him.


    "Of course, anyone that knows Gerion can see where that plan would have failed," said Nadhata as she swayed into the room, her saunter so improper even a lowly wench from fleabottom would have blushed. It made for a strange contrast to the wealth and dignity of her dress; her exposed arms were peppered with sapphires and emeralds twinned with white ebon roots, and her head was crowned by many feathers of a dozen different colors. The pattern of her long flowing dress resembled a butterfly''s; wide circles of blue and black lined with streaks of white.


    Joffrey hid a shudder. He''d always been uneasy around butterflies after Naath.


    The tall, ebon skinned High Priestess seemed much more relaxed now that Gerion was out of mortal danger, her spear lying idle by the wall. She spoke the Common Tongue with a sweet, lilting accent, "I think he tried the quiet life of the fisherman for a grand total of one week before he started making a ruckus," she said, smiling as she slid to his side by the long canopy chair and sneaked a hand under his doublet.


    Even after several years living here, Joffrey still found the easy intimacy of the Islanders bizarre. It all got even more complicated with Nadhata, as her own sexuality was a holy component of her office; a carrying out of her duties as important as a sermon was to a Septon. Gerion didn''t even flinch, embracing the High Priestess by the belly and sitting her over him.


    He''d really gone native.


    "I started sailing with the swanships of Prince Dorrol Xhox, patrolling the trade routes for corsairs and slavers. The pay was good, the company better, and I got to hold a sword again." He shivered theatrically, "I still have nightmares about searching for that damned fishing rod, spending hours diving around the bay as it slipped my fingers again." He paused, leaning towards Sansa with a furtive air as Nadhata stroked his shoulders gently, "Sometimes I dreamt I had actually sailed into the Smoking Sea, but instead of Brightroar I was searching for that blasted rod."


    Sansa laughed, "Not a fisherman''s life for you then. But how did you become Prince Dorrol''s Swanlord of all things?"


    Gerion smirked, "Why, by climbing the ladder the hard way!" he said. Soon he was explaining some of his exploits, from raunchy happenings in Lotus Town to ludicrous escapes from New Ghis and everything in between; he gained the Prince of Sweet Lotus Vale''s respect throughout the years as he was promoted to captain, then to Sail-lord, and finally to Swanlord: overall commander of all of his liege''s fleets.


    Nadhata smiled often. For all that Gerion had been living the life of an Islander, it seemed he had never been able to completely shed his Westerosi roots; half his stories involved Nadhata in some way, and it was obvious he regarded her as his wife in all but name. Gerion himself was funny, light hearted, and someone with a passion for living. He could see why Tyrion had loved him, one of the few lights within Casterly Rock as he grew up¡­


    Joffrey felt his lips thin, thinking about his own uncle. "He always remembered you, you know?" he said all of a sudden. Gerion stopped mid-sentence, mouth clamping shut. "Jaime loved you, but Tyrion always looked up to you as¡­ well, everything he could aspire to be in life," said Joffrey.


    Gerion looked troubled, "I¡­ leaving my nephews. It was the hardest part," he said, growing just a tad somber. "I almost took Tyrion with me."


    "He would have liked that," said Joffrey.


    "Did he have... a bad time, after I left?"


    Joffrey frowned, tapping the chair, "No, I wouldn''t say so. Things took a strain on him though. Without you around Tywin needed another target to discharge the family blame on, and Tyrion was the only acceptable target at hand. Jaime did what he could from what I understand, but Tyrion still had a few difficult years. Never stopped having them really, he just grew thicker skin."


    Gerion scowled, shame and anger mixing within his features.


    "You''ve already made your choices, golden one," Nadhata said in the Summer Tongue, "Do not let the past hold you." The abrupt revelation that Joffrey had been born of both his nephew''s hadn''t phased Gerion as much as this, and that spoke of a very open mind¡­ that or he''d really gone native, as he''d seen a few Islanders do.


    "I don''t regret coming here. I''ve lived a good life, far better than I could have if I''d stayed at Tywin''s side like a discount Kevan¡­ what I''ve heard from Westeros only seems to confirm that," he said, pressing his lips.


    "You don''t sound convinced," said Sansa.


    Gerion sighed, looking north. "It feels selfish sometimes. Jaime, Tyrion, Cersei¡­ I left them all as pawns to Tywin, and that was never going to end well. And that''s leaving aside this whole¡­ end of the world thing."


    Joffrey nodded. While he could understand him, he couldn''t condone what he''d done. His long lives had seen him run from Westeros a thousand times, but he would die his last death there, fighting for kith and kin.


    One last time, he thought.


    "If you''d had a chance of saving your family from the Walkers¡­ Would you have taken it?" he asked his great-uncle almost abruptly.


    "Absolutely," said Gerion, "If I''d known what to do, what was coming¡­" he trailed off, eyes lost.


    Joffrey took a sip from his own coconut wine. The Summer Islanders liked mixing their drinks inside fresh coconuts, and the sweet flavor did a lot to help him be at ease in this place. The Temple of Nivanze, whom Nadhata was High Priestess of, was the place where the people of Sweet Lotus Vale often came for their Last Rites. The stone-and-mahogany temple boasted several floors with wide open windows; altars of lovemaking where the people would eat poisonous fruits and die making love to each other.


    Nadhata often guided the ritual, especially for those marginalized by mainstream Islander society for one reason or the other; those who found themselves alone with no one to die with often came to Nadhata herself. She took to that task with transcendent fervor, guiding their souls to death through ecstasy, herself an instrument of divine mandate so that her people could die on their terms.


    And not on those of the Walkers.


    Joffrey accommodated his doublet, warding off the cold chill coming from the sea.


    "Father! Father!" shouted big Tytos, running through the dirt trail that connected the beach to the terrace. He looked enormous for his sixteen namedays, showing the height and girth of a Summer Islander. Of course, the long lines of Lannister gold that flew behind him as he ran, of a color with his eyebrows, gave away his heritage. Gerion''s jaw was unmistakable too.


    "Found another ribbed octopus?" Gerion asked with a smile as the couple reached the terrace. Tytos'' big sister Mdeta ran close behind, flushed from the long run. She seemed the polar opposite of Tytos, her skin as fair as Myrcella''s but with hair as frizzled and wavy as a dark coral reef.


    "Father, it''s a ship. Dark lanteen sails, heading for the beach below!" said Tytos.


    "Ghiscary." Gerion said the word as if it were a curse. He scrambled to his feet as Nadhata got up and grabbed her spear.


    "My love, we need to secure the Temple," she said urgently.


    "Go, and tell my Honorguard to help you!"


    "What about you?!"


    "Nephew, how good are you with that sword?" he said instead, looking at Joffrey.


    Joffrey had stood up already, his arming sword in his hand as he craned his neck, working out the stiffness after lying in the canopy for chair too long. "Good enough," he said.


    "We''ll buy you time to prepare the Temple, I''ll meet you there!" Gerion said, looking at Nadhata.


    She stared at him for a second before shaking her head, "You can get the man out of Westeros¡­" she said with an irritated smile. She threw her spear to Sansa before vaulting the railing behind them and running up the sloped trail for the temple proper.


    "Tytos-" Gerion cut himself off when his son took a heavy ebonwood shield from below the chair where he''d been laying an hour ago, a bastard sword of distinct Westerosi make in his other hand. His sister stood by his side, taking a long string from her pouch.


    "We''re going," he said with those defiant green eyes which must have confronted every Lannister father in history¡­


    All except one, thought Joffrey, shaking his head as Sansa tested the weight of the short stabbing spear. "Must be raiders. Anything else and they''d be heading for Ebonhead," she said.


    "Agreed. We can delay them on the beach. If we give ''em a bloody nose, they may turn back," said Joffrey.


    Gerion nodded, "Let''s go!" he said, taking out his own arming sword and dashing down the path. Joffrey followed him, buffeting aside wide leaves of green and white, blue feathered birds squeaking in surprise and flying out of their way.


    They broke out of the rainforest at a run, and Joffrey shielded his eyes from the sun as he spotted the Ghiscary galley. There was still time to contest the beachhead. Even a handful of men could hold it, depending on the number of boats launched from the invading ship.


    He immediately knew something was wrong however, spotting the slashed sails and the barely moving oars. They seemed disordered, most of them not even paddling water and merely moving in circles around the air.


    "Helmsman must be drunk¡­" said Gerion, shielding his eyes as well. The ship wasn''t even making for the beach, just kind of drifting towards the shoreline. "She''ll break on those reefs by the north," he said, pointing to the right side of the beach.


    "Sansa, can you peer ahead?" Joffrey asked his wife.


    She planted the spear on the sand by his side, and let out a long breath of air as she joined her hands over belly. Her eyes closed as the wind picked up, calming her mind as she listened for the Song. The power afforded by Varys'' blood had run out long ago, but the Purple was plentiful and a force orders of magnitude stronger than mere mortal blood.


    Gerion said nothing as he eyed her, his gaze quickly returning to the ship. "No watchmen either," he said. Tytos seemed more nervous, shuffling with the strap of his dark shield as he stared at Sansa sideways. He held his weapons in the classical sword and board style of the Seven Kingdom''s, like a knight would.


    The swirling vortex of distorted light slowly expanded into a small circle in front of Sansa, Purple fractals clinging around the air as if that section of reality was a painting, a flat space with no depth. The circle revealed the darkened hold of the Ghiscary ship, skeletons shuffling against each other and scraping pieces of rotten flesh whenever they clashed against the unmanned oars.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Set to loop.


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    "Wights," hissed Sansa.


    "What?! So far south?" said Gerion.


    "Any Walkers?" Joffrey shouted over the grave droning of the circle.


    "None that I can see!" said Sansa.


    Mdeta gasped, shaking her eyes from Sansa and the shimmering lights. She seemed the most stunned by far, but she turned to Gerion quickly anyway, "Father, does that mean Walano-"


    "No, we would have known."


    "It''s going to crash!" Joffrey shouted.


    The Ghiscary ship kept leaning towards its side as a gust of wind inflated its ragged sails, the derelict smashing into the reefs a hundred meters from the beach. It wailed like a wounded kraken as it tore through another jagged rock, water flooding the lower compartments as it sank and tilted sideways towards the beach. It grounded itself between dark red corals, wights shrieking to the wind as they tumbled overboard and splashed against the crystal waters of the Summer Sea.


    "We should get back to the Temple, we''ll be overwhelmed," said Gerion.


    "No, they''ll catch us in the rainforest. We make our stand here!" said Joffrey.


    Gerion''s sight leapt from Joffrey to Sansa, and back again as his face paled. "You''ve fought them before?"


    "A hundred times!"


    The wights scuttled towards the beach like spiders, obscuring themselves with all the splashing water that couldn''t quite hide their eerie blue eyes. Gerion cursed, shaking his head, "Command us then!"


    Joffrey didn''t waste time as he turned to Gerion''s daughter. "Mdeta! Aim for the chests or the eyes if you can!" he shouted as more wights emerged from the holes in the ship, others crawling out of storm hatches.


    Mdeta nodded frantically, taking a step forward and disentangling the goldenheart longbow from her back. She nocked a long shafted arrow taken from the quiver tied to her belt, the steel tip glinting in the afternoon sun as she drew the bow. She took a deep breath as she aimed up and slightly to her left, holding that position for a second before letting go with a grunt.


    The broadhead slammed into one of the scuttling wight''s eyes with surprising force, tossing it back beneath the waves. It floated back up, inanimate as Mdeta drew again.


    "We''ll countercharge as soon as they reach the shoreline, covering each other''s backs! We can''t let them form up!" shouted Joffrey. Wights were not as stupid as the uninitiated often thought; they were capable of basic tactical thinking beyond a straight charge, when it suited them. Those wights would reach the beach and form up, waiting for their brethren before the charge¡­ they would have to bring the fight to them. "Tytos, take the front and use that shield! Gerion will cover your flank while Mdeta keeps shooting! Sansa¡­" he trailed off when he looked at her.


    "Shove and kill, dear?" asked his wife, feeling the length of the spear with her hands.


    "You know me." Joffrey smiled.


    She snorted, twirling her spear into a low guard.


    Mdeta tore the jaw off the lead wight with another arrow, but it kept scrambling for them. They were Ghiscary alright, sporting corsair cutlasses and boarding axes.


    How to explain this?! Joffrey thought as the wights reached the beach, feet sinking into the sand as they fought against the waves.


    "Don''t worry about the sorcery!" he shouted, holding back a bit of hysterical laughter at the absurdity. Sansa was still keeping an eye out for Walkers, though there didn''t seem to be any. Joffrey waited until the first wights shambled into the beach, soaked to the bones as their comrades behind trundled over knee-high water. "Now!" He roared as he charged, materializing Brightroar and illuminating the hungering faces with Purple.


    His arming sword parried the cutlass as Brightroar cleaved the offending wight''s chest in two, still running as he spun and slammed the arming sword against the next wight''s skull, this time Brightroar parrying the axe before cutting off the dead man''s hand.


    He was soon in the thick of it, charging left and right as the wights reached the shoreline and he pummeled them back into the sand. Soon they began to surround him, but Sansa was Joffrey''s own shadow, shoving wights back with her spear''s blade and butt. She held it above her head as Joffrey crouched slightly and she thrust at a flanking wight, shoving it back into the water. She spun with her husband, switching to a low guard and slamming the length of wood down a wight''s neck like a hook, pushing it down where Joffrey cut his neck with a backswing of Brightroar . They were back to back as she tripped a wight and slammed its skull against the sand with the butt of her spear, quickly reversing the grip and hitting another one which sought to attack Joffrey from his blind spot.


    Tytos had charged the arriving wights like a bull, slamming aside the first one with his shield and bringing down his sword on top of another one, sundering its head. His bastard sword seemed more like an axe as it tore through two wights cleanly, leaving only one that sought to ram its cutlass through Tytos'' chest. He covered himself just in time though, taking the blow and using the kite shield as an anvil against his own sword as he cut off the wight''s arm brutally. Gerion was by his side, fighting like a veteran sailor would; one handed sword parrying and slashing, his other hand grappling and tossing wights aside and against each other.


    More wights reached the shoreline, shrieking in pain and hatred as they climbed the beach and emerged from the waves, scrabbling at the sand. Joffrey felt like an apprentice under Archmaester Benedict again, though instead of hammering steel he struck the skulls and spines of crawling wights, one standing up for every other he took down. One wight made it past Sansa''s constant over watch, ducking under her spear and slamming against Joffrey. It tackled him from the side and against the muck, arming sword tumbling out of his hand.


    ''The Watchers of Stars.'' He heard Shah''s voice in his mind. He breathed in the smell of the Riverlands, the blood scurrying over the torn grain fields as soldiers made a pyre for Lord Darry''s men. He felt the inescapable weight of the Dawn Commander''s Armor. Wide eyed Onerays stood up and saluted, fists thumping against their chests.


    He wrestled with the wight as his arms glowed Purple, fractals drawing long vambraces of darkest black, the color of the night sky. He struck the wight with one of his gauntlets, scraping flesh and bone with the three feline claws of dark metal melded over the knuckles. The piece felt as heavy as steel plate, but Joffrey moved as if he were unarmored, rolling with the wight and slamming his fist down on its shoulder joint, tearing it apart and severing an arm.


    He blocked its clattering jaw with his other arm as it bit the bracer, blue eyes alight before a goldenwood arrow destroyed its skull as it zipped by, shards of bone cutting his face and peppering the sand.


    Joffrey shoved the corpse aside as he rolled, avoiding an axe to the chest as Sansa roared and broke the offending wight''s spine with the hardwood of her spear, shadowblade extending from her right wrist and slicing through another one as she followed him, her cover growing frantic.


    The whole crew must have died almost at the same time, else they would have thrown the bodies overboard.


    Joffrey could imagine it, a silent blizzard of hale and snow numbing the watchmen and making sure the sleeping seamen would never wake again. He rolled under another blow, his legs tangling the wight and making it fall to the side.


    He saw Mdeta retreat backwards as four wights sprinted around him and Sansa. She nailed one at point blank range, shattering its ribcage as the other three reached her.


    Joffrey let out a long breath of air as Stars formed out of dust and Purple, ramming the wights like a runaway mining cart and tearing one of them apart under his paws. Mdeta shuffled backwards, stunned, but her hands kept moving and she drew again, getting the surviving wight in the neck and making its skull fall to the sand, blue eyes still alight. She seemed to be whispering the same words over and over as she nocked again, looking at Joffrey.


    Joffrey was already on his feet, retreating with Sansa as wights surrounded them. Gerion and Tytos were almost at their side, fighting their way back to Mdeta and Stars as well, overwhelmed by the entire crew of a Ghiscary corsair. "Joff, There''s too many of them!" shouted Sansa. She never stopped moving, her spear in constant motion and her shadowblades occasionally emerging from her wrists, cutting those that got too close.


    She was right, they just kept coming in two''s and three''s out of the waves, threatening to overwhelm them all. Joffrey groaned lowly as he hacked a wight apart with both swords, swinging wildly as another wight tried to grabble him. They couldn''t die, not yet, not here with his uncle and his cousins right by his sides.


    No, thought Joffrey, the weight over his body growing greater. For all the living.


    The Purple blackness over his arms began to crawl upwards, covering his shoulders with pauldrons of defiant, roaring lionheads made of raw, green copper-


    "Protect the Swanlord!" Joffrey heard Nadhata roar before he turned. She led two dozen men of Gerion''s Honorguard as they emerged from the rainforest in a line, charging with goldenwood shortbows. The Summer Islanders were clad in tough, feathered serpent leather; the big snake heads served as helmets and each was crowned with three arm-long red feathers. They loosed a volley as they ran, bringing down half as many wights before switching to small buckler shields and ebonwood clubs tipped with steel, smashing into the wights around Gerion''s family with an oddly stuttering battlecry.


    Nadhata was at the forefront of the charge, a short stabbing spear in her hands as she parried and struck the offending wight, the Honorguard slamming into the wights like charging giants against a spear levy. Each of them towered over the dead Ghiscary, maces ripping apart limbs and tough hardwood sandals crunching down skulls and chests.


    The skirmish turned against the wights as their numbers diminished, their swarming tactics growing ineffective under the shield wall of sorts which now formed around Gerion. Joffrey and Sansa used the formation as an anvil, hammering the wights against it until only broken wrecks remained.


    Gerion wiped blood off the long gash by his cheek, obsessively checking over Tytos and Mdeta for wounds. Tytos tried to pry him off, but Mdeta was still a bit shocked. They all bore bites and scratches, but nothing that seemed life threatening. Joffrey absently noted to clean and bind the wounds later, to prevent infection.


    "¡­ Good enough?" Gerion asked Joffrey as Mdeta hugged him, the Honorguard securing the beach and killing any wight still moving.


    "He can be a tad modest at times," said Sansa, a rueful smile on her lips as she leaned on her spear, catching her breath.


    "Traitor," Joffrey told her, hiding a smirk. He smashed a crawling wight''s head with Brightroar, the blade shearing halfway through the rotten Ghiscary and refracting the sun''s light over the ocean in long lines of gold. The green pauldrons dissipated so quickly he almost thought he''d imagined them. s?a??h th? N0v?lFire(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Is that¡­ is that Brightroar?!" asked his great-uncle.


    "It really does shine gold," muttered Tytos, the Honorguard giving Joffrey and Sansa a wide berth.


    By far the most stunned of the gathering was Nadhata though. She''d walked up to the couple almost in a trance, staring at them before she dropped her spear as Joffrey''s vambraces dissipated in a kaleidoscope of Purple fractals.


    Patterns within patterns, thought Joffrey. The battlefields varied, the reasons changed, the times twisted, but the core truth of war always remained. A cycle within his lives even as his struggle repeated through time, following in turn the cycle of the Long Night. Wheels within wheels. He shook his head. Battle always left him a bit melancholic.


    "Nadhata?" Sansa asked as Stars tilted his head in confusion.


    Joffrey realized he''d been staring at the High Priestess, Brightroar still in his hands as the wight below stopped struggling. Where those tears in her eyes?


    She dropped to one knee, the bright sapphires and emeralds shining under the sun as she crossed her arms over her chest and grabbed her shoulders.


    "Harsi Ma Bewa," she gasped reverently.


    Joffrey didn''t understand the conjugation. He looked at Gerion with a frown, but his uncle''s gaze lay frozen over Brightroar, mouth moving silently like a gasping turtle.


    It was Mdeta who answered the unspoken question though. She whispered the words she''d been repeating since she''d seen Joffrey unleash the Purple, then translated them to the Common Tongue. "It means Heralds of the End," she whispered.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 62: Sunray.

    Chapter 62: Sunray.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    Nadhata guided them through the slope, moving branches out of the way with gentle hands. The trail seemed seldom used, the ground beneath it reclaimed by weeds and flowers. Sansa and Joffrey followed her lead, the rainforest quiet.


    "Have you ever been to Tall Trees Town?" she asked, breaking the silence.


    "Once, though we didn''t stay long," said Sansa.


    Joffrey remembered the throngs of people most of all, moving like waves of ants over hanging bridges, entire districts built over the Talking Trees like hanging, overripe fruits.


    "The history of our people is written over the trunks, depicting our heroes and our villains. Our shames and our glories. Around the most ancient trees entire temples have sprung, guarding the tales of the very first islanders," said Nadhata. She wore her full regalia, a princess of the rainforest returning to some sacred domain.


    Joffrey placed his hand on the branch she''d been holding, holding it in turn for Sansa. The long vine was filled with white flowers and coarse to the touch, red headed ants traversing its length and driven by some collective, unknowable purpose.


    "There''s a near-forgotten grove, deep within Walano. Only the High Priests of each Princedom know of it, though it does not really guard a secret. More of a by now discarded addition to the tales of the Days of Snow."


    "It''s carved, isn''t it?" asked Sansa.


    Nadhata ducked under a low hanging branch and a small violet-furred monkey the size of Joffrey''s hand. It looked down at them with curious eyes as they lowered their heads, extending its hand to touch Joffrey''s hair as he passed.


    "It was," she said. "It spoke of a time long gone by. It is the root of the prophecy which every Islander knows since childhood, though most regarded it as mere myth before the dead rose¡­ There is something different about that tree though. It''s not a Talking Tree."


    From one moment to the next, the sun shone from above. Joffrey covered his eyes as they emerged into a clearing, almost to the peak of the big hill. In between the sharp afterimage of the sun, right in the middle of it, laid a Weirwood Heart Tree; so pale it almost looked like a White Ebon tree. Its shadow stretched over the clearing; a massive, gnarled twisting of wood reaching high to the air. It was one of the biggest Weirwood trees Joffrey had ever seen.


    "It''s one much like this one," said Nadhata. A big overhang lay just behind it, protecting it from the northern winds. A cave breathed from the overhang, gusts of hot air rustling the red leaves periodically. The wind caressed Joffrey''s skin, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on edge as he saw the face carved on the Weirwood.


    Even though it lay battered by the ages, Joffrey could see it was a woman, scarred and old looking. A long gash ran through her eyebrow, reaching her eye and mangling her cheek. Her hair was long and straight, a shroud over her face that couldn''t hide the penetrating gaze of her eyes. Joffrey couldn''t move, staring at her as she gazed back, her eyes speaking to his heart.


    They seemed haunted. Determined. Righteous. Sorrowful. Regretful. Victorious. They held a weight bigger than the oceans. Lighter than a feather. The weight of life. Of life lived. Of life understood. Of life cherished.


    Of life slain.


    Joffrey realized he was standing by the face''s side, cupping its cheek. They were family.


    "Azor Azhai," he whispered.


    "The Last Hero," said Sansa as she kneeled by its side, her fingers tracing the flowing script surrounding it, twirling throughout the entire tree. It seemed illegible, degraded beyond meaning.


    "Harsi Ma Bewa," said Nadhata.


    "How did you know it was us?" he asked her, still looking at the face of his predecessor, the incarnation of his soul thousands of years ago.


    Nadhata''s voice came from behind him like the warm wind from the cave, "She will return, twice embodied and holding her soul in her hands, a change in the great rhythm as she unleashes it upon the warriors of the End. Twined souls travelling through the great circle, walking as one, theirs to live forever before the End, until the final death snows within..." She trailed off, the wind from the cave rustling the red leaves again. "¡­ Only oral remnants of the words remain, but that was what lay carved on these trees... or so it has been whispered, throughout the ages."


    He could hear Nadhata walking towards them. "Most of all, it was the way you looked. I had seen that gaze a million times before. In Walano before the Secret Grove. In Omburu below the Dead Tree¡­ and here."


    "You knew of the Cycle¡­ you knew the Last Hero, Azor Ahai, Nissa Nissa, Harsi Ma Bewa, whatever you want to call he or her¡­" Joffrey trailed off, shaking his head, "You knew she''d return. You know it can be stopped!"


    "Most in the priesthood think the Eternal Winter is inevitable. Inescapable," said Nadhata, walking past them and towards the cave. "These few rags of oral tradition but hopeful fabrications intended to sooth the souls of those who would live when the time came¡­" she whispered.


    She stopped by the cave''s entrance, a hand over the rough stone as she closed her eyes. "Only a few still held hope, clinging to old legends, awaiting her return¡­ and I¡­ I lost that hope, long ago," she said, shame shadowing her voice.


    Joffrey and Sansa followed her, entering the cave and descending down long tunnels of natural stone. Luminescent mushrooms guided the way, illuminating the cave network with soft green light.


    Joffrey found himself staring at skulls, dozens of them lining the roughly chiseled walls as they entered a primitively carved cavern system, the roots of the sand-white Heart Tree snaking around them. The skulls looked small and sunken, with eye sockets bigger than any human skull he''d seen before.


    "The Eternal Children dwelt here, once. Some say they chose this place as a home because of its unique connection to the bones of the earth, to serve as a watchtower against the northern winds. Others whispered it was the only place where they could live and not wither¡­. " said Nadhata, passing a hand over the skulls. The long feathers over her head scraped the ceiling, tiny bits of moss clinging to them before the cave expanded into a great dome of rough stone.


    "A watchtower?" Joffrey asked her.


    "A Heart Tree erected in a place from where they could keep their vigil, surveying the lands to the Far North for the Long Night''s return," she said.


    Sansa frowned, tapping one of the Heart Tree''s roots. They twisted all around the cavern, great guts of pale wood twinned with each other and cupping them all within. This Heart Tree seemed bigger than even the one in Winterfell. "A vigil peering North¡­" she muttered, grasping one of the roots tightly.


    "Those who watched over this place are long gone, but I¡­ I hoped you could use this place," said Nadhata, "The Rite of Last Love will soon take me as well, but if you can learn something of use here then maybe¡­ maybe I can atone," said Nadhata, though Joffrey barely heard the last few words. She''d spoken them only to herself.


    Atone to the dead and the soon to be¡­


    "The Greendream¡­ Meera often said Greenseers communed with the Heart Trees, glimpsing visions of the past¡­" said Sansa.


    Joffrey knew what she was thinking a second before she spoke. "Meera said you may have the gift, dear, but you''re no trained Greenseer," he said.


    "But I know the Second Sight. And if this Heart Tree was used to spy the Far North, maybe we could find the place Joff. The place where the Red Comet''s power converges."


    Nadhata pressed her lips, "Mehllo and some of the other priests would have been of more use. They knew the Long Dream much better than I do¡­ but they all set out to find the Heralds years ago, when the dead began crossing the Narrow Sea into Essos. They are all probably dead right now..." she whispered as she sat over a low root, guilt choking her.


    ''And it was me who found you,'' Joffrey filled in the unsaid in the privacy of his own mind. The way she''d said it though, it almost sounded as if Nadhata was a Greenseer herself¡­


    "You can still help us," said Sansa, kneeling in front of her and grabbing her hands. "Bring us into the dream, Nadhata. Carry us as far as you can."


    Nadhata reared back, stunned. "Me? Guide the Heralds¡­" she whispered. She shook her head after a long silence, closing her eyes. "My will was not¡­ is not enough. I am not worthy."


    Joffrey paced around the great cavern, hands behind his back. Even if they convinced Nadhata to guide them¡­


    "And then?" Joffrey asked his wife.


    "I search for the Cycle''s power with the Second Sight."


    Joffrey breathed in sharply, "This is a bit beyond replacing blood with the Purple''s energy, Sansa. We don''t know what the hells will happen if we bring something powered by the Purple into¡­" he trailed off, disbelief coloring his voice as he turned back to the nexus of roots, "The Old Gods," he finished.


    "Do you think the risks outweigh the benefits?" she asked him.


    There was no recrimination in the question, only honesty. It hanged in the air, and Joffrey closed his eyes as he thought about it rationally. There was no plausible reason why the Red Comet would interfere, but there was always a risk¡­ as he well knew.


    "They don''t," he said, leaving the specter of his errors behind.


    Sansa nodded as she turned to Nadhata, still kneeling in front of her. "The Long Night can be stopped, but we need to find its place of power first, the place where the Red Comet first infused its warriors during the First War for Dawn and still does today. We''ll need you to carry us into the Greendream though¡­ I don''t know how," she said.


    Nadhata opened her eyes, gazing back at Sansa and sharing unspoken words. The ceiling dripped with condescend air; eerie patches of hanging water which took minutes to finally let go off the ceiling. One of them dripped over Joffrey''s hair, and he felt the warm, slick droplet with his hand.


    He wondered if the moss would survive the Long Night, or if they would give way to the Cycle as well; even the little patches of life an affront to the Red Comet''s purpose.


    "They died and I lived¡­" she whispered.


    "Then make that sacrifice not be in vain," Sansa whispered back.


    A veil of formality descended upon Nadhata as she regarded his wife, and Joffrey could see a familiar glint of steel in her gaze as the High Priestess of Sweet Lotus Vale rose to her feet. "It will be my honor," she said after a moment, her figure carrying out a bow both slow and regal with meanings beyond Joffrey''s understanding. He knew enough to tell it was part-apology, to dead comrades and old dreams.


    The feathers of her dress billowed gently with the warm air of the deeper caverns, and her stride was sure as she approached the great knot of roots directly below the Heart Tree.


    "Heralds, hold unto my hands. Grab the roots with the other."


    They did so. They were like a human chain linking two of the Heart Tree''s roots together, with Nadhata right in the middle.


    "Don''t be distracted by what was, it will make you drift away. Be like an arrow shot from a Goldenheart bow; hungering for its target and nothing more," she said, her solemn voice rebounding inside the cavern.


    "Understood," said Joffrey, taking deep breaths as he centered himself. He could feel Sansa through the Purple, doing the same as she prepared.


    "I''m ready," said his wife.


    "I''ll release you within the Dream. Don''t lose yourselves." Nadhata took in gasp of air, her eyes turning white as Joffrey felt himself fall from within. He let go, like a stone splashing against the water and sinking to the depths, the shock of the cold sea nothing to him.


    -: PD :-


    The flashes of timelessness were less disorientating than the sudden stops. Sansa felt as if she were standing upon the greatest of trees, looking upon the greatest of valleys. Winding rivers roared below her, and their whispers in the wind were almost overwhelming, their power almost drowning. She managed to keep herself coherent as she felt Joffrey''s presence by her side, her constant companion through life and death.


    Look, she felt him say. The horizon of her sight was shrinking slowly, a great curtain of white slowly enveloping the world and clouding it beyond.


    Where is it? She thought as she opened her eyes to the Second Sight and tried to peer beyond the white curtain, seeking the source of its power. The Greendream grew impossibly sharp and turbulent at the same time, but the horizon kept shrinking at a steady pace. She realized it was the world itself, growing dim with the passing of the Cycle.


    The Walkers did something to the Song. It turned mute under their passing; the melody of existence growing lesser and frayed under the white weight.


    It won''t be enough, she thought. The latent power of her own blood didn''t hold a candle against the might of the Red Comet, and so Sansa drew sustenance from the Purple itself, bringing it forth just as she''d done in Carcosa. Purple fractals flooded the vale with power a thousand times stronger than Sorcerer''s blood as the Pillars emerged like mirages in the desert; eternally tall structures chipped and scarred, growing from the edges of her vision as the Greendream trembled in recognition and buckled under the influx of power.


    Something''s wrong, whispered Joffrey, and she felt Nadhata''s presence fade as the rivers of memory below suddenly churned, leaping at them and carrying a familiar hum.


    Screams and dreams and colors of a thousand hues streamed past the edges of Sansa''s vision in an instant. Prayers and pleas so quick that they seemed gusts of wind, all but forgotten under the heel of time. She felt her belly drop, as if she''d jumped from Winterfell''s First Keep. She blinked, and it all stopped in front of a single image. A two hander made of Valyrian Steel, dripping with blood as a caring hand pressed a piece of cloth against the blade, cleaning it throughout its length. Sansa stared at the hand, hypnotized at it made its way to the end of the sword.


    It was Ice.


    "Father?" she said, looking up to see the young visage of Eddard Stark like she''d never seen him before. Young; haunted eyes not yet hidden beneath ice.


    It was over in a second, a mind numbing wrench of speed and existence carrying her forward as she heard that familiar hum of power again. It echoed of life and death, of wheels within wheels. It echoed Purple.


    A great fortification of tall towers and foreboding gates came into view as the God''s Eye ran red with blood. It was as if the lake itself were feeding on it, great streams of the crimson substance swirling around the island that was their vantage point.


    The enormous castle in the distance was burning; great stone towers seemed to melt and tumble to the ground as three dragons soared overhead, setting Ironborn archers aflame and making them leap over the walls to land on ground or lake.


    Either would end their agony.


    Harrenhal, she heard Joffrey whisper by her side. They had been carried back in time, the Greendream tugging them almost like a roped weight. But why?


    She focused on the familiar hum. It was almost lost between the screams of the dying and the roars of Balerion, but she could hear it all the same. It echoed in time like a newly opened wound, resonating beyond them¡­ and within.


    Likeness calls to Likeness, she whispered. It was an elemental principle of all the magic''s she''d seen or studied¡­ so why not the Purple''s?


    Sansa stilled her heart, closing her eyes to the image of death and destruction. She opened her soul again, bringing the Purple into the vision and themselves. The image of Harrenhall''s fall was suddenly tinged with soaring lines, crisscrossing its edges as she heard the thrum of the Purple coalescing around them.


    She strained to hear the Purple''s echo in time; their soul before it had inhabited their bodies. She drove herself towards it, following the echoes and guiding Joffrey towards them. To her astonishment, he seemed to be carrying his own self, his presence calm and serene. Time sped up beneath their gaze, faces and prayers and weather storming through her awareness like rainwater. It felt familiar, the dragging of their souls backwards against the pull of existence, and Sansa realized they''d done this before.


    A thousand times, and more, said Joffrey, and she could almost hear the wan smile on his lips.


    The Greendream shook, a chorus of a million voices calling out in agony as time slowed to a crawl and a man''s face loomed over their vision. He was holding an iron axe in each hand, his face and chest completely covered in bloodied script that had scarred. Sansa was entranced as she gazed at the lines and lines of script carved into the man''s chest, puffing up as he roared. Around the tree men bled out, dead or dying as more warriors flooded Sansa''s sight and killed and maimed like Wildling berserkers of old.


    Father give me Faith. Warrior give me Strength. Stranger give me Death, she said, reading the star-shaped script carved on the axe-wielder''s forehead.


    They sped away before the man''s axe struck the Heart Tree, forcing themselves through the chorus of death and pain and using the Purple''s echo like a lifeline.


    Joffrey? Thought Sansa, but the man in front of her was not her husband. He had a likeness to him though; stone faced as Joffrey was wont to do when he brooded. He stood by the side of the Heart Tree with a bronze shortsword by his belt, a retinue of warriors around him clad in bronze lamellar and wielding short spears.


    A half dozen small children with abnormally large heads and wide eyes crawled around the Heart Tree, securing the man which hanged from one of the branches, tied to his wrists. He was of long brown hair, eyes as sharp as a hawk''s as he gazed down below.


    "You didn''t have to tie me, I give my blood willingly to the Gods," he said in the rasping Old Tongue.


    Not-Joffrey walked to the man, and as he neared Sansa realized he was different too. An aquiline nose and sharp features marred what should have been smooth lines, but the golden hair and the uniquely steely-green eyes were undoubtedly Lannister. "I should have given you to the lions. Feeding the Gods is too much an honor for you," he said, eyes filled with hate.


    "Did my daughter convince you otherwise?" asked the hanging man, a mocking tone to his words.


    "No, she wanted to toss you to Goldenheart herself," said Not-Joffrey, enjoying the slight jerk of surprise that moved the hanging man like a diminutive pendulum.


    "May the crows eat your eyes out. May the worms drink your blood and leave none to the Dream. I curse you Lann, son of Tatyah. I curse you with my last breath," rasped the man.


    Lann''s face twisted in anger, and Sansa could hear the distant roaring of lions, echoing throughout the dream like enraged behemoths. One of them shoved aside the awaiting retinue with its golden mane, roaring at the tied man like a tempest. Lann raised his hand and silenced the lion with a wave, still looking at him. He shook his head, standing back.


    "Dust-Which-Shadows-Death. I bring blood for the Gods," he said, voice oddly fornal as he looked to his side, the dream whispering understanding to Sansa and filling the gaps in her knowledge of the Old Tongue. She realized he''d addressed one of the Children of the Forest; her long, mossy hair almost touching the ground as she bowed in acknowledgment. She was wearing a dress of blood-red leaves, covering her almost completely.


    "Your clan will fall! Do you hear me Lann?!" shouted the man as Lann and his warriors turned and walked away, the lion following them after looking back one more time, "They will! A year from now! A decade! A century! Time swallows all! Time shackles all--" his screaming turned into gurgling as Dust-Which-Shadows-Death climbed the Heart Tree and slit his throat with a knife made of obsidian. The other Children hung upside down from the other branches as they cut open his stomach with expert cuts, feeding the Heart Tree with his entrails.


    She realized they''d stayed too long in the vision, and the edges frayed as she pulled again.


    If I had bled and tortured my enemies in front of a Heart Tree, would I have been considered righteous by my ancestors? She felt Joffrey whisper.


    Their minds were twinned together as they reached for that distant echo once more and the Greendream grew parched, slippery to the fingers. They pulled as they''d done to escape the Red Comet, though this time their minds soaring backwards towards it as she felt an ominous tingle.


    The Greendream grew more and more unstable as the distant square towers atop Casterly Rock were reduced to nothing and forests reclaimed the great hill, the seasons passing like lighting as the scenery changed. A Giant kneeled in front of the tree, looking at it with suspicion as he left his great stone-headed hammer by the side, lifting up snow with its impact. Grey-eyed men rode direwolves into the clearing, and Children of the Forest looking solemnly at the Heart Tree''s face. She felt this Heart Tree had always been meant to peer northwards, but the unexpected resonance of the Purple also made the Greendream carry her backwards, backwards to the time it had first seen the Purple.


    A village of seal catchers screamed as Red enveloped them. A group of hunters shuddered as they heard something, turning from the bear carcass at their feet just as its eyes opened again. A man stood over a frozen hill so far to the north that only a barren wasteland of snow covered dunes remained. He frowned as his eyes scanned the horizon, looking at the red aurora that covered his field of view. It shrieked towards him in a second, and he didn''t have time to scream as his limbs were filled with red, his flesh melting apart as the Red cradled him gently.


    Further, thought Sansa, shivering as she reached for the echo which was now an ear-splitting roar of existence, the dream fraying as she tasted Purple.


    -: PD :-


    The great barren field stretched as far as the eye could see; a snow-filled wasteland topped by the occasional dune, not a living being in sight. A lone mountain glittered in the night, and Joffrey could breathe the chilled air as if he were there.


    It was growing colder.


    There was a Heart Tree by his side, gnarled and bent, almost hidden between the dunes; a silent witness to what was to come. The silence was eerie, and he trembled as he held Sansa close for there was no longer an echo; he could feel the Purple right here as the air kept getting colder; a subtly worming presence that shadowed a lumbering titan, a reaching hand grasping for this place.


    He realized he was not gazing at a mountain, but at a crystal palace so large it''s size paralyzed him. It was wider by far than Ebonhead, wider than all the cities of Westeros. Wider than Volantis and Braavos and Lorath and Yin and ancient Zamettar combined. It was a hollow dome with pillars that reached high to the sky, a glittering newborn glowing red in the midst of the white wasteland as he felt the heavy hand of the Cycle. The Red Comet was so far away it wasn''t visible to the naked eye, perhaps not even to a Citadel Far-Eye, but Joffrey could feel it awakening all the same. He could feel its dread weight as it reached for the frozen ground from beyond the sun''s orbit, sculpting a mesmerizing vista of crystal in front of his very eyes.


    Joffrey realized he was watching the beginning of the First War for Dawn; the Cycle awakening and building something in anticipation of the Red Comet''s arrival, thousands of years from now.


    Each pillar that surrounded the hollow dome beneath was as thick as King''s Landing, leaving gaps just as wide between each other and forming a grand, hollow circle between them all. The crystal pillars were crowned in light; reefs in a sea of energy that looked like a red aurora descending from the heavens. The crystal pillars were like fixed sails catching the might of the distant comet; red lines that warped reality itself seemed to traverse the heights, reaching down to the enormous, concave crater at the bottom of the newly created structure.


    More than the otherworldly sight, more than the shadows shuffling within it, Joffrey was struck numb by the muteness of the place. Here the Song faltered, and Silence reigned in its stead. The sheer wrongness of it choked him, a temple erected to the worship of nonexistence; a quiet drowning of all that was.


    What is reality with no one to experience it? He thought as he gazed at the Crystal Palace. He could feel the Purple surge into existence as well, its patterns and fractals streaking in between the red aurora and disappearing like mist.


    The Cycle was not yet mighty enough to end life¡­ but when the Red Comet completed the long journey and its gimlet eye stared down into the Far North, into this silent temple¡­ then, Joffrey knew, there would be no hope.


    He took in a harrowing breath of air, trembling as he tried to stand up. He fell on his side, realizing he was holding Sansa''s hand instead of Nadhata''s. He used his grip on the roots as support, shaking his head like a dazed dog as he tried to remember where he was.


    "I could feel your presence diminishing, witnessing the passing of the ages," said Nadhata, awe writ clear on her face. "What did you see?" she asked, by their side in an instant.


    Sansa squeezed his hand harshly, sounding choked as she spoke. "The place we were looking for," she said.


    "The Crystal Palace," Joffrey said slowly.


    -: PD :-


    Winter had reached Jhala. Soft snows fell over Ebonhead, straining the roofs of the raised town. The streets were almost deserted; occasional figures walking down the alleys with bags or thin-looking oxen in tow. A medium sized Swanship waited by the docks, its great sails still tied to the masts. A mixed crew of Islanders and other dribs and drabs from the Summer Sea were walking over gangways with sacks of wheat and fruit, carrying some of the island''s last harvest aboard.


    "You two sure about this? We have enough space and supplies for both of you," said Gerion, trying one more time.


    Joffrey just shook his head, "We part ways here, uncle. Even though Tytos was quite insistent," he said with a smile.


    "Some things never change. Especially when it concerns boys and their swords," said Sansa.


    Gerion snorted at that, "You could say that," he told Sansa with a wink before turning to Joffrey. "He pestered you both like I pestered Ser Arthur Dayne back in the day. Even a little advice would keep me up for hours, practicing it in the yard¡­" He trailed off, looking down at the pier. "Listen I¡­ Nadhata didn''t tell me everything, before she¡­" he sighed, fidgeting with the pommel of his arming sword.


    Nadhata had officiated her own Last Rite yesterday, along with Prince Dorrol Xhox and the last few Islanders which remained in Jhala proper.


    "She was a brave and fierce woman, Gerion. A loving mother and a caring leader," said Sansa, holding his shoulder, "We''ll remember her."


    Gerion nodded in thanks after a moment, his eyes a bit red as his gaze returned from the pier. "She didn''t explain everything, but she implied you two would try to fix¡­ this," he said, waving his arms vaguely at the falling snow. "I can stay here, help you somehow-"


    "Uncle, no," said Joffrey. He couldn''t stop thinking about Tyrion in that moment, stomping his foot down in Oldtown and determined to accompany him to Valyria. "Go south, cherish your children," he said, holding his hand out, "Live well."


    Gerion sighed, grabbing Joffrey''s forearm. "Safe journeys, nephew," he said before slapping his shoulder, "And take care of that sword," he added almost absentmindedly.


    He turned to Sansa, grabbing her hand and kissing it as he bowed. "Farewell to thee as well, my lady. Safe journeys."


    "Take care Gerion. And you take care of those children of yours, charming rascals both," said Sansa, holding his hand with hers.


    "My children¡­" he whispered, oddly pained for a second. He seemed about to say something when someone called out.


    "Swanlord, we are ready!" the shout drifted from the ship.


    He sighed once more, rooted in place. "They insist in calling me that, even though my prince is dead and the princedom lies dissolved¡­"


    "You''re still their leader," said Joffrey, meeting his eyes. The other man nodded after a moment, taking a deep breath.


    "That I am, as crazy as it may sound sometimes. Goodbye nephew, and good luck," he said, bowing respectfully like one lord to another, before walking towards the ship. Joffrey and Sansa waved their goodbyes as the swanship sailed away, south east towards Sothoryos and beyond, in search of time and warmth. The great white sails soon crowned the swanship, making it seem like a bird in flight as it left the little harbor.


    Sansa sighed as she leaned on Joffrey''s shoulder, their hands clasped together as they watched the ship disappear under the horizon. She had hoped Nadhata would join the crew, but her holy mandate would allow no other course but to see her duties carried out to the end, and perhaps even more fervently than before. They spent long days communing with the Heart Tree, learning about olden times when Starks rode direwolves and entire clans disappeared from the land, learning about the layout of the Far North, past the Frostfangs and beyond into the Lands of Always Winter. They''d spoken for many a night as well; about the hidden, half-forgotten parts of Summer Islander prophecy that carried a glimmer of hope in the form of the Heralds, the only glimmer of hope in the otherwise fatalistic, mainstream islander worldview. Perhaps¡­ perhaps in the war to come, she''d see Nadhata again. Not in the form of the broken, last priestess of Jahla, but in that of the vindicated leader with hope shining bright in her heart.


    Their walk back home was almost solemn, most of it spent in silence as they passed abandoned orchards of tropical fruits. Rotten melons, pineapples, and mangoes littered the way, but Sansa held a different fruit in her hand; scarlet red and the size of a pear, rugged yellow veins running from top to bottom.


    She looked at it thoughtfully, "What if we win?" she said.


    Joffrey grunted inquisitively, staring at the sky as they walked. The clouds were growing thinner, the winds carrying just a tiny hint of warmth.


    "What if the plan¡­ what if the war works? What if we manage to somehow punch through to the Crystal Palace¡­ what do you think will happen then?"


    "It will end," said Joffrey, stone-faced. "One way or another," he whispered before returning his gaze from the skies.


    They walked in silence towards their house, almost reluctantly so. She felt worry tug at her belly, her chest compressed as she pulled her hair back. What if they couldn''t return farther back than Oxcross? Even if they returned to the morning a few days after Jon Arryn''s death, the task ahead of them would be almost insurmountable. A delicate balancing act between victory and escalation, death and total war, family and truth.


    They would need authority and respect like no other ruler before them. They would have to become living legends in the minds of their people, proportional in awe to the horror of the Long Night.


    Joffrey was right, of course. She could feel it within her, just as he did. One way or the other, it would end.


    Tonight, their gentle dream would end as well, perhaps for the last time. She stood in front of the doorway, strangely hesitant before she realized Joffrey had stopped behind her.


    He stood there in the porch, looking at the crystal clear sea. The midday sun often banished the cold for a few hours every day, briefly returning the island to its old, colorful splendor. It did so now as the light snowfall petered out for the moment, the clouds letting in occasional flashes of sunlight like a slowly widening curtain; great slashes torn by the hands of some brilliant giant.


    "Sail with me," he said all of a sudden, his cheeks flushing with color as he turned to her.


    Sansa felt a smile grow on her lips as she gazed at her husband''s eager expression, all the worries and the revelations evaporating for a second and leaving her jumpy, strangely lightheaded. Steel-green eyes twinkled, and his face seemed to banish the weight in her belly, leaving her oddly giddy as if she were a little girl again.


    "Together," she said, an unbidden smile on her lips.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    Alt link (same song):


    ----


    The Sunray soared, cresting another wave in a splash of foam. The catamaran seemed like a bird in flight, its white ebon hull shimmering bright under the midday sun. Its single sail looked ready to burst open, gobbling the wind and propelling the ship to ludicrous speeds; a white streak over the water, parting the seas with grace and furious speed.


    "It''s another swell! Hold on Sansa!" Joffrey shouted, pushing his weight against the tiller. The Sunray responded immediately, turning against the oncoming wave and tearing it asunder. Sansa spluttered indignantly as she was buffeted by saltwater and her pony tail stuck to her neck, feeling like a piece of moldering seaweed.


    Joffrey laughed wildly, holding his belly with one hand as the other kept a firm grip on the tiller. He was bare chested, his form lean against the tiller as his muscles bulged with strain, mangling the ship around like a small, unruly pet. "Wait until we get back to shore Joff! Laugh like a boar then!" she shouted, struggling to contain the monstrous chuckle lurking in her belly as she held on to a taut length of rope.


    Jhala kept fading in the distance, though she realized she didn''t care that much at all.


    Joffrey had built the Sunray on his own, from design to carpentry to seamanship. The katamaran followed traditional Summer Islander design principles; essentially a wide raft held over two great outriggers with the tiller right in the middle, a small bench nailed by its side. He''d built his own modifications into it of course, streamlining the design like a Braavosi architect planning out his masterpiece.


    A sudden gust of warm wind slammed into them from the right, and Sansa scuttled to that side of the ship as the starboard outrigger rose with the force of the wind, carrying her up like a seesaw. She grunted as she leaned back, only her legs still on the ship proper as she pulled on the length of rope tied to the top of the mast, making weight. Joffrey was doing the same, and they grinned like fools when they saw each other, hanging in midair as the outrigger kept climbing and they were almost vertical against the sea, an inch away from capsizing. Joffrey whooped as the Sunray slammed back down into the sea, the cyan blue waters reflecting the gently chiseled hull like a Myrish mirror.


    "Friends to port!" shouted Sansa, pointing to her left as she spotted streaks of bluish grey periodically jumping out of the water. There must have been a dozen dolphins jumping in two''s and three''s, keeping station with the Sunray and chirping to each other like old women at the market, shoving one another mischievously. Sansa grinned, blinking slowly as she directed one of the dolphins against Joffrey. It jumped across the ship in a clean leap, buffeting Joffrey in the head with a fin.


    "Hey!" Joffrey shouted, rubbing his cheek as he sent an accusing glare down to Sansa. She looked up at the sky instead, humming innocently as she gazed at the parting white clouds.


    "Alright! Let''s show these bastards some speed!" shouted Joffrey, standing up next to the tiller and pulling a rope. The mainsail extended completely, and Sansa was jerked back by the sudden acceleration. The dolphins were still keeping stations, mocking him relentlessly with flips and insolent chirps.


    "Sansa! Loose the jib! Let her fly!" he roared with a big grin.


    Sansa chuckled as she ducked under the boom mast, crawling to the bow of the Sunray as it cut through another wave and it splashed her with warm saltwater. Her cloak of bright feathers was undaunted though, yellow and scarlet tips swaying with the wind as she reached the prow. She blinked the salt out of her left eye, untying the knot below her with precise motions.


    "Hold on Joff!" she roared back as the wind intensified and her hair flew loose from its ponytail, flying from side to side like a red banner in the hands of an overeager knight. She pulled the rope with a huff of effort and unleashed the jib in all its splendor, rope sizzling as the sound of canvas on wood filled her ears. It depicted Sansa''s own humble interpretation of Stars, yawning lazily as he gazed upwards to a field of stars; his tongue lolled to the side, almost like a dog''s, eyes half closed under the wind.


    Let the boar laugh at this, she thought with a wide smile. She''d all but forgotten that little bit of creative interference in Joffrey''s pet project.


    Joffrey sputtered indignantly, but his catcalls soon devolved into bare-chested thumping and great roars of joy as the jib rippled and ballooned forward, the Sunray almost flying above the waterline as it kept speeding up. Each swell made it jump in longing to the skies, and Sansa felt her stomach drop each time they slammed back down into the sea in grand sprays of saltwater. They quickly left the grumbling dolphins behind, the winds carrying them south with no destination in mind.


    The catamaran seemed to glide over the water, and Sansa feasted her eyes on the perpetual rainbows which streaked from the sides of the outriggers. They were quickly swallowed by the sea, and would cease to be should they stop¡­ but today, for now, she and her husband flew on the backs of rainbows. Sansa got back to the tiller, gripping Joffrey tightly and kissing him silly. He fought back with everything he had, still gripping the tiller with one hand as the other took the back of her head and deepened the kiss as far as it could go. He tasted of sweat and saltwater with just a tiny breath of sweetened mango at the end.


    She lost herself in his taste as she gripped his head with both hands. Joffrey was hers to do as she wanted, and no man, no law, and no cosmic force was going to take him away from her.


    Sansa broke the kiss as she felt a multitude of beings high up in the air. She looked up and saw scores, hundreds of wings over the Sunray; vermillion and cyan and bright yellow hiding the sun as another great flock of Summer birds migrated south, escaping the cold.


    They trilled and jabbered, sang and chorused, some of them almost touching the sails as they flew past the ship in a riot of color. "There must be thousands of them," said Sansa, awed.


    "And the prettiest one landed right here. Lucky me," said Joffrey, passing a hand over her coat of feathers until he touched flesh and kept going. Sansa sighed deeply, leaning into him as the Sunray broke another wave. She sat on one of his knees as her arms snaked around his torso, gripping those taut muscles of his as she kissed him again. The better grip helped immensely.


    "Prettiest, bravest of them all," whispered Joffrey as his lips slid off hers and travelled down her neck, making her shiver. "Furious like an autumn storm. Gentle like a summer breeze." S~?a??h the N0v?lFire(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Your poetry has improved," she muttered, closing her eyes as she felt his back with her palms. He was an orb of warmth, radiating heat that held off the steadily cooling breeze.


    "Strong like winter gales, tender like newborn spring," he said as he left her neck and kept going downwards. Sansa gasped gently, her nails sliding off Joffrey''s back and reaching his waist.


    The Sunray buckled lightly under a side wave, and Sansa chided Joffrey as her hands reached his breeches. "You keep your hands on the tiller, I''ll keep mine on yours," she whispered into his ear before biting it.


    The poet went mum after that.


    -: PD :-


    The great winds which had carried them forth had faded with the night, and the Summer Sea was as calm as a cup of milk. The Sunray floated adrift, its sails tucked and folded. Joffrey and Sansa lay on the middle of the raft, the stars their ceiling.


    They lay sideways, side by side with their foreheads almost touching each other''s. Each held half a fruit, scarlet red with yellowed veins. Its skin felt rugged to Joffrey, as if barely able to contain what lay within.


    He breathed in the chilly air, eyes leaving the bright stars overhead and focusing on the two blue ones right in front of him. He cupped Sansa''s cheek, tracing her high cheekbones with his thumb. It felt like the fruit''s diametric opposite; pale and smooth.


    She''d always been beautiful. A traditional Tully flower, tall and graceful even as the Stark blood within lent her a pinch of exotic allure. Now, under the stars and garbed in a rainbow of feathers dominated by red, of a color with her auburn hair, her beauty seemed ethereal. Like some mythological being come to lay his weathered soul to rest.


    "Sansa... If we never wake up again-"


    "Shush you," she said, kissing his lips lightly.


    So many things to say. Regrets and satisfactions. Feelings and memories. How could one say goodbye to the other half of one''s soul?


    "I love you," he whispered.


    "I know," she said. So many things to say, so simple the answer.


    Each ate their half. The Death Fruit tasted bitter, though not repulsively so. It had a spicy aftertaste, like sweet ginger.


    Joffrey held both of Sansa''s hands as he scuttled closer, crossing her arms with his in between their chests, touching her forehead with his. "Together," he said.


    "Together," she whispered back.


    They laid there, staring into each other''s eyes as their breaths grew shallow. They cuddled close as they died, his heart thumping loudly as his vision grew dim. Sansa tried to press herself tighter somehow, though they were already as close to each other as humanly possible. They gripped each other strongly all the same, shivering under the cold as the Song grew in volume and Joffrey''s eyelids drooped.


    One more time. Please, one more time. That''s all I ask.


    He closed his eyes for a long second, and opened them to the realization that the great starry vault above them was now Purple. Instead of stars, constellations of fractals crisscrossing its length as a distant figure glowed red. He held on to Sansa as the wind blew and the Sunray rocked; cracked Pillars rising slowly from the depths of the ocean like awakened behemoths made of soulstuff and Purple. They carried them aloft at an ever increasing speed, even as they splintered and broke from the strain. Joffrey could hear the Song winding back, a great river of sound as his soul ached, his awareness centering on a summer morning years ago; a young boy oblivious to the world around him and to the consequences of his actions. The Purple squealed under the strain, the Song stuttering as Joffrey remembered that lazy morning; hounds barking in the distance and one guarding his bed. King Robert with empty eyes as he prepared for a hunt. Myrcella walking down corridors lost in thought. Baelish scheming in his solar for coin and ruin. Jaime garbed in gold and silver, standing by the door and looking beyond it in longing as Mother''s hair was combed by quiet handmaidens.


    He was the Pillars, and the Pillars were him. In here with no true physical barriers, their souls intermingled as they''d been created, Sansa and Joff, Joff and Sansa. The flow of the Song stuttered again, Pillars shattering as they reached out with hands of Purple and the morning of their rebirth beckoned in the distance.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 63: Cold Wind.

    Chapter 63: Cold Wind."Sure she''s okay?!" Robb asked urgently. He took up the stairs two at a time, his brother close behind.


    "I think so, it didn''t look too bad!" said Jon as they reached the fourth floor, jogging through the grey corridors of the Great Keep. "Maester Luwin was nearby, he''s checking her now."


    "What happened?" said Robb. He tried to still his heart after the sudden panic and the mad dash up the stairs. Jon wouldn''t be so calm if the accident had been truly bad.


    "I''m not sure, I think she just tripped. She''d been squabbling with Arya near the Septa''s study and then they tumbled down the stairs," said his half-brother.


    Gods, they could have broken their necks. Couldn''t they get along for a day without trying to kill each other?!


    They reached a cluster of chambermaids and the odd guard, milling about the end of the staircase that led to the Septa''s study. "Give them some space, get back to your duties," Robb heard Maester Luwin''s voice. It was commanding, but not overly worried.


    Robb sighed as he squeezed past the servants before they could make way for him. They departed quickly once they saw him, bowing their heads. "Everything alright, Tomard?" he asked the big-bellied guard gently shoving the servants away.


    "Just a fall M''lord, more ugly than bad. Best if you see for yourself," he said, standing aside and shooing the last chambermaid away. Robb saw both Arya and Sansa on the floor, the former sitting up with a scowl and a broken lip while the latter was attended by Maester Luwin. Sansa''s wound looked a little more serious; a trickle of blood ran down her forehead.


    "You two alright? What happened?" Robb asked them.


    "Stupid Sansa fumbled the steps and brought me down with her!" said Arya, almost skewering him with those sharp grey eyes. Sansa said nothing, Luwin still examining the wound.


    "Mother told you two to stop fighting, she''ll have a fit now..."


    "It''s not my fault!" cried Arya, crossing her arms and wincing as her lower lip twitched. She took one of Maester Luwin''s towels and wiped the bit of blood under it, "She''d been prattling the whole way from the Septa''s study and then got angry and tried to chase me¡­"


    "Now now Arya, you should tell the whole story. Tomard says you pulled her hair," said Jon. Two years ago he would have been kneeling by Arya or Sansa''s side. Now he stood at a ''respectful'' distance¡­


    Robb hated that.


    She harrumphed, looking away.


    "Arya, Robb, tone it down for a second," said Maester Luwin, still cleaning Sansa''s wound. He felt guilty as he nodded, standing back a bit and letting the Maester work in silence.


    "I''m fine Maester Luwin, really," said Sansa, gently guiding his hands away.


    "That''s for me to decide, young lady," said the Maester. "Do you recall what date it is?"


    Blue eyes regarded Luwin intensely, "The twenty-seventh of the second month."


    Luwin shook his head slightly, "It''s the twenty-eighth."


    "What?" She seemed shocked.


    "Don''t worry Sansa, things like this happen after a bad fall. It''ll all clear up soon, I promise," said the Maester.


    "It''s just a day¡­ one day¡­ we made it," she said slowly, her face growing lax as if she''d been in pain before.


    "Do you recall what you were doing a moment ago?" asked the Maester.


    Sansa looked at him again, eyes uncertain before her whole demeanor changed. She stilled her features before smiling at the Maester, standing up smoothly before he could get out another word.


    "I''m quite alright. Thank you for the assistance, Maester Luwin," she said, nodding at the Maester.


    Had she just dismissed Maester Luwin? Robb swore she had sounded like Mother for a second, and Luwin obviously thought so too; he''d reared back from sheer instinct.


    "I- lady Sansa-"


    Luwin didn''t manage another word before she turned with a sigh, "If you must know I was arguing with my sister before we tumbled down the stairs like two sacks of cabbages. Maester Luwin, I feel fine. If that changes I''ll search for you in the tower. That will be all," she said, blue eyes centered on his.


    "Very well my lady," Luwin muttered, hiding a frown as he took up his things. "Make sure to come to me tonight, both of you. I''ll have to clean your wounds again."


    "Of course," said Sansa. Arya simply nodded as she looked at her sister, lips thin.


    Robb''s gaze followed the Maester as he left. "You two shouldn''t fight near stairs. It''s dangerous," he said, distracted.


    Jon walked towards Arya when Luwin was gone, likely to help her up. Sansa got there first though.


    "Arya," she said, a strange smile on her lips. "I''m sorry, are you alright?" she asked, holding her hand out. Arya slapped it away, scoffing as she stood up by herself.


    "Save it for mother," she said, storming off.


    She sighed, massaging the side of her head as Robb grabbed her arm, "You sure you''re okay?" he asked before cursing inside the privacy of his own mind. Sansa had taken to emulating Mother these past few years, and hated being seen like a child.


    She shook her head, startled for a moment. "Robb," she said as she raised a hand to his face, her voice a twisted knot of emotion. "It''s good seeing you like this..." she whispered, pressing a hand over his visage. Robb smiled, placing his own hand over Sansa''s and bringing it down.


    "Like what?" he asked.


    "Hale. Happy," she said almost absentmindedly, her eyes a million leagues away, "You have a beautiful smile, brother. Never hide it."


    "I''ll try not to," he said, raising an eyebrow at Jon she turned towards him.


    "Jon," she said, seemingly at a loss for words. It was different from how it usually was. She did not stutter, did not blush, and certainly did not scowl¡­ though the last one was far more likely if Mother was around. She seemed at a genuine loss for words for a moment, before grabbing Jon''s hand gently. "Brother," she said after a moment, her eyes thick with unspoken words. "Thanks for the help," she managed, squeezing his hand gratefully before walking away.


    Sending Master Luwin away had been a mistake. She had definitely hit her head too hard.


    -: PD :-


    Things hadn''t been too different after the fall, at first. His sister had kept to her routine as she always had; embroidering sigils with the Septa, going to her singing lessons with the other maidens of Winterfell, sharing gossip and whatnot... Slowly though, the whole routine had started to fray. Robb started finding her sister staring off into the distance by the windows, eyes closed as the wind caressed her hair, her lessons for the day forgotten. She''d started drifting away from the previously tight-knit group of girls; Jeyne and the others bewildered as Sansa barely seemed to pay them any mind. Where before listening to the Septa had been a favored activity, Sansa now scoffed lightly and did every task as if it were a silly chore. It was as if she were growing tired of upholding a fa?ade, harnessing her will towards it and failing all the same.


    Or at least she had.


    "The fights with Arya marked a turning point," he said out loud. S?a??h the ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Jon grunted. They were standing atop the Great Keep, watching over the horizon to the north. They''d climbed here to spar without Ser Rodrik''s supervision, as they''d sometimes done when they''d been little. In truth though, they hadn''t even touched the swords.


    "Yeah¡­" muttered Jon. His half-brother was by his side, leaning on the crenellations. "They were so weird¡­ even without the abrupt change in behavior."


    Robb agreed.


    One had been in the dining hall. Arya had placed a lemoncake on Sansa''s seat, which squelched rather loudly once her sister sat on it without realizing it. Arya had burst out giggling, unafraid of mother''s blandishments, but Sansa¡­ Sansa had smiled. A sad, nostalgic smile as she stood up and regarded the squashed lemoncake remains over her seat. Like a mother finding her child hiding under the bed sheets and plotting a scare. She''d looked at Arya, and then the entire Stark table ¨Cincluding Theon who''d actually arrived in time that afternoon- with a hesitating expression. By then, Old Sansa would have been demanding Arya''s head on a platter, and probably pulling her sister''s hair silly until it split at the base.


    The abrupt lack of a reaction had somehow set the whole table on edge. Either the harshest tantrum of all was upon them, or their sister had fallen gravely ill. She''d noticed the uncanny stares, and had subsequently turned to a sort of reluctant outrage at Arya, chastising her like Rickon would a misguided puppy¡­ that is to say, not a chastisement at all really.


    It had been eerie. She''d excused herself shortly thereafter.


    The second was by far stranger. The first fight had left an impression on everyone; Mother had been making sharp inquiries into what exactly any of the Stark children had done to leave Sansa so seemingly¡­ off-character. Theon had been laughing about her hit to the head leaving more than just a bruise, though he''d shut up about it after a good talking-to by Robb''s fist. Nevertheless, Sansa had been near the kitchens then, and she''d heard that remark¡­ it had just made her seem more uncomfortable, shuffling away with an apologetic smile.


    ¡­ Next day, she''d started a fight with Arya over some misplaced ink wells, and it had been¡­ supremely uncanny. Robb had heard it all, as he''d been in the library as well, writing out an essay about Old Valyria for Maester Luwin.


    It had seemed like an academical dissection of one of their fights. There had been nothing new in terms of concepts; the usual stuff about horse faces and underfoot scamps¡­ but the delivery¡­ Sansa had been clear and methodical, laying out on Arya verbally until his sister had broken down completely, not even responding any longer to the barrage as she cried her eyes out. He''d stepped in then, feeling like a belated fool as he rushed to hug Arya and stop the sheer carnage. He''d been about to let Sansa know a piece of his mind then but¡­ but then he''d seen her eyes.


    There had been sheer horror in them, both hands covering her mouth as her eyes watered, as if she couldn''t believe what it had all come to. She''d rushed out... and after that¡­


    "There she is," muttered Jon, pointing an inconspicuous finger at the northern wall. Robb shuffled under his furs, frowning at the unusually cold wind that seemed so prevalent as of late, before gazing at his sister.


    "Hm¡­ She''s not peering south," Robb said.


    "Obviously. She''s peering north," said Jon.


    "Don''t be dense, brother. Just because she''s looking north, that doesn''t mean she''s peering north," he pointed out. "Right now she''s looking pretty west to me." She was walking slowly, her eyes closed and a serious smile on her lips.


    Jon grunted, "True. But it''s often the case."


    "Yesterday she was leaning on the west wall and yet she was peering south, I''m sure of it," said Robb, "She was all happy, almost skipping over the stones."


    Jon''s silence turned reluctant. He agreed.


    They called it ''peering'' between the two of them; when their sister took a walk around the walls and battlements for a bit of ''fresh air''. She''d get oddly focused gazing in a determined direction, and though the usual emotions associated with each direction could vary, they usually correlated with each other. When glimpsing south she seemed somehow lighter, her fingers brushing the crenellations as she walked; her smile like a radiant sun, somehow brighter than when she''d been praised by the Septa in what seemed like months ago instead of days. West was more reserved; she''d frown and sometimes smirk, her pace measured and determined. Sometimes she''d even move her mouth, as if speaking with someone.


    North was the worst, it often left Robb with goosebumps. She''d just brace against the crenellations, as if she were about to be blown away by a storm. No movement, only a statue like the ones in Winterfell''s crypt, somehow seeing beyond the grey clouds of the northern horizon. She peered in that direction only sporadically, and afterwards she''d always excused herself for the rest of the day; retiring to her chambers with cramped shoulders and haunted eyes, shaken by something.


    He didn''t know who Sansa had been trying to kid when they''d asked what was going on. They were family for Gods'' sake, of course they''d realized something was wrong.


    Though granted, after her second fight with Arya she''d seemed to¡­ well, it had seemed as if she''d given up on holding the fa?ade of¡­ herself. She''d calmly refused to attend any more classes under the Septa or Maester Luwin, claiming her knowledge was sufficient. She''d answered the tests that followed almost like a trained Maester, at least from what Jon had heard Luwin tell Father. She''d passed the Septa''s test as well, leaving Mother with no arguments to restrict her free hours. She never fought Arya again, and gave up any and all semblance of respect for the castle''s gossip mill.


    From one day to the other she''d ripped the veil asunder, spending more and more time in the library, riding off into Wintertown, or writing letter after letter to mysterious correspondents only Maester Luwin really knew about. Well, him and Father at least.


    "She''s walking away, doesn''t seem too shaken¡­ maybe thoughtful," said Jon.


    "It was probably west," said Robb. He wondered what her sister was really doing when she got like this. Theon''s hypothesis sounded far too simple and¡­ convenient for something so ominous. There was something about Winterfell that had changed with her fall. Something tense. As if Robb had found a string tied to his waist, taut but slightly frayed, holding him over something¡­


    He watched her walk over the north wall; even her stride had changed. Whereas before she''d walked awkwardly in a half stride half rush, Sansa had by now given up all pretense of normality; she now glided through the corridors at a stately pace that was both quick and dignified; her back straight and her hands clasped in front, her pace determined and undiminished by the streamlined dress she''d sewn herself, combining northern pelts and green fabrics from the south¡­ and she didn''t seem to put any conscious effort into it.


    Robb had later realized that she''d been putting effort into not walking like that.


    She stopped abruptly, turning to gaze at them.


    Robb and Jon immediately ducked under the crenellations, staying still.


    They peeked up after a few minutes, finding Sansa in the same spot; arms crossed, her smile an exasperated one. Robb smiled sheepishly, and she shook her head good naturedly before walking into the northwestern tower.


    Yep, still Sansa. A different kind of Sansa though¡­


    Gods, he needed a drink. Maybe Theon would have some.


    "Fancy something stiff? This whole riddle is worse than one of Luwin''s valyrian poems," he said.


    Jon shook his head, "We''re riding off to see to that deserter tomorrow morning, remember? Father won''t like it if we turn up smelling of Theon''s cheap swill," he said.


    "Shit, you''re right," said Robb, though he was secretly pleased he''d stopped calling Father ''Lord Stark'', at least when they were in private like this. Jon was to be his right hand man, not one of the keep''s servants. Why couldn''t everyone see it that way?


    He shook his head, "Best we get down then. Be sure to stay with Bran, it''ll be his first time," he said.


    Jon nodded as if it had been obvious. Of course he''d been about to do it without prompting; his thick headed brother was thoughtful, at least where little Bran and Arya were concerned.


    They climbed down for dinner, and he sent Sansa another sheepish smile over the table. She accepted the apology with a roll of her eyes, listening to Father''s conversation with Mother and even laughing when Rickon attacked her with a spoonful of tart¡­ though she grimaced when Arya sat at the other end of the table from her.


    Robb sighed, turning his attention to Bran. I just hope you don''t get nervous tomorrow¡­ he thought, startled by a sudden caw in the distance.


    Bloody ravens¡­


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    The morning was overcast, the horizon covered by a grey blanket. Robb realized his hand was fidgeting of its own will, in tempo with the errant gusts of wind which crawled over this patch of green highland north of Winterfell. He stilled his hand, looking at Sansa again as the couple of Stark guardsmen brought the deserter up the hill.


    She was an unexpected addition to the party, though you wouldn''t notice it by her dress. She''d stormed out of Winterfell''s gates almost twenty minutes after the main party had departed, wearing tight riding leathers covered by furs like any one of Robb or Jon''s garments, except hers had been crowned in white by her neck. A white wolf''s pelt.


    The dozen or so Stark guardsmen around the small hill looked grim, knowing what was to come. Father shot Robb a glance as the two guards manhandled the deserter halfway up the hill, and Robb nodded. He moved towards Sansa, stepping past Bran and Jon. His half-brother was talking slowly, a calming hand on Bran''s shoulder.


    Unlike Bran, Sansa didn''t shuffle as the time of the execution arrived. She seemed to be gazing north; at the grey horizon which looked like one great formless cloud. Robb suppressed a shiver of unease as he leaned on her, gently grabbing her elbow. "You don''t need to prove anything Sansa. Whatever happened between you and Arya, or Mother¡­" he trailed off awkwardly, like a blind man grasping at reeds. Just what was the deal with her?


    "I assure you this has nothing to do with them, brother," she said, eyes still distant. Gods, when had she grown so quiet? Sansa should have been gossiping with Jeyne and the other girls in Winterfell, not standing here witnessing an execution.


    "Father then? ¡­ Me?" he added hesitantly.


    "Not at all."


    "Why then? Sansa, you almost fainted last year when old Nib killed that hog¡­ and this will be far worse."


    "I know."


    "If you make a scene here, it''ll reflect badly on Father," he said, trying for another angle.


    "I won''t make a scene."


    "Mother will be mad with you," he added.


    "Let her."


    "Sansa, what''s gotten into to you?" he said, his grip tightening.


    She finally turned to look at him. Once ¨Cin what felt like months, not days ago- she would have wilted under Robb''s demanding, older-brother gaze. He was the one who shuffled instead, letting drop her elbow. He felt those blue eyes piercing him for a moment, before the faraway glint disappeared and she really gazed at him. "Bran is younger than me, and yet Father took him against Mother''s wishes. Why?" she said.


    "¡­ Bran will be lord of his own keep one day. He needs to learn," he said, trying to repeat what Father often said but mangling the whole thing.


    "And me? Don''t I need to learn our customs too?"


    "Your future husband will see to it," he said awkwardly. He''d never much cared for that far distant future, but it seemed the right thing to say.


    Sansa frowned, tilting her head. "And when my husband goes to war? What then Robb? What when winter sows hunger and anarchy? What when the enemy is at the gates and we stand besieged? Should I hide in the knitting room, hoping for someone else to carry out the duties of my House?"


    Robb opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He licked his lips, "I-"


    "No," she said, returning her eyes to the northern horizon, hands clasped in front of her, "The blood of the Starks runs through my veins too. It was high time I started acting like one."


    "¡­ Why?" he said after a quiet moment.


    "Because we won''t be children forever, Robb. The cold wind is picking up, and the south rides North. We must be strong if our House is to survive the trials ahead," she whispered almost too low to hear, the air of prophecy hanging around her words. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," she said as Robb strained to hear.


    He frowned, shuffling uneasily once more as the guards reached Father and Ser Rodrik. The wind felt unusually cold against Robb''s furs, seeping past their protection and chilling his bones as the deserter from the Night''s Watch looked at him with wide, still eyes. Father looked at him as well, and Robb shook his head. Sansa herself had somehow weathered Father''s icy reprimand, standing her ground without flinching as she explained her position like Maester Luwin would, argument after argument piling up into a conclusion so undeniable Father would have been a hypocrite to deny her presence today. Robb''s own intervention had been Father''s last recourse.


    Eddard sighed, and turned towards the mumbling deserter. His black coat seemed parched and frayed, his sunken face pale and haunted. "I saw what I saw. I saw White Walkers." The words drifted down with the wind, and Sansa stilled.


    "People need to know¡­ bring word to my family¡­ tell them I''m no coward¡­ tell them I''m sorry¡­" he whispered.


    Father gazed at the deserter for a long moment, before nodding at the two guards. They made him kneel, placing his chest against the worn stone by their side. Father withdrew Ice from its sheath, Theon bowing his head reverently as he stepped back with the empty scabbard. Father began to pass judgment as Jon whispered in Bran''s ear quickly.


    "-I Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and-"


    "Father, a moment please!" said Sansa, striding forward.


    Father''s head turned towards her like a whip, his eyes thunderous behind the lordly demeanor. He shook his head as if he''d knew this would happen, turning to Jory Cassel. "Jory, take Lady Sansa down to the horses and await there for our return," he commanded sternly.


    "Right away Lord Stark," Jory said as he made for Sansa, who had reached the stone and the kneeling, mumbling deserter. She''d left her hair untied today, letting it curl down her back as the winds willed it.


    Hells, Robb thought, barely a step behind Jory. Father had had a quiet word with Robb, and he''d entrusted Sansa to him for the journey¡­ now he''d failed at keeping to the solemnity of the occasion.


    Jory reached her first though, "Come now little lady, you''ve had your fill of fresh air-"


    "That won''t be necessary," she said, taking a knee by the deserter''s side. The command was so self-assured Jory hesitated for a second, a second Sansa used to look up at Father. "His words, he believes what he says."


    Jory looked at Father questioningly, and Robb was surprised to see the icy expression melt by a tiny bit. "I''m sure he believes so, Sansa. But that does not take away what he did," he said as if explaining it to a child. The two guards behind the deserter looked at each other.


    Robb made to pull Sansa back. "I know he has to die," she said, making him flinch. "He''s a deserter to the Night''s Watch, and we can''t make even a single exception or the whole institution could crumble," she said, still gazing at Father like a wolf, "That must not happen¡­ But every man should have a right to a few last words. Wouldn''t you agree?"


    Her words left Father no other choice but to nod in assent. His expression promised retribution back at Winterfell though, for all that confusion marred it. Robb sighed, shrugging when Theon shot him a bewildered look.


    "Tell me, what did you see?" Sansa whispered gently, the two guards shuffling when her face neared the deserter''s by a handspan.


    "I saw¡­ I saw White Walkers¡­" the man said.


    "Do you remember where?"


    He hesitated, closing his eyes uncomfortably and making silent expressions. "I¡­ I saw what I saw. They were there. Blue eyes mind. Moonshadow dawn¡­ I saw white walkers¡­" he mumbled.


    Sansa placed both her knees on the ground, her face level with the deserter''s as she placed a hand on his cheek. Robb moved to intervene but a look from Father stilled him.


    "What''s your name, Watcher on the Wall?" she whispered. Robb could barely hear her.


    His eyes seemed to focus on Sansa for the first time, and he blinked slowly as he opened his mouth. "Will," he said, almost a squeak.


    "I believe you, Brother Will. Where did you see them? Where did you see our ancient enemy?" she said, breathing deeply as Will froze. The winds seemed to grow lax, losing strength as her blue eyes bored on the deserter''s.


    "What''s your report, Brother Will? Where did our enemy return?" she whispered, the Stark banner on Alyn''s spear drooping as the wind ceased to be. Will stared at his sister''s eyes like a madman staring at the sun, blinking slowly as his face relaxed.


    "The Haunted Forest," whispered Sansa.


    "Yes," said Will.


    "How many of them did you see?"


    Will moved his mouth slowly, chewing nothing but air.


    "Two?" whispered Sansa.


    Silence.


    "Five," she said slowly.


    "Yes," Will squeaked.


    Sansa placed her other hand on Will''s cheek as well, caressing it like a mother putting her child to sleep. By now the wind''s death was so complete he could hear her whisper. "They will not win," she promised him, "The might of the North shall not refuse the Starks. We''ll march on them with fire and steel by right of ancient oaths. All the banners of the South will answer the call, and Winter will know the wrath of man. I, Sansa of the House Stark, swear this by the Gods of Stone and Tree," she said, the guards holding in their breaths so they could hear her voice.


    Will blinked again, and Robb realized tears were falling down the man''s cheeks, slipping through Sansa''s thumbs and down her wrists. "Thank you," Will whispered, closing his eyes. "Thank you."


    She stood up and took a place by Robb''s side, the silence almost suffocating as the wind picked up again.


    "I''m ready, Lord Stark," Will said after a moment, leaning his head down and exposing the nape of his neck.


    Father hesitated for half a second before he took a deep breath. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."


    He hefted Ice with both hands, taking a step backwards. He swung the blade with force, and it sung through the air before cutting the man''s head with a clean blow.


    Sansa didn''t even flinch; gazing at the bubbling blood from the man''s severed neck. She then closed her eyes, tilting her head down in respect before turning back and walking to the horses.


    Father looked at Ser Rodrik. The men shared something that Robb couldn''t quite understand before the old Master-At-Arms bellowed for the guards to move out.


    He accompanied Father down the hill, stopping with him as he took Bran''s shoulder. "¡­ You understand why I had to do that?"


    "The man who passes the sentence should swing the blade¡­ and if you can''t find yourself to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die," said Bran, dragging his eyes from the horse''s stirrups.


    Father nodded, but Bran didn''t stop there, "Though Sansa also said there was another possible outcome..."


    "Did she?" Father said, turning to look at Robb''s sister once more. She was waiting ahead, already atop her own horse, "What did she add?"


    "¡­ that if the man is guilty and you can''t swing the blade, then perhaps it is the ruler who does not deserve to rule," said Bran.


    Father tapped his belt thoughtfully, looking at Sansa as if lost in thought.


    "Father," Bran said, startling them both, "What did she say to the deserter¡­ to Will?"


    Father hesitated, sharing a look with Robb, "She consoled him in the hour of his death. A noble deed," said Father, but Robb found the words hesitant. Even Bran seemed to notice.


    "We should go, my Lord," said Ser Rodrik as he reached them, looking past his back, northwards. "Lady Catelyn will be anxious," he said.


    Lady Catelyn, or you?


    They rode back even more silently than before. Sansa''s words kept rebounding within Robb''s skull, and he found he couldn''t stop staring at her back. She''d almost taken the lead, at the front with Jory and Alyn.


    No one had thought to reprimand her.


    Something had happened to his sister, most of the family knew that much¡­ Something that had made her age decades in a single moment, something primal and hair-raising. She couldn''t hide that, just as you couldn''t hide the sun. Not from her own family.


    Father had sought answers in the Heart Tree, and Mother in her Sept. Robb though¡­ Robb suspected the answer was right in front of him, riding ahead...


    Comforting a man at the gates of his own death, or whispering prophecy like the Greenseers in Old Nan''s stories? Robb shook his head, chuckling at the thought. It sounded vaguely choked to his ears, the sound echoing slightly within the confines of the Wolfswood. He hadn''t even realized they were crossing it.


    Thin white birch trunks dotted the mass of green; spruces and pines adding a dry sweet scent to the air. Theon raised an eyebrow by his side, and Robb was about to talk to him when Jory called out a halt, sounding tense. The forest was oddly quiet, and he kept a hand over his sword''s pommel as he dismounted quickly. They''d stopped over a small stone bridge with a little creek running below it.


    Perfect spot for an ambush, the thought came unbidden, and he gazed around for wildlings as he made his way forward with Theon. Here half a dozen archers would be able to pin them down from both sides, turning any attempts to mount their horses risky and thus nullifying the biggest advantage Winterfell''s men had over a hypothetical band of wildling raiders.


    He found Father and Ser Rodrik kneeling by the side of a dead stag by the end of the small stone bridge, gazing at it quietly. He joined them quickly, followed by Jon and Theon as Alyn watched the forest instead.


    Good man, he thought.


    "Mountain lion?" said Theon, gazing at the stag''s torn throat and belly. The guards had put hands to pommels or halberds, looking around as they picked up their liege''s tension. Sansa was standing by the dead beast''s side, seemingly unconcerned.


    "A direwolf did this," she said, examining the wound. She seemed thoughtful for a second before closing her eyes. She smiled all of a sudden, her features relaxing as she seemed to bask in the presence of¡­ something. She almost skipped as she turned and walked down the side of the small stone bridge, eyes still closed as she climbed down the tiny gorge made by the nameless river that was more of a trickle right now.


    "Sansa wait!" said Father as he scrambled after her, unsheathing his arming sword as Robb took off after him in turn. "It''s dangerous!" he bellowed.


    "It''s alright, Father," she called out. She had walked a little along the river bend, and Robb frowned as she kneeled near a grey bulk, uncaring of the mud. "Lady," she whispered happily as the shrub next to her jingled and a tiny wolf pup emerged from it. It made its way straight towards Sansa''s lap, sniffling as it tried to climb it with tiny paws. Sansa scooped it up and pressed it against her cheek.


    Robb saw tiny tears in the corners of her eyes as he walked around her. "I missed you," she whispered into the pup''s ear.


    Father stumbled to a stop next to her, gazing ahead at the grey bulk which Robb just now realized was the enormous body of a dead direwolf. Several pups were still shuffling by the dead mother''s belly, whimpering softly.


    "It''s bloody huge," said Theon. Bran and Ser Rodrik brought up the rear as they crowded around the dead beast and kneeling Sansa, staring at the dead beast with wide eyes.


    "Direwolves south of the Wall¡­" said Father, almost entranced by the great beast. He extracted an antler from the direwolf''s neck, gazing at it thoughtfully.


    "¡­ South of the Wall?" Robb asked out loud. There hadn''t been a sighting like this in¡­ hundreds of years at the very least.


    Something is changing, he thought, shivering lightly as his knuckles went white over the pommel of his sword.


    "Five of them," said Jon as he looked at Sansa''s pup. It seemed completely at ease with her, licking and whining as if she were her mother. Jon knelt to take one of them before passing it on to Bran, "Here, want to hold it?" he asked.


    Bran grabbed it hesitantly, the tiny grey pup squirming for a bit as he shifted the grip. "Where will they go? Their mother''s dead¡­" he said, looking at Father.


    "With us, back to Winterfell," said Sansa as she stood up. Her pup was licking the errant tears on her cheeks. Soon, they were all gone.


    Father hesitated before shaking his head, "They won''t last long without their mother, better a quick death¡­"


    "Alright, give it here," said Theon as he stepped towards Sansa with a dagger.


    Her eyes snapped up from the pup, and her piercing blue gaze seemed to pin Theon in place.


    She pressed the pup against her cheek once more, closing her eyes as she let out a long breath of air and she cuddled it silly. "You can''t have her. Lady is mine to keep, mine to feed¡­ and mine to slay, should fate ever call for it," she said, as sure a declaration as an oath of vassalage.


    "Sansa¡­ what do you know about this?" Father said after a long moment of silence, punctuated by the whimpering pups and the lazy crawl of the river. Robb didn''t exactly know what the ''this'' referred to, but he suspected it was bigger than mere pups. Even direwolf pups.


    ¡­What indeed¡­


    She lifted her gaze at the same time as the pup, both of them looking at Father with a serious expression. Sansa seemed to consider him for a long moment, her mouth chewing silently as if she were arguing with herself. Finally though, she seemed to give up on whatever she''d been thinking. She sighed, returning her gaze to Lady as the pup looked back at her as well. "Her mother was fleeing south, carried along by ancient instincts. Her own blood knew the way towards ancient oaths; hearth for service, life for life. The wrath of winter for the joy of summer."


    "It was searching for something?" Jon asked. He was often silent around her, though she didn''t seem to mind the question.


    "Yes. Starks," she said with slight smile as the pup yawned. She scratched the side of its head as she kept talking, "Starks of old faced fates worse than death, millennia ago. They made their own blood sing, attuned it to that which they considered the noblest of the North''s beasts. Companions who would follow them in the world of the living¡­ and make sure they stayed in the world of the dead, when the time came. Companions not unlike little Lady here," she said, her smile turning tender as the pup whimpered at the end.


    Theon snorted, though he didn''t move towards her again. "Sansa, don''t be silly¡­" Robb found himself whispering.


    "The sigil of our House honors them. Their mother carried them but an hour away from Winterfell and died by the side of a small road seldom used¡­" she paused, looking over at the mother''s corpse. She sniffed, "Died and gave birth the very day we would pass through it. Does it really sound so hard to believe we were meant to have them?"


    "We?" asked Bran.


    "There''s six pups, one for each whose blood flows with the echoes of winter. Four males, two females. One each for the Starks of our generation."


    "But¡­ There''s five of them, Sansa," said Jon, a bewildered frown dominating his features.


    She smiled good-naturedly, "Yours is quite alike you. Silent as a ghost when it suits him," she said as her eyes drifted to his side.


    Even the guards turned to look when Jon whirled towards the little nook Sansa had gazed at. Robb''s heart thumped like a war drum as he saw a small white pup, barely making a sound as it stared at Jon.


    "Hello little one," whispered Sansa, smiling.


    "Old Gods green and wise¡­" whispered Jory, hand trembling despite the firm grip over the pommel of his sword.


    "Why are they coming south, Sansa? Why was the mother fleeing?" asked Father, voice thick with tension.


    Sansa hesitated, petting Lady absentmindedly as it licked her jaw.


    "Why Sansa?" said Father.


    She sighed, the sound of the wind slow against Robb''s ears. "You already know the answer to that question. You can feel it in the air; how the wind seems to cut through fur like a dagger in the back," she said.


    Robb shared a look with Jon, the little white ghost in his hands staying eerily still, regarding Sansa with red eyes.


    "You can see it when the clouds break over the Wall and their grey remnants lay perched over Winterfell, waiting¡­" she said, cradling Lady against the cold. "You listen to it when the crows caw and the wolves howl, the edge of a deep anxiety hidden beneath their calls. Like blades in the dark¡­" Her eyes turned to Father''s, her smile wan, "You can feel it when you speak with the Heart Trees. They cry red sap at what''s to come. They remember," she whispered.


    Robb felt as if he were being choked, his vision slowly tunneling on Sansa''s face.


    "You ask, but you already know the answer deep inside you. You already know the answer to that question, Father," she said.


    "Winter is Coming," someone said. The voice sounded drowned, filled with dread.


    Robb realized it had been his.


    "Ser Rodrik!" Father commanded suddenly.


    "My Lord?" Ser Rodrik responded at once.


    "We ride on to Winterfell at speed, keep those pups close! Recall the patrols and double the guard on the walls tonight. I want the gatehouse closed by mid-afternoon."


    "Aye my Lord!" said Ser Rodrik, immediately turning towards the small bridge where the rest of the guards were. "Alyn!" he bellowed, "Take point with Tobin and Horace, eyes peeled. We make for Winterfell at a fast trot!"


    Alyn had been tense before, but the urgency in Ser Rodrik''s voice seemed to jolt him into action. He turned as he gestured with the halberd, the Stark banner picking up as the wind returned with a vengeance, "You heard him men! Mount up and look sharp!" he shouted.


    "Father¡­" said Sansa, her voice bewildered for once. "We''re safe now, there''s time still before-"


    "That will be for me to decide," he said, checking over the great brooch that held the heavy pelt over his back. "If that is so, then the men could still use the drill. And if not¡­" he trailed off, sounding disbelieving as he shook his head, "I want to see you in my solar as soon as we arrive. Are we clear, Sansa?" he said, his tone brooking absolutely no disagreement.


    Robb opened his mouth.


    "Alone," said Father as he stared him down. Robb shut it back with a clack as the guards ahead scrambled.


    Sansa gazed at Father, blue eyes clashing with grey before she sighed, nodding halfheartedly. "Come on Lady, there''ll be a warm meal for you back home," she said, and the pup seemed to give a small bark of agreement. Robb felt the hair at the nape of his neck stand on edge as they moved; even Theon was unusually quiet as they grabbed the pups quickly and climbed back to the end of the little stone bridge. They mounted their horses in silence.


    "Make sure the men say nothing about this," Father said to Ser Rodrik as they climbed their own horses.


    "I''ll tell Jory," said Ser Rodrik with a nod.


    His sister was not mad, Robb was sure of it now. She had seen something, known something with a sort of visceral awareness Robb could only liken to yard-trained instinct¡­


    "Jory, take the rear with Mortin and Dallen, make sure they all keep pace!" shouted Ser Rodrik.


    "Understood!" said Jory, moving over to the back and talking lowly with the guardsmen of the rear guard.


    "Let''s go!" shouted Ser Rodrik.


    As the group departed at a fast trot, Robb found himself looking at the overcast horizon. He didn''t know what Sansa had seen there. He couldn''t name it, but he could feel a sliver of it in his gut anyway.


    When the cold wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, he remembered.


    Had Sansa seen the Cold Wind?


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 64: Behemoth.

    Chapter 64: Behemoth.Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Loop until end of scene.


    ----


    Joffrey walked through the Street of Steel, listening to the beat of the hammers. They were a powerful melody, a constant percussion of metal on metal, a rhythm arising from the simple beats which crawled over each other and built something greater than the sum of its parts.


    The street was full to bursting. Crowds of people walked in and out of buildings, carrying raw ore to the furnaces that loomed high over the skyline, painting the horizon with black smoke. It warred against stormy clouds, black against grey, coal-fire against bone-chilling cold.


    To his side Joffrey could see a warehouse filled with weavers, spinning wheels cackling like starved beavers on tender wood. The women were trawling away stack after stack of uniforms, all of them dyed Purple. Hundreds of crates had been stacked, uniforms upon uniforms for the Legions of Westeros. The spinning wheels added a buzzing quality to the beat of the hammers, building atop it and adding to the Song.


    Joffrey thought the color was wrong. They should be dark, with orange accents; the cheapest and easiest dye to produce en mass. The Mopongo Slime was native to the Summer Islands, but it was suited to many climates¡­ and when processed by a triple press of Yi-Tish design, the amount of dye extracted should exceed the output of even Tyroshi manufactories by far...


    Down by the harbor he could see a vast flotilla of ships; Yi-Tish traders with sails crossed by reeds, Swanships and purpled Braavosi galleys, cogs and galleons from the Reach and the Vale and the Narrow Sea. They filled the bay, carrying supplies and men, thousands of dockworkers moving like ants as they shouted and hollered. The sound brought a strange sort of peace to Joffrey. It was a far cry from the quiet contemplativeness of the Heart Trees, but a soothing one nonetheless.


    There was something substantial, immaterial to the laboring of men. Lazy grunts and hollered orders, quick conversations and moving wagons. The huff and puff of lifted crates and grabbed tools. The sound of men working for something they were part of and yet couldn''t see. Something they couldn''t smell and couldn''t touch, though they could feel it all the same. That long unceasing buzz of sound set him at ease, adding another layer to the Song and granting it richness; a sort of vivid quality he could feel in his gut.


    Joffrey spent a while listening to the beat of the hammers on steel, the melody a constant companion as he entered one of the smithies. He found a lit forge, the hammer waiting for him over the anvil as he grabbed a pair of tongs which already held a length of metal. The warmth of the forge bathed him; a core of scalding heat which energized him, filled him.


    He started hammering, his clanging adding to the beat all around him; a lowly bass that framed the melody to a steady beat. He ordered the Song thus, reinforcing the vividness with every blow of his hammer.


    "It''ll be a potent transformation, what you''ll bring to your land," said Captain Shah as he sat by the side of the forge. The serene Scout wore his old Long Patrol armor; long sand-grey leathers under scaled armor, a long overcoat swaying around him with the wind. The grey sands of the Beyond still clung to him, crusted in between the joints of his outfit.


    "A necessary one, old friend," said Joffrey as he accelerated the rhythm, the melody gaining speed as he hammered the piece of metal with mighty swings. "I''ve been thinking lately, of what you told me back in the Grey Wastes."


    "Always dangerous, that. We wouldn''t want your brain to turn to mush, would we?" said Shah, grinning like the fool he was.


    Joffrey grunted, smiling as he stopped hammering and raised the length of metal to his face. It was hot, his face heating up as he slowly turned the length of it around, examining it.


    "I believe there''s something¡­ intrinsic, to man," he said, putting the metal against the anvil once more and lifting the hammer again. "To all men. Brindled. Winged. Hairy. Westerosi and Essosi," he said as he hammered it according to his will. Archmaester Benedict had often told him of the strange duality of the forge. Calm evaluation and passionate creation. Fury and patience. Art and science.


    "The little flames," said Shah, smiling, "Small and yet burning so brightly."


    Joffrey smiled as well, "I''ve been chased by a feeling, an intuition. It''s almost an old friend by now¡­ a certainty that we''re something akin to unrefined ore, if you will," he said, concentrated on the beat of his heavy hammer. The smoke of the forge was intoxicating to the senses, filling his nostrils with the scent of oil and metal, coal and leather. "We were buried deep within the earth, alone and undiscovered, but now we''ve been dug up," he said, the melody growing in depth as the ghostly smiths around the city woke up and took hammer and tong, joining him.


    Clang. The hammered in unison with him.


    "Now the gaze of the sun blinds us. The winds of the world chip at us. We''ve woken to the truth outside the mine, the cavern; we''ve seen the stars and the truth of the world," said Shah.


    Clang.


    "A terrifying truth. An all-consuming beat," said Joffrey, a bead of sweat descending down his forehead as he changed his grip on the tongs. "But we can no longer be ore, not under the gaze of the stars," he said, looking up at Aegon''s High Hill as he quenched the length of metal in a bucket of water. The Dawn Fort dominated the hill, tall towers of black stone shadowing the city. Beyond it stood its sisters; five forts on five hills.


    "You''ll mold them in your image," said Shah, gazing at the scores of legionaries donning black armor below the Dawn Fort. They were the smallfolk of King''s Landing, grim faced and stern handed as they moved like knights before battle. The sound of a lumbermill''s saw on ebonwood screeched in the distance, adding a low and constant buzz to the beat of the Song as the people grabbed weapons and armor.


    Clang. Clang.


    "Not my image," said Joffrey, "I''ll turn my people into what they were meant to be, Shah. The old ways will not do against the coming Night." The hammering grew frantic as Joffrey slammed the length of metal back against the anvil and he hefted his hammer time after time. He''d almost forgotten how it felt to wield such a powerful tool, not to kill but to create.


    Clang. Clang. Clang.


    The symphony of steel on steel grew, the rhythm filling him from the inside like an overflowing wine cup.


    "No. If humanity is to survive, if the light of consciousness is to endure beyond this era, we''ll have to forge ourselves into something greater. It''s there Shah, nowhere and everywhere, held within the very means we have to experience the world," he said, eyes glazing as sparks jumped like streaks of lightning with each hammer blow, illuminating the forge with each hit. "It''s behind every piece of music, every work of art. You heft it with our every tool. You taste it with every bowl of food. You hear it in every cry of ecstasy. You silence it when you kill." He''d found the rhythm he''d been looking for, the beat of the Song caressing his skin like a half-forgotten lover, an all-enveloping rapture. "Existence, Shah. Existence and Experience," he said, the last hammer blow illuminating the city like a newborn sun.


    "We don''t see the Cosmos¡­ We are the Cosmos," he said as he dropped the hammer and the tongs.


    CLANG.


    The sound of the hammer slamming against the marbled floor dominated him, the Song holding its breath like a Braavosi Maestro holding his hand up; orchestra silenced for a single moment before the main piece that was to come, the climax of the symphony itching to start. He lifted the incandescent metal with bare hands, anvil and forge forgotten as he gazed at his creation.


    Appraising eyes travelled down the length of the rod; it was made of refined copper, streaks of burnished orange shimmering under the light of the newborn sun. "What they were meant to be, Shah. Not ore, but ingots of purest metal. The little flames pooled together into one great bonfire that shall be our answer to the stars above. We shall be worthy. Death or victory, we shall be worthy... "


    "For Dawn," said Shah, a tender smile on his lips as blood trickled down his mouth, a splotch of red emerging from the center of his armor.


    "For Dawn, old friend," said Joffrey, smiling as he closed his eyes.


    -: PD :-


    The dream laid him down gently, a slowly spinning awareness that deposited him on the ground. He felt his back first, muscles cramped and hard. They were still unused to sleeping over rough terrain. His arms and legs came then, lying down by his sides and below, feeling stiff. His head felt light, his eyes opening almost hesitantly against the gently glowing sunlight. It seeped through the fabric of his small campaign tent, bathing his body in understated yellow.


    A distant buzz zipped within his ears; conversations nearby growing and dying. They followed the Song even if they didn''t realize it, molding it as it molded them. He could hear clanging hammers in the distance, the caravan''s smith probably hard at work against the Queen''s Wheelhouse yet again.


    A long sigh escaped his lips, the dream still behind his eyelids as he closed his eyes again. It had been a while since he''d dreamt of Shah. The events of the Dawn Fort and the war that raged there seemed so long ago, as if they''d happened to another man. A man torn and beaten, seeing the doom of all and spitting in its eye. A man choosing to die with hammer in hand rather than live in shame. A man scarred and broken, held by the love and respect of comrades in arms, oblivious still to his origins and to his purpose. A man searching for truth like a godless prophet.


    Joffrey was no longer that man. He was no Dawn Commander. Neither sailor nor captain. No reckless explorer and adventurer lost in distant jungles. No learned man of the Citadel and certainly no artist. He''d lived so long, held to so many identities, so many different hopes and struggles and dreams and nightmares... Sometimes, he wondered which one of them he actually was.


    Which identity was the truth and which was the lie.


    Truth was, he was both none and all of them at the same time. King and general. Lover and adventurer. Scholar and dreamer. He was Joffrey, and today he''d show another group of men what they were meant to be. Today, he''d be Commander. He listened to the Song for a while longer, letting his mind bask in it for a moment before it was time.


    His eyes drifted to the tent flap a second before Barret opened it. The former Red Cloak gulped, staring at him for a second before regaining his composure. "They''re ready," he said.


    "I know," said Joffrey.


    -: PD :-


    "STAND!" roared Barret. Olyvar immediately straightened; halberd held by his right side, shoulders squared and chin up. It had been a bit more than a week since the King''s Party had passed the Twins on its way North.


    To Olyvar Frey, that might as well have been years ago.


    His squad of ten straightened as well, the sound of shuffling armor and butting halberds dominating the small clearing by the road for a second. Ten smallfolk laborers clad in the same half-plate as him, the scion of a powerful Riverlander House. Days ago, the thought would have left him bewildered¡­ now, he just prayed they''d polished their armor well.


    Because if not, the Mother''s own mercy would not save them from Olyvar''s wrath.


    "Recruits!" Bellowed the Crown Prince. He emerged from the right, striding at a sedate pace in half-plate identical to theirs save for the blackened sheen and the tabard over it. The tabard''s design was far away indeed from the heraldry of the Baratheons of King''s Landing; it depicted the Hand of the King locked in fist, silver against white.


    Olyvar suppressed a scowl as he followed the Prince''s stride, cursing his helmet''s field of vision when the Prince momentarily disappeared from it. "I know you''ve been training hard, but what you''ve been through has not yet prepared you for the trials ahead. You are not yet Guardsmen, for you do not yet know what it means to be a Guardsmen," he said as he reappeared into Olyvar''s view. He walked thoughtfully, halberd held over the shoulder and one hand resting between his plate and the pommel of the hammer by his waist.


    Olyvar knew what being a Guardsmen meant. It meant endless drills, followed by more endless drills, followed by pointless running and pointless marching from side to side.


    "You do not yet know what being a Guardsmen is, because it is something you can''t know. It is something one understands. A bone deep certainty within you. A belonging one can''t articulate into words. A certainty I believe you''re finally ready to understand."


    "Recruits, today will be a hard day," he said, planting his halberd on the floor. Joffrey was fond of pointless ramblings which made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but Olyvar found himself abruptly wondering what his cursed liege would consider hard.


    Hard was repeating simple drills with ''his'' men from dawn to dusk with a single half hour break in between. Hard was being woken up that very same night for a round of marching around the quietly laughing Red Cloaks of the Party''s night guard. Hard was oiling and cleaning his halberd and armor every time a speck of dust settled on it. Hard was practicing polearm thrusts until his arms refused to move any longer.


    He heard Lancel stifle something by his side. So, worst yet, he thought, trying to prepare himself for whatever was to come. By now wise to the ways of the Prince, he intuited the answer was torture.


    "Today you''ll be confronted by your own limits. Today you''ll convince yourself you''ll be a step away from dying. Today you''ll wish you were dying," said the Prince. He walked with his back straight, hands behind it as he surveyed the troops. He carried a sort of silent dignity, a quiet presence that demanded everyone''s attention no matter what you''d been doing a second ago.


    Each Serjeant was standing in front of their squad by the side of the King''s Road, and the noise of the King''s Party had already overpowered that of the forest nearby. The King is probably waking up right now, thought Olyvar, ruthlessly suppressing a stab of envy. The days were he''d been allowed to sleep till after dawn, of waking up to a warm meal and not bloody warming exercises¡­ it now all seemed but a child''s dream.


    "Today you''ll be confronted by your own limits¡­ and if you truly want to be Guardsmen, today you''ll surpass them," he said as he settled into a wide legged stance, "Today the Royal Party is expected to make moderate progress before stopping for lunch, Wheelhouse willing," he said, leaning forward with a slightly maniacal grin that was swiftly smothered. "And today, we are going to beat it."


    "Shit." S~?a??h the ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "What was that, Serjeant Rykker?" called out the Prince.


    "Nothing, Commander!" he replied crisply.


    "Sounded like grunt of expectation to me. Since you''re so eager, your squad will take point," he said as he paced again, Renfred''s squad stifling groans behind their superior.


    "Aye, Commander!" shouted Renfred, undaunted.


    Why are all the Serjeants such lickspittles? After everything this son of a whore has done to us? Was it because he was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms? It couldn''t be that, Willard Mooton would hit the King if he''d felt disrespected by him, consequences be damned. He tried to fight off the devil whispering for him to throttle Renfred Rykker and his stupidly stern expression, as if waiting for the Prince''s next command. Their self-styled ''Commander'' wouldn''t approve of it, but by now Olyvar felt just about to blow up.


    He stayed as stiff as a statue, and hating himself for it. "This''ll be a non-stop fast march in full armor and camp gear through rugged terrain. You''ll be following stakes tied with colored ribbons which the Hound has generously laid ahead of you," he said, eyes suddenly turning serious. You could tell by the way the sharpened slightly, the presence becoming taut like a string about to snap.


    The smell from the caravan''s mobile kitchens was hard to ignore. The scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon wafted through the assembled men, carried south by a small breeze. It was enough to water Olyvar''s mouth. A far cry from the hardtack and jerky they''d been fed this morning¡­ and last morning, and the one before that.


    "If any member of your squad is beaten by the Queen''s bloody Wheelhouse, your whole squad will be doing strength exercises till dusk, and the honor of the Guard will be beyond you for the foreseeable future. I don''t care if you fell down a bottomless pit, there will be no excuses!" he bellowed. "And if any piece of armor, kit, or ¨CFather forbid- your halberd is missing on arrival, then the entire century will run back to get it. Am I understood?!"


    "Aye, Commander!" bellowed Olyvar, more than fifty men and their Serjeants shouting with him.


    "Then get to it! Go!" he said, and Olyvar felt as if a ghost had possessed him. He turned by instinct, bellowing at his squad of smallfolk to get in order. One of the ten ¨CKlint- was a second slower than the rest as they turned for the march. Olyvar was upon him in an instant.


    "Eyes ahead and halberd by your side! Look alive!" he shouted at the bastard. Klint looked back in something akin to loathing before giving out a muffled ''Aye, Ser.''


    Slovenly wretch, thought Olyvar. His cousins had thought him kind hearted. This past week, Olyvar had discovered that he harbored an all-consuming hatred of mankind deep in his heart.


    "At a quick jog!" he bellowed, and soon he was jogging with ''his'' men, the block of smallfolk biting off curses and low looks as they marched by his side. Renfred''s squad had taken point, marching crisply ahead of Willard''s and Tyrek''s squads.


    Full kit over rough terrain, thought Olyvar, calculating the weight the men would be carrying. It didn''t look good, depending on how long the run would last.


    Wheelhouse willing.


    Lancel''s squad was right in front of Olyvar''s, and the Frey scion picked up the pace a bit so he could catch up to him. Each Serjeant marched by side of their squad as the column of soldiers extended completely like a metal snake, with Joffrey at the head. They marched past the outer rearguard of the King''s Party, and the Red Cloaks and Stormlanders lounging there didn''t bother hiding their guffaws once the Prince had marched by, not even looking at them.


    Self-righteous imbeciles, thought Olyvar. He''d bet even these ten wretches against the lounging fools one for one any time. Bet they haven''t worked hard in years, he thought. They probably didn''t even understand the concept of hard work. Gods, in what sorry state would he be left after four years of this? His legs would fall off.


    And it''s only been a week and half!


    He shook his head harshly, now was not the time to despair. "Ho there, Lancel!" he grunted, taking care not to drop his halberd. Never drop your weapon had been one of the first lessons the Prince had taught him and his newborn squad.


    "Pleasant morning for a walk, eh Olyvar?" said Lancel as Olyvar matched his pace to the other Serjeant''s. The damned fool seemed chipper about all this.


    The squads started jogging as they entered the forest nearby, leaving the slowly waking King''s Party and the dreaded Wheelhouse behind. Lancel and all the other squads carried red ribbons tied to their forearms, the significance of which the other Serjeants had been unusually reticent in sharing. It made him feel excluded, him and ''his'' squad.


    "We spent the entire day yesterday marching in circles around the King''s Party! And now the Pri- Commander decides to pull this? He wants to kill us?!" said Olyvar, jogging at a quick tempo with his halberd held against his shoulder with both hands. The terms of the agreement had seemed so bloody generous back in the Twins. Joining this ''Royal Guard'' had seemed the obvious choice with so big a payout in the end. Besides, living and learning to lead and fight around the heir to the Seven Kingdoms for four years should have been an easy way to knighthood¡­


    Knighthood.


    The thought threatened to make him scream.


    "Easy there, Olyvar," said the King''s nephew, eyeing him sideways. "You and your men feeling okay for today? Ate light?"


    "Yeah, they''re all bloody accounted for. Just like the good little Serjeant that I am," he said. Gods, he needed more sleep.


    Lancel smiled knowingly, shaking his head, "It''ll be tough at first, Serjeant. But then¡­" Lancel trailed off, staring at nothing for a moment before he took a deep breath, "Then it''ll all somehow fit. I promise."


    Olyvar frowned, skipping a boulder as the trail kept growing smaller, the ribbon-tied stakes taking them further into the forest, "You sound as if you''ve done this before," he said.


    "We''ve all done it. The Commander repeats it every time a new squad joins the century. Willard''s did it a couple of days before we passed the Twins."


    "Merciful Mother¡­ that explains why they looked half dead back then. Why didn''t any of you say anything back at the mess-hall?" he asked. They didn''t even dine with the rest of the nobility, because of course their crazy liege preferred to make them all dine together with the smallfolk. He honestly shouldn''t have cared about that, he''d dined many times with the Twin''s servantry for one reason or the other, but nowadays everything Joffrey did felt like pulling at a rotten tooth.


    "Commander always asks us to keep it quiet. Mine and Tyrek''s was actually the first; only a few days off King''s Landing¡­ Gods, seems like an eternity ago. I think it was four days before Renfred''s squad joined us," said Lancel.


    Each Serjeant had a squad of ten men they were responsible for in every way. They''d train together, they''d eat together, and they''d sleep together. ''And if one of you dies, you''ll all dig the tomb together,'' the Prince had added in the end, sending chills down Olyvar''s spine. He''d known the Prince possessed a certain¡­ intensity about him the first time he saw him in old Walder''s solar. If only he''d known.


    "Best you get back to your squad. First time''s always the hardest," said Lancel, eyes oddly solemn.


    Olyvar nodded, dropping speed to match ''his'' squad. They must be nearing the Neck, for the ground looked unusually moist, filled with reeds and leaves. The forests were turning more ragged as well, drooping trees and snaring vines which fit Olyvar''s mood just about perfectly.


    The ten members of his squad jogged silently by his side, like reticent donkeys clumsily plowing ahead. "Watch those steps, you could twist an ankle if you''re not careful," he said. They huffed in acknowledgment, and Olyvar felt an irrational spike of anger. They reacted just as he did in front of the Commander. "And pick it up! I''ll be damned if any of you slacks off. We''ll not end up working till dusk while the other squads sleep like babies in a crib!" he snarled with quiet intensity. The men seemed to share his feeling, picking up just a bit more speed as the trail ahead grew rugged, tiny ledges and fallen trees starting to dot the way. It just served to make Olyvar angrier.


    If the bloody ''Commander'' thinks he can break me, he''s got another thing coming¡­


    -: Step ¨C Step ¨C Step ¨C Step :-


    A small creek passed his sight, his boots churning puddles and caking up with foul mud that smelled of Old Walder''s chamber pot.


    Olyvar didn''t care.


    Every breath was like a dagger shoved between his ribs and into his lungs, and yet he lusted after those stabs of pain unlike anything else he''d ever wanted; for behind every stab of pain was a blessed, holy intake of air. Precious air more intoxicating than strongwine, more intoxicating than even the foul concoction cousin Wendel had mixed for him once, when he took him carousing around the northern villages in what felt like a lifetime ago.


    His boots climbed another fallen tree, and his eyes glazed over a stake with a piece of green ribbon tied over it. Each color had been supposed to mean something about their progress during the run¡­ now they were just that, stupid colored ribbons littering the way.


    How could something so precious be so abundant? How had he been so blind as to dismiss the very air around him as unworthy of his consideration? How, when every delay in its intake threatened to make Olyvar''s lungs burn from within? If he''d snorted Wildfire, would it have felt similar to this?


    Olyvar realized he was jogging alone.


    He started, almost tripping and impaling himself on an upturned root. The squads had extended themselves like a piece of string; he could make out Lancel''s last recruit about twenty paces ahead, turning a bend around a large willow. That meant¡­


    He looked back, and realized he''d overtaken ''his'' own squad by quite a distance. They seemed half-dead, barely moving their arms as they jogged with heads down, their halberds swaying above them like the antlers of some drunken stag.


    We''re not going to make it.


    The thought of being subjected to Joffrey''s fake disappointment was enough to jolt him out of his stupor.


    "Keep up the pace! Come on!" he shouted as he slowed down, reaching the first man in the long tail. His voice sounded raw, and his throat felt parched. Water was a painful memory better off forgotten.


    "Yes, Serjeant!" he said.


    "Good man!" Olyvar said, letting the huffing recruits pass him. "Come on come on!!! Every step you take is a step closer to the end!" he said as another three men passed him, their stride just a tiny bit faster than before. He didn''t know from where he''d gotten the strength to speak again, but once he started Olyvar found he couldn''t stop.


    "Come on recruits! You want to make the fucking Commander pity you?!" he bellowed as he reached the tail end of his squad and thus the entire century.


    One of the three men at the end scowled, spitting a tiny sliver of glob, "Fuck that!" he said, gaining speed. Here, with these men, no one was afraid of insulting the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms; a rare quality in a group of men be they noble or smallfolk. In fact, insulting the Commander inside the relative privacy of the squad tent was a guilty pleasure of them all.


    "Then pick it up, Robben!" Olyvar said, falling in beside them, "What about you, Galv? Fancy carrying weighted armor once we finish?!"


    "No, Serjeant!" said Galv. He''d been a baker''s apprentice near Darry, before he''d signed away his freedom in exchange for the Seventh Hell.


    "Fancy there''ll be any bread left if we keep running at this pace?!" shouted Olyvar, something red and hot simmering in his chest. What was going on with him? His mood had swung from almost drunken stupor to murderous rage in less than a minute.


    Gods, I''m just so fucking tired of this.


    "No, Serjeant!" said Galv.


    "Then how much food do you think we''ll get if we''re beaten by the fucking Wheelhouse!" he shouted.


    "None, Serjeant!" said Galv. He''d been a little fat around the edges, the day Olyvar met him and they''d assembled a squad for him out of the hopefuls the Prince had been trailing behind. Now he looked like another man.


    "Do you want that, recruit?!"


    "No, Serjeant!"


    "Then why are you slowing the squad down?!"


    Galv picked up the pace, huffing loudly and holding the side of his chest. Olyvar was about to lay unto Klint when he realized the man was actually keeping pace with Galv and Robben.


    He scowled, biting off the words before Klint turned his head to look at him.


    "Say it anyway, you were going to do it without even looking," he spat.


    Olyvar shook his head, "What''s your fucking problem, Klint," he said, jogging next to him and wrenching the halberd from the tree branch it had snagged unto.


    "Really? Here¡­ of all¡­ places¡­" huffed Galv, holding his sides.


    They half crouched, half ran through a thicket of broken willow branches, slapping long tails of green that clung to their by-now dirty breastplates. Cleaning those would be hell.


    Klint was red faced, slapping aside willow branches with wide swings of his halberd, "Maybe I''m just tired of your sneering, Serjeant," said the man. He took another big breath as they emerged from the veritable forest of hanging branches. "Maybe I''m just tired of you strutting about like you own us," he rasped.


    Olyvar reared back, his face flushing red as he growled, "You and the rest of fifth squad are under my responsibility. One of you shits where you''re not supposed to, it''s my hide that gets tanned by the Commander!"


    "And yet here you are-" said Klint, pausing for another breath, -"running ragged just like the rest of us. You''re not our better, so you should stop strutting around like you expect us to be your manservants. You''re just the spare Walder Frey decided to gift to the Commander. One less mouth to feed in exchange for the Crown''s favor," he spat.


    Galv and Rollen gasped, and not from the exertion.


    Olyvar felt as if he''d been slapped- no, right now he felt as if he''d been punched in the gut, complete with the lack of air. This time the bastard had gone too far.


    "You willing to back that up with more than just words?" Olyvar said, dangerously low.


    "Tonight, after the Commander retires for the evening. There''s bound to be a nook around here somewhere where I can smack your teeth in," said Klint.


    Brawls were strictly forbidden. Olyvar didn''t care. What was the Commander going to do? Make him work harder? "We''ll see who gets his teeth smashed in, bastard," he said with relish. Klint Rivers scowled, balling his fists.


    They kept running, taking care not to fall into the little ledges along the way; they were descending now. By now intimately familiar with the local geography, Olyvar thought that meant another climb would beckon soon. The churning anger deep inside his chest kept him running though, the anticipation of the fight sustaining him.


    -: Step ¨C Step ¨C Step ¨C Step :-


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: It''s a really specific part of the song on loop, so I''ll just post the link to the looper website. Listen until end of chapter.


    Attack on Titan - Original Soundtrack Best of Mix - All Seasons & Openings - Shingeki No Kyojin OST


    ----


    Each step carried them closer to the end of this madness.


    This Agony.


    They''d started collecting members of their squad for a while now; lagging recruits who could no longer slack off under Olyvar''s gaze. None of them had seen the tail end of Lancel''s squad for a while now¡­ and that meant they were getting left behind. The thought carried a strange emptiness that made Olyvar frown and his steps quicken.


    "Keep running! Hold those halberds tight!" he bellowed, gripping the side of his belly in pain. Each breath was shallower than the last, but they had to be getting closer, they couldn''t be too far away. How much time had they been running anyway?


    Olyvar''s muscles didn''t burn any longer, they just ached with a sort of empty hollowness even worse than mere pain. His breaths were short and shallow, each one sending ribbons of pain down his throat, as if bits of flesh were streaming inside it like the fucking ribbons they kept passing. He felt he was going to faint.


    And then the climb started.


    -: Step ¨C Step ¨C Step ¨C Step :-


    Olyvar''s head buzzed strangely, and he forced himself to take a just a bit more air with each breath, withstanding the long stabs into his sides.


    However penny-pinching, he''d been raised in a wealthy household. Well-fed since childhood and not unfamiliar with the rigors of what he''d ¨Chysterically enough- had used to think of as a rather strict Master-At-Arms. His squad had not enjoyed the same.


    Just ahead of him, Galv clutched his belly as he slowed down. "Keep going!" rasped Olyvar, throat dry.


    Galv shook for a moment before puking his breakfast; grabbing unto a chestnut tree for support as his other hand stabbing the halberd into the ground. He swayed dangerously as the rest of the squad passed him by, shouting ragged encouragements.


    "Come on Galv! We''re not leaving anyone behind!" Olyvar rasped, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward. Galv swayed, aiming at the other side before vomiting again. He shook his head, dazed as Olyvar kept him from falling. "We need to keep up, we need to keep up!" he roared in his face, trying to make him understand.


    Galv nodded, grabbing his halberd firmly with both hands and scrounging his face as he ran faster, uncaring of the bits of regurgitated jerky that had stuck to his breastplate.


    The climb turned steeper, knees burning as more and more recruits started vomiting their breakfast. "Let''s go! Let''s go! Keep it up! We''ll raid the cooks for more!" Olyvar bellowed, though he didn''t know how he could, his chest ached so hard he could barely get out the words. He shoved and pulled the lagging members of his squad, pressing them for just a bit more effort. They were close to the finish line. That was what the yellow ribbons meant, he was sure of it.


    His men''s huffing and puffing muted the sounds of the forest, birds flying away as when they heard the groans and the cries of pain. Their backpacks jingled with every step, and Olyvar realized Klint of all people was falling behind, his feet shuffling as his halberd drooped.


    "Come on Klint," said Olyvar as loud as he could. It came out as a ragged whisper.


    "I can''t," Klint whispered back, drooling bile over his plate as he kept slowing down, "Tell him I couldn''t, tell him a quit," he said.


    "You can''t quit, not any longer," said Olyvar, keeping pace with him and trying to think of anything but his burning legs.


    "I¡­ I can''t¡­ I''ll be an outlaw. I''ll take the noose¡­ please¡­" said Klint, stumbling and almost falling face first into the rocky ground. The climb was relentless in its hatred of all that breathed, and it wasn''t- it couldn''t let up.


    Olyvar grabbed him by the other arm, almost tripping himself as he avoided a boulder. "Fuck that. Nobody''s going to hang a member of my squad damnit! Least of all that golden-haired fucker!" he shouted, or at least that''s what he tried to say. It came out as a sort of primal growl instead, though Klint seemed to get its meaning all the same. The bastard sounded out what could be charitably called a chuckle, holding tight to Olyvar''s arm as they returned to their previous pace.


    A couple of hares dashed below them, almost making them trip. They managed to keep going though, the sun cooking them inside their plate.


    Olyvar half dragged Klint with his right hand, side by side with the man as he took another breath of air. "Robben! Jost! Don''t stop now! Keep those feet moving!" he said from behind them; the pair picked up speed again as Klint and him reached them. His men seemed like corpses. They were all corpses picking their way through the Seventh Hell, wondering where they''d died.


    He''d only wanted to serve someone important, anyone really. Be made a squire, get a knighthood eventually. Hells, he would have settled for pagehood. All he''d wanted was to leave the Twins, be someone, do something beyond the stifling life under his head of house. The laughingstock of the Riverlands. All he''d wanted was to be away from that toxic mire and excel at something. Anything.


    Had that been too much to ask? A part of some higher Lord''s retinue? A place by his table, earned through skill and effort and loyalty? Was it really too much to ask?


    Olyvar felt a deep source of unwellness within him; a nauseating twirl within his belly, his chest, everywhere. He was dying, the wrongness climbing his throat like slowly seeping lava, an agony that made him wish it was done and he were dead already.


    His pace was cut in half, and he almost fell to the ground as his chest spasmed inwards as if he''d been rammed with his own halberd. He puked the light breakfast he''d eaten in what felt like years ago, the torrent of food dirtying his plate and his breeches, though he couldn''t care less about that.


    "Another step¡­ come on," whispered Klint. Olyvar turned his head to look at him, dizzy as his feet refused to keep moving. He barely managed to look down as another blow hit him and he puked again. He splattered bile all over the other man''s breastplate, dirtying the heraldless tabard with his own innards.


    "Another¡­ step... Or do you¡­ wanna''¡­ forfeit¡­ the fight¡­" Klint whispered in his ear.


    Olyvar growled, taking in a shuddering breath of air as he tried to walk faster. He spasmed again, bile dripping from his dried, cut lips.


    "Don''t be¡­ a coward¡­" rattled Klint, "I don''t¡­ hit¡­ so hard¡­" Every word was followed by a desperate gasp, as if he were two spent words away from choking to death.


    Olyvar growled again, the walk turning into a small jog. They rejoined the rest of the squad, still holding unto each other as Olyvar realized they''d reached the peak of the climb. The sun was shining bright overhead, and he could make out the Queen''s Wheelhouse rolling slowly over the King''s Road, not yet reaching the ribbons farther ahead still.


    There was still time.


    The sight seemed to embolden his men, and they picked up speed during the descent. Olyvar was not feeling quite human any longer, instead he was this thing.


    He didn''t know what the thing was. He felt strange, a multitude of sensations clamoring for his attention even as his mind was content to ignore them all. He felt sore in places he hadn''t even known existed. He felt as if he''d been pressed under Riverrun''s waterwheels, ground to paste and spat on the other side.


    He felt bile on his chin, reeking something fierce, though curiously enough he didn''t mind the smell much. He was all upside down, inside out. One of the men ¨CJost- had peed his leather breeches. Olyvar thought he might as well do that himself.


    The aches, the pain, they were all kind of melding with each other, forming a strange whole that breathed. In and out. The agonized huffing of the men seemed everywhere; it enveloped Olyvar, made him one with them. He realized they were all this thing; a singular, dying behemoth.


    Olyvar turned to his right, vomiting more bile before returning his sight forward. There was only the run. There was only his men.


    "No man left behind," he growled, passing a hand over the back of Jost''s neck as he and Klint reached him, making sure he didn''t fall behind.


    "Stop¡­ please¡­" ragged the smallfolk.


    "No man¡­ left behind¡­" whispered Olyvar.


    The three of them supported each other; when one insisted he couldn''t possibly keep going, the other two pulled and whispered encouragements.


    The behemoth was still dying though, and all things came to an end in this life. Olyvar''s men soon jogged in pairs, even trios, holding each other. Though Jost had moved forward, Olyvar and Klint remained in the rear guard, pushing and shouting at any that came close. By now Olyvar was weeping silently, sluggish tears sliding down his cheek in an infrequent tempo dictated by the rise and fall of some deep, inner agony. They were all crying, for they would soon be dead and know the blessed joy of oblivion. Slowly, the aching emptiness consumed them.


    The squad had almost stopped, the behemoth breathing its last when suddenly he was there, like a streak of black and white lighting; loud and demanding and all-encompassing. "KEEP GOING!" roared Joffrey Baratheon as he barged into the middle of the squad, halberd still in hand. "KEEP MOVING THOSE LEGS!" he roared in Robben''s ear, the man shuddering and somehow running faster. He pulled and harangued, propelling men forward as he kept roaring.


    Joffrey''s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, halberd held in one hand like an oversized arming sword. In a second, he was beside Olyvar and Klint. "You want to be a soldier?! You want to shake Westeros to the core!?"


    Klint growled with unexpected ferocity, pulling Olyvar forward. How could he?! How could a man hold so much breath after this?


    "What of you Olyvar?! Will you fade into obscurity?! Will you be another Frey spare, used and forgotten?!" roared Joffrey, his face suddenly looming over him, steel-green eyes staring into his soul.


    Olyvar gave a wordless cry; a mixture of bellow and grunt and sob. He pulled his weight, still holding on to Klint as the two ran with all they had, all they were.


    "This is war! This is what death and battle will feel like! Agony and sorrow all encompassing! Only you and your brother-soldiers against the End!" roared Joffrey, the men giving out a wordless bellow like a wounded animal.


    "If you win this, if you dare win this, you''ll be My Decree! My Guard!" roared the Commander.


    They all broke out of the forest, the sun suddenly blinding like an exploding mill. They ran into trodden wheat fields swept sideways by the wind, wispy tails brushing Olyvar''s legs.


    "You''ll be knights of will and grit! Soldiers that will change a continent! My Will! My Fists!!!" roared the Commander, and Olyvar wanted to be that will, that terrible fist, unknowable and unstoppable.


    "The Wheelhouse is still away! You can still win this! You can still be worthy!" said Joffrey, and Olyvar took a shuddering breath as he lifted his head and looked to his right. He could see the King''s Road, he could see the dreaded Wheelhouse slowly making its way towards the field of red ribbons, towards¡­


    Olyvar realized the entire century was waiting for them, two ranks; one kneeling and the other standing, arms over each other''s shoulder, interlocked. Smallfolk and nobles. Serjeants and recruits. A wall of steel awaiting its brethren.


    "Come oooon!!!" roared Olyvar, his roar shrill. His men took it up, somehow, somehow screaming through snot and tears, somehow finding within themselves the will to go on. The strength to join that dream, that promise. He dared believe, and in that instant Galv fell.


    He''d been turning to look at Olyvar, turning to better pay attention to what his Serjeant was screaming. He stepped into a hole in the field, his foot twisting painfully as he groaned in pain.


    No.


    He fell like a statue, the look of sheer surprise and sudden dread searing into Olyvar''s memory before he slammed against the wheat field in a sprawl of limbs and steel, halberd tumbling down by his side.


    No¡­


    He reached his side in a heartbeat. "Come on Galv, come on," whispered Olyvar, trying to help him stand up as he extended an arm to his prone form. Galv tried, he tried with everything he had, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to stand up and he leaned on his bad leg. It jolted him like a lightning strike, making him fall to the ground again with a scream.


    Failure.


    "Come on Galv, come on," begged Olyvar as him and Klint tried to lift the man between them; but their strength had deserted them, and they almost fell beside him. He looked to the Wheelhouse, and realized it would reach the flying red ribbons in moments.


    They had failed.


    "Hold on, soldier," said a voice by Olyvar''s side, and with a low growl Joffrey Baratheon grabbed the fallen recruit. The growl kept rising in volume until it was the roar of a giant unchained, muscles bulging under tanned leather around the places where the plate didn''t cover them. Joffrey Baratheon lifted up Galv in one single motion; his steel plate screeching against Galv''s as he put him across his back and shoulders in what Olyvar distantly remembered him calling ''the Guardsman''s carry''; sideways against his back and gripping one leg and one foot.


    He accommodated his grip on Galv, the recruit''s backpack snagging awkwardly with Joffrey''s own. He didn''t complain, didn''t say a thing as he put man, plate, and kit atop himself.


    "Pass me that halberd, Serjeant," he said as he looked at Galv''s fallen weapon.


    "¡­ Commander¡­" Olyvar whispered.


    "Guardsmen don''t drop their weapons," he said by way of answer.


    Olyvar held it out to him, but Galv grabbed it first. The sobbing recruit grabbed both his and Joffrey''s halberds, pressing them sideways against Joffrey''s chest and using them to reinforce his grip on the Commander. The Wheelhouse was almost to the flags, the servants and the party''s outriders looking at them with snorts and shaking heads as they broke out stools and cooking utensils.


    "Onwards!!!" roared the Commander.


    They jogged, no, they ran across the fields, his squad around him. Olyvar ran next to Galv and his Commander, Klint taking up the other side; halberds against their shoulders like an honor guard. Joffrey grunted every second step, golden hair stuck against his helmet as rivulets of sweat descended down his face, legs pumping like some sort of unstoppable clockwork mechanism.


    "I''m sorry- I''m sorry Commander-" sobbed Galv, holding tight to the Commander and the halberds as their chestplates clashed with each other after each step, a rhythmical beat of steel on steel.


    "You''re to be a Guardsman. It''s important you know our guiding principle," said Joffrey.


    "Blood¡­ Blood and Mud?" he said.


    "Those are our Words, recruit."


    "T-then..?"


    "For the Living, Galv. For the Living," he said, oddly serene.


    "For the Living," whispered Galv, as if the words held the secret to the universe.


    The men, the soldiers by the finish line were silent, but their gaze screamed encouragement; their grips tense, their knuckles white. They tilted forward as the squad tried to reach the line before the Wheelhouse, looking like a grey riverwall about to give out under the weight of the earth behind.


    More than his Commander''s speed, Olyvar was stunned by the sheer intensity of the man. He''d never seen the Crown Prince like this; never imagined a man could be so focused. His eyes never deviated from the flags, and his face might as well been made of marble for all the exertion he showed at carrying a man in plate and kit besides everything else. He was an irresistible force propelling them all forward, their ails dissipating as they ran for the stakes, as they ran for the little forest of red ribbons that promised to defy a continent.


    "We''re not going to make it. You''ll have to be faster than this, Olyvar," said the Commander, still gazing forward as he ran.


    Olyvar eyed the carriage, and then the line of waiting soldiers. He gazed at the line of swaying red ribbons, streaming under the wind, defiant. He snarled as he felt bile rising within his throat, and he spat it quickly to the side. Behind it though another thing rose from his belly; a burning sensation a hundred times more potent. A hundred times more intoxicating.


    "ffffFFFFIFTH SQUAAAD! CHAAARGE!!!" roared Olyvar, and his men roared with him. It was as if Olyvar had bewitched them. Instinct took over, thousands of drills condescend into a simple set of movements. They sprinted across the golden fields like men possessed, halberds forward and lowered, carrying the roar like a battlecry; hopes and dreams and glimpses of a strange unity propelling them forth. Joffrey ran by their side, carrying Galv at a full sprint, face slowly reddening as he sprayed drops of sweat over the field.


    They reached the stakes in a sudden rush, and the Red Cloaks sitting nearby stumbled up or scrambled back, retreating from the ferocity writ clear on the faces of Olyvar''s men.


    His legs wanted to keep moving, but Olyvar forced them still. He came to a stop with the rest of his squad, standing uneasily as he blinked at the befuddled servants and startled guards. A strange silence descended upon this little patch of the King''s Road, his body and mind bizarrely attuned as he felt every speck of air entering his lungs, the colors of the wheat field somehow sharper, as if he''d realized he was in a dream; wide swaths of gold and amber swaying under the northerly gusts. He breathed in the scent of oil and sweat and smoke, the weight of his armor indistinguishable from that of his body. It lasted less than a thought and more than a war.


    Was it really over? He turned to look at the stakes and realized the Wheelhouse was just now passing them. He swore he''d barely been a few steps ahead of it. How long had he been standing here?


    He took a moment to gaze at his men, feeling a surge of pride. Joffrey gently lowered Galv next to his squad mates, the men still gripping each other so they wouldn''t fall, and Olyvar felt the surge of pride grow and grow and grow. He felt it was going to burst out of his chest, a golden glow he couldn''t control, a glow that would kill him at last.


    The line of awaiting Guardsmen slammed into them; a wave of sound and metal cheering and hollering as if they''d just won the Rebellion. Men slapped palms against his back, other shouting as they held his shoulders. "Congratulations, Olyvar. You made it," said Lancel, smiling as held up a piece of red ribbon, the recruits making space for him.


    Olyvar eyed it dumbly before collapsing forward, but Lancel caught him in a firm yet gentle grip. He couldn''t control the tears that wracked him then, slowly coming out of his eyes like puss fleeing an infection.


    "It''s okay, we''ve got you. It''s okay," whispered Lancel, grabbing him firmly by the back of the neck.


    "Make room! Open the circle!" he heard Serjeant Willard shout, and Olyvar suddenly found himself held up by two men, his squad and all the others making a circle of interlocked arms. Joffrey stood in the middle, holding up a big waterskin in one hand. Someone had passed one to Olyvar as well.


    "Fifth squad! Serjeant Olyvar!" he roared, holding up the waterskin. The entire century held theirs up to the air.


    "Blood and Mud!" he said, and drank.


    Olyvar gulped the water down. Its taste was to Arbor Gold like Arbor Gold was to cheap swill. He felt as if he were drinking from a holy spring straight out of the stories, a cold wide rush descending down his torso and revitalizing him. He reveled in it, holding the waterskin up and letting the water fall over his head, wiping out the traces of bile and sweat as the water traversed him completely, seeping under his armor and cleansing him.


    The wineskin empty, Olyvar looked around the circle. Klint was holding one of his shoulders, Robben the other. They looked different. Could simple water change a man''s face so completely? They looked around like newborns, blinking slowly under the noon sun, the rest of fifth squad by their sides and the rest of the century as well; one great circle of steel. One newborn beast.


    The Commander planted the butt of his halberd on the mud, and the movement felt oddly ritualistic. One foot slightly forward, head bowed down lightly, the halberd''s butt brutally against the ground like spearing a hog. He stepped back from it with a satisfied nod, as if at ease with the world.


    Olyvar realized he was still holding his. Of course. A Guardsman never left his weapon.


    "Blood and Mud," said Olyvar as he planted it on the ground with surprising strength, the rest of the men doing likewise in a short cacophony of thumps and grunts.


    "Now you see¡­ Now you see what we''ll become," said Lancel, grabbing him by the shoulder like a brother would.


    A Behemoth, thought Olyvar, singular and terrible and not at all dying.


    No, far from it. It would be alive.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 65: Hearth.

    Chapter 65: Hearth.Lord Eddard Stark nursed the cup of strongwine in his hand, staring at the fire by the hearth. It crackled almost silently, tiny sparks flying off every time the thick logs lost strength and resettled amongst themselves. He was strangely aware of his heartbeat, abnormally loud thumps ringing within his chest.


    Catelyn paced around the front of the hearth, fidgeting with the cresses of her dress. "It''s just a passing fancy, Ned. She''s clearly distressed by the coming of the King," she said.


    Ned sighed, looking at the fine Myrish cup again. He was barely halfway through¡­ drink had never been his solace, but after today he''d felt the need to hold something in hand to ward off the cold. The logs seemed insufficient for the task. "Distressed?" he asked mildly.


    "Yes," she said, "Leaving her favorite dresses for riding leathers and northern designs, acting ''mysterious'' instead of her usual self¡­ she''s probably worried she''s not good enough for the southern court."


    "And you think this is a way of compensating? Becoming what the south sees as a northerner woman?"


    "What else then Ned? Our daughter seeing visions in the clouds? All the tales Old Nan''s put in her head now come alive?"


    He grunted, taking a drink from the cup. Brandon had loved strong vintages, but for Ned every drink was like a punch to the gut one needed time to recover from. He had to admit though that the heady scent of the burning pinewood made for a pleasant complement to the wine. He could see why his brother had loved the mixture so much.


    Brandon¡­ It had been a while since he''d last thought of his brother. For all the color and furor of his nightly escapades, there had been a little corner to him that most people never really knew. He''d loved to sit by the hearth occasionally, basking in the warmth of a good fireplace when it snowed outside, a heavy brandy by his hand. Rare moments like those were the fondest memories Ned had of his him; Lyanna asleep by his lap, her hair a mush. Little Benjen still playing with wooden horses over the mat. And the fire, throwing a gentle light over the book in Ned''s hands.


    Before the war. Before books turned to reports and wooden horses to war destriers.


    He frowned, sitting up and leaving the drink on the small table as he heart thumped against his chest. He felt rattled, his mind tied into knots by some slippery, unseen vine of some sort. Would Bran remember archery practice with fondness? Would Rickon reminiscence of the olden, carefree days when he''d fall asleep on the floor and Catelyn would carry him to bed?


    Before the war?


    He sighed again, massaging his face with both hands. They hadn''t trembled like this since the day he''d killed Arthur Dayne.


    Someone knocked on the door to the solar, startling Ned. Jory peeked in after Catelyn called out.


    "Ser Rodrik is here," he said.


    "Let him in," said Ned.


    The Master-At-Arms trundled in with a bit of snow still atop his right shoulder. It fell over the woolen carpet as he turned back to thank Jory.


    "Sorry about that, my Lord. My Lady," he said, bowing his head to Catelyn.


    "It''s quite alright, Ser Rodrik. We''ve got other things in mind besides the carpet," she said with a rueful smile.


    "Quite a lot of things, I''m afraid," said Ned, trying to mirror his wife''s smile. It came out more like a grimace. "The guards?"


    "Out and about," said Ser Rodrick. "Seems like we''ll be having a storm tonight, but the boys are doing alright. They''ve got their winter furs out, and the wall braziers are all lit up. Winterfell is secure, my Lord."


    Eddard nodded deeply, even thankfully. Ser Rodrick was an island of dependability in suddenly uncertain times. Whispers of conspiracies and murders inside hollow far-eyes. Courtly intrigue climbing its way North. Strange omens and mythical truths¡­


    The man walked up to the hearth and laid his hands over it, silently warming up. He was wrapped up in furs and steel, though he''d left his winter coat outside. The leather hold on his scabbard was undone, though. It was a habit of old veterans when they got nervious.


    He shuffled, acutely aware Ice''s weight against the big chair''s armrest. Only a painfully loud heartbeat away from his hand.


    Its leather hold lay undone as well.


    "¡­ What do you honestly think about this, Rodrik. About all of this?" Ned asked after a while.


    Rodrik peeked at him, then at Catelyn. He wrapped his hands over themselves, twirling them over the fire, sighing softly. "In the south they''d call us all mad to even think of it¡­"


    "As well they should," said Catelyn.


    Ser Rodrik shot him a meaningful look, and Eddard nodded silently, cupping the lower half of his face.


    "¡­ And they would be right to do so, my lady¡­ in the South."


    Catelyn gazed at him like he''d grown a second head. "Ser Rodrik, surely you don''t¡­" she trailed off, looking at Ned. She shook her head, going to the cupboard and serving herself a cup of wine. "This is too much," she muttered, twirling the cup before taking a little sip. She hesitated, leaning on the cupboard and facing away from them. "Maester Luwin assured us that Sansa has wielded no¡­ no sorcery," she said slowly.


    Ser Rodrik looked at Ned, "When-" he cut himself off, mulling on the word. He shouldn''t have bothered, Catelyn had been called a southron a thousand times since she''d ridden North with him for the first time. "People from the South, they imagine sorcery as an affair of blood rituals and fell words spoken in the midst of the full moon."


    "And here?" she asked sharply.


    "The North is an old land," said Ser Rodrik by way of explanation.


    Ned could count the times he''d seen him fidget like that.


    "Greenseers were not the sorcerers of Old Valyria, powering storms of scalding ash through the sacrifice of hundreds," he said as Catelyn looked unconvinced, folding his hands behind his back, "The Old Magic¡­ I think that whatever Maester Luwin learnt to get his Valyrian Steel link, it won''t be of much use to us¡­"


    "Less than one in a hundred Maesters hold that link, Ser Rodrik."


    "This is not something that can be measured with old scrolls and darkened rooms," said Ned. How could he explain this, when it hardly made any more sense to him? To describe the omens of ravens and dead direwolfs, whispering trees and chill winds?


    The whispers of Greenseers?


    Winter is Coming, he thought, feeling the cold wind even from here inside the Keep.


    "It''s best we don''t jump into conclusions," he said, "And listen to the answers of our own daughter," he added.


    Catelyn nodded at that, and they all tried to make time as they waited. You could cut the anxiety with a dull knife.


    Maester Luwin arrived after a few minutes, having a quick word with Catelyn before sitting down on a chair near Ned. Sansa had showed no signs of confusion or disorientation. In fact, the slight cut on her forehead had already healed up completely.


    It would have made things simpler, thought a treacherous part of his mind. Ned leaned forward on his seat, rubbing his collarbone as he tried to take a big breath. He felt short of air, a lesser cousin to what he''d felt when he heard Brandon and Father had been killed in King''s Landing. Could his daughter whisper omens of that which was to come? Dare he know the truth behind the crying Heart trees.


    Behind the cold winds?


    The thought seemed so absurd, but then why was the cup on his hand trembling so hard?


    "Lady Sansa''s here," said Jory, leaning in by the door.


    "Let her in. And give us a bit of privacy, please," said Ned, his voice low.


    "I''ll walk to the other end of the hallway. Holler if you need anything," said Jory, his head disappearing back behind the door. Moments later Sansa walked through the doorway, carrying Lady. She briefly reminded him of Queen Rhaella the one time he''d seen her in King''s Landing, before the Rebellion. Her daughter carried herself with that same easy grace, though without the edge of anxiety that had hidden beneath the old Queen''s eyes. No, his daughter''s blue eyes bore confidently on the room, tense but ready for the trials ahead.


    The way she made to bite her own lip before camouflaging the movement with her hand left Ned strangely relieved. It was still her daughter in there, just different.


    "Take a sit, Sansa," he said. She walked quietly by the side of the fireplace, still holding the little ball of curious fur as it gazed around the room. She sat down in one of the room''s big, padded chairs to Ned''s right, beside Catelyn.


    Maester Luwin sat opposite to her, leaning on his arm and absentmindedly scratching his chin. Ser Rodrik preferred to keep standing, leaning by the window and occasionally looking through it and to the courtyard.


    The smoke from the cut pinewood left a burnished, sweet scent hanging around the room, and Ned eyed his cup of strongwine before taking another drink. The fiery waterfall making its way down his chest made him sit up, and he looked at his daughter attentively.


    Perhaps Brandon had been unto something. He dispelled the errant thought with a sigh, nodding at her.


    "First of all, I want to make it clear that we''re not angry at all Sansa, just confused. This is not a punishment, just an opportunity for you to explain to us what¡­ has been going on these past few days."


    Sansa nodded, "I''m sorry if I''ve been confusing or¡­ " She eyed Catelyn by her side. "Frightening¡­" she added somewhat hesitantly.


    Catelyn looked as if she''d been slapped. She grabbed Sansa''s hand with both her own, holding it tightly. "I''ll never be frightened of my own daughter, whatever happens. Whatever''s on your mind, I shall never turn you away. Do you understand that, Sansa Stark?" she said with unusual intensity.


    Sansa blinked once, putting her other hand over Catelyn''s. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick.


    Ned cleared his throat softly, trying to steady the glass cup as it shook lightly. He ran his other hand down his thigh, taking another breath of air. I need to know.


    "What''s happened to you, Sansa? Why did you say those things today?"


    Sansa looked around the room, her hands returning to Lady''s grey fur. She scratched the young direwolf repeatedly, holding back a sigh. "I did bring this on myself¡­" she whispered.


    "That you did, young lady. Scaring off my men like that," said Ser Rodrik.


    Sansa smiled, but she banished it after a moment, looking down at Lady. Ned braced himself as if against a tempest over the horizon, running down on him with no shelter in sight.


    She took a deep breath, blue eyes boring into his own.


    "I''ve seen the future, Father."


    The cup snapped in Ned''s fingers. He looked down reluctantly, a trickle of blood fleeing from his thumb and index fingers. What little strongwine had been left was now scurrying down his hand, leaving a softly burning sensation in its path before dripping down on the carpet.


    Maester Luwin stood up immediately, "I''ll get that-"


    "No," said Ned.


    He sat back down reluctantly, eyes on him. Ned took the cloth handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping the small wound tightly. The last time he''d done a field dressing had been during the Greyjoy Rebellion; an archer had grazed his forehead when they''d stormed the walls, following that fool Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword. He could still hear him as if it had been yesterday, shouting benedictions like a madman as he climbed over the rubble and waved that thing at terrified raiders. Arrows had pelted Ned''s plate like hail, but he''d barely felt the one that''d grazed his cheek. For a moment he''d though it''d caught him in the eye, the blood blinding him.


    Ned lifted his eyes from the covered wound; the entire room was looking at him.


    "Go on, Sansa," he said, his voice steady. S?a?ch* Th? N0v?lFire(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    She looked at his hand before leaning back slowly on her padded seat. "I suppose lived the future is a better term for it. I''ve done it several times, waking up in Winterfell after every death, seeking to prepare the Kingdoms for what''s to come."


    "That is simply not possible," said Maester Luwin, grey eyebrows creased in a deep frown as he leaned forward.


    "And yet it happened," said Sansa. "Some lives I ruled Westeros as Queen, others we devoted to search the world for answers and to learn the necessary skills to survive."


    Queen? What is to come? There were so many questions Ned didn''t know which one to ask first.


    "We?" He latched on to the one which made the most noise inside his head.


    Sansa nodded, "My husband, Prince Joffrey Baratheon."


    It was like a punch to the gut. My daughter? Married? He saw Catelyn make a gesture towards Maester Luwin, as if to say ''let me handle this''.


    "Sweetie," she said, caressing her hand, "I know how much you dream of court and the south, I did so too when I-"


    "I don''t dream about it anymore, Mother," she said, her eyes latching on to hers with a kind of slow weight. "I lived it, lived it all. The joy and the pain," she said, almost whispering by the end. "I quickly discovered the truth of the south. How feasts and tourneys hid fake smiles and daggers in the back, how the game of thrones warped those around it¡­" She shook her head, "But that''s not important. What''s important is that you know what is to come."


    "The White Walkers," Ned said out loud.


    Catelyn''s head snapped back to him, "Mother above! Eddard, surely you don''t- you can''t believe this!"


    Sansa simply turned to look at him, idly scratching Lady''s back as the tiny direwolf regarded him like the old sphinxes outside the small council chambers. He could see snow by the window behind her; the storm had arrived. Ser Rodrik seemed a statue, his face inscrutable as he watched the falling white rattling against the window.


    Wind''s getting worse, thought Ned, returning his eyes to Catelyn.


    "Robert always wanted us to be family," he said after a moment.


    She huffed, almost falling back on her seat and looking at him as if he''d gone insane.


    Eddard couldn''t point to a single, specific reason why he believed her daughter¡­ and yet he did.


    "I can show you," she said.


    "Did you¡­ bring something, from your previous lives?" said Maester Luwin, the skepticisms writ clear in his voice.


    She shook her head, "No, only our souls travel back each time. Well, Joffrey carries Brightroar with him but that''s¡­" she came to a stop, sighing. "It''s complicated. For now, I think it would be better if you saw for yourself."


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Ned was about to ask her what she meant when the corners of her eyes glimmered. Strange, twisting lines seemed to seep out of her eyes by a hand span or two, purple patterns twisting and changing too quickly for him to make out as a sudden drone began to thrum within the room.


    "Sansa?!" Catelyn shouted.


    "It''s okay Mother," she said, "I learnt the art of far seeing beyond the Mountains of the Morn. It''s a way of peering beyond the limits of our eyes¡­ Don''t be scared," she added the last almost absentmindedly, frowning as the drone turned deeper, echoing inside the chambers. A slow ripple began to form by the center of the room right in front of the hearth. It was as if a tear had been cut into the fabric of reality, a slowly widening gash that thrummed again like a war drum within Ned''s chest.


    "They say¡­ this¡­ I- it''s like a glass candle¡­" whispered Maester Luwin, mouth agape. Distorted colors reflected on his face, the hearth''s glow turning bright red and the snow outside shining like starmetal, like Ser Arthur''s Dawn swinging from above. Sansa''s hair was whipping back and forth as if under a furious gale, though Ned couldn''t feel even single gust of it. The room felt still, as if frozen under the warped colors.


    "I have been looking for the Walker''s scouting parties for a while now, to no effect. With what I saw within Will''s mind however, I managed to track down the group that ambushed him," she said, the gash rippling brightly as it expanded and showed a raven''s view of what had to be the Haunted Forest.


    "Sansa, sweetie," whispered Catelyn, somehow still holding on to his daughter despite everything. She seemed terrified, and Ned had to squash the impulse to stand up and hold her. He had to see this. He needed to see this.


    The point of view descended amongst the tall pine trees of the Haunted Forest, greens and whites flooding the room. It seemed eerily still, not a deer or hare in sight as the vision narrowed upon a slow moving stream, most of it frozen solid despite the clear weather.


    Ser Rodrik stepped up to Sansa''s chair, gripping it tightly as he placed a hand on the pommel of his arming sword. He looked upon the frozen vista, transfixed by it as the point of view gradually slowed down. Even Lady seemed entranced, her fur slowly standing in edge as Ned shivered.


    "We have years still, maybe six or seven until they press the Wall in force. We''ll have to be ready by then," said his daughter.


    He saw them walking between the trees, a patina of frost climbing up the trees and cracking them as the Walkers strode with an eerie mechanical grace. There were five of them, walking in unison with their backs facing the ripple. They carried long blades of crystalline ice, and Ned realized there were other figures around them. Children and old men, hunters with the look of wildlings dragging bone spears that left lines on the snow.


    They were all dead, blue eyes staring listlessly ahead as they shambled; souls of the damned shackled to the will of Winter.


    It''s true. It''s all true. "Winter is Coming," he whispered.


    "And the dead with it," said Sansa, smiling sadly. The purple fractals by the corners of her eyes seemed to have stabilized, thrumming gently as they seared themselves into Ned''s vision, looking more solid than the chair her daughter sat upon. "They¡­ damaged me, the last time we fought. This will be my last life, our last chance to defeat them before they scour the continent clean of life."


    "What will happen then?" said Ser Rodrik. His voice sounded raspy, dry like sandpaper on limestone. Ned couldn''t swallow, his throat just as parched as he stared at the Walkers. Beings of legend and myth now walking among the living and the dead.


    "They''ll begin constructing great ships of ice; floating icebergs to carry wights and Walkers across the Narrow Sea. Pentos, Braavos and Lorath will likely fall next, and the Three Daughters soon after," said Sansa. She sighed as she looked down at Lady, cradling the tiny pup, her eyes still surrounded by ribbons of fractured purple. They''ll attack the Empire of Yi-Ti through a land bridge to the north-west, scouring the northern hemisphere of life. By then most crops north of the Summer Islands will have already failed, and the world entire will freeze."


    Catelyn was no longer staring at the Walkers. She''d turned her gaze to Sansa, terror giving way to a soul-wounding sadness as she hugged her daughter. "It''s true. It''s all true¡­ My Sansa. Oh my sweet Sansa, what did they do to you?" She cried, long tears falling down her cheeks.


    "Can¡­" Ned licked his lips, raising one trembling hand to his mouth and rubbing it as he coughed. "Sansa¡­ can you get any closer?" he asked her.


    She hesitated for a second, leaning into Catelyn''s touch. "They''re quite unnerving. Are you sure?"


    "It''s my duty," he said.


    She nodded slowly, "We''ll make it quick anyway, just in case." She held Catelyn with one arm as she leaned forward, slowly tilting her head sideways as the ripple droned lightly and the point of view neared the White Walkers.


    They followed them at about twenty paces, and Ned examined his enemy. They were armored in swirling patterns of crystalline ice, pauldrons of purest snow on their shoulders. They walked in a sort of arrow head formation, their steps locked in unison unlike the shambling hordes of the dead that walked by their sides with empty stares.


    Winter is Coming. His forefathers had known, and the time had come for the Starks of Winterfell to face their ancient enemy once more. The Others marched again, an army of the dead bearing down on Westeros and only the heavily depleted Night''s Watch standing between them.


    "Old Gods green and wise, guide my dreams¡­" The words came unbidden to Ned''s lips, Old Nan''s lullabies still in his mind after all these years. He stared at a group of children marching northwards, greyish-blue eyes illuminating the snow with a soft glow. Their jaws hanged wide, and many dragged torn legs or mauled arms behind them. He imagined Benjen out there, surrounded by the dead and shouting defiance with only steel and a few half-starved rangers at his back. He imagined him marching south, Stark-grey turned dead blue, his black cloak torn and ragged. Winter is coming, and the dead with it.


    He had to call the banners right now. The Umbers could reinforce the Wall in less than a week; if they could hold until the Manderly Fleet docked on Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the Night''s Watch could be augmented by some fifteen hundred men and over a hundred heavy horse. They should be able to mount shipborne artillery on the Wall itself; ballistas and onagers. Would it be enough until Robert called the realm to war? Could all the banners of the South be enough?


    One of the Walkers stopped.


    It turned slowly, the fire by the hearth cowering as the Walker stared right back at Ned, endless blue eyes whispering an end to all things.


    "Sansa?" Ned called out as the Other started walking towards them with long strides. The gash in reality shimmered, diminishing slowly. Too slowly.


    "Sansa?!"


    "It''s interfering somehow!" said his daughter, purple fractals crawling out of her eyes like lightning as she stood up.


    "Stand back!" roared Ser Rodrik as he unsheathed his arming sword with one hand and shoved Catelyn back with the other. The Walker seemed to almost glide towards them, its long strides deceptively fast as the blue glow in its eyes grew and the storm outside suddenly screamed, slamming against the keep and rattling the window like a dying breath, the cobblestones tingling.


    "Jory! Jory!!!" Ned roared as he stood up, tossing Ice''s scabbard aside and fumbling with the blade''s grip as the chair fell behind him.


    Jory smashed the door aside with his shoulder, sword in hand. He stumbled to a stop when he saw the Walker almost running towards the gash, its brethren turning as well as the wights around them quivered like a chorus in ecstasy, screeching. He choked on air as he placed a hand on the doorframe. "Sound the bell! To arms! To arms Winterfell!!!" he screamed.


    "Rodrik! Rodrik get her out of there!" Catelyn screamed from the floor as Sansa walked in front of the gash, her arms held wide as Lady growled by her side, puffing up into a ball of snarling fur.


    "It''s trying to make a connection, hold on!" roared Sansa. She looked like in the midst of a hurricane, her dress fluttering wildly as she closed her fists and she squirmed, the gash rippling with an ear tearing thrum, groaning like a ship torn in half. The Walker was less than five paces away, its sword held high and glowing a deep red as Ned placed himself in front of Sansa, Ice held up in a parry as the fire by the hearth rattled and died.


    The Walker swung its red blade down just as Sansa gasped and the window closed. The thrum echoed away, distorted colors growing right again. Ned breathed heavily, still gripping Ice like a talisman of the Old Gods as he stared at the dead fire by the hearth. It was surrounded by snow.


    Heward and Tommard arrived at a dead sprint as Jory bellowed down the hallway, hollering for spears and axes to the inner keep. Ser Rodrik picked up Catelyn from the floor, his wife on shaky legs as she clung to the knight''s arm. Eddard fought to control his breath, his hands no longer shaking as he slowly lowered Ice.


    Sansa whimpered. Ned turned and caught her by reflex before she fell, holding her by the arms as he looked at the frozen gash that ran from shoulder to belly. "I''m okay," she whispered, "It didn''t touch my soul, I''m okay," she whispered again, her legs buckling.


    "Maester Luwin!" Ned roared as he lowered her on the ground, her legs unable to hold her weight.


    "I can¡­ I can heal it," Sansa rattled, her lips blue. Catelyn wailed as she reached her side and kneeled, holding her back and cupping her head with both hands, combing back red hair so she could see her daughter''s face.


    Ser Rodrik was pushing the guards aside before they reached the hearth, "Give us some space, damn you! Jory! Get the men in order! Give us some privacy!" he bellowed.


    "A-a-aye Ser!" said Jory, shaking his head wildly before shouting at the guards, "Hold that door no matter the cost! Let no one enter!"


    Maester Luwin was already by Sansa''s side. He opened his satchel with steady hands, though his voice was less so, "I-I''ve never s-seen a wound like this b-before," he said, grabbing and dropping instruments one after the other.


    Ned grabbed him by the shoulder, "Call the banners as soon as Sansa is stable. The Starks of Winterfell call for aid. Tell Jon Umber-"


    "Father, no," said Sansa, gripping his arm strongly. She scrounged her face as she snarled, purple lines crisscrossing her skin where the gash had taken her. "No one else must know of this. Not the banners, not the south, not even Robert!"


    "Sansa- why?" said Ned, stunned as the purple lines mended her skin, leaving only unblemished skin in their wake.


    "It''s not yet time. If you sound the alarm now no one will believe us, you''ll poison the idea."


    "They''ll believe us if you show them what you showed me!"


    Sansa grimaced, "The South would label me a sorceress and promptly ignore whatever I said. Showing them that way would only make the rumors stronger. Perhaps they''d even try to pressure Robert out of the betrothal¡­ as funny as the attempt would be," she added wanly.


    What betrothal? Oh, right, the one she''d had- would have with Joffrey Baratheon. Royalty. Her daughter behind the Iron Throne.


    Catelyn was caressing Sansa''s hair gently, sniffling now and then as she cradled Sansa''s head, afraid she would banish in an instant if she let go.


    Ned shook his head. "I can''t just ignore what you showed me Sansa. We must prepare!" he said, Winterfell''s bells tolling outside. He could hear Alyn''s voice in the distance, hollering for the day shift to wake up and run to the armory.


    "And you will. Summer''s reign will last a few more years; time for good harvests and plentiful industry. We''ve planned for this, Father, we''ve planned our last stand for decades," she said, and Ned could see his daughter''s real age for the first time. Mature eyes that hid scarred sorrows, mended with time and all the stronger for it. He kept seeing a scared little girl when he thought of Sansa, but the truth was his daughter had become Queen of Westeros, a ruler, a Greenseer, a sorceress. She''d been fighting this war for years before he even knew it had began.


    Ser Rodrik still had his sword out, listening with one ear as he gazed at the doused hearth with suspicious eyes. Maester Luwin had ceased his ministrations, as they were now unnecessary. He just sat back, listening mutely as Jory and the rest of the guards held the door against Robb''s angry shouting.


    "I wasn''t even supposed to tell you, according to what we''d planned," said Sansa, "But Joffrey¡­ as much as he''s grown away from it, he still comes from a family full of secrets. It''s the way he was raised. I realized keeping the truth from you and Mother was not a course I should have followed... it was not a course I could follow. It would have torn this family apart."


    Ned sighed deeply, leaning back. Lady crawled into his lap, staring up at him and tilting her head. The pup raised her ears inquisitively, whimpering softly as if pleading on behalf of her mistress. "And now we know the truth¡­" he whispered.


    "The alarm has been heeded. The future King of Westeros knows of this, Father. He''s preparing now, training the core of a standing, professional army on the march. Even now the orders he left in King''s Landing are being carried out, setting the seeds for manufactories and lumbermills, smithies and grain reserves and a hundred other preparations to face the onslaught of the Walkers."


    Ned sighed again, patting Lady on the head. This little ball of angered fur had faced down a White Walker while he''d almost lost the grip on Ice. There was a lesson somewhere in there.


    "You trusted us with this, Sansa. I''ll trust you in return," he finally said.


    Her smile returned warmth to his heart as he stood up, nodding at Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. "No one is to know of this without mine or Sansa''s word," he commanded.


    They both nodded. "Jory, tell the guard to stand down. The ''drill'' was a success," said Ser Rodrik. His nephew nodded in understanding, white as a sheet.


    Ned looked down at Catelyn, but she''d been nodding already. "If you think its best," she said, caressing Sansa''s cheek, "You were very brave there. Braver than I could ever be."


    Sansa''s face turned slightly red, her smile tender. "Thank you, mother," she said as her eyes drifting back to Ned, "And you too."


    Eddard nodded, "I''ll want to speak with Prince Joffrey..."


    "That''s all I ask," said Sansa, leaning back with a deep sigh. "I missed this, mom," she said as she leaned on Catelyn''s gentle touch, closing her eyes. Her face relaxed just a tiny bit, and her whole frame seemed to lose the edge of tension which had plagued her since the fall and her abrupt change.


    Ned took that burden gladly, even if it seemed but a fraction of what she carried within her soul. His children would not grow to see Winterfell an empty hall of memories, fallen family leaning on the edges of vision, dull aches behind every corner and hallway. He would not fail his daughter. He would not fail his family. He would not fail his people.


    This Eddard Stark promised by the Gods of Stone and Tree.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 66: Father.

    Chapter 66: Father.Joffrey entered the small wooden house at a brisk pace. The muffled yelling increased in volume until he reached the second door, the floorboard cracking as he opened it to the sight of a dozen Maesters and double the acolytes locked in vigorous discussion; one of them was even halfway across the table, trying to rip a book from his colleague''s hands.


    "I have about twenty minutes, so let''s make this one quick," said Joffrey, taking a discarded chair and righting it with its back towards the table. Should have enough time to get this over with and get a bit more presentable. The room descended into silence immediately, chains jingling awkwardly as the Maesters looked at each other on the down low.


    Joffrey snorted as he sat on the chair, arms over its back. He''d forgotten how lively academic discussion could get behind the placid fa?ade the Citadel liked showing to rest of the west. "Let''s hear it then," he said.


    They all erupted at once; the wall of questions, assertions, and plain old yelling slammed into him like an enraged raven. "Alright, that was a bad idea!" Joffrey shouted over them, signaling to one of the younger Maesters that seemed about to piss himself. "Let''s take it one at a time. Maester Galwyn, your thoughts?"


    Blessed silence returned as the brown bearded Maester clenched his teeth. "This¡­ this¡­" Galwyn seemed out of breath, grasping the piece of parchment like a lifeline. "This- it''ll change everything!" he gasped, two of the other Maesters crowding him with their heads as they struggled for another look, whispering furiously to each other.


    "I''m glad you liked it."


    "Liked it?! Prince Joffrey, this will revolutionize scribing! Seven Above, why even have scribes when you can ''print'' a thousand books in the time it takes to copy one!" he said, slamming a palm against the table in his enthusiasm.


    "Pardon my Prince, but the acolytes will be out for your blood. You''ve just rendered half their source of income obsolete," rumbled Maester Lanfred, leaning back on his chair by the other side of the table while the two dozen acolytes standing behind and around the table tried very hard not look at Joffrey.


    "No need to worry about that, they''ll have their hands full by the time we really get going," he said. "I need a prototype built within the month, can you do it?"


    Maester Galwyn gulped. "Ugh, well. I suppose it''s possible-"


    Joffrey interrupted him, patting the table with a gauntleted hand. "What did I say about treating Prince Joffrey?"


    Galwyn stuttered to a halt before smiling sheepishly. "Truthful and to the point, my Prince?"


    "Aye," said Joffrey, nodding deeply at the man like a proud parent. There was enough work to do without having his own cabal of Maesters beating around the bush for fear of royal retribution. "How soon can you have a proof-of-concept?"


    "Hrm. Well, that''s the thing. These rotary wheels, they''re far too complex," he said, pointing at the diagram on his hand.


    "I feared that would be the case. What if we replace it with wooden rails?" Joffrey said.


    "That could work... but the wood itself would need to be quite resistant, else the rails would be liable to snap-"


    "Build them out of Ironwood, they''ll be so thin it wouldn''t cost much," said Maester Yardyn. The heavy set northerner could have impersonated Jon Umber''s son, if he''d exchanged his chain for a battleaxe and the clean chin for a fully grown beard.


    Galwyn narrowed his eyes, "The cost of the materials themselves wouldn''t be prohibitive, but getting ahold of a master carver who''s an expert in Ironwood-"


    "I''ll speak with Lord Stark. I''m sure something can be arranged with Lord Forrester; Ironrath has the finest carvers in Westeros," said Joffrey. The benefits of an enthusiastically cooperative Ned Stark keep popping up left and right...


    "Yes, yes- and the blocks can be made out of oak, we''ll have to carve hundreds but they''ll be easy to make anyway," said Galwyn.


    Joffrey hid a smile. Most of the Maesters here were middle aged, learned but not set in their ways. Livelier too, he thought.


    "So, a month?" he asked.


    "Hrm. I don''t think so, maybe three. After that we should be able to quicken the pace. How many were you thinking for the second run?"


    "A hundred."


    The entire table reared back in shock, but Joffrey leaned over and placed a hand on Galwyn''s shoulder before the poor man fainted. "Don''t worry, that''s for the long term. Three months is okay, you''ll need as much to find a suitable artisan for the picture blocks. And the Ironwood will take that much to reach King''s Landing anyway."


    And don''t even get me started on the headache that''s paper. I wish I could abduct the entire complement of Bronze Scribes back at the Dawn Fort.


    "M-me?" asked Galwyn.


    "Yes, you," said Joffrey, patting him in the back. "I''m naming you leader for this project. That means you''ll be in charge of it, but don''t go bossing around your fellow Maesters for nothing; you may find yourself under their lead in another project."


    Galwyn jerked his head up and down, returning his gaze to the diagram with such intensity that Joffrey feared it would burst into flames.


    He held back a snort, drawing that ''old fragment of Yi-Tish wisdom'' out of memory again would be a pain. He''d even gotten the northern dialect right on the calligraphy, for added authenticity¡­ not that it''d needed it.


    And it only took me sixteen tries, he thought happily. "Maesters Yardyn and Doleos," he said, nodding at each. "You''ll be under Maester Galwyn on this. Any requests you have, make them through him. If it''s too expensive for the ink chest, he''ll have to come to me." The Maesters nodded, descending into whispers as they stood up and reached Galwyn, pointing fingers at the diagram.


    The ink chest was their war chest of sorts, the amount of golden dragons Joffrey gave them on a monthly basis. In typical Westerosi fashion, the smallfolk working around here had soon started calling them his ''Ink Group''.


    Delegate, Delegate, Delegate. All he could was set them on the path, there was simply too much to do for anything else to work. Which leads us too¡­


    "Maester Lanfred, thoughts?"


    Thick black curls covered half the man''s face like a curtain as he leaned forward, setting his chin over his hands. "An elegant design, my Prince. Did you think of it yourself?" he asked. His voice had a deep, cavernous quality to it.


    A different sort of curiosity as well. He decided to be truthful, though he had to be careful. Too many sudden inventions and people would start asking¡­ well, more questions. The Tourney of the Hand had already raised enough eyebrows for this year.


    "In part. The idea has been making the rounds around my head ever since I saw Riverrun''s wheels, though it wasn''t until I spoke of it to a blacksmith in the Twins that it really blossomed."


    "I see. And did this blacksmith accompany you south? It would be quite helpful to have him in hand for the construction itself."


    Joffrey frowned, "I''m afraid he couldn''t quite up and leave, due to various circumstances."


    Maester Lanfred nodded slowly, eyes returning to the diagram he''d been quietly examining moments ago. "The Water Hammer will triple the efficiency of the forging process, at the very least. Apprentices will be able to help out in other tasks instead of spending half their hours hammering metal; that will be another increase in man-hours. The first Waterwork will be ready in less than three months, provided ample use of manpower. With by-then experienced building crews I''ll get one up every two months, more if I split the veterans after the fourth."


    Lanfred looked up from the sketch, "You do want a great quantity of these new smithys, I assume?"


    Joffrey tapped his chin. Maester Lanfred was exercising some initiative already... and thinking ahead. "Indeed I do. In fact, if you can get me three of these by the end of the year I''ll be quite impressed. Lets see if you can surprise me.


    The man''s hum was like a struck tuning fork. He looked to his side and down the length of the table. "It''s possible, but I''ll need Maesters Hart, Kryston, and Felden."


    The alluded Maesters sat up from their discussion. "Why them?" asked Joffrey.


    "Hart for his red gold, Kryston for the yellow, and Felden because of his hard head," His lips turned into a minuscule smile ¨Cthe first Joffrey had seen on him- when Maester Felden chuckled. "We both apprenticed under old Benedict. If anyone can argue stubborn Master Blacksmiths out of their old ways, it''ll be him," he said.


    Architecture, finance and logistics, and finally another steel link to help him out with the forging process itself. Yes, I believe I''ll be keeping an eye on the esteemed Maester Lanfred.


    "Done. Maester Rickahm, the spinning weavers?" said Joffrey.


    "I think they''ll be easier than anything else you''ve dropped on us, but that''s not what bothers me," said the Maester, slowly twisting his great girth so he could look at Joffrey. "This new design will force us to radically rethink the workplace and even the process of weaving itself. I-"


    "Pardon, m''Prince. It''s Lady Sansa," said Barret as he peeked in by the door.


    Time already?


    "Shit," said Joffrey, standing up. "Build a team and come up with a list of possible issues and solutions. Find me in the Red Keep tomorrow morning."


    "Not tonight?" he asked.


    "No work at the feast, Maester Rickham. We''ve talked about this," he said with a smile. The acolytes seemed relieved, bless their souls. "I''ll expect to see you there."


    "We will, Your Highness," he said as he stood up. They all stood up, their chains jingling once more as they bowed. Joffrey suppressed a sigh as he nodded, Barret holding open the door as he left them to it.


    The more informal he tried to be with them, the more respect they shoved back. He wondered what his past self would have thought of that fact, and of his mild irritation with it. Men idolized leaders, and the more he led the more they would idolize him¡­ kingship would only make it worse.


    Barret strode quickly to the next door, but Joffrey picked up the pace and opened it himself. He shielded his eyes as against the afternoon sun hitting him directly in the face, and from the midst of its orange sheen walked Sansa, enveloped in silver and white. The wrap dress flattered her form, accenting the neckline with generous cuts that focused the eye on the black pearl necklace that doubled around her neck. The hemline was short, cutting above the knee, but the piece boasted long legs instead of the traditional gown, lending the attire a hardy, rustic air that made the subtle luxuries like the silver hair pin or the thin golden bracelet all the more alluring.


    "My love, you look absolutely stunning," said Joffrey as he embraced her.


    "Yes, quite," she said, hands by her side. Joffrey frowned as he let go. He blinked the orange spots out of his sight, and realized Eddard Stark was standing right beside his betrothed; a long suffering ice statue with troubled eyes.


    "Ah, my Lord Hand," he said, nodding in his direction with an awkward grin.


    "Prince Joffrey," rumbled the ice statue. Seven Hells, this is the strangest relationship I''ve had with Ned Stark since¡­ since I cut off his head.


    The Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and abrupt confidant of the Last Heroes of Dawn, did not look amused. "I realize it may seem¡­ strange after decades of marriage, but I urge you to remember that you are still merely betrothed to my daughter in this¡­ life." He ground out the words like spitting gravel, and Joffrey hid a wince as he nodded and grabbed Sansa''s elbow with his own, taking care to keep the distance to ''respectable''.


    They walked away from the house commandeered by the Ink Group, taking off at a sedate pace along the banks of the Blackwater. Construction crews were still working on both sides of the river, building bridges, housing, and sawmills. The first stage of the plan that would see the Crownlands turn into an economic powerhouse, and then into the heart of the war effort against the Others.


    They walked along the newly constructed Street of Wood; a large wooden walkway that ran between the eastern side of the Blackwater and a cobbled two-lane road still under construction. The last was proving to be a painful expense, but it''d be worth it in the long run. The original Blackworks had trouble with the sheer amount of wagon traffic: thrown dust and muddy trails had been a constant headache.


    He could feel Ned Stark''s presence like stormy skies, walking at a pace with them by Sansa''s other side. Sansa''s abrupt confession had completely blindsided Joffrey¡­


    Ned Stark knows of the Cycle. Ned Stark knows about the Purple. It still shocked him every time he thought about it. Sansa''s improvisation had begun to reap benefits when she''d defused a slow burning plot laid by Lysa Arryn of all people, one that had sped by unnoticed by Joffrey all this time: A letter carefully worded to cast suspicion on the Lannisters for the death of Jon Arryn, delivered secretly to Winterfell by the means of a hollowed out far-eye. Suffice it to say, Sansa had laid out Lysa Arryn''s current state of mind very clearly, nipping that seed of suspicion before it could grow.


    It had probably been a supporting attack of one of Littlefinger''s schemes from before Joffrey had killed him, but it had showed how valuable it was to have Ned Stark onboard the plan. Having an informed Hand of the King had sped up a whole lot of ventures which Joffrey hadn''t been expecting to lay fruits before he was crowned.


    They''d talked for a whole night back in Winterfell, and Joffrey had stuck to the broad outlines of his experiences and what was to come. Keeping it simple and avoiding difficult subjects¡­ like Robert''s likely fate, or the truth of his own birth for that matter. It still hadn''t made things any less awkward between the two of them.


    He shuffled uncomfortably, a sigh escaping his lips.


    Hammers and handsaws spoke to each other as they walked past one of the half constructed worker accommodations, the smell of sawdust hanging in the air as men hauled handcarts filled with discarded wood. The worker''s strength had deserted them along with the sun, and there was a lethargic quality to the foreman''s orders as he directed the new pillars to be laid out.


    "Pack it up for today, men! Get to the feast and put some food in those bellies!" Joffrey called out as they passed.


    The foreman started, a big grin growing on him as he dusted off his leather gloves. The simple safety measure had already improved overall efficiency through decreased accidents.


    "Thank you m''Prince! Let''s give it a cheer for Prince Joffrey!" he shouted. The work crew cheered with surprising fervor, lifting up their tools before they began to close things.


    "So, Lord Stark," said Joffrey, "You''re going to the feast?"


    "Not quite. My daughter may have taken the South''s sense of fashion by storm, but I''ll be damned if I let her walk out of the city dressed like this¡­" Ned hesitated, "Even if she couldn''t¡­ dispose of any assailants with barely a look," he added.


    And back to awkward. Well done Joffrey. Still, Ned could have sent Jory or any other Stark guardsman to serve as escort¡­


    Sansa shook her head, "I see that your sense of fashion hasn''t changed at all. Really Joffrey, plate armor again?"


    Joffrey looked down at his half-plate, "I knew you''d say that. But look! Barret!"


    Barret walked up from behind, taking the folded black cape off his shoulder and clipping it to Joffrey''s pauldrons. "There it is, sire. Just as you like it."


    "See?" he said.


    Sansa moaned.


    "What?! I''m not a depressed Bravo!"


    "Your words darling, not mine."


    "Look, many of our guests are fighting men. What manner of impression would I give if I strolled inside wearing fine silks?"


    "That of a human, Joff. I don''t know anyone who goes about in plate all day every day."


    "What about the Hound?"


    "He''s a special case."


    "And I''m not?"


    "No," said Sansa, tearing off his cape and wrapping it into a bundle. She tossed it to Barret, who caught it with an oomph. "That helmet, take it off."


    Joffrey looked at Ned. He tried speaking directly into his mind. Help me.


    Ned just crossed his arms, watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow.


    Gods. He took off the helmet.


    "Good," said Sansa, taking a step towards him and grabbing the neck of the leathers he wore under the plate. "Fortunately, I suspected something like this would happen. I''ve an idea or two."


    "Always a bad precedent- Uff-" She yanked up, the coarse leather pressed unfortunately tight against his chest due to the plate. She yanked twice more, and Joffrey swore she must have scrapped the skin right off his chest.


    "It''s something," she said as she folded the neck over the plate. "Now it looks like a conscious choice and not like you forgot about the feast and ran late. Barret, dunk that cape on the river and bring it back."


    "Aye, my Lady," said his aide.


    "I liked that cape. It made me look dashing."


    "Dashing to a funeral maybe. Give me that," she said as she took the helmet off his hands.


    "Thank you Barret, you''re a charm," she said, exchanging the helmet for the soaked cape.


    "A pleasure, my Lady," said the damnable traitor, a pleased smile on his lips. How fast they turn for a pretty smile. Jaehaerys the first had it right; kindness is a terrifying weapon.


    "Now stay still," she said, passing the wet rag over his face. Joffrey withstood her ministrations stoically, sneaking a kiss on her cheek as she leaned sideways trying to clean the sweat by the nape of his neck.


    She slapped him with the soaked cape, turning and cleaning his hair. "That ought to do it," she said, hands on her hips.


    "I feel like a new man already."


    "You better be. There''s still water in here. Enough for you to get quite dashing," she said, hefting the cape.


    "I yield," he said as he raised his hands, chuckling. They resumed their walk through the steadily darkening Street of Wood, squads of Goldcloaks already on patrol. Joffrey suppressed a snort. How had he put it to their erstwhile Captain? An obedient Slynt was a living Slynt.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    Ned seemed oddly wistful, gazing at the occasional ship loaded with ore or lumber drifting down the Blackwater.


    "What?" Sansa asked her Father.


    Ned just shook his head, his smile turning wan. "You two bicker like an old couple. If the blatant show of magic hadn''t convinced me, this would have been enough."


    Joffrey smiled sheepishly. "It''s¡­ weird, being open with this."


    "I would hardly call it open. Not even Catelyn knows what you told me," said Ned.


    And even then you just know the broad strokes¡­ There was still a part of him that felt a sort of childish betrayal at Sansa''s actions, but in truth he had no right. By now it was her secret to tell as much as his, and they were partners in this as in all things. The return trip from Winterfell had left him thoughtful, unsettling truths he''d long held as absolute.


    "I know you didn''t want to reveal the truth so soon, but I''m glad you did," said Ned. "This is your fight, your war; I''ll help as I can, but that much is clear to me now."


    Joffrey nodded, biting his lip as they made their way besides the low growl of the Blackwater. Knowing of the end of the world but only half the plan to stop it must have been difficult. Though¡­ there was one more thing that he''d wanted to talk about, but it had somehow felt out of place in a discussion of fates and war, death and dawn.


    He shook his head, placing his hands behind his back. A couple of finches crossed their path, flying close to the ground as Lady erupted from a small patch of bush nearby, following them back the way they came. Eddard had actually killed Lady during his first life; for some reason he could remember that whole day with crystal clear clarity. Ned had stormed out of Robert''s tent with such quiet determination it had actually scared him.


    "Lord Stark, I-" he took a deep breath -"Ned."


    Sansa shot him a knowing look, and he nodded reluctantly. She picked up the pace, signaling Barret as the two left them behind. Ned looked at him curiously, silent as was his wont.


    Joffrey flexed his hand, settling it on the pommel of his sword. He smiled for a second before banishing it away, letting out a breath of air. It was difficult to put into words.


    He remembered walking like this along a copse of birches, staring down at the snow. Robert had left to hunt but Eddard had declined the invitation. Instead he''d taken him on a walk on the opposite side of the Wolfswood, their path taking them on an upward slope, just the two of them and a few Stark guards following far behind.


    He remembered staring mulishly at the ground, sick and tired of seeing white everywhere. White snows, white tree trunks, white rocks¡­ The white made the emptiness worse. Hollow.


    ''Joffrey, look up,'' Ned had said. The top of the birch forest had been crowned in such a splendor of yellow it had taken his breath away for a second. The vast ceiling of spindly yellow leaves had played with the sunlight, blinding him intermittently as he walked and kept staring upwards, his eyes slow to blink as he processed the sight.


    It was curious. Never again did he see a yellow quite like it, not even in the same place and the same time a hundred lives later.


    "I suppose I wanted to thank you," he said after a long moment.


    Ned tilted his head, "After everything you told me, supporting your plans in the Small Council was the least I could do."


    "It''s not that," Joffrey growled, "I mean, your help has been invaluable in that sense, but-" he trailed off as he shook his head. He stopped walking, hands on his hips as he gazed at the Blackwater.


    "Joffrey, what''s wrong?" said Ned, stopping by his side as his voice turned incredulous. It must have been strange for him; Joffrey had felt more composed talking about the extinction of their species and the glare of celestial bodies¡­


    Just keep it simple.


    "When I started the long journey, I was not the man you know."


    "You told me you were spoiled and unprepared for the trials ahead," said Ned, looking at the Blackwater with him. The sun was hiding, drawing long shadows out of the trees that dotted the opposite bank.


    "It was more than that. I was cruel. Vindictive. A simpering fool. An idiot with no clue about the harm he caused others," he said, the words rushing out of his mouth, "An ignorant boy-child proud of his-"


    "Then you''ve come a long way," said Ned, turning to look at him with a fatherly smile, "You''re an accomplished warrior and commander, an expert administrator and a veritable Maester without a chain," he said as if it were obvious, "Robert is proud of you, did you know that? He can scarcely spend an evening without talking about you."


    Robert. The one they call my Father. Joffrey cleared the little knot in his throat, "You think that because this," he said, pointing at himself, "Is the only version of me you remember."


    "Indeed," he said. "A man possessed of a keen sense of justice, living in honor without speaking a word of it." He smiled as he shrugged ever so slightly.


    And of course, to Ned Stark it really was that simple. So simple it was complicated.


    Pure Ned Stark, he thought with a fond smile. His chest ached lightly, and he loosened the plate''s neck clasp.


    "There''s a lot I don''t know," said Ned, "More than I would wish to know, I think." He crossed his arms, the yellow sunlight bathing him as the sun kept hiding to the west. "Yet I hold into this truth like a beacon in winter," he said as he looked at Joffrey, grey eyes still and serene. "You are a just man, Joffrey. You''ll be a King I''ll serve gladly if I live to see it. And if not, I''ll die knowing my daughter could not have asked for a better man."


    He looked away from Ned''s eyes as bittersweet coils squeezed his throat. I have to say this. But what exactly? How to explain an abyss of pain and anguish. How to explain the emptiness? Ned''s voice the only thing tethering him to sanity in a world gone mad under its own weight, the glare of the Purple an ever present sun? Just make it quick. Just get it over with.


    "If that''s true, it''s because of the seeds you planted," he said slowly, eyes staring dead ahead as the weight of the breastplate turned unbearable. "You lifted me up Ned. You took care of me when nothing made sense anymore. You guided me out of that abyss I built for myself- you made me look up-" he choked off, seized by an inner pressure. It came out of nowhere, gripping him taut like a strained rope. Gods, what''s happening to me? He tried to keep it down, but it kept rising like water flooding a stricken ship, reaching for his eyes. He was no boy to wear his emotions on a sleeve. He was the Bloody Lion. He was Dawn Commander. Stormking. Herald and Last Hero. S?a??h th? N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    He knew he shouldn''t have looked at Ned. He knew it was a mistake the second he did. Hundreds of years and yet there it was. That same expression. Ned placed a hand on his arm, lowering his head just a bit so it was level with his, confused but all too ready to help. It was too much. For a moment Joffrey found himself in front of the Heart Tree in Winterfell, alone and broken except for those eyes that promised care.


    He sighed, hiding the tears falling down his cheeks, "I''m sorry. It''s hard to explain," he said as he shielded his face with one hand. This had been a mistake.


    "I understand enough," said Ned, bringing him into a hug. It felt the same even after all this time. A thousand deaths and rebirths separated that moment from now, worlds upon worlds rewound and made again, and yet it still felt the same. The morning when Ned Stark saved him.


    He didn''t know how, but somehow, Ned somehow understood. His body lost tension as he hugged him back, trying to keep control over himself. He gripped Ned tight as the painfully slow sobs wrecked him, his weight an oak tree in the midst of a storm. "I don''t care what they say," he whispered fiercely, "You''re my Father." It was all he could manage and still retain his dignity, and so he closed his eyes and rode out the whirlwind of emotions. This lay beyond Houses and true bloodlines, beyond secrets and dusty books and blonde hair. If he was what he was today because of Eddard Stark, then how could this man be anything but his Father?


    "And I would be proud to call you my son," Ned whispered back, his grip tight and safe, the tether that lifted him up from the abyss.


    They separated slowly, almost sheepishly. Ned passed him a handkerchief as he patted his back, and Joffrey received it with a smile. It had been a long time since he''d felt this vulnerable, and even longer since he hadn''t minded it.


    It felt good.


    "Thank you," he said. For everything.


    Ned smiled as well, his eyes a bit red despite the strong fa?ade he wore like a second sleeve. There were no more words to say, and so they resumed his walk, following the Blackwater upstream.


    He felt lightheaded as they rejoined Sansa. She didn''t say a word as they walked the rest of the way, the rustling of the Blackwater soon threaded by the sound of drums and flutes. A small sea of tents emerged into view with the last drips of the sun; knights and smallfolk laborers, maidens and maesters, guardsmen and more all mingling under the free flow of good ale and hearty food. The feast had just started, though in Braavos it would have been called a festival.


    The scent of change hanged in the air, the Song taut like a drawn bowstring. Here laid the seeds of a new era, a great pile of tinder waiting for the spark.


    Tonight, that tinder would spark, and the eventual bonfire would be a thing fit to stand against the might of the Red Comet.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 67: Beginnings.

    Chapter 67: Beginnings.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    This night had been long in the making, in some ways the culmination of a project more ambitious than any they''d ever taken before.


    Though perhaps it should be called the beginning of one?


    He and Sansa walked by the outskirts of the little sea of tents which had sprung up around one of the river bends. Parts of it were walled by great canvasses of art in varying styles, though there was a thematic thread subtly woven through them all. Indistinct figures holding up scythes and swords. The Mountains of the Moon dripping red under the afternoon sun. Smallfolk laborers frozen in superb detail as they raised a windmill.


    They all spoke of something more. A spirit beyond the Guard and the self-styled Silver Knights, beyond the apprentices and the acolytes whose imaginations had been unleashed by Joffrey''s inventions. A common thread to the energy which propelled the thousands of smallfolk laborers waking up every morning to pour their heart and soul into the Blackworks. Joffrey had to admit, the skill of Sansa''s followers had increased by leaps and bounds these past few months.


    "That one''s my favorite," he said, pointing with his chin as Sansa smiled knowingly. It was a painting of King''s Landing as if seen within a dream, its form indistinct, surreal almost. Its towers were too tall, it''s people too numerous. And yet the crowded streets added a thread of color which spread like a spider web throughout the entire canvass, grounding it, adding weight to it.


    Errant notes became full on songs as they made their way towards the center of the sea of tents, though they could scarcely hear it under the racket of laughs, bellows, and full-bellied singing. What had started as a worker camp had tonight turned into the feasting grounds for more than a thousand souls; soldiers, workers, young nobles who had come for the Hand''s Tourney but had stayed beyond its end¡­


    Ned had taken his leave a while ago, but Joffrey still felt wistfully light on his feet. He would have liked Ned to see this, but the man had just smiled and taken his leave.


    "How did it go?" Sansa asked him.


    "I called him Father."


    "That''ll make things awkward," she said with an impish smile, grabbing him by the waist as sapphire blue eyes drifted closer, warm breath tickling his neck.


    Joffrey caressed her cheek, admiring her up close for a moment. "It runs in the family," he said. He smothered her chuckle with a kiss, their breaths intermingling.


    "It''s like you''re searching for closure," she said when they separated, her voice subdued.


    "And you''re not?" He combed an errant lock of red hair, putting it in its place so he could keep admiring her. "I saw you teaching sword drills to Arya the other day. Think she''ll do well in the shield wall?"


    She grunted, "Point taken."


    "I think it''s natural. It''s hard not to feel like an ill lord writing out his will when¡­" Joffrey trailed off. She knew.


    The strong buzz of hundreds of voices echoed throughout the streets of the city of fabric, all coming from the central clearing like blood from a pulsing heart. Sansa leaned her head on his shoulder, pondering the weight of the unspoken words.


    "It''s getting closer," she whispered.


    Joffrey sighed, embracing Sansa and pressing her against him. He could feel the gradual deceleration of the Red Comet deep in his bones, somewhere between his belly and his ribcage, a second of prescience when he took a deep breath. A second of eternity in the void between inhalation and exhalation.


    "I wonder if that''s how it feels to cross the stars," he said, "To leap across the void in body and soul."


    It was a ponderous presence, a massive existence. It was easy to get lost in it. They breathed together, and even that great crystalline landscape was but a gnat against the blinding splendor of the sun. Joffrey felt for a second the massive weight not only of the Comet but of the earth itself. It pulled him towards it, and he fell with breathless speed. Like a boulder rolling down from some colossal mountain, great plumes of red arresting his fall in auroras of shifting shapes that defied the imagination.


    Joffrey shuddered as he breathed out. "I¡­" He blinked slowly, feeling his wife''s contours. Sansa. The drifting stars seemed so bright beyond the atmosphere, a sea awash in streaks of reds and blues, points of white and yellow glimmering within the void. He brought his mind back to the here and now, leaning back and gazing at her eyes. Those twin sapphire stars were all he needed. "It''s slowing down. The year will be over soon¡­"


    "Like bloody clockwork," Sansa said as she looked up, the first few stars glimmering overhead. She sighed as her gaze turned south, to the road back to King''s Landing. "It''s insane how petty it all seems. How nonsensical the whole game is under the light of a million stars."


    "And how it will all end under the light of one," he said.


    And it would end, one way or the other. Either mankind would go extinct, or man would rise to the challenge and be changed in the process. Change, thought Joffrey. That''s the key. That''s the essence.


    "We should go," he said, holding out his elbow. "We''ll need all the help we can get," he added, the corner of his mouth twitching.


    Sansa grabbed it, and together they walked the rest of the way to the great clearing. The Guardsmen on duty saluted with firm thumps to the chest, servants nodding franticly as they carried small wheelbarrows filled with foodstuffs. Mandolins called out from the budding darkness as the sun hid completely, wandering bards strumming their instruments with great theatrical gestures as their partners sang long tunes.


    The sea of long tables and benches were arrayed in concentric circles, but no formal sitting arrangements had been given to the attendees. They swirled and intermixed, the free flowing mead and food keeping a cheery and bemused air.


    "There she is! Lady Sansa!" said one of the dozen maidens emerging from the crowds, "They''re ready, but Lady Annila said we''d need more chairs if-" she stuttered to a halt when she saw Joffrey. "Oh, beg your pardon my Prince," she added with a curtsy.


    The rest of the young ladies crowded around Sansa, curtsying as Joffrey waved it away. "It''s quite alright. Tonight''s not a night for formalities," he said, smiling as they started whispering in his wife''s ear. Their dresses echoed Sansa''s; vaguely petal-like fabrics which built on each other and wrapped the upper body. None of theirs was crowned by a brilliantly white pelt around the shoulders though, that was to the ''Northern Princess'' what a crown was to a King.


    "You look magnificent, Celyia. You''ll be sure to draw young Wyll''s eyes," said Sansa as she let Joffrey go, the others crowding around her and all but shoving him away.


    Lady Celya blushed as she neared his wife, "Thank you. But about those chairs? The attendees far exceed the original list, and we''re running short."


    "There''s a few extras by storage three, we''ll use those," said Sansa, looking around her with a proud smile, "You''ve outdone yourselves, now let''s go make this a night to remember."


    They murmured excitedly at that. She turned and grabbed another maiden by the bare shoulder, explaining something as she waved her hand delicately, her thin golden bracelet glimmering under the moonlight. They laughed, and Sansa pointed at some distant table as she kept explaining.


    The hemlines were extremely short, reaching just above the knee. The scandalous choice was contrasted by long leggings of a rather practical sort that covered the entirety of their legs, much like a tight set of trousers would. The people of King''s Landing couldn''t make up their minds regarding the whole ensemble, swinging between outrageously provocative and parochially quaint. The ambivalence seemed to fuel its widespread adoption, particularly amongst the youth caught in Sansa''s ever expanding web of influence.


    "And is it true about the singing competition?" one asked quickly, "I heard Tribune Tyrek gave a favor to Talia Forrester!" Vaguely scandalized gasps received the proclamation, and soon enough Sansa was guiding them away. She shot him an apologetic smile, and Joffrey waved goodbye. Dances and singing had become staples of Sansa''s twice weekly gatherings, though not the only ones. She''d often take new maidens into the ranks of her handmaidens, drawing them in with weaving and painting competitions which had unleashed an untapped bounty of creativity. More and more of the girls had unwittingly become entangled with the administration of such events, helping Sansa organize feasts and balls such as this one. Some had even began helping out with the Blackworks.


    He moved on, nodding at the servants who carried long rods tipped with flame, lighting up the lanterns tacked on to the poles that surrounded the area in rings. He greeted carousing knights and squires who''d stayed after the Hand''s Tourney; they often stopped whatever they''d been doing in favor of listening to him with a sort of rapt attention that would have likely left their maesters green with envy.


    He passed a table filled with Stormlander and Reacher knights and squires; boys and men who hadn''t returned to their homes after the tourney for reasons they couldn''t quite explain. Always waiting for one more lesson, one more night of companionship.


    "Could you please repeat it one more time? The wrist is held down like this?" asked Hobar Redwyne, demonstrating with his arming sword. His silver cape fluttered as he turned, looking up at Joffrey, hopeful.


    "Not quite, here," he said as he demonstrated, letting the movement flow naturally at a tenth of the speed, their eyes following his sword hand like moths to light. They hummed appreciably, squires and even knights years his senior commenting on the order of strikes. The little incident during the semi-finals had forever sealed in their minds the battle-prowess of the Silver Knight. "Remember not to drink too much, all the ladies will be watching later tonight," he said, earning considering nods from those present. "You''re all good students, but let''s try to keep the drunken bumbling to a minimum," he added with a smile.


    "Silver Knights don''t bumble, Ser Joffrey!" said Ser Robar Royce, "We''re just realigning our momentum!" he called out, the rest grunting and whistling as they raised their mugs. In another time and another place he would have been called Ser Robar the Red, but tonight his cloak was silver.


    "None of that now!" said Joffrey, slapping the young man on the back and jingling his pauldrons. Most of them were in armor; they''d adopted many of Joffrey''s mannerisms within the weeks after the tourney. "You all better behave! If you''re going to use my good name you might as well do it relatively sober!"


    They jeered at him, and he ended up downing a tankard all the same. Their eyes glimmered under the torchlight, brief smiles as they chuckled and held each other''s shoulders for another round, their short silver capes flowing like moonshadow. The camaraderie of the Silver Knights was a wholly different beast than that of the Guard. Less hierarchical; more a brotherhood than an army. Its abrupt formation had taken Joffrey by surprise, thought in hindsight it shouldn''t have.


    To be a true leader was a strange thing. By accepting the responsibility over his people; what he''d often called his burden, he''d also accepted a small piece of them all and made it his.


    I underestimated the chivalry of Westeros, he thought as he looked at the Silver Knights, still wearing their individual heraldries even as they sported their silver capes with pride.


    After the events of the Tourney of the Hand and his abrupt knighting, these squires and even knights had begged to train with him. He''d been happy to take them all, but he never imagined that the awe struck noble scions would have hung unto every ounce of attention freely given, desperate for more to the point where they''d start calling themselves after his knightly persona, waking up early every day to follow him in his morning armored run. They''d even taken to hunting and socializing together, sharing the tips and insights gleaned from their unofficial task master.


    "We''ll have our work cut out for us tomorrow, eh Ser Balon?" he said.


    Ser Balon Swann chuckled, crossing his arms, "The usual then?"


    "Nah. Let''s give ''em the morning. They''ve earned it," he said. They''d been holding up remarkably well under Joffrey''s ministrations, for highborn that is. Ser Balon had turned into a sort of unofficial Master-At-Arms for the equally unofficial order, and together they''d been running them ragged through heavy cavalry drills. The War for Dawn would need a special breed of knight, after all.


    A Silver sort of Knight, thought Joffrey, hiding a snort. Ser Balon smiled curiously, but Joffrey just shook his head as he walked away.


    Hilariously enough, it had been the whores of the Street of Silk which had originally coined the name, for the group had started to share even their brothel outings. The harsher Joffrey smacked them in the training yard, the mightier was the resulting fervor with which they listened. He was no Arthur Dayne, and yet the young knights and squires held him in equal esteem.


    Joffrey turned, basking in the atmosphere around him. He thought he could see Tyrion in the distance, a keg of ale under one arm as he waddled like a Master Thief after a heist. He frowned when Tyrion reached a tent, its flap opening to reveal Lyra Mormont and Pocket of all people. They hushed each other as they dragged him inside, the unmistakably burnt face of Sandor peeking outside and looking both ways before closing the flap.


    A hound, a northerner, a raider, and a dwarf inside a tent¡­ It sounded like the beginnings of a joke.


    Joffrey chuckled. I was fitting, for tonight was a night for beginnings. Great circles had formed organically around the tables and strewn benches, tankards being passed from one to the next as the sound of conversation grew.


    The Song was exalted, almost turbulent. There was something in the air, he could feel it¡­ change.


    "I wonder what terrible deaths you plan for your enemies when your eyes go like that," said Renly, Ser Loras standing by his side.


    Joffrey blinked. "Uncle, Ser Loras," he said, nodding to each. "Enjoying the feast?"


    "I''ve¡­ never seen anything like it. Take that as you will, nephew," said Renly.


    That''s really something coming from you, thought Joffrey, nodding at what he decided was a compliment.


    "I wanted to thank you again," said Ser Loras, his voice low and unsure.


    "You''ve already done so multiple times," said Joffrey. "You even forfeited the final! I''d say that''s thanks enough." It really had been; Ser Loras was a superb rider, he might have carried the joust if he hadn''t forfeited.


    Loras looked at Renly, his long hair momentarily parting to reveal the long scar that ran from forehead to cheek to neck. Renly didn''t have any answers though, staring at the mock-up saw the lumbermill workers had placed at the center of their table. The circular wooden blade served as a stand of sorts, holding up a big keg of ale from which the workers refilled their mugs every minute, inviting anyone who drifted close. They had reason to be proud; mill number eight had gone up earlier this week, ahead of schedule even.


    Ser Loras sighed. "The last time didn''t feel personal enough. I just¡­" He looked down, mulling his lips. "When Ser Gregor was over me with that two hander- you have to understand I couldn''t- I had blood all over my face¡­ I¡­ I thought he''d killed me already."


    "Don''t serve yourself short, Loras. You have good reflexes," said Joffrey. "If you hadn''t grabbed your shield as fast as you did you might as well have been."


    "And if you hadn''t stopped him right after then I''d be dead anyway. The way you fought him¡­ it was over too fast for me to help," he said, a familiar emotion writ clear over his face. "Over before I could catch my breath. If only I''d stood up more quickly I could''ve-"


    Joffrey grabbed Ser Loras'' shoulder. He held his eyes as he thought, the words slow to come. "It''s no use fretting over the past. All we can do is strive to be better." That''s the truth that saved me. That''s the truth that made me.


    Loras nodded slowly, facing Renly for a moment until the Lord Paramount nodded back. "I''ll remember that. Thank you again, my Prince," he said before walking away.


    Renly remained, however. "You did the realm a favor by putting down that dog," he said, face inscrutable as he examined him.


    Joffrey nodded cautiously. Ser Gregor''s frenzy had taken him by complete surprise this time, and with the Hound out of King''s Landing and protecting ''Prince Joffrey'' there hadn''t been anyone else to stop him in the few seconds they''d had. The fight had been short and brutal, a fierce melee as Robert roared outrage and the crowds shrieked.


    "It was like working a sentinel pine. Only it wielded a two hander," he said as he shook his head. He''d seldom seen a human take so much concentrated punishment and keep going. His arming sword had tore through Gregor''s armpit; he''d hammered the man''s head no less than four times and yet still the Mountain had plowed into him like a battering ram, a titan of steel and rage that almost managed to split Joffrey apart. It had been a surreal reveal of the ''Silver Knight'', that was to be sure. Taking off his helmet after Ser Loras conceded the final, standing over the corpse of the Mountain... Robert''s face had been unforgettable, so at least there was that. It had been strange, being knighted on the spot.


    "Like a sentinel pine¡­" Renly snorted, "You sound like you''ve actually logged one of those..." he trailed off, staring at him intently, "Hells, maybe you have. Those lumberjacks seemed absolutely convinced of your forestry knowledge." He seemed incredulous, his mouth moving unto the next sentence though no sound came of it.


    Hells, he looks like he''s going to faint, Joffrey thought as he raised a tentative arm towards him.


    Renly batted it away, swinging his own arm around, "All of this," he said, finding his voice again. "Your ''Guard''. The new shipping fleet. The tourney¡­ Sansa was right. You''ve really changed." Renly shook his head, frowning hard. "Why? What are you scheming? Speak honestly, nephew. What could have possibly changed you like this?"


    "A dream and a vision, uncle. A vision where greed and ambition destroyed everything I cherished. A dream where I saw what this continent was capable of."


    Renly was unconvinced, combing his hair with one hand as he stared at him like an unsolvable puzzle. "Your betrothed speaks sweetly of honors for me and the Stormlands, positions of strength and influence in your future court, but tell me nephew." He took a long breath, gazing at the wine cup in his hand before lifting his eyes and glaring at him. "What is it you really want?"


    Joffrey placed his hands behind his back as he gazed at his uncle, marshaling his thoughts.


    What I really want¡­


    He sighed as he looked up at the stars, the buzz of a hundred conversations framed by the distant roar of the Blackwater. He made his way past the crowds clustering around little red-and-green serving carts, many of them smiths and workers, lumberjacks and constructors. Small windmills shorter than Joffrey but placed atop tables spun without end, bright sparks of color propelling their blades to great speeds and awing the crowds around them. The burnt smell of sulfur drifted past him as he stopped for a moment, hands on his hips as he took a second to admire the work of the Alchemist''s Guild. They''d taken to firepowder like wildlings to iron, and already their experiments were yielding results.


    Renly seemed content to let him wonder, gazing intently at him as he sipped from his cup. Many of his Guardsmen had settled on a group of tables almost in the middle of the circle, their halberds jammed into the ground around them like a forest of steel. Joffrey chuckled as they launched themselves into another drinking song, filled with banging mugs and full-bellied shouting. Like many of the Royal Guard''s drinking songs, Guardsman Galv''s Poor Sore Feet'' was a choke-worthy tale filled with exaggerations, puns, ribbing, and that little grain of truth that gave strength to the theme behind it. On and on they went, keeping the tempo constant by the banging of their mugs.


    ''Ouch- he said! Ouch- oh no! I seem to-have! Misplaced my-foot!


    ''Ouch- he said! Ouch- oh no! Spin he-did! Tripped he-was!''


    And on he-ran! And on he-went! His poor sore-feet! He left-behind!''


    One of the Guardsmen stood over his chair. "Oh Guardsman Galv!" he shouted off-tempo and ahead of his peers "Watch out for-rought--" he was cut off by gauntleted hands which pulled him down, the rest of the soldiers struggling not to lose the beat.


    ''Oh Guardsman-Galv! Watch out for-rocks! Eyes in-front and halberd-forth!''


    And on he-ran! And on he-went! His poor sore-feet! He left-behind!''


    The song picked up speed and volume as it approached its end, soldiers standing up as they banged the table faster and faster.


    ''Try not-to-trip and spin-and-fall!''


    ''Oh Guardsman-Galv watch out for-rocks!''


    ''Try not-to-trip and spin-and-fall!''


    ''Oh Guardsman-Galv try-not to-trip''


    ''But if-you-do! But if-you-do!''


    ''Oh Guardsman-Galv but if-you-do!''


    ''Oh Guardsman-Galv you keep-in-front!''


    ''You-keep that halberd up-in-froooooooooooooont!!!''


    They broke out into cheers, crashing their mugs together in one big toast as they hollered to the heavens. The Royal Guard was but one piece of the change, one piece of the movement he and Sansa were nurturing, and yet even now it connected itself to others. Smallfolk builders and laughing maidens carrying ledgers had also surrounded the table, the revelry contagious.


    "I''m glad you''re having fun, boys!" Joffrey said as he approached the table, "Though I must say that the only word Guardsman Galv got out before kissing our beautiful land was something akin to Ugh!"


    "Commander!" they chanted, inebriation fighting against discipline before they melded into a bizarre compromise that saw them surround him from all sides, pressing mugs into his hands as they cheered.


    "Now, now! I only need one!" said Joffrey as he took one of the mugs, "Guardsmen!" he bellowed.


    They straightened, and Joffrey gazed at them intently. Many of them had just completed their training, the culmination of another batch of recruits. "I''ve been reviewing your performance, and well¡­" Joffrey trailed off, his gimlet eye making them straighten even more. A almost imperceptible smile grew on his lips, "You lot may be the clumsiest, slowest, and most disappointing bunch of Guardsmen I''ve ever seen, but at least you''re-"


    "FASTER THAN THE BLOODY WHEELHOUSE!!!" they roared, shaking each other in pride as Joffrey laughed out loud. They had never actually raced the Queens wheelhouse, in fact these men had carried out all of their training here in the Crownlands, but the Royal Guard was already filled with myth and tradition. They had raced ¨Cand beaten- the hated ''Wheelhouse Spirit'', a construct far more ominous and perfidious than what the real thing had ever been; made of suffering and pain and unity just beyond reach. Red ribbons adorned their arms, and they wore them proudly.


    Joffrey felt a surge of pride seize his throat as he gazed at them. Highborn and lowborn. Tall and small. Guardsmen. If he were to die fighting against the Others one last time, then he''d die surrounded by his dreams of Westeros. By what his homeland should have been.


    By what it can be, his mind whispered.


    The men inexplicably sensed his mood, giving him space as the cheers ebbed. "You can all feel it, can''t you?" he asked of them. S?a??h th? N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    They blinked, their faces those of men at the dawn of understanding. Joffrey closed his eyes as he breathed deep, the Comet still far away as it breezed through the void with crimson sails. He was focused on something much closer to the earth right now. It was somehow more powerful than even that eldritch being, more ponderous and more massive in weight than even the great cycle.


    He opened his eyes and saw Lancel; his legate was smiling, confident. He understood.


    "What we''re building here," said Joffrey, "It''s not just about soldiers and coin," he said, turning slowly so he could see the faces of all his men. He wanted them to understand. He wanted them to realize. "It''s more than workers and industry. What we''re really building here cannot be seen nor touched, but it can be felt."


    Those on the table next to him had lowered their voices so they too could listen; it was filled with laborers and assorted workers from the city, the Crownlands, and beyond. "All of us here can feel it. This gateway between the old world and the new." His voice grew with his audience as he gave vent to feelings he''d spent lifetimes pondering.


    "We''re building it right here, all of us! A road out of the squalor and the drudgery, out of this destructive cycle that has kept us locked for three hundred years and more!" he said, the words coming out like a growl.


    The smallfolk growled with him. "Hail Prince Joffrey!" shouted a coal hauler as he leaned on his table. "Fuck empty laws and promises! He''s given us good work and fair wages! He''s done more for us than a dozen Aegons!"


    "He''s given us food from his own table! He''s given us tools so we can work without fear for our lives!" roared another one, emboldened as he stood up.


    "That''s nothing," said an old baker, his scarred face dauntless under the shadows and the bright sparks of the windmills. His low voice cut through the din of the crowd, and the people there turned to look at him with shock.


    "I survived the Sack," he said, gaze travelling along the length of the table. "I saw my city waste away under the new King, same as the old King." He shook his head. "No. Work comes and goes. Coin comes and goes," said the baker, staring right at him with eyes devoid of fear. "But you gave us more than that, Prince Joffrey. You gave us hope, and for that I''ll die beside you as hard as any high lord ever did."


    He felt a kindred soul within the baker, a man scarred by the past but possessed of this bizarre, even frightening new thing. A thing he''d hold on to even if it meant death and oblivion.


    "Hope," said Joffrey, holding the baker''s eyes. He understood. "It''s a strange thing, isn''t it? It''s not really something one can hold¡­" he trailed off as he turned, the crowds around him growing quiet. The Guardsmen by the other tables had quieted down, their banging tankards and marching songs giving way to eerie silence. The cheering knights and the laughing maidens lay quiet, his uncle Renly a frozen statue. Only the faint buzzing of the windmills could be heard throughout the entire clearing, spinning slowly now that their firepowder ran low.


    "And yet you can taste it. You can feel it in the air like the morning after the storm. The growing certainty that we can build something that will last," he said, his voice rising as a smile broke out. It was curious. The certainty of his coming end energized him, made him feel like a boy again, exploring the seas of the world. "The dream that we can find a way out of stagnation. Out of the rules of old where people lived and died in squalor with no end in sight. The hope that we can build our own era of myth and legend!" he said, bringing his arms close and thumping his chest plate, "A time of awe and wonder as great as any Age of Heroes! As mighty and powerful as any Ancient Valyria! As learned and wise as any Empire of Dawn!"


    The Song buffeted Joffrey like a wave, it was not quite a cheer; it was low and abrupt, unclear emotions and strange longings intertwined as his people rumbled. The dredges of King''s Landing and the forgotten smallfolk of the Crownlands, wondering about certainties long held by their fathers and their father''s fathers.


    "The seeds have been laid, and this is but the beginning. You can feel it all around you!" he shouted, swinging his arm wide and enveloping the people and the tables, the river mills and the forges, the city and the realm. The people around him shouted assent, some nodding fiercely as others lifted up tankards with growls of pent up purpose. "The beginnings of something new. A path forward out of the mire, a road of industry and purpose where the only horizon is set by our skills and our dreams!!!"


    They roared like lions, as hard as any troop he''d ever commanded. He could see the hope reflected in their eyes, their fervor invigorating him in turn. These were his people, turned for the first time into true companions against the end. For the first time Joffrey Baratheon would live or die with those he''d swore to protect, and the thought lifted his spirit like the sight of the Vale under his feet, chilly mountain air buffeting him against the top of the world.


    "Can you feel it?! This beginning now taunting us. Daring us!" he said as he gazed at the lower nobility and the bastards cast aside. Third born sons and spare daughters starting to believe; people of set futures now starting to wonder. Their eyes followed him as if entranced, struggling to disbelieve the dream. The dream that seemed harder to achieve than even the end of the Cycle.


    He felt as if in battle, limbs growing agitated as he started pacing, the crowd around him expanding yet again as more and more faces joined him under the moonlight. He turned to the table filled with Guardsmen. The soldiers and officers seemed to glare at him, stone-faces hiding a boiling exaltation that strained against their discipline- ''We''re here'' they seemed to say. ''We''re with you'' they whispered.


    Joffrey felt a surge of pride as he gazed upon them, his white fists strong and stalwart. "An age of reforging! An age of strength in unity!" he said, and his legates gave out a wordless bellow. Jon, Willard, Olyvar, Lancel, Renfred, Tyrek, all of them and more. The Guard roared their lungs out as they slammed gauntleted hands against hard oak. It sounded like a rain of steel, like the legion''s archers let loose on white wights. It spoke of a promise to fight and die for a future they had already seen and could thus never forget, the promise of becoming something more through shared purpose.


    He caught Sansa''s eyes as he turned. His wife had been trailed by a group of ladies and maidens, all wearing dresses of a kind, like little ducklings following their mother. In time that streak of practical fashion would be put to good use, along with the budding familiarity between highborn and lowborn. Who else but them were to administrate the great hospitals behind the frontlines, nursing fighting men back to strength and aiding overwhelmed Maesters with ledger and bonesaw? Men or women, all would be needed in the war to come. The war for the living. The War for Dawn.


    Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes alight with purpose. Joffrey breathed harshly as he turned again, seeking to encompass everyone within his field of vision, left hand firm on the pommel of his sword as his right rested between belt and hammer. His growing audience seemed hypnotized, servants and cooks clustering as they forgot their duties, Maesters and apprentices leaving discussions halfway as they neared closer. There were tabards around him, knights and squires of a hundred different houses whose colors under the moonlight seemed one and the same.


    "An era where the vows of knighthood ring true," he said, voice growing soft. "An era where we are not killers at the bidding of ambition."


    The crowd breathed with him in shock. Not only had he killed the Mountain, but he''d just denounced the perversion of knighthood he''d embodied. He''d all but denounced the ways of his grandfather, his tools and excuses.


    It made this real. It made them understand this was not about a royal''s ambition, but about them all. They said words were wind, but then what was a tempest if not winds upon winds building on each other until it was a whole fit to shake the earth itself?


    "It''s being born, right here, right now," he said as if it were a terrible secret. "Can''t you feel it?" His voice was barely a whisper, "The beginning?" He smiled as he saw the first specks in the eyes of them all, that same glint he''d shared with Shah under the stars all those years ago, the same one that blazed from his wife''s eyes when the Purple enveloped them for the last time. The certainty. The will.


    And they felt it. One would have to be dead not to have felt it. "It''s here. Within each and every one of us. Together¡­" his voice trailed off as his smile grew. The Song held its breath as the maidens did likewise, the knights gripping their pommels harshly as the Guardsmen straightening almost in unison, workers holding each other like a forest of proud oaks. The Maesters leaned forward, the silence unbearable as Sansa smiled proudly.


    Their eyes glowed like dry kindling caught alight, the little flames under the great void, entranced as Joffrey nodded at Renly. This was his truth. This was what he wanted.


    The Song reached its zenith, and Joffrey spoke the truth.


    "Together we shall build a future the likes of which this world has never seen before. Together we shall be one kingdom. One people," he said, and they were.


    His people rocked back, shock and wonder writ clear on their faces as they heard the Song. Joffrey didn''t begrudge them the reaction; together they''d not just witnessed the birth of a new era, they''d created it. The Age of Unity. The Age of Purpose. The Age of Westeros.


    They would all be protectors. They would all be watchers of stars.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 68: Symphony.

    Spoiler: ANBack in the fight, baby.


    Chapter 68: Symphony.


    "Come on, Ser Robar!" Joffrey shouted as he spurred Moonlight onward, ducking under a hanging branch before reaching the clearing.


    Ser Robar Royce bit off a curse as he struggled to catch up, the rest of the Silver Knights close behind as they reached the mustering point and they spread out, forming a wedge with Joffrey at the tip.


    "Lances down!" Joffrey called out as they reached the group of strawmen arrayed in a great mass. He slammed his lance through the first one''s head, and then the second. By the third he lost his grip on it, so he took out his hammer and started bashing left and right as the rest of the knights formed up with him, taking out hammers and morningstars. Their frenzy against the targets made for sloppy shield handling though, they were neglecting their offhand again.


    Not good.


    The horses seemed bestial under the morning sun, clad in heavy barding as they were. They plowed into the straw army, running down and slamming aside the fake men before Joffrey blew the horn.


    Not nearly fast enough, he thought as they wheeled as a group, retreating back the way they came. The great mass of armored horses soon reached the group of tents and tables arrayed to the east of the clearing, the scent of freshly cooked food hounding them forth.


    "You''re all making progress, but we''re still not disengaging fast enough," he said as the silver-caped knights groaned. They dismounted and went immediately for the ale and the boar a couple of servants were spit-roasting near the tables.


    "You''ve said that the last ten times," said one of the Redwyne twins ¨CHoras- as he sat on one of the benches, massaging his thighs. Joffrey snorted as he put a leg atop the bench, leaning on it as he took a sip from the tankard waiting for him. The Silver Knights formed up around the table in a mess of jeers and laughs, and Joffrey had to suppress the slightly irrational urge to discipline them. They were not Guardsmen but the sons of nobles, many of them second or even firstborns. There was only so much stricture they''d take before walking away.


    Brotherhood, not an army, Joffrey thought as Ser Robar sat on the bench. He just had to frame it the right way.


    "The barding is too heavy, we''re lacking momentum for the shock," said Ser Robar.


    Shock won''t do a thing against wights, Joffrey thought. He shrugged instead, "That armor will let us plunge deeper into enemy formations without losing too many horses. I think a bit of momentum is a price well paid."


    Ser Robar copied his shrug, "Well, you''re the one paying for all that barding," he said, a little smirk overtaking his features as he lifted the tankard, "And this, too."


    "That too," said Joffrey, lifting his tankard up and to the middle. "Good run, men. Load up, we''ll see if we do better with a full belly!"


    "It''ll only drag the horses down!" Ser Emmon called out, "Especially Hendry here," he added as Hendry Bracken choked on a piece of boar, turning to glare at him.


    Joffrey chuckled with them, shaking his head. I hope their good cheer survives the Cycle.


    He looked at Ser Robar as the knight tapped his thigh idly, at a tempo with a pattern long familiar to Joffrey. He smothered a tiny smile as he leaned back, "After that I want you to guide them through afternoon meditation."


    "We have afternoon meditations?" asked Ser Robar, raising his eyebrows.


    "We do now."


    Ser Horas groaned, "But we already have them every morning!"


    "Ser Robar," said Joffrey, "Be so kind? I''m tired of repeating myself."


    Ser Robar shook his head good-naturedly, leaning back and looking at Ser Horas, "''Do you or do you not want to be one of the best knights in Westeros?''"


    Ser Horas groaned again, not even deigning a response as he returned his eyes to the boar over the spit, a great gash on its belly where the spear had taken it.


    Ser Robar chuckled, but he seemed uneasy all the same.


    "You''re going to groan on me as well?" said Joffrey.


    "Not at all," said Robar, "Hells, I fight better after each session. That Yi-Tish fellow must have been a hell of a warrior," he trailed off as he looked to his sides.


    Joffrey smirked, "You could say that."


    Something''s definitively bothering him¡­


    "But..?"


    Ser Robar sighed as he shook his head, "It''s not worth bothering about," he said, lowering his voice.


    "It''s alright, we''re all brothers here, remember?" said Joffrey, lowering his voice as well, hidden beneath the general ruckus of ¨Cgenerally- young and ravenously hungry men tearing into boar meat.


    Ser Robar snorted, "Not officially. We need the King to proclaim-"


    "You leave Robert to me," said Joffrey, "Now, why all the hemming and hawing?"


    Robar sighed again, deflating under Joffrey''s eyes, "I know how important you think those meditation exercises are. I''m worried I''ll botch them."


    "Ah," said Joffrey. "Come, walk with me."


    Ser Robar followed him as they walked a short distance away from the table, the constant knocking of carpenter birds on wood soon overpowering the sounds of the encampment. The greenery had a yellowish tinge around these parts of the Kingswood, lending it a autumn-like solemnity.


    "Those carpenter birds," said Joffrey, waving at one of the tall trees which doubtlessly hid half a dozen of the hardworking birds, "How would you characterize their sound?"


    Ser Robar seemed nonplussed, "Rhythmical. A pattern, I guess."


    An interesting choice of a word, given that most people would have found the sharp knocks a chaos with no rhyme or reason beyond the frenzied haste of the bird in question.


    "There is a sort of underlying pattern to it, isn''t there?" said Joffrey, tapping one of the trees. "Have you heard it anywhere else?" he asked idly as he looked up at the yellowed crown of the tree.


    Ser Robar shuffled, "Can''t say I have," he lied.


    Joffrey smiled, "I wouldn''t worry about disappointing me Robar, I''m not lying when I tell you you''re the Silver Knight who has¡­ understood, the most."


    "Ser Emmon is the better fighter," he said.


    "He is."


    "Ser Vardis is the better rider."


    "He is," Joffrey said again.


    Ser Robar shook his head again, "It''s just, if all those facts are true, then why are you and Ser Balon constantly delegating on me? I''m a second son. I''m no leader-"


    Joffrey put a hand on his shoulder, "Robar, you''ll be fine. You just have to listen," he said, punctuating the last word as he looked at the knight''s eyes.


    He hesitated, looking down.


    "I¡­"


    "Yes?"


    "A few of us have been¡­ talking. About that rhythm-"


    "Prince Joffrey, there you are!" said Samwell as he reached the two of them, huffing every step of the way. "The candidate you were expecting is here," he said, beads of sweat already travelling down his neck and infiltrating his silvered chestplate.


    Joffrey grunted assent, "Hold that thought, Robar. We''ve work to do," he said as the three made their way back to the camp.


    "Honestly I don''t know how you find enough hours in the day to sleep, my Prince," said Robar.


    It''s complicated, thought Joffrey, letting his sight drift to the puffing form of Samwell Tarly.


    "Cursing my name already, Samwell?"


    "Oh. Never, my Prince," he said as his authoritative waddle pushed knights and squires out of the way, guiding Robar and Joffrey to one of the back tents. The Tarly scion got to skip half of the usual battle training in favor of his administrative duties -which certainly made the ragged Ser Balon happy- but made a poor fit for Sam''s future survival.


    So Joffrey had made him wear weighted armor for the better part of each day. And half the usual training or not, Joffrey had been putting a little extra personal attention on Sam during his daily bouts with the Silver Knights. It would save his life if he ever actually ended up in combat, and more likely still, would help keep Lord Tarly off Joffrey''s back if he ever came snooping around King''s Landing, searching for the fate of his son.


    The Night''s Watch, he thought, "What a waste¡­"


    "What was that, my Prince?" said Samwell.


    "Nothing, Sam." Bless Sansa''s eyes. Well, her raven''s eyes. Master Samwell''s mind has better things to do than freeze atop the Wall until the Walkers march south¡­


    "How are we looking on today''s rations?" he asked his unofficial Quartermaster.


    "Pretty well actually, the hunters are really earning their keep," said Sam.


    Good. The less coin he used here the more he''d be able to pump into the Royal Shipping Company. I wonder if there''s a piece of the Purple somewhere that would let me duplicate myself¡­


    After everything he''d seen such a power would look positively quaint¡­


    "Never thought I''d grow bored of eating bore," said Robar.


    "Nice pun!" said Samwell.


    Ser Robar blinked, but Samwell waved it away as if it were nothing, "Never mind," he said, quickly becoming immersed in a discussion with a group of servants laying down a crate between two tents and blocking a makeshift ''road''. "No no no! You have to take it to Ser Balon! I- Excuse me my Prince, I''ll catch up to you, just keep going straight ahead, the green tent!"


    "Will do, Sam," said Joffrey, suppressing another smile. He kept walking with Ser Robar, the encampment not all that big for all there was a lot of movement within it. Noble scions tended to need a level of pampering which was a bit more manpower intensive than a Guardsman''s, sadly.


    Still, he found himself oddly nostalgic as he made for the green tent. He suspected he was going to miss messing around this place, after his other duties absorbed him completely.


    He sighed.


    Kingly duties¡­


    "He''s come down a long way," said Ser Robar.


    "We''ll make a knight out of him yet," said Joffrey.


    "I was talking about his weight. Still quite a bit on the pudgy side though."


    Joffrey chuckled, looking at the little glint within Ser Robar''s eyes. Not as dumb as you pretend to be, eh? As if he''d needed confirmation.


    They walked around a stuck wagon, the horses neighing shrilly as the rider tried to calm them down. "They usually have to beg and scrape for you to even consider training them, much less make them a Silver Knight," Robar said as they neared the tent.


    "Intrigued?"


    "He''s got to be pretty good if he caught your attention."


    "She, Ser Robar. She," said Joffrey, opening the tent flap.


    Brienne was kneeling, fully armored as she passed a whetstone down her longsword. "My Prince," she said as she scrambled up, only to belatedly come down again and take a knee.


    "Rise, Brienne of Tarth," he said as he examined her. They called her ''Brienne the Beauty'', and it didn''t take a prince to figure out why; her frame almost rivaled the Hound''s in size, and her curt demeanor did her no favors. Still, there was something alluring in the sheer intensity of her gaze as she lifted her eyes from the ground. Ultimately, beauties were a copper a dozen in this land, but a woman with a strong mind¡­


    Now if only I could communicate that to my lords¡­


    "You have my sincerest thanks for inviting me here, my Prince," she said, "I promise you shall not be disappointed with me."


    "I''m sure I won''t," he said. Her longsword seemed well cared for, it''s pommel molded by constant use. Robar contained a snort with one gauntleted hand, scratching his small beard before he turned to Joffrey.


    She certainly lasted longer than you, Ser Robar ''the Red''.


    Still, appearances had to be kept. "Show me then," he said as he turned, walking back through the camp.


    "If she''s searching for a husband, she won''t find one here," said Ser Robar as the two made for the training yard, Brienne following from a respectful distance.


    "I doubt that''s her goal."


    "Then why is she here?"


    "Why are you here, Ser Robar?"


    The counter-question took him by surprise. Ser Robar stammered for a second before shaking his head. "Glory," he said.


    "Acclaim, prestige, brotherhood, skill," said Joffrey, his stride constant as he nodded at the Hound, who''d just reached the clearing and was dismounting from Stranger. "Things you knew second sons had to earn, fair or not."


    Ser Robar frowned, lowering his head by a fraction. "It all sounds so simple when you say it¡­"


    "It is simple. Thought it''s also complicated at the same time. Simply complex, you could say." Joffrey snorted, "Kind of like life itself, huh?"


    Ser Robar nodded slowly, looking strangely at him.


    Joffrey shook his head, "In any case, I think you''ll find a bit of a kindred soul within Brienne. Her curse was far worse than being born second."


    "If you say so."


    "I do. Sandor!" said Joffrey, waving at the Hound as the man trundled towards them, shooting glares at anyone who got close, "How are the Raiders doing?"


    "Like shit," said the Hound, joining seamlessly by Joffrey''s other side, walking half a step behind him. "Pocket stole Glyra''s dagger, so she rammed it into his thigh for good measure."


    "Business as usual then. Their Low Valyrian getting any better?"


    Sandor broke out into an ugly cackle, throwing his head back as the burnt side of his face curdled in mirth.


    "That bad, huh?"


    Sandor''s good humor disappeared as Ser Robar joined in with an unsure chuckle. "Maester Karton''s lost what few hairs he had left, though he said Horwick was getting better," Sandor said, "You should see for yourself. It''s all drunken rhyming to me," he added, leering at Ser Robar. The fact that Sandor preferred the company of dubiously reformed cutthroats to the proud youth of chivalry said a lot of both Sandor and knighthood in general.


    "I''ll do it tonight," Joffrey said as the reached their ''training yard''. There was no such thing, merely a circle of trodden earth where the grass had long since given way to mud. He reached the weapon rack and took a tourney bastard sword, turning to the sight of a stunned Brienne. "Well, what are you waiting for?"


    Ser Robar handed her one of the tourney longswords, and he stepped back with a private grin as a few Silver Knights congregated around.


    "You''re the one I''ll be fighting?" she said, her grip on the longsword unsteady.


    "Every Silver Knight has fought me. You have to win to get in," he said as he lowered his knees, sword circling slowly as he started moving sideways.


    Brienne followed, both of them circling the mud as Ser Horas ¨Cor was that Hobar?- turned to his twin with a confused expression. "But-" he managed before the other slapped him on the back of the head.


    She tensed as his left foot slid by a hair''s breath. A good sign, thought Joffrey. He launched himself at her a heartbeat later, probing with two stabs. She deflected both, but his low sweep caught her off guard and she collapsed on the mud with an oomph.


    "You''re going to have to do a lot better than that," he said as he circled her fallen form.


    Brienne cursed, shaking the mud off her face as she stood up. She attacked with broad sweeps, pushing Joffrey back before he rolled on the ground and sprang up with a long stab. She parried it away, but Joffrey''s fist caught her on the mouth and she stumbled back, blood running from her lip.


    "Are you sure you really want this, Brienne?" he said, "You don''t look very convin-" Brienne bellowed over his words, stumbling up and ramming him with the longsword. The tip slid off his plate as Joffrey spun, arming sword batting her weapon away and slashing downwards. She ducked low, riposting for his ribs before Joffrey blocked and he retreated backwards. Brienne followed through a series of furious stabs as their swords danced through the air, Joffrey grunting as he jammed her blade against the ground and kicked it. It tumbled out of her grasp, but she managed to duck under his follow up blow, scrambling for her sword and grabbing it by the blade just before Joffrey slammed her with a two handed hit.


    Her parry tingled throughout the clearing, her shoulder slamming into Joffrey''s chest before she hit him there again with the pommel, using the hilt as a hammer. Her skill with the Stormland''s murderstroke variant was surprising, and Joffrey scrambled back in a complex water dancing feint.


    He jumped at her off hand, parrying the longsword and driving her guard up. He twisted her off hand away with a Yii lock as his bastard sword redirected the pommel up, leaving her open for a head-butt that saw her slam against the ground.


    He placed the tip of his sword right over her neck, breathing harshly as his chest ached. The vaguely amused banter surrounding them had died a swift death a while ago, the Silver Knights now murmuring to each other as Brienne sighed painfully.


    "I yield," she said, her voice small as she closed her eyes.


    "Well fought," said Joffrey, lifting the sword up and replacing it with his hand. "Welcome to the as-of-yet-unofficial Order of the Silver Knights."


    She gaped at him, hope and suspicion warring in her eyes as she stumbled through the words. "B-but I lost!"


    "No shame in that," said Joffrey, "No Silver Knight''s ever actually beat me. You came closer than most though," he said, giving her a little smile.


    It was as if the sun had just broken through the clouds. Her face transitioned through half a dozen emotions before she took his hand and he lifted her up.


    "Congratulations," said Ser Robar, nodding absently. His brows were furrowed in deep thought as the Silver Knights slowly started clapping.


    After that performance I think she''ll fit right in. After his long lives, he''d learned that nipping a problem before it became a problem usually saved everyone a headache.


    The sound of frantic hooves made him turn though, dispelling the warmth that had replaced the pommel-shaped ache on his chest, hand ready to draw his hammer as his knees bent.


    "Prince Joffrey! Prince Joffrey!!!" bellowed Barret, reigning in his horse.


    "What is it?" Joffrey asked as he jogged towards him, a dark feeling creeping up his gut.


    "My Prince, I- It''s the King," he said.


    -: PD :-


    "And he didn''t drink a single drop of wine?" He asked him.


    Ned shook his head, their long strides carrying them up the last set of stairs. "Said he didn''t need it. He¡­" Ned trailed off, the sad smile all too fresh on his lips, "He said the fresh air tasted like summer wine already."


    Joffrey grunted, looking at the floor as they reached the corridor. The door was guarded by Ser Barristan, who held it open as Mother left. Myrcella seemed red eyed, and Tommen was crying openly.


    Did you have anything to do with this? Joffrey thought as he stared at her. Cersei seemed as shocked as him though, her eyes nervous as they cycled through everything in the hallway, likely trying to predict things through. They settled on him as they reached Ser Barristan.


    "Joffrey-"


    "Mother," he said. She flinched from his stare, and he blinked as he gazed down at Tommen and Myrcella, clutching her in anguish. No, Cersei had not killed Robert this time.


    "It''ll be alright, Tommen," he said, gently lifting his cheek and looking at his eyes. "It''ll be alright," he said again, the trembling stopping for a few moments. Myrcella gave him a little nod, and he steeled himself for what was to come.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Vague whiffs of rot sneaked through the edges of his perception as Joffrey entered the Royal Bedchambers. The curtains were wide open, and sunlight bathed Robert Baratheon as he laid on his deathbed. His brow was lined with sweat, his face pale as he gazed at the sun with not a care in the world.


    He craned his neck, and a strange energy seemed to lift him up as he saw Joffrey, "Son! About fucking time," he said as he propped himself up on his elbow, "Where did you find him, Ned? Beating the brains out of those knights of his?"


    "You could say that," said Ned, sitting on one of the chairs by the side of the bed. Joffrey sat by Robert''s side, on the bed. He grimaced as he peeked under the blankets and saw the bloodied bandages around Robert''s guts.


    "That fucking boar," he muttered. The irony was not lost on him. Robert Baratheon''s first death had been at the tusks of a boar, and so would be his last.


    "Biggest one I''ve seen in my life. It was glorious," said Robert. "You should have seen it¡­ Should have seen your old man like he used to be," he said as he lay back on the bed, coughing something red into the handkerchief in his hand.


    Joffrey sighed, leaning back as well. "You''re one reckless fool, you know that right?"


    "Heh. That apple didn''t fall far from the tree," said Robert, "Though the boar will make a far better wall ornament than the Mountain, that''s for damned sure!" He chuckled, a rolling snort not unlike that made by the beast which killed him.


    Joffrey''s smile was stillborn, "Robert-"


    "Ned, leave us for a moment, would you?"


    Ned grimaced as he stood up, shooting Robert a long look.


    The King grunted, "We already said our goodbyes you honorable fool," he said, hiding a smile.


    "That we did, old friend," Ned said after a moment. He gave Robert a nod, and Robert nodded back.


    "Oh and Ned," Robert called out before he left the room.


    Eddard stopped by the door, turning back.


    "Remember what I said about the damned boar and the funeral!"


    Ned chuckled against his will, "I said we''d prepare it just how you like it, but I won''t lie to you now, Robert. I''m going to make sure they roast it good."


    Robert''s expression grew thunderous, "You savage northerners! No respect for last wishes," he said, and they both shared a good long laugh, something unspoken passing between the two.


    And if their eyes grew a bit misty, then it must have surely been Joffrey''s imagination.


    Ned closed the door, and Joffrey turned to find Robert''s eyes fixed firmly on him, not a trace of mirth on them.


    "You stopped calling me Father around the time we went to Winterfell," he said after a moment.


    Joffrey''s heart thumped like a gong, and he gripped the sheets like lifelines as he leaned forward. "Robert I-"


    "No, no, it''s alright," he said as he shook his head. He turned to look at the sun streaming through the window, a small smile on his lips, "Gods know Ned Stark makes a better father than I ever did."


    "You¡­" Joffrey cleared his throat, "You did well. Myrcella is an intelligent, strong girl. And Tommen will grow up to be a man you would be proud of, I promise."


    Robert turned to stare at him, "And I believe that promise, I believe it more than I believe in the Father. That conviction in your voice¡­ it''s so strong you could weigh the damned thing." His smile grew wan, "Tommen, Myrcella¡­ And you, the greatest legacy I''m leaving to this wretched city." He grew quiet, shaking his head in incomprehension, "It was so sudden, like night and day. From spiteful brat to everything I should have been."


    Joffrey opened his mouth, but Robert waved a paw at him, "Let me speak damn it, a son should hear his Father''s last words."


    A son, he thought, the grimace fresh on his lips. Could he let Robert die without telling him the truth? There would be no more lives after this one, no more chances. He fisted his hands, growing white under the strain.


    "Like night to day," he said again, "A master of sword and mace, a courteous young man drawing confidence from within instead of beyond. You''ve seen battle before, haven''t you?" His stormy blue eyes bored on Joffrey, the Demon of the Trident rousing from the depths of that blue ocean.


    Joffrey held his breath, holding Robert''s stare before sighing. "Yes," he said.


    Robert sagged back, as if released of a burden, "It was during that night, a few days after Jon died. Something happened to you. Something great and terrible."


    "I dreamed," Joffrey whispered, "I lived a thousand lives and grew to hate what I was."


    Robert nodded.


    "Was there war?" he asked after a while.


    Joffrey closed his eyes, breathing deeply, "Great and terrible."


    "Great and terrible," said Robert, taking a deep breath, "You could sum it up in those two words, couldn''t you? That thrill behind every hammer blow, that momentum that makes you feel invincible. Unstoppable."


    "And then you look around," said Joffrey as he opened his eyes, "And realize what you''ve done."


    "Dead friends and old regrets," said Robert, wincing as he shuffled in his bed. He placed a hand over the sheets, roughly where the boar had taken him. "Then you look at those green boys playing at war and realize there''s nothing you can do to stop it. To stop the cycle. You can just try to-"


    "Make sure they don''t die, when the time comes," said Joffrey.


    Robert grunted, "That why you took those ''Silver Knights'' under your wing?" S~?a??h the N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Among other things," he said, nodding slowly. "We''ll need another breed of knight for what''s to come."


    "Another breed of people," said Robert. "That''s what you''ve been doing, isn''t it? This Blackworks of yours. All the young strays you''ve been picking up. All the pretty paintings Sansa''s legions have been putting up. What was the name of the one over the thing you''re building in the Dragonpit? With the knights and the workers and the maidens? The one where they''re all looking at the morning sun."


    "Together," said Joffrey.


    "Together," said Robert, looking up at the ceiling, "I wonder what terrible sight you must have seen that night. The enemy that would threaten this great and terrible New Westeros whose foundations you''ve built."


    "An enemy we''ll drown in steel and fire and fury," said Joffrey, the nape of his neck tingling on edge as he leaned closer.


    "There''s the conviction again," he said with a wan smile, "You didn''t promise victory though."


    Joffrey bit his lip, "I can''t."


    Robert was pale, but he still smiled as he took another deep breath. "That''s wise of you." His hand was trembling, and Joffrey grabbed it all of a sudden, steadying it with both his own. It felt cold.


    "Help me up," he said, straining as he tried to stand up. He felt so frail, so different from Joffrey''s childhood memories. He helped him walk towards the two chairs by the window, and they received the full brunt of the sun as they walked fully into the light.


    "That night," Robert said a moment after they sat side by side, his voice laced with an almost inaudible tremor. "Did you see what- what lay¡­?" He trailed off, the blue storm within his eyes growing tame.


    Beyond.


    Joffrey gripped Robert''s hand tightly, lifting it below his chin and holding it close. "Maybe," he said after a breath. "We''ve always thought of it as something different. Seven Heavens. The Eternal Dawn. The Green Dream. Something Beyond this place."


    The corner of Robert''s mouth turned up. Joffrey too heard the rising conviction within his voice, his brow furrowed as he tried to explain it to him, to himself. "But it''s not. Not really. It''s here. It''s now." He frowned, holding Robert''s hand like a priceless talisman, "It''s around us. And within us."


    "Here¡­" whispered Robert. He smiled fully, his whole face engaging as he relaxed under the sun. "I was never meant to live inside musty keeps." He snorted, blinking under the glare, "I much preferred the sun as my roof."


    Joffrey smiled with him, "I know."


    "Did I ever tell you I was proud of you? In the dream?"


    Joffrey looked down, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath and the knot in his throat came and went, the Red Comet crossing the light of the sun and glittering orange. "I- Not in- not in as many words."


    "I''m proud of you," said Robert.


    He sighed. His eyes felt moist, the glare of the sun too intense to stare at for long.


    He turned to look at Robert, and was surprised to see a moist sheen within his blue eyes too. Today the sun seemed especially bright.


    "Could I ask you a favor?" said Robert


    "Anything."


    "Fetch me my warhammer, would you? It''s beside the bed."


    Joffrey stood up and went to get it. He stared at the big warhammer for a second before lifting it up reverently. It felt light in his hands as he walked back, its part in the Song slow and steady.


    "Robert. There''s something I need to tell you."


    He crouched by the side of the chair. "Robert?" he asked again, grabbing his arm.


    He was staring through the window, blue eyes still like becalmed seas. Joffrey breathed deeply as he let himself fall back, sitting on the chair''s armrest. He placed the warhammer vertically, between Robert''s thighs, wrapping it with his arms, the head resting over his chest. Robert Baratheon no longer breathed, but Joffrey could still feel his presence.


    Though perhaps presence was too strong a word. His life made ripples. It changed the rhythm. It had imprinted the Song with his actions; like waves lapping over the surface of the Sunset Sea.


    An Imprint, thought Joffrey as he stood up. The body of consequence a life had done.


    You could even call it a spirit, he thought as he glanced down at Robert one last time, his smile whimsical. Waves who would never really dissipate, stretching into infinity by the influence of its source. "Here and now, Robert. Here and now," he said as he gripped his shoulder.


    It was a form of immortality, in a way. A note in the eternal symphony.


    He walked out of Robert''s room, closing the door gently.


    "The King?" said Ser Barristan, white brows furrowed in concern.


    The Repository was close indeed, Joffrey could feel the great plumes of red thrumming through his belly; a furious tempest pushing against a weight of crystal and silence which spun slowly on its own axis. The beginning of the end was now closing.


    "The King is dead," said Joffrey.


    Ser Barristan''s eyes widened, then steeled.


    "Long live the King," he said.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 69: Great and Terrible.

    Chapter 69: Great and Terrible.The dull roar of the crowd was a constant as Joffrey descended down the steps of Baelor''s Sept, Sansa''s arm held tightly in his own. She looked appropriately regal in her long gown, possessed of a dignified momentum that made her glide down the long open-aired stairway to Baelor''s Plaza. Her crown was a circlet of silver studded with sapphires and charcoal grey diamonds, simple but elegant.


    "Eyes ahead, dear," said Sansa, blue eyes twinkling.


    "I was just mesmerized by your pristine beauty," Joffrey said as he returned his gaze to the crowds below; a great teeming mass of people chanting and clamoring. They formed a sea from end to end, covering the whole plaza but for a wide road by the center, Guardsmen lining up at each side every two paces.


    "Pristine?" said Sansa, smiling at the crowd as they took another set of stairs at an excruciatingly slow speed. The cloak of the Baratheons of King''s Landing flowed from her back like a mantle as she flicked her eyes at him, "I''ll be sure to remind you that at our bedding ceremony."


    "All pure and innocent. That''s Good Queen Sansa alright," said Joffrey, feeling her grip on his arm tighten as she snorted daintily.


    "I''ve been wearing a crown for less than an hour. They can''t be calling me that already."


    "The smallfolk were calling you that the day after Robert died."


    She hummed as they reached another landing, this time closer to the crowds. Streaks of red, violet, and pink swirled around their path as gusts of flower petals rained from above, carried by the winds as Sansa pulled his hand gently.


    "Again?" he said, gazing at the laborers, fishermen, cobblers and more assembled around Balor''s Plaza, blocks of Guardsmen standing at attention around the final landing and the carriage.


    "Just do it," she said, not bothering with hiding her smile as she raised an arm.


    Joffrey did likewise, feeling a bit ridiculous as he gave the crowds a wide armed salute. They responded immediately, the din rising to meet him as they cheered and roared.


    It made it better if he just thought they were his soldiers. It was even true, in a way. During the war to come, all the living would be his soldiers. He turned lightly and as he raised his hand higher, more confortable this time. He fisted it, pumping it once as the blocks of soldiers thumped their halberds against the ground and the cries of the crowd became a bit more distinct.


    "Hail the King!"


    "Bless Good Queen Sansa!"


    "Hail King Joffrey!!!"


    "They seem to like us," she said, a pink petal getting caught in her hair.


    "I''m sure it has nothing to do with the great feast you''ve organized for today."


    "It might have helped," she said, her smile impish.


    "Let''s go, time''s a wasting."


    They descended down the next set of stone stairs, the weight of the crown heavy on Joffrey''s head. It was a web of antlers made out of pure castle forged steel; somehow it felt heavier than it ought to.


    "Must you go?" she said quietly.


    "You know I have to."


    She sighed. The roar of the crowd was louder now, but Joffrey could hear her as if they were by the beach near their old house in Jhala. "Things are in motion in the east as well."


    "The Emperor reached Bladhahar yet?"


    "This morning," she said. "Most of the Bloodless are still mobilizing around Bol-Qobam, but he''s linked up with young Ka-Mil and around five hundred of those ''Immortals'' of theirs."


    Joffrey grunted, "Never fought them, but they looked like good troops." Vajul must have made quite the impression if they were mobilizing this early in the war. Assuming Bladhahar was secured within the year, then they might spare a bit of manpower for operations around the Beyond.


    I bet that''s what Ka-Mil has in mind¡­ It would shore up his position within the Bloodless to be seen leading the charge like that. Joffrey hadn''t spoken to him, but he''d seemed a competent enough player from what he''d learned in Carcosa.


    Joffrey shrugged, "I reckon it''s a short flight across the Dry Deep; Mahil Suul and the Yellow Wing''s vanguard are probably taking possession of Bonetown right now. What about the Dawn Scouts?"


    Sansa grimaced, hiding it with a tilt of her head as she waved at the crowd again, "It''s all blurry, all I know is that they''ve left the Greytower."


    "Good," said Joffrey, "Means the Jade Scribes are taking the Emperor''s offer seriously."


    "Do you really think they''ll reach K''Dath?"


    "We can only hope, Sansa. We can only hope¡­" Joffrey trailed off as they reached the final landing, the Guardsmen of the First Regiment straightening even further as his small council kneeled.


    "Your Grace," they intoned. Renly, Eddard, Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and Grandmaester Pycelle all looked suitably impressed by the crowd''s reception, and they made a show of congratulating him and offering him their allegiance in front of King''s Landing. They repeated the same words uttered inside Baelor''s Sept after Ned had taken Sansa''s Stark cloak and the High Septon had crowned them both. S~?a??h the ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Joffrey wondered for a moment which empty platitudes the Spider would have uttered, hands hidden inoffensively within his robes as he all but bowed in ceremony. Alas, Varys was currently being toured around the Kingswood by the Hound and a few trusted men. They needed him alive, but that didn''t mean leaving him free to plot here in the capital.


    "Maybe I could talk to him," said Renly as they congregated near the carriage, "Speak some sense into him."


    "It''s a lost cause, uncle," said Joffrey, "Besides I need you, all of you, here in the capital."


    Ned looked mutinous at that, but kept his peace. They''d argued enough behind closed doors.


    Renly nodded, looking at the cobbled floor of the plaza.


    Does he feel guilt about almost following Stannis'' steps? Whatever Renly''s previous ambitions, this time he''d thrown his lot in with Joffrey. It still left the thorny matter of the Tyrells of course, and according to Sansa''s spies Maergery and Ser Garlan were already on the Roseroad, making for King''s Landing with an impressive escort of knights and handmaidens.


    One problem at a time, Joffrey reminded himself.


    "I''ll guide you in," Sansa whispered as she drifted closer. They kissed, the crowd cheering all the louder as Joffrey forgot for a moment the great and terrible price in blood that was to come.


    "Come back to me," she said when they broke, hugging him tightly.


    "Always," he said, her warmth seeping past the cold of his own plate. The armor had been polished to a sheen, but he knew it would soon run red.


    Legate Olyvar stepped forth with an antlered helmet in his hands. They looked tall, wickedly sharp to his hands as Joffrey exchanged it for the crown.


    "Guardsmen!" he roared after Sansa had gotten inside the carriage, the soldiers around him slamming their halberds against the cobbles. "We march to quench rebellion!" he said, "We march to war!"


    The crowd seemed to share his legion''s determination, their cries rising higher as the Royal Guard slammed their halberds again and again.


    "We march to restore unity!" he roared.


    They bellowed their defiance as Joffrey strapped his helmet, the sun playing off the bronze of the antlers.


    This time, Stannis would not take the initiative.


    -: PD :-


    Ser Robar Royce shuffled in his plate, craning his shoulder as he worked off the stiffness. The chainmail clinked under the plate, the sound painfully loud.


    This damned mist is muffling everything. He shivered, gazing ahead at the impenetrable white wall around the galley. It was so quiet he could hear the sailors fidgeting on the rigging above, their awe long ago giving way to shocked silence.


    The silence was almost haunting in its stillness, revealing vague eddies just beyond the senses. A rhythm of sorts that called to Robar. I''m just a bit nervous, he thought, closing his eyes as he concentrated on his breath as the King had so often taught them. It made it worse, the rhythm of his breath giving weight to the rhythm without, at a tempo with the muffled grunts of the rowers in the decks below.


    He shook his head harshly as he walked through the lower deck, seeking distraction as the occasional wave made him stumble. Captain Colrin had called this ''unusually calm seas''¡­ Robar wouldn''t hazard a guess on how he''d fare in worse weather.


    He checked the arming sword on his belt, then made sure the battleaxe strapped to his back was still there. It was, just the way it was the last time he''d checked.


    Get a grip, Robar, he thought as he banished the insidious hill snake coiling in his gut. Royces had been battling since the Age of Dawn. He''d trained for this for almost his entire life. Hells, Joffrey had been training him relentlessly throughout the past few months. He was ready.


    He climbed to the upper deck and reached the back of the Shortsword, the galley''s oars rowing at a slow, steady beat. He examined the two big lanterns hanging from the back of the ship as he looked down. They were battered by the occasional spray of saltwater, but the flames within still shone bright. Robar nodded, lifting his head up.


    Where are- there!


    He saw the two other lanterns somewhere within the mist, their course secure as they followed the Shortsword. The ships behind those should be following their back lanterns in turn, and so on throughout the entire fleet of some two dozen ships big and small. All depending on the skill of one man.


    King Joffrey Baratheon didn''t seem fazed by the occasional swell, his legs compensating without a second thought as he peered straight ahead, hands steady on the tiller as he stood alone but for Captain Colrin, who held out the occasional map and constantly wrote down the King''s observations.


    There were no lights ahead of the Shortsword.


    Ser Hobar and Samwell were leaning on a railing to the right, their short silver capes unmoving under the glare of the dead sky. The young Redwyne knight was gazing at the King as if in a trance, untroubled by the occasional sway of the galley. Robar suppressed the stab of envy as he walked over there and they made space for him; it was common knowledge Redwynes were more comfortable on ships than horses, though it was more often said with snickering tones than the true air of a compliment.


    Ser Robar didn''t feel like snickering right now.


    "Ser Hobar," he said, his voice painfully loud.


    Hobar nodded absently.


    "Are we close?" he said after another moment.


    "I¡­ I think so. I''ve never seen such a skilled navigator," said Ser Hobar.


    The King''s seamanship had to be pretty good if it had made Hobar forget the fact that he supposedly knew ''next to nothing'' about ships. Maybe he''ll start waxing about the King''s incredible skill in trade next¡­


    "I can hardly see the tip of the ship in this damned mist," said Robar. It had descended upon them yesterday, and if he hadn''t known better he would have said the King had been expecting it. He''d steered them through the entire night and on to the morning, his motions confident and his eyes fixed on the grey horizon.


    "F-feeling good? For the battle today?" asked Samwell Tarly. His great girth had diminished somewhat under the King''s exacting training, but he seemed wider still now clad as he was in chain, gambeson, and heavy plate. The chainmail jingled as he shivered, his eyes rapidly scuttling across the ship.


    "I am," Robar said at once, thinning his lips.


    "Oh of course!" Sam said quickly, "I did- I mean I didn''t mean to imply otherwise," he said with a fleeting smile witch turned into a pout.


    Get your head straight, Robar thought as he closed and opened his eyes forcefully, "No, it''s- I''m sorry, Sam. Just a bit tense, is all. Perfectly natural."


    "Perfectly natural," Sam agreed, obsessively checking the warhammer he''d rested between his legs, running his hands over the wooden handle. The King himself had trained Sam in the style he''d thought most suited to him, though that was true to an extent for every silver knight. Unlike the King''s hammer though, Sam''s was a two hander, long and slender with a single flange on one side, a small hammerhead on the other, and a spear blade on the tip.


    The sight of Sam licking his dry lips, eyes wide as he looked once again to the front of the ship, was enough to banish the hill snake which had stubbornly burrowed into Robar''s belly again. "Sam," he said as he took his shoulder, lowering his voice, "You know you don''t have to do this."


    "I can do it."


    "I know you can, but you don''t have to. Joffrey will understand."


    He understands more than he ought to, he thought but didn''t add.


    "How can I call myself a silver knight if I hide at the first sign of battle?" said Sam, "The others will shun me, call me coward." He said it as if it were a fate worse than death, the air of long, bitter experience hanging around his words.


    "That''s just a load of horseshit," said Ser Hobar, chipping up unexpectedly as he kept staring at the King.


    Robar crossing his arms, "Everyone here knows that you''re half the reason the knights can do anything useful when Joffrey''s not around." The other half being Ser Balon Swann, still unofficial Master-At-Arms of the equally unofficial Silver Knights. Robar supposed he himself merited a place somewhere in that analogy, as Joffrey had been delegating more and more stuff to him before Robert died and war called.


    Sam deflated with a long sigh, eyes focusing on Robar''s for the first time, "And then what?" he said, a bit of fire slipping into his voice, "Hide every time I feel that- that black pit in my belly grow again?" He shook his head before Robar could respond, "No. It''s been chasing me my whole life, worse than one of father''s hounds. It stops today, one way or the other," he said, his quivering form leaving no doubt as to which outcome he thought more likely.


    "Sounds like you spoke with him."


    "I did. After we embarked." They both looked at the King, who seemed as calmly focused as he''d been two hours ago, his hands gripping the tiller with a sort of instinctual ease. He seemed taller in full plate, bits of chainmail showing from his vambraces. Helmetless, his windswept blond hair shuffled under a gust of wind Robar couldn''t feel.


    Sam didn''t tell him more; Robar didn''t need him to. There were times Joffrey seemed to communicate in depth with barely a spoken word, his mere presence an open invitation to listen.


    Ser Hobar shuffled, the silence growing thicker somehow. "Have any of you two¡­ you know¡­" he trailed off helplessly, the sound of the oars licking the water as the ship''s timbers groaned.


    "Heard it?" Sam''s voice was barley a whisper.


    Ser Robar swallowed again, but before he could respond the King spoke up, his voice echoing within the mist and startling them.


    "We''re almost there. Get ready."


    Even in full plate and armed to the teeth with hammers and swords, the King exuded an air of peace. A steady presence that stilled the winds themselves. It made Robar think of the night of the feast.


    Can you feel it?


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    A sharp caw startled him, and Ser Robar shivered as he looked up. Was that a flight of ravens circling above the ship?


    "She''s all yours, Colrin," said Joffrey as he turned to the Captain of the Shortsword. "Keep her steady on this course. We should be there in a few minutes," he said before making his way to the main deck.


    "Tell the others it''s time," Robar said, cursing the way his voice broke halfway.


    Sam nodded, not trusting his own voice as Ser Hobar opened a nearby hatch.


    "Stay close to me, we''ll make it out of this together," Robar promised him at the last second, and Sam gave him a grim nod before climbing down.


    The small galley quickly turned into a hive of activity as Captain Colrin called out orders, sailors hollering at each other as ropes were picked up and Guardsmen emerged from the hold, halberds and crossbows flooding the main deck in a rustle of wood and steel. He copied the King''s pose as he caught up to him, putting a hand over the pommel of his arming sword. It seemed to help with the damned shivering, though when Joffrey turned his eyes seemed to pierce Robar instantly.


    "Just it let it be, Ser Robar. Battle is a great and terrible affair; it''s right to be wary of it."


    Robar felt his face flush. "You''re as green as me, Your Grace," he said with a jerk of his head, regretting the words as soon as he said them. Insulting the King. What the hells is wrong with me?! Even in the fiercest of melee''s, he''d never felt this rattled.


    Far from insulted though, Joffrey just nodded. "It''s bound to be a shock though. I''d guess the trick is to keep moving, keep up that momentum¡­ let a small distance form without losing sight of yourself," he said, eyes narrowing as he peered forward from the side of the galley.


    "Of course, Your Grace," he said quickly. There were certainly no records nor rumors that Joffrey had ever partaken in any battle whatsoever, not even a skirmish. He''d been too young for Balon''s Rebellion¡­


    Ser Robar frowned as he peered forward, vast silhouettes emerging from the mist.


    Then why am I convinced otherwise?


    "We''re here," said the King.


    Dozens of ships began to form ahead as they sailed right past the towers of Dragonstone harbor, so close they could hear the guards playing dice inside one of the towers. Heavy war galleass, carracks, cogs, light galleys, scores upon scores of ships all laid anchored around them. Not a single ship had been out on patrol; only a madman would have sailed in these conditions. Only a madman would have taken the fight right to Stannis'' own fortress island mere days after he''d declared open rebellion. He shivered again as Joffrey smiled grimly, the grip on his weapons relaxing.


    "Legate Mooton," he said.


    "Aye, Commander?" The Legate came from the other side of the ship, which was already chock full of Guardsmen. They looked impressive, arrayed in straight lines of steel¡­ though some seemed a bit sea sick despite the calm waters.


    We''ll see how good they really are soon enough¡­ The tremble in his hand intensified, and Ser Robar scowled as his grip on his arming sword went white.


    "Get me those ships. I want my Royal Fleet intact."


    The legate nodded, "It will be done," he said as he slammed a fist against his chest plate.


    "Lanterns," said Joffrey.


    "Aye, Your Grace?" said one of the seamen.


    "Signal Legate Snow aboard the Stormwind: Surprise achieved. Second and Third Cohorts to form the blocking force on the main road. Blood and Mud."


    "At once, Your Grace!" said the sailor, running back up the upper deck.


    "Ser Robar."


    He straightened immediately, "Your Grace?" Most of the Silver Knights aboard the Shortsword, more than two score of them, were already on the deck and clustering near Robar as they took out their weapons.


    Joffrey kept looking forward, the shoreline now visible as the first signs of alert came from small-boat fishermen, crying out as they tried to avoid the armada sailing into the harbor. "You and the rest of the Silver Knights will be with me," he said as he jabbed a hand at what had to be the Harbormaster''s Office; a small keep in all but name halfway up the town. Fishermen cried out as they couldn''t get away in time, their boats capsizing as the Shortsword plowed through the harbor''s still waters. Their screams drifted towards him, and Robar tapped the pommel in an absent rhythm.


    "Ho! Ships in the harbor! Watch out! Watch out!!!"


    "We''ll be punching straight through to the Harbor Office, ripping the heart out of any improvised defense. We must secure the port before Stannis rides down from the castle," he said as he turned to Robar. "We can end this whole rebellion before nightfall, if we move quickly enough."


    "I''m with you, my King," said Robar, swallowing something skittish as the hair at the nape of his neck stood on edge.


    A new Era. The Era of Westeros.


    Stannis -the traitorous dog- was the one obvious threat standing on the road to the Era of Unity. Standing on the way to that dream, that rhythm just beyond hearing.


    He had to be stopped by any means necessary.


    "I know," said Joffrey.


    Robar frowned as Brienne took position near the King, after Ser Vardis and Ser Hobar. She may have handled herself surprisingly well against Joffrey, but he''d keep an eye on her all the same. She returned his gaze levelly, as if daring him to say something.


    "They''re flying Robert''s Stag! Sound the bells!" someone screamed as Dragonstone''s shoreline grew completely visible and he spotted groups of armsmen running around the harbor front, bellowing and slamming fists on tavern doors.


    Captain Colrin leaned on the tiller, aiming for one of the unoccupied wharfs. "Oars in! Brace for impact!" he shouted. There was no turning back now. They were committed.


    The thought was strangely comforting, the shouting from the harbor growing frantic.


    "Rouse the men! Stand to! Stand to!!!"


    Joffrey put on his helmet, wickedly sharp antlers adding an ethereal quality to his person. He seemed taller, bigger. Stranger.


    Something not quite from this world.


    "Blessed Mother! It''s a whole fucking fleet!"


    The Shortsword slammed against the wharf, boarding ramps clamping down into the pier like steel-toothed hounds as crossbows sang from the forward upper deck.


    "Westeros. With me," Joffrey called out in a clear voice.


    It was time.


    "With the King!!!" shouted Ser Robar.


    His doubts banished in a flash of heat and tingling exaltation, a roar escaping his throat as the he followed Joffrey down the ramp and into wooden pier. The King''s antlers still glinted despite the mist-hidden sun, his charge outpacing all of them and carrying him straight to a group of swaying men at arms spilling out of a seaside tavern, some still holding tankards of ale.


    They recoiled seconds before impact, Joffrey''s roar a physical force that made them stumble back He smashed into them with hammer and sword, reaping lives left and right as he drove into the group. Ser Robar''s run turned frantic as he struggled to catch up, an eternity slipping past his eyes as he reached the end of the pier at the same time as Brienne.


    They struck together, each taking one of Joffrey''s sides as Ser Robar hefted his battleaxe. Blood spilled across his chest as he split one of the men at arm''s helmetless skull, his heart thundering inside his chest. The first man he''d ever killed. He found himself face to face with another, eyes wide with cold fear as he struck with a sword.


    The hit was jarring, cobwebs of pain spreading through his shoulder. Ser Robar let out a primal scream, slapping aside the sword with a vambrace as the King was wont to do when they sparred. He slammed the battleaxe deep into the man''s shoulder, his voice turning ragged as he took another gulp of air and the man went down.


    The entire group broke under their onslaught, but Robar saw more soldiers stumbling out of inns and whorehouses. They were panicked, lifting their breeches or strapping sword belts as some clutched their chests, gazing at the bolts lodged in there in incomprehension. Royal Guardsmen were rushing all along the pier, boarding ships with their hand axes as two more galleys crashed against the docks, spilling men and arrows.


    The man below Robar still had the battleaxe jammed into his collarbone, gasping in tiny breaths as his eyes swiveled wildly, arms twitching. Robar froze at the sight, his hearing focusing only on the man''s panicked, sharp gasps for air as everything else dissolved into white noise.


    The King slammed his arming sword through the man''s eye socket, ending him instantly as Robar blinked. "To the Harbor Office! With me!" he shouted in his face. Deep green eyes surrounded by steel plate, a gash of splattered blood crossing it all at an angle. A promise of something great. A promise of something terrible.


    The shouting and the racket around Robar became clearer, and he breathed again as he took his battleaxe from the corpse''s shoulder. "Onwards!" he said by way of response.


    They cut their way through dock guards and levies as they ran for the Harbor Office, a force of chaos smashing through steadily hardening defenders. Robar became distantly aware of the smell of burning wood, and he realized a couple of burning war galleys were listing sideways in the bay as more and more of the King''s Fleet reached Dragonstone, some of them engaged in boarding actions while others rammed the beach, soldiers disembarking from long ramps and tossed scaling ropes.


    Dragonstone the town was a mesh of tightly clustered one and two story buildings, many of them made out of stone quarried directly from the island itself. It seemed to share the island''s lugubrious appearance, grey and foreboding, not a streak of color to be found as the buildings followed the steep hill up to the volcano, eventually turning into a solitary road that led straight to Dragonstone Keep.


    They reached a hastily manned barricade by the east end of the docks when a small galley crashed into the stonework by the other side, shouts of ''Blood and Mud!'' and the rarer ''King and Westeros!'' drifting with the wind as Guardsmen disembarked from boarding ramps, a hail of bolts spreading from the galley''s foretower and impacting flesh and metal on the other side of the barricade.


    "Hold ''em here! Hold ''em here damn you!!!" roared a grizzled armsman in Dragonstone livery, two of his comrades trying to stiffen the defense as they harangued a large group of panicked sailors or mercenaries, most of them unarmored and wielding boarding cutlasses or even chair legs.


    Ser Robar roared as he scaled the piled furniture in a second, cutting apart one of the mercenaries as another volley of crossbow bolts from the galley threshed the defenders like wheat under a scythe. One of the mercenaries slammed a torn table leg against Robar''s helmet, and he stumbled back under the force of the blow, a buzzing ring overtaking everything else.


    He could only hear his own strangled breathing as he wrenched the table leg away from the man, slamming the battleaxe one handed against his bare chest. He went down without a sound, Robar''s heart thundering within him as he turned and saw one of the Dragonstone armsmen swing down his sword, the blade a flash of grey light. The suddenness of his own death took him by surprise.


    Samwell plowed into the armsman with all the force of a war destrier, slamming him aside with an armored shoulder and making him tumble down from the top of the barricade, a shuddering breath escaping Robar''s lips as he realized he was still alive.


    I''m still alive. The thought seemed alien, his mind stuttering as if he were back in Runestone inside Ysilla''s room, his little sister playing with the curtains. Opened- Closed- Opened- Closed- Her carefree laughter punctuated each time sunlight flooded the room.


    Sam screamed incoherently as he brought his warhammer down hook first, just how they''d practiced a half a thousand times around the Kingswood; cursing the bad weather as Hobar called out encouragement and his twin brother laughed. Robar''s motions were not his own as he jumped down the barricade and covered Sam''s right, battleaxe biting deep into a sailor trying to jam a cutlass through his friend''s neck. The Dragonstone armsman on the ground coughed blood as he stared at his punctured half-plate, blinking when Sam smashed him again, three times before a wave of Guardsmen caught the defenders from behind in storm of halberds against flesh.


    It was madness; screaming faces and bellowed war cries, splashed blood hot against numbed hands. Robar advanced with Sam, never leaving his side, bringing down one man after another. Sam''s hysterical breathing kept him focused; as long as he heard it, he''d know Sam was still alive.


    I''ll know I''m still alive.


    Joffrey was already moving on, his march uphill relentless as he brought down a couple of levies emerging from a commandeered house serving as a barracks of sorts.


    He had to follow Joffrey. Nothing made sense right now, but that thought was his guiding star. As long as he followed Joffrey, he would come out of this maddened maze alive. He had to follow the King.


    They fought on, the Silver Knights following Robar''s directions as if he knew what he was doing, trying to keep up with the King and directing his brothers to protect the flanks, calling out hastily arranged ambushes.


    Robar almost lost his life again when they were assaulted from an alleyway by a group of men at arms, but Brienne interposed her longsword right in time, cutting the man in half with a hideous hack. Robar slammed a gauntlet on her pauldron, earning a gruff grunt in return. They had to follow the King.


    He had to keep going. He had to keep fighting. The terror had diminished, his mind growing more focused as they kept up the steep climb through cobbled streets and open aired stairways. Some of Dragonstone''s fabled gargoyles jeered from nooks and crannies between alleyways; the fruits of enterprising smallfolk which had looted the fallen decorations straight from the keep itself after one sack or the other.


    Ser Emmon Cuy died abruptly, an arrow appearing through his left eye. His friend didn''t even have time to seem surprised, just slumping forward and laying still on the ground as they smashed against another barricade on the road to the Harbormaster''s Office, their target taunting them from a rocky overhang in the middle of the town, a single squat tower over a rectangle of walls.


    Robar gave a wordless bellow as he followed Joffrey, climbing over the upside down wagon and personally tearing the archer''s belly apart. The quick vengeance did nothing to soothe the cold blue horror coursing through his veins, but it did offer distraction as he pushed himself further into the fight. It turned relentless, some bizarre momentum pushing him forth as months of practice locked in, knowing exactly when Ser Hobar would take a step back so he could jump in and finish the spearman, knowing exactly when to crouch as Ser Vardis interposed his shield. Sam''s breathing had stabilized, at a tempo with Robar''s heart as he heard the rhythm again, a fleeting echo growing closer.


    It was sudden. From one moment to the next they were storming through the small keep''s entrance, oak doors wide open as they slew runners coming in or out, their run taking them through an enclosed dog leg as shouts echoed through the stonework.


    "Who the hells'' in charge!?"


    "Lord Velaryon! He''s back in the hall!"


    "Ser Dovin, get those levies organized!"


    "Any word from the King yet?!"


    "Where''s Lord Celtigar?! Someone get me a headcount!"


    "Which banners?! Calm down godsdamnit! Which banners did you see?!"


    "Where are the damned arrows!? Bows to the wall! Now!"


    "Aurene! Your brother wants you back inside!"


    "There were ships everywhere! I saw him! I saw Robert Baratheon carried by mist!!!"


    "Any word from the west side? What''s happening out there for fuck''s sake?!"


    "Arrows! Father above, get me some damned arrows!"


    "Where''s that fucking runner?! You! Run to the docks and tell me what''s happening!"


    Robar felt like some sort of beast as they scuttled through the enclosed tunnel in a mad dash, a runner stumbling to halt and trying to get away from them as they came face to face and almost crashed one another. They emerged from the dog leg into a small rectangular courtyard filled with pandemonium. Smallfolk levies from the Narrow Sea were opening stacks of crates, taking spears and arrows. Men at arms, mostly unarmored though a few wore half plate with Celtigar livery on top, were gathering up in a confused mob at the center. A knight stood atop a table, shouting over the din. They outnumbered the Silver Knights by twice or more.


    All of it flashed through Robar''s mind in but a moment.


    "They''re already here!!!" screamed the runner as Joffrey caught up to him, his bastard sword emerging cleanly through the center of his chest. He lifted him up with a grunt, tearing the sword away in a spray of blood as the man flew away to the side like a broken doll and for a single second, only a single second, silence reigned absolute.


    The moment seemed surreal, time flowing eternal as heads swiveled towards the entrance. Robar could see in exquisite detail as their eyes widened, mouths opened in surprise as the knight nearest the entrance went for his sword, the runner''s body tumbling over the ground one more time as Joffrey''s antlers glinted and his liege dropped his arming sword, exchanging it for another hammer as the silence turned unbearable and Robar took in a gulp of air.


    "Shieldwall!" screeched the knight nearest the entrance, and before Robar knew it he was beside the man, tearing him apart from the shoulder down. The Silver Knights charged with him as they, followed their King with barely a grunt, some impossible force propelling them forth almost silently, a low growl escaping Ser Robar''s throat as they tore through the courtyard. The knight on the table barely managed to leap down before Joffrey crumpled his helmet with twin strikes from his maces, their charge puncturing the confused mob like a spear. Knights years his senior fell under Robar''s battleaxe, their momentum unstoppable, their purpose undeniable.


    Some of the men dropped their weapons, crying out as they kneeled on the floor and others scrambled for the short, squat tower at the back.


    "Samwell!" said the King as they reached the double doors.


    Sam took the tower door at a run, slamming it aside and tossing the two men behind it to the floor. He blocked a clumsy overhand sword strike with the haft, the riposte clean and sudden as he drove the hook of his warhammer deep into the neck of the dragonseed which had attacked him. Blood drenched the man''s fine silken clothing, giving a tarnished sheen to the silver seahorse brooch that adorned his chest.


    "DRIFTMARK!!!" someone roared as the small hall sang with the sound of drawn steel, startled lords flipping over tables as maps and colored beads flew everywhere.


    "THE KING!" roared Brienne as Joffrey charged into the breach, the Silver Knights picking up the cry and flooding the room in a frenzy of violence.


    It was so fast there wasn''t time to think. Sam gasped in pain as an arming sword grazed his elbow joint, sparking against the exposed chainmail. The Valyrian features of his enemy were clear for all to see; violet eyes and long, handsome silver hair. Green silken tunics were covered by a hastily clad chestplate, the man staggering back as Sam''s warhammer ripped a gash on the seahorse tabard, failing to penetrate. Two armsmen cornered Robar, blocking him off as he tried to reach Sam, one of them hammering his shoulder and making him scream in pain.


    Lord Velaryon''s stab made Sam stagger, and he took advantage of that. The Narrow Sea lord took a step forward and reversed the grip on his sword as he grabbed it by the blade in a desperate murderstroke technique, using the pommel as a hammer to cave Sam''s chest in.


    "My brother! You killed my brother!!!" he shouted as he pounded him, tearing out the Tarly tabard and denting the plate. Sam bellowed in pain, crossing his warhammer and barely parrying the next overhand blow before jerking the blade out of the lord''s hands- just as Joffrey had taught him. He drove the spear point into Lord Velaryon''s neck, the lord blinking in confusion before the light faded from his eyes and Robar slew one of the armsmen, the other throwing himself to his knees. It was over in seconds, knights and lords tossing down their weapons as they cried for ransom.


    The rest of the battle Robar remembered only in flashes. He remembered the panicked Guardsman as he reached Joffrey''s newly established command post, pale as the King jerked his head from the maps on the table. "It''s too soon," he''d said. Too soon. He remembered the quick march up to the town''s entrance, the long winding path to Dragonstone Keep filled with the banners of the Narrow Sea as a mass of cavalry trotted down the path from the fortress. Hundreds of them, too many to count.


    "My White Fists!" said Joffrey, pacing in front of the assembled soldiers as blocks of halberds arrayed themselves on the only real chokepoint between Dragonstone Keep and the path to the harbor, where precious troops and supplies were still being disembarked. "We''ve a choice to make!" he roared as he pointed with his sword, the sun breaking through the mist and glinting off his silvered armor, "We can let Stannis push us back into the sea! We can let him break our will and our dreams!"


    The Royal Guard bellowed defiance, less than a third of the First Regiment having managed to reach the chokepoint in time. "Crossbows! Load missiles!" shouted Legate Olyvar, Robar and the Silver Knights steadying the central, understrength Cohort. His eyes were drawn to the knights of the first row as they spread out from their riding column, Stannis Baratheon riding down the length of it with a banner in hand, turning his force into a wedge formation under the strong, curt gestures of his sword.


    "Orwe can Stand! Our! Ground!" said Joffrey, his voice overpowering the sound of winching crossbows, "We can show this world the power of our bond! The might of our vision!" He paced like a roaming shadowcat, each of his words almost following a melody of some sort, a cadence that bound them, that promised them. "We can forge One Kingdom!" said the King, "Through Blood and Mud! One Kingdom!"


    They roared. All those people; cobblers and laborers, bakers and farmers, lower nobility and hedge knights. They all roared as one, lowering halberds as horns thundered ahead and a thousand lances bared down on them, the chivalry of the Narrow Sea bidding it all into one desperate charge to cast them back into the sea.


    "Can you feel it?" asked Ser Hobar by his side, a stunned, bewildered smile on his lips.


    "Steady!" shouted Legate Snow, the rumbling hooves echoing stronger as Stannis took to the head of the charge, his retainers chanting as they lowered their lances.


    Robar blinked slowly, taking a breath of air as squeezed his battleaxe and Joffrey took position barely two steps behind the second line, his sword held high.


    "Crossbows!" roared the King, a chorus of clicks answering his call as bolts flew from the forest of steel, impacting horseflesh and armor in a racket of metal and death.


    "Steady!" said Legate Snow, the front line of double halberds stilling their trembling hands as they braced.


    Stannis shouted something, the knights closest to him picking up the cry as those who fell were trampled underneath, the grand charge undaunted, their fiery banners worshipping foreign gods. The horses neighed in fear and frenzy, at a tempo with the rhythm as Ser Hobar turned to look at him.


    "Can you feel it?" he whispered.


    "Crossbows!" roared the King, steel bolts blanketing the charging wedge as knights fell and horses tumbled like boulders, banners drooping under the onslaught, Stannis taking two in the chest and somehow screaming through it all; one hand gripping his personal banner as the other raised his sword high.


    "Steady!!!" said Legate Snow as Robar strained to listen, the pattern demanding that-


    "ONE KINGDOM!" roared Joffrey, and Robar realized he was the Rhythm. They all were.


    The might of the Narrow Sea smashed into them with the force of an avalanche.


    -: PD :-


    Robar was of two minds during the battle. One roared and screamed, suffered and frenzied, lived shame and exultation. The other struggled to keep listening for that Rhythm, that speck of meaning which Joffrey seemed to have mastered so completely, that breath that joined Robar to his battle brothers.


    Riders flew from their horses. Blood sprayed over him. Halberds shattered. Blood and snot ran down his nose as he picked himself up from the ground and barely parried a blow from a fallen knight.


    War consumed him into a place which had no time, a great and terrible thing which took a life of its own. Joffrey had known. Without a shadow of a doubt, Joffrey had known.


    Robar battled knights and men at arms in a world without end, his body burning under a hundred cuts and bruises. He roared in vengeance as he ran Stannis through the throat with his arming sword, the Lord of Dragonstone already sporting a dozen crossbow bolts as he grimaced with bloody lips.


    He fell next to Ser Hobar''s corpse, and Robar took a moment to close his brother''s eyes. "I can feel it," he told him, his eyes too tired to cry.


    The haze of the battle eventually gave way though, and Robar realized night had descended upon them. He''d been sitting on a rock, staring at the ground and deep in thought.


    He nodded absently at Sam, the other man returning it slowly. "That black pit you spoke of. Did it go away?"


    Sam blinked at him again, his lips slowly forming a smile. He snorted, then started laughing. He laughed and laughed as if he''d just heard the greatest joke in all the world, growing red under the strain.


    "No," he said, tears in his eyes as the laugher died away, "It didn''t." He said it with a bewildered air, much like a man who''d just found out the sky was actually orange.


    They trundled over the corpses of friends and foes as Guardsmen separated the dead, walking for a while until they reached the vantage point near the road where Joffrey''s banner flew, a silver lion looking up at the dark sky.


    He was standing there, helmetless and with his hands clasped behind his back. His legates and the hardened, surviving Silver Knights stood in silence around him, all veterans now, hardened by loss and war. They were watching Dragonstone Keep burn, a great column of fire up in the distance.


    Ser Balon gave him a deep nod, and Ser Robar returned it with respect. He''d landed with the second wave, but Robar had seen him sometime during the battle by the road.


    "It started burning before we could reach it. Legate Rykker thinks it might have been Stannis'' zealots," Ser Balon told him.


    "That''ll guide in any straggling ships at least," said Samwell, still looking puzzled as he sat next to Ser Horas, the grip on his warhammer so tight Robar could see blood on it. The Redwyne knight seemed stunned as well, still going through the death of his twin brother, Robar supposed. He swallowed something bitter, slapping a hand on the man''s shoulder. It had been his fault, his responsibility.


    Ser Horas looked up, eyes glazed. There was no blame in them, only grey shock and a kind of strange concentration, as if listening to something just out of sight.


    Robar looked up to his liege, and marveled at how Joffrey understood. His every posture, his every breath seemed attuned to that Rhythm Robar could barely hear. He found himself learning more about it just by looking at his liege and the way even his tiniest gesture flowed with it, with the Rhythm that seemed to permeate everything. He gave himself a few minutes just to try and process that growing comprehension, the absent trembling of his hands disappearing.


    "Ser Robar?" asked Legate Snow.


    "You aren''t entirely human, are you?" he said.


    The knights and the legates should have sputtered in shock. They should have called for a Maester. They should have led Robar back to a tent and laid him to rest.


    Their silence as they turned to look at Joffrey''s back said it all. He''d given voice to some instinctual truth, the missing piece in a puzzle they quite couldn''t understand. A puzzle they had been crawling over like blind men, feeling out the pieces.


    Joffrey tilted his head over his shoulder, looking at him with one eye as the former seat of the Targeryen princes glowed orange in the distance, illuminating the island as if the Dragonmont were undergoing an eruption.


    "No, not quite," said the King.


    The silence was deafening, Joffrey''s eye peering through him and far beyond.


    Ser Robar swallowed, his hands tingling as he straightened his back, standing on the precipice of something vast. "You''re preparing us," he said, the pieces falling into place.


    "Yes."


    Shivers ran down his back, the Rhythm echoing with truth so strong it felt like a punch to the gut.


    "What for?" said Samwell, shadows playing over his face.


    Joffrey returned his eyes to the distant bonfire, "You can hear it by its wake, the silence it imparts."


    Legate Olyvar held his head with one hand, "It blocks the currents, like a boulder damming it all. Father Above, it blocks the river."


    "I don''t understand," said Brienne, her eyes turning to Joffrey, "What are you all talking about?"


    It was Ser Balon the one who answered though, slowly putting thoughts into words, "It''s like the rumbling of Shipbreaker Bay. Like the sea but alive¡­"


    Joffrey smiled like a proud parent, "The Song of Existence," he said. "You can hear it too, if you dare listen. It''s here. It''s now. It''s us."


    Ser Robar listened for it, a slight fraying in the distance, the Rhythm buckling as a dread weight neared closer, a grasping silent hand. "The silence¡­ It''s here too," he said, realizing his hand was clutching his throat.


    "It is," said Joffrey, turning to look up. Ser Robar lifted his gaze and saw a bright crimson comet flare against the night sky, its silence great and terrible as its brilliance grew and grew from distant dot to fiery star, its dagger sharp tail trailing long behind.


    "What¡­ what''s happening?" said Lady Brienne.


    "The Red Comet is achieving orbit around our planet," said Joffrey, a wan smile spreading through his lips, "Our true enemy has arrived. The end to all life."


    Legate Snow shook his head slowly, "The deserter. Sansa. Winterfell¡­ Oh Gods, the Guard."


    Ser Robar was struck speechless as he kept staring at the comet. It left a wake in the sky, covering it like crimson wings as they spread gently, the Guardsmen beyond the clearing gasping and muttering as they pointed up. It felt like a choking weight, a horrible presence that was nothing at all.


    "Our ancestors called them the White Walkers, and the Red Comet is the source of their power," said Joffrey, hand on the pommel of his arming sword as the other rested between hip and hammer. "That''s the true war I''ve been preparing you all for. Soon, in less than a decade, we shall fight the Second War for Dawn."


    "The Guard," said Legate Lancel, "The Blackworks, the Maesters and the fleets¡­" he trailed off for a moment, gazing up with dawning comprehension, "The Age of Westeros. It''s your answer. Your answer to this silence."


    Can you feel it?


    "Are you the Warrior?" asked Ser Robar, returning his gaze to Joffrey. He too returned his gaze from the skies, smiling at Robar.


    "No," he said, "Just Joffrey."


    A raven landed on Robar''s shoulder, cawing in warning as Joffrey''s eyes widened, the Rhythm warbling in dissonance as a towering monstrosity of shadow and smoke took form behind the King. It had three faces and six tendrils made of sharp blackness, the smell of charred blood fresh against Robar''s nose as he recoiled in horror.


    Joffrey spun in half a breath as the tendrils almost speared him, a Valyrian Steel sword growing out of repeating purple-gold patterns around his hand. He slipped the blade through the thing''s chest, and it wailed in agony as the three heads shrilled to the heavens. One was a redheaded woman with a slightly eastern complexion, the second was of a little girl with a half scarred face, and the third-


    "Stannis?!" shouted Ser Balon as he unsheathed his sword, the knights and the legates scrambling back in shock as they took out their weapons, but Joffrey was already twisting his golden-tinged blade.


    "Blood sacrifice," he said.


    Robar couldn''t get a word out, holding his sword out like a talisman as he saw Stannis'' face locked in agony, shadows starting to dissolve as Joffrey further twisted the length of Valyrian Steel.


    "It''s over, Melissandre. Let it go," said Joffrey, peering straight at the woman''s face as it warbled in torment. His head drifted down a little and he took a sharp breath, "Shireen¡­"


    The Rhythm seemed to grow clearer then, melodies beyond Robar''s comprehension ringing around Joffrey as he took a deep breath and looked at the little girl again. "Rest, little one. Rest," he said, his voice haunted.


    It dissipated as quickly as it''d appeared, blowing with the wind as the distant fires around the castle dimmed, one of the towers collapsing under the heat.


    They stood there in stunned silence, Joffrey gazing at the fires for another second. "That was Stannis'' pet Shadowbinder. She must have burnt herself along with the rest of the keep¡­" he said.


    "Brightroar¡­ how?" said Lancel.


    "It''s a long story," said Joffrey. He turned towards them, the strange recurring patterns on the blade hypnotizing Robar. "What is to come will make the shadow you just witnessed seem like a joke. An amateur under the horror of the Red Comet," he said, his voice ringing clear through them all like an edict. "There''s a storm coming, and for some reason fate chose to rest that burden on me."


    His eyes travelled through the legates and the knights, and Robar could feel the Rhythm coiling in anticipation, his heart hammering against his chest with deep thrusts. "It''s a heavy burden," he said, his voice growing ragged by the slightest margin, "A weight I''ve carried for almost as long as I can remember."


    He took a deep breath, "But I can''t do it alone."


    Ser Robar realized he was still holding his arming sword. He gazed at it thoughtfully, the hair at the back of his neck standing on edge as if lighting had struck the nearby trees. He felt them rise from tailbone to neck and back down again as he breathed.


    He took a knee, planting the sword on the ground as he lowered his head. "I will share this burden, my King."


    Samwell took a knee by Robar''s left, placing his bloodied warhammer on the floor. "You showed me the truth. I will share this burden," he said.


    Ser Horas knelt as well, jamming his sword against the earth as he bowed his head, "For Hobar," he said.


    Ser Balon, Ser Vardis, Hendry Bracken, Lady Brienne and the rest, all the survivors of the battle knelt, all but the Legates.


    "The Guard Stands with you, Your Grace," said Lancel as him and the other Legates stood to the sides.


    "No honor but Blood and Mud," said Legate Olyvar. Joffrey smiled as he gave them single nod, oaths given and accepted.


    The King walked to those who had knelt, his stride measured, at a tempo with the Rhythm. Ser Robar felt the light weight of Brightroar touch him on the shoulder, the glow of the fires uphill and the comet above streaking through the blade and playing out ghosts of patterned light on the floor and on his face.


    "Robar, of the House Royce," said Joffrey, "Do you swear to protect the Kingdom of Westeros from the living and the dead?"


    He''d seen it from afar, but now the door beckoned. The new era called to him, a transformation, an entrance to a frighteningly new world of which he''d seen but the faintest glimmer, the faintest promise. The Age of Westeros. Did he dare?


    He remembered Hobar''s face, a bewildered smile on his lips.


    Can you feel it?


    "I do," said Robar, goose bumps searing his body as he entered the Age of Westeros.


    "Then rise, Lord Commander of the Silver Knights."


    Lord Commander Robar Royce stood up, sheathing his sword and taking a step behind Joffrey, the silence absolute, hallowed. The King gazed at those assembled, and took a step to the right. "Samwell, of the House Tarly," he said. "Do you swear to protect the Kingdom of Westeros from the living and the dead?"


    "I do," said Sam, Brightroar bathing him in light as Joffrey tapped his shoulder.


    "The rise, Ser Samwell. Knight-brother of the Order of the Silver Knights."


    Each time he took a step to the right. Each time a Silver Knight was born.


    "Brienne, of the House Tarth."


    "Horas, of the House Redwyne."


    "Hendry, of the House Bracken."


    One by one, the knight-brothers of the Order of the Silver Knights stood, taking their place with their King as the fires in the distance grew dim.


    There was much Lord Commander Royce didn''t understand. The glow of his newfound duty, at a Rhythm with the beating of his heart and reflected by the gaze of his brothers, that he knew, understood with implicit certainty.


    White had given way to Silver. A new order for a new Westeros. Robar would not be unworthy of it.


    One Kingdom, great and terrible.


    -: PD :-

 Interlude: Daenerys.

    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 andI 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. S~?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    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


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    AN: right click, set to loop.


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    "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 :-

 Chapter 70: Secrets.

    Chapter 70: Secrets.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    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.


    S?a??h th? ???el F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    -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 ¨Clooking 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 :-

 Chapter 71: Kingdoms.

    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


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    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. S?a??h the N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "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


    AN: Ahhh... wanted to get that chapter off my chest for a long time. Hope it felt right.

 Interlude: Maergery.

    Spoiler: ANHello there


    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 ¨¦lan 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.


    S?a??h th? N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    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


    AN: City is rioting (also on fire) and the military is enforcing a curfew from 7pm onwards. My muse promptly went ''What do you mean I have the oddest timing?!''


    Seriously though, apologies for the long wait. Let''s see if we can get this back on track. Also, what the hells is going on with the formatting? The site looks sleek as hell, but I had to double-enter every paragraph break or else the whole thing was mushed together in a single Textapocalypse. Anyone have any fixes beyond going enter key after every paragraph?

 Chapter 72: A Matter of Incentives.

    Spoiler: ANAN: Hi all, sorry about the long delay. Things are quieting down (somewhat) around here, and I''m vaguely optimistic about the future. I''m really touched by the well-wishes and the worry, and so I just wanted to say that I''m hale and healthy right now, and looking to continue that way. It''s been quite the unofficial hiatus, but you know what? I think its time to get this show back on the road.


    -: 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 beboth 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." S?a??h th? Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    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 ¨Cwhoever 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 :-

 Interlude: Mance.

    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. S~?a??h the ???el F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    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 :-

 Interlude: Lancel.

    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. S?a??h the n0v?l(?)ire.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "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 :-

 Chapter 73: Prelude.

    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 ¨Care- 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. S?a?ch* Th? ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "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 :-

 Chapter 74: Trial.

    Chapter 74: Trial.Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    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 fa?ade. "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 fa?ade 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? S~?a??h the ???el F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    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 fa?ade 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


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    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 funeralpyre 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


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    "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 "S¨­v¨¥s! S¨­v¨¥s!!!" 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 fa?ade, 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 :-

 Interlude: Jon.

    -: 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


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    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. S?a?ch* Th? ??v?l_Fir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    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.

 Interlude: Tarly I

    Interlude: Tarly I"Make way! Make way for the Lord of Horn Hill!" said Habart, pushing his horse on anyone who didn''t react fast enough. Randyll Tarly surveyed the landscape from above the small hill, nestled in the middle of his retinue with his son Dickon as they rode for the enormous castle in the distance.


    "I''ve never seen so many people cluttering the roads like this," said Dickon, the grip on his reins growing lax as he stared at the eternal line of lords, knights and smallfolk lining the Kingsroad. The traffic jam didn''t seem to stop until it reached mighty Harrenhal, a distant black mouth devouring peoplewhole by the gently lapping waters of the God''s Eye.


    "Tighten that grip, Dickon. I''ll not have you falling off your horse now," he said.


    "Yes Father."


    "And keep your back straight. You are the heir to Horn Hill, not some hedge knight leaving the thickets for a tourney."


    "¡­ Yes Father," said Dickon, looking away as he straighten over the saddle.


    Still uncomfortable. True, it was far from being official, but the lord of the seat in question should have a say on where it would fall after his death, should he not? Hopefully the King will seal what should by all rights be common sense. The thought of Samwell as Lord of Horn Hill was enough to give him nightmares, and Lord Randyll Tarly was not a man easily scared. Bad enough if the boy were unable to render aid to his liege on the battlefield, the most basic of duties a bannermen could be asked of. But no, it was the thought of an army storming Horn Hill''s walls and laying their hands on the women that terrified him; the lord of the keep nowhere to be found as morale flagged and men broke. It wasn''t only shame that had driven Lord Randyll to expel his first born son out of his own home, though that there had been aplenty. No, it had been fear of what would come to his house once himself and his reputation was no longer there to protect it. Fear had been the straw that made the shame unbearable.


    "Fish! Salmon fresh from the God''s Eye!" shouted a smallfolk as he accosted his armsmen with smelly wares. "Eels and Elvers to feed your hounds m''lord!"


    Another one butted in, a woman balancing two trays precariously with both hands, "Don''t listen to him good lord! I''ve got meaty, salted pikes straight from Maidenpool carried by fast donkeys!"


    "Oy! I was here first!" said the other, his armsmen pushing them aside non too gently and tripping the woman facefirst on the floor. She lifted a grime encrusted face, ready to shout some obscenity before she quailed beneath Lord Tarly''s gaze.


    "This is a madhouse," he said as they rode on, trying to banish the scowl now tilting his mouth.


    "Too right m''lord. Too right," said Habert, "Riverlander'' folk are quick to slip the leash with a weak hand holding the reins."


    Randyll snorted, "I wouldn''t call the King holding that castle a weak hand," he said as he pointed at Harrenhal with a chin. One could accuse King Joffrey of many things, but weak was not one of them, though the same couldn''t be said of the Tully''s. If even a quarter of the tales reaching the Reach were true then the Baratheon dynasty had never been stronger. ''New Ways'' or not, King Joffrey''s will over the Seven Kingdoms had only grown with each passing month¡­ and every battle won. "What do you think, Dickon?"


    "Hm?" His son had been eying another fishwoman''s daughter, a busty lass with a wide smile. "Oh," he said, paling under his gaze, "Uh, King Joffrey¡­"


    "Educated lords should have an opinion of these things," said Lord Tarly, grounding out the words.


    "Yes!" said Dickon, "He''s certainly won the love of the smallfolk," he added dubiously.


    "An opinion, son. Not a fact." Even a simpleton could''ve said as much after seeing the diligent mills and workshops lining the roads and rivers all the way to King''s Landing.


    "Oh. He''s shown discipline. And honor. I think he''s shown the cut of a worthy King," he said. S?a??h the N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Randyll sighted. Those had been the exact same words he''d used to describe the King back in Horn Hill, not a month ago.


    The cacophony only grew as the dark castle expanded to cover more of the landscape, the road absolutely lined with mobile stalls and wagons selling all manner of goods upon the travelers. "Is that furniture?" The words escaped Lord Randyll before he realized it. Unfortunately, the two boys hollering atop the old table heard him too.


    "Oh! We''ve got just the thing for you m''lord!" hollered one.


    "Good clean oak, not this dirty thing," said the other.


    "Pick up the pace, would you Habart?" said Randyll, "I''d like to reach Harrenhal before nightfall if at all possible."


    "Of course, my lord," said his captain of the guard, spurring his horse onward. "Make way! Make way damn you!"


    The pace picked up marginally after that, though it was a slow crawl to Harrenhal. Harrenhal. The fate of Kingdoms had been decided there once again, but why call for all the Lords of Westeros after the fact? Perhaps the rumors are true, he thought, regretting for a moment his decision to leave Talla home. If Queen Sansa was infertile, then by the laws of gods and men King Joffrey would be in his right to seek a new spouse¡­ Randyll shook his head, dismissing the thought. Great Councils were affairs of lords and knights, not women who couldn''t even be counted on making the trip whole. A far lesser rumor, whispered halfheartedly, was that the King''s wounds were fatal and that he was seeking to secure Tommen''s succession before the rot took him. Randyll had dismissed them though; if the King wasn''t dead yet then it was unlikely he would die now. He harrumphed as he settled a chafing pauldron, At least those hadn''t been about demons in the Beyond-the-Wall. Some of Horn Hill''s more gullible folk had taken the rumor from itinerant traders; the Queen had encountered ice demons in the Far North and that all of Westeros were now being called to battle. He shook his head at the stupidity of the commons before realizing they had stopped.


    "What''s the matter now?" he said with another sigh, riding forward to the tip of his retinue with Dickon in tow.


    "Broken axel," said Habert, adjusting his coat as the wind blew stronger. The days were turning colder as of late. White Ravens were probably not all that far behind. The four-wheeled wagon had been carrying kegs before spilling half the ale over the freshly cobbled road, one of the wheels breaking and leaving the whole thing blocking the road. Between the stalls, the men pushing the wagon, and the detritus of countless smallfolk eking out a living on the sides of the road there was scarcely a place to squeeze a hound through.


    "Make way for the lord of Horn Hill!" said Dickon, frowning at the wagon.


    "Calm your horses m''lords," called out one of the men as he turned, "Me and the boys we''ll put this'' to the side and let you through in no time." Randyll noticed the man was wearing half-plate, a scarlet ''IV'' on a silver colored tabard. Twin scarlet wings had been painted at each side of the ''IV'', and unlike his brethren his helmet held a trio of white goose feathers aloft. It gave the man a certain elegance while keeping clear of the eyes, and when talking about battle ornaments one could do a lot worse. It was one way of telling Mace Tyrell had never seen real battle; the peacock feathers adorning his pauldrons would have seen him blinded and slain before the crows got to circling. So this is King Joffrey''s vaunted Royal Guard. He was intrigued, noting how the men held themselves as they surrounded the wagon. Shoulders back and reacting to their orders with haste, though the odd huff or knowing smile was not absent. Veterans, these. "Push!" called out their leader -a centurion, I think they''re called- and the men worked as one, joining strengths as they pushed the broken wagon slowly to one side. It creaked before settling an inch in the right direction and the men huffed for air. This was going to take a while.


    Habart scowled, "There''d be enough space for us if they just stood aside."


    Dickon clearly shared the sentiment, tapping his harness until he gave up and hollered with something that resembled a command voice. Randyll''s lessons had not all rebounded on that thick skull of his. "Alright you lot! Time''s over and you''re blocking a lord''s way. Now stand aside before you get run over!"


    Randyll tightened his lips, but he couldn''t chastise his son here. Command voice or not, patience was not a lesson he''d understood yet. One of the soldiers turned and made gesture at Dickon, "Piss off little lord! We''re working here!" he said. The others laughed, Dickon incredulous as he turned a dangerous shade of red. The smallfolk of Horn Hill were not like this.


    "Oy Jev, I think he''s going to cry!" said another one, raucous laughter following as they pushed again.


    "That''s enough!" said the Centurion, "Anyone mouths off again and they''ll be on ceremonial duty till next month!" He gave an apologetic nod to Randyll, one he gave back with gritted teeth, "Now push!" Harrenhal couldn''t come fast enough.


    Dickon drew his sword. Habart and his men -good, loyal armsmen that they were- drew with him in a chorus of steel. His son''s face was disfigured by rage and shame as he pointed it at the smallfolk who''d mouthed off, "Move aside now! I won''t warn you twice!"


    An eerie silence descended upon the road, setting Randyll''s back on edge before he could tell Habart to stand down. He''d been drilling the men to treat Dickon as if he were himself, and if the lord of the house drew steel then his guard better follow through; he couldn''t undo all that progress for the sake of some self entitled smallfolk mercenary. The people around the road shuffled back, the centurion turning to face them fully. He eyed Dickon and the armsmen before his gaze settled on Randyll, hand on the pommel of the sword on his belt. This man had seen slaughter. "The boy is clearly a fresh arrival," he said, "You''re all welcome to out waterskins while you wait, you must be thirsty."


    Dickon strained forward, "Are you deaf you idiot?! I-"


    "Dickon. Quiet," said Randyll, staring at the centurion. They outnumbered the guardsmen, but there was no fear in their eyes as they pressed hands to handaxes, the broken axle forgotten. Two by the side of the wagon were near enough the piled halberds that they would get them in time for any confrontation. He''d been given an out, but Randyll felt his jaw clenching as he gazed at the stubborn lot. "I am not from the Riverlands but from the Reach," he said the former with a barely repressed scowl, "But it is my understanding of the law that should a lord require it, smallfolk are to clear road or river as quickly as possible if found blocking the path." He pointed a chin at a section of the road, "If you all press aside we shall be able to pass and all will be forgotten."


    The smallfolk whispered urgently at that, some of them wincing as they shuffled back again. Randyll felt he was missing something as the centurion took another step forward, the white feathers shivering under another gust of autumn wind. Any trace of congeniality was gone from his gaze, pure grey steel boring up at him, "I am not from the Reach, my lord. But I am from Westeros, and I know the law. You''ve drawn steel on the King''s Fist. Do not make that mistake twice."


    Dickon guffawed, "The King-"


    "The King will have ya'' hanged you stupid cocksucker!" hollered someone from the crowd.


    "Aye!" said another one, "Those are Bloody Fourths! No one but the Crown has right of way over the Dragonslayers!"


    Randyll blinked eying the tabard again. All of them had scarlet wings painted over their tabards, giving flight to their ''IV''s. The crowd was growing rowdier, the smallfolk clustering closer, "Bet he''s another rapist like that Ashford fuck!" shouted a woman.


    "We stood fer'' the King when Dragons flew ''nd now they come to order us about?!"


    "That''s enough!" shouted the centurion, turning around, "I didn''t see any of you grabbing steel to bring down Rhaegal!" The crowd rippled, people muttering under their breath and looking at their feet. He shook his head, "Not that you needed to. That''s why you feed and arm us. That''s what the Guard''s for. Now go about your business." He turned to the guardsmen, "And you lot! Did I mention the words ''stop pushing!?''"


    "No ser!" they chorused.


    "Then why aren''t you pushing?!" That got them back into action like a crossbow bolt, slamming into the wagon with renewed force.


    "Hear that Dickon? That''s command in his voice," said Randyll, looking around the dispersing crowd warily. There''d almost been a riot just now. What the hells¡­ maybe there''s a weak hand around here after all. "And for the light of the Seven, sheath your sword son," he whispered harshly, "All of you."


    "Sorry my lord," said Harbert, his men following suit.


    Randyll decided to lead his wayward son by example, sitting aloof on his horse and staring straight ahead, waiting patiently. It was not often that he cursed Horn Hill''s distance form the Crownlands, but it was clear something very distinct had been brewing in Central Westeros these past few years, and he wasn''t sure he liked it. The centurion walked their way after a while of shoving and cursing, offering a wineskin up at Randyll. Good man, he thought grudgingly, taking a polite swig. Strange laws or not, this could''ve all ended lot worse if not for the man''s battle awareness. He nodded at him, "Thank you, centurion..?"


    "Toyle," he said, giving him a discrete nod as well. One sword recognizes another¡­ The centurion eyed him a moment longer before speaking again, "Word of advice, m''lord?"


    Randyll nodded, keeping the frown off his face as he stared from atop his charger.


    "Tread carefully around here," he said as he lowered his voice, "The Antlered Lion''s restless. He''s gearing up for something mighty big, and may the Seven have mercy on whoever stands in his way. ''Cause no one else will."


    Randyll shivered lightly, pinpricks on his back as the wind blew again, carrying seagull trills and red weirwood leaves from the God''s Eye, "Something big?"


    "Aye," said Toyle. He looked behind him to the pushing soldiers, and up at the ragged castle perched beside the lake. "The older hands say they''ve seen him like that before, and it always means one thing." He looked up at Randyll again, "War."


    War? "Against who? There''s no one left insane enough to contest the throne."


    Toyle shrugged, "Your guess'' as good as mine. Then again, the Mistwalkers aren''t right in the head." He shook his head, "Crazy Firsts."


    Randyll looked up at the billowing clouds dark with the weight of rain as they gathered from the North. "Why tell me this?"


    "Because your reputation precedes you, m''lord Tarly," he said with a small tilt of the head, "And if war it is then I''d rather have you by my side."


    Randyll grunted noncommittally. Thinking of this man as a knight rather than a smallfolk mercenary helped ground him in the conversation. He eyed the painted crimson wings on his tabard, "It''s true then?"


    Toyle looked at his tabard and then back at him, "True enough. Look up before going through the gatehouse." The soldiers had finished at last, and they hollered for the centurion as they gave out a small cheer, the owner handing them one of the unbroken casks as a reward. "Alright then. Better get back before they open it on duty," said Toyle, nodding at Randyll. He lowered his voice, "Remember what I told you, m''lord," he said as he gave Dickon a side glance, "And keep your blood close. Don''t let them out to play."


    The way he said the last word left Randyll frowning, "What''s that supposed to mean?"


    "It means this isn''t your land. This is Kingdom land," he said as if it all made sense. "I''ve heard nothing but praise for Horn Hill, but still. Make sure your household is on its best behavior m''lord, or else some of them might end up dancing with the dragon."


    Toyle marched away after that cryptic warning, the road blissfully clear as a mild rain scrambled some of the foot traffic. "Dickon, Halbert. Look alive," he said as he spurred his horse forward. Time to find out what''s this all about.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: AN


    Stay tuned for more Tarly interludes soon, as we gear up for the Great Council of the Third Century. I''ve recently switched from Word to Scrivener, and I''m still figuring out formatting issues. Let me know if the current style is annoying to read and you''d like more paragraph spacings or something. Hope you''re all staying safe what with the coronasamba and all that. On the flip side, quarantine equals more writing time?

 Interlude: Tarly II

    Interlude: Tarly IIThey saw the dragon long before they reached the gatehouse. A sundered, mangled piece of rotting flesh and broken bones. The wind shifted the weight of its shredded wings with every gust that came out of the God''s Eye, lifting the regimental banner that emerged from its eyesocket. It had been a fearsome beast, once; its shattered teeth still looked as sharp as Valyrian steel despite the damage, and its arching ribs could''ve swallowed a group of armsmen whole and still had room for more. "That must be Rhaegal then," said Randyll. He couldn''t keep a trace of awe out of his voice.


    "Then the rumors were true?" said Dickon, looking back with a wince, "Those men were really dragonslayers?"


    Randyll said nothing, their retinue making good time as the rain picked up, washing down twin gullets built lining the cobblestone road. It was amazing how much travel time the cobbles cut off, even for a party of horsemen. The cost must have been ruinous.


    It was soon readily apparent what ''Dancing with the Dragon'' had meant. Three shifting figures hung from the gatehouse just below dead Rhaegal, swinging with the breeze and the rain. He startled, looking up at the armored knight third in line. ''RAPIST'' read the placard nailed to the chestplate of the big Ashford knight.


    "You knew him, Father?"


    "Only in passing. We met during a tourney in Highgarden." He looked to his hanging companions, spotting some nameless cur in ragged clothing and a placard identical to Ser Pembron''s. Next to him hanged no other than Ser Tanton Fossoway, brother to the lord of Cider Hall; ''MURDERER'' read his placard. "Seven Above!" said Randyll. His horse neighed as it shuffled backwards, Randyll tearing at the reins by instinct. Hanging two knights like common rabble? It said a lot about the kind of discipline expected of him past the gates, and a lot about King Joffrey if he could get away with it without being deposed. He''d known the Fossowy knight, and though they''d never been close Randyll still found himself shaken as they rode through the eerily long gateway.


    The other side of the wall made for sharp contrast to the gloomy warnings hanged outside. Great tents and pavilions had taken over Harrenhal''s grand courtyard, stores of supplies guarded from the rain by big awnings attached to the stone walls. There were servants everywhere, moving with decision between the various tents and the central keep. Randyll clenched his mouth shut as he looked around. The whole of Harrenhal was one great flurry of banners. They were everywhere; lining the walls and towers, hanging from staffs and wagons, even draping whole sections of the main keep. All manner of sewn weaponry greeted him; battleaxes and speared suns, swords and catapults, even gatehouses and keeps on checkered patterns. Roses, lightning, beehives, knights, runes and shields separate and intermixed. Most of all there were beasts, snarling bores and badgers against colors smooth and bright, seahorses and krakens staring at each other, great crabs lifting pincers at roaring lions. The ruling might of Westeros had gathered, following the undeniable call of their King, and it was his banner that ruled them all. Above the panoply of color fluttered silver; an antlered lion snarling at a bright star. It waved atop the central keep, five times as big as the others, flanked by the banner of the Baratheons of King''s Landing on one side, and the Direwolf of the North on the other. Bloody ''IV''s of the Fourth Regiment draped the crenelations of the main keep, like swords of red and silver guarding royalty. The King is in residence then, he thought. Not that he''d expected otherwise. Though he was far indeed from a student of history, Randyll would''ve had to be dumb to ignore the historical significance of such a gathering. The banners drove it home for Dickon.


    "Father Above," whispered his son, "Even the Ironborn are here."


    A line of guardsmen were lining the approach out of the gate, standing miserably in the rain. Covered ways had been erected to protect the working servants, but these men''s task had obviously been considered too august for that. A herald impeccably dress and bearing the King''s personal sigil stepped forward and bowed smartly, the rain but adding to his style. "Welcome to Harrenhal my lords, and none too soon! From where do you hail?"


    "You address Randyll Tarly, lord of Horn Hill," said Habart, nodding at Randyll.


    "Horn Hill." The man smiled, "Very good." He made a gesture, and Randyll had to keep his hand away from his sword as servants emerged from out of sight, relieving them of their horses. "Don''t worry my lord of Tarly. We''ve a small army of stableboys to tend to them, and a small army of horses to keep them busy. Please, if the lord and his son would follow me out of the rain? I daresay the feast has started without you." He laughed at his own joke. One of the servants had gingerly taken the Tarly banner from Habart, taking it to hang from the tower along with the others no doubt. We''re here, thought Randyll, a weary sigh escaping his lips. Let no one say the Tarly''s didn''t honor the call to council.


    "Walk around, Habart, see what you can find out from other retinues," he said before following the man, Dickon at his side.


    "My name''s Hoswin, I work as a King''s Aide in all matter courtly. Please, ask away if you have any questions." The man led them under a covered way, the canvass peppered with rain. "It''s a long way to the main keep, we put this up after one lord too many got drenched going for a walk."


    "At least two knights are drenched enough," he said as he slipped a look back at the gatehouse.


    If the statement unnerved Hoswin, he didn''t show, "Oh. Them. Well, so many lords and knights living together for an extended period of time does tend to fray tempers." He waved at the banners, "Too many of those animals are predators, had you noticed that?"


    Randyll shrugged, keeping quiet. "But not the Tarly''s," said Hoswin, "They chose a huntsman for their banner. Not a terrible and dreadful beast but a killer. A hunter of predators."


    Randyll frowned, examining the man more closely. He seemed unremarkable, weak chinned and small-ish though impeccably dressed in embroidered robes. They walked past several enormous tents holding what Randyll thought to be guards and servants from other lords of the Seven Kingdoms, most of them partaking of modest feasts and banging cups when the winebearers neared. "They seemed well cared for," said Randyll, changing the subject.


    "The King believes in sharing the good spirits." Hoswin nodded, hands at his back, "Night Lion know they''ll need it."


    A septon of all things had taken over one of the plazas formed by the pavilions, preaching atop a vegetable cart at the sizable crowd gathered around him. The rain muffled the words but did nothing to contain his sweeps and gestures, holding both hands aloft at the antlered lion as if it were a statue of the Father. Trust a King to use septons as entertainment. As long as they kept the smallfolk distracted, Randyll didn''t much care. They reached the main keep after that, though they didn''t take the main gates, going up a set of stairs instead and entering through a side door. Hallways bent and curved as they made their way through the massive tower, drafts of wind bringing raised voices and playing lutes. They passed next to an open gallery with a view to the famous Hall of a Hundred Hearths, a hall loyal to its name now thick with the scent of roasted boar and deer, smoke and spilled wine mixing in joined revelry. Lords, knights and ladies formed enormous clusters near the numerous hearths, partaking in the feast. The merry scene felt speared, as if making up for some wary undercurrent.


    "They started early today," said Hoswin. He sniffed, "Did you know there''s only thirty or so hearths down there? Not a hundred. Not even fifty one." He shook his head, "Do you love all those little alliterations, my lord hunter?"


    There was an awkward silence as Lord Tarly tried to figure the little man out, trying to find offense at something he''d said and not finding anything. Then why do I feel this damned irritated? Seven Above, it''s been a long day.


    "Aren''t we going to the feast?" asked Dickon, filling the silence hesitantly.


    Hoswin shook his head emphatically, "The King wants to see you, and I intend to carry out that wish."


    Randyll stared at him dubiously, "He wanted an audience with me? Since before I arrived?"


    "That is his wish, my lord."


    "¡­Very well then. Dickon, I think it''s best you made your way down there." And find us some old friends who got here first. We''re clearly out of our depth. His son seemed to get the message, nodding slowly before taking the nearby set of stairs. Of course, Randyll would also feel more comfortable breaching the subject of inheritance without the heir-to-be in the same room. His son still harbored some remnants of affection for Samwell; best the arrangements were made out of his sight. If I''m to see the King, then I might as well make use of it. And for that he needed information, too. "And how had the King fared these past few weeks?"


    Hoswin gave him a knowing smile as they kept walking, Dickon ducking out of sight. "He grows weary of the lords and knights cluttering his halls and dwindling his food, preferring the company of his wife and friends as of late."


    The fertility rumors are out then, if he''s keeping company with his wife still. "That must have displeased the lords."


    "Oh, far from that. The absence of Good King Joffrey from his own feasting hall has done more for public peace than any number of hanged men." Hoswin opened a set of double doors deeper into the keep, the halberdiers at the sides ignoring them as if they were not even there. "The nobility smells something in the air. Something harsh and dangerous brewing in their midst." Hoswin smiled again, "And they''re not even wrong."


    Randyll had to keep the unusually blabbering servant talking, "And the King, he has not been giving audience to his lords?"


    "Not in the past week. Only a few, here and there. The Queen has done most of the heavy lifting." Except for me. Interesting. What could the King possibly want from him? "Men think you simple; an excellent commander all steel and straight," said Hoswin as they kept walking, leaving the sound of the feast behind.


    "I don''t recall asking for your opinion on my character," said Randyll, voice terse. King''s Aide or not, this man was dangerously close to tipping a limit. Let''s hope he''s no dragonslayer at least, he thought as he checked his thin frame. They passed by several checkpoints of guardsmen, though none seemed to even notice them, Hoswin opening the doors for him. S~?a??h the N0v?lFir?.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "But its not. I said men. Your peers. And yet they forget you are no beast my lord of Tarly." He smiled at him, "For is not the hunter cunning and patient? Biding his time in waiting?" He opened the last set of doors, revealing a grand study with stained glass windows at the end. "Be careful you are not snared by your own traps, my lord hunter. That is my opinion."


    Who the hells do you think you are?! The man was out of his reach before he could smack the insolence out of him, taking three quick steps forward and bowing. "Your Grace, Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill to see you." Two steps to the side, a gesture at Randyll, "His Grace, King Joffrey of the House Baratheon."


    The King was facing the stained glass window, a stout figure in plate armor covered by thick robes, an iron circlet on his brow. A silver lion stirred from beside the roaring hearth, bigger than the heavy oaken desk behind the King. It growled lowly at Hoswin before Joffrey spoke. "Stop messing with my court. I''ve already warned you once," he said without turning, the rain pattering gently against the glass.


    "But my King," said Hoswin, his voice a pinnacle of absolute servitude, "I merely render aid when required. Didn''t you mention need for the good Lord Tarly?"


    The King breathed slowly. "In the near future, not now. Haven''t you a court of your own to oversee?"


    "A court of bored warriors and sand. Not an equal in sight to debate."


    "Then you''d do well to meditate on the ways of sand, Your Excellency. Perhaps there you''ll find some of that much needed insight," the King said, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Randyll felt absolutely lost, though caution seemed warranted. This man is no mere servant, he thought, hand inching to his sword.


    Hoswin splayed his arms wide, palms outward, "You''ve read too much into the ways of the Aeromancers, Your Grace. There is only so much to be gleaned from within."


    "And there''s only so much to be gleaned from without, absent a center. Too much water will drown a rootless tree." The King shrugged at the rain, "Perhaps it is the Weirwoods and not sand that which you should study." The words were in the common tongue, but for all Randyll gleaned these men might as well been speaking Qarthi. It didn''t sound like this was the first time they discussed like this, though. The King sighed in longing, looking up at the glass. Had they interrupted something? "Now leave," he said.


    Randyll bowed tersely, but before he could turn around he found his muscles strangely unresponsive. The sheer shock left his mind similarly frozen. "Nothing but dust stirs north of K''Dath. The hammer will fall here, oh Sunset King." Hoswin smiled eerily, "Best you seed the ground early with your lord hunter."


    King Joffrey kept staring at the rain, but something in the air made Randyll shiver past the paralysis now gripping him. He looked at the silver-furred lion as it roused itself from its crook near the glowing hearth, heart hammering his chest as he struggled to move. "I don''t like people making my decisions for me," said the King, his voice iron. "I don''t like people bewitching my subjects, either." He lowered his voice, the sound carrying over the big study effortlessly, "They may whisper your name in dread out east, Vajul. But this-" He turned and faced them for the first time, eyes sharp green and a half-feral smile that was both threat and warning, "-This, my friend, is the west."


    Unspoken words flew between both men, the servant holding that potent gaze before he smiled again and the ghostly grip that held Randyll skittered away, like the rain crawling down the stained glass. He blinked as Hoswin took two steps back and made an elaborate bow, a set of complex flourishes flowing from both hands, "My apologies for the overstep, Your Grace. Until next time."


    "Your Excellency," said the King, his gaze boring a hole on his own servant. Hoswin''s little smile evaporated, replaced by a bewildered huff as he stumbled, falling to one knee besides Randyll.


    From one moment to the next the King was there. "Wh- I- Your Grace?" said Hosiwn, giving Randyll a baffled look as if he seeing him for the first time.


    "Don''t worry, you''ve just a long day," said the King as he lifted him from the floor, "Go rest now, close the door behind you."


    "But- I¡­ yes, Your Grace," said the servant. The doors closed with a sharp clack.


    Randyll breathed deeply as the King greeted him with a clasp of hands, not giving him time to take a knee. What in the Seven''s name was all that? "Is-" he stammered as a big headache pounded his forehead. What was he doing again? "Is this a bad time, Your Grace?"


    King Joffrey''s eyes flicked to him as he guided him to the desk by the stained glass window, and he could feel the full weight of his attention settling over him, "No chance of meditating after that. Please, take a seat," he said as he walked behind the oak desk, "I apologize for¡­ my wayward servant. Are you well?"


    "It was nothing, Your Grace," he said. Had he really been unable to move, or had he just been entranced by the clashing wills. And who the hells had been that man? No servant, that was certain. The whole memory already felt surreal, like a dream. He focused on something concrete to steady himself, noting the limp to the King''s stride before he sat down by the desk.


    He smiled ruefully, "A little gift from Drogon. The maesters assure me it''ll heal, but the cold has certainly not helped."


    Another rumor true. He sat opposite the desk, the King honoring him by serving the cups himself. He had to find his center now or Horn Hill would be ill-informed for all the intrigues doubtlessly being spun in the feast halls below¡­ and there''s the matter of Dickon too. I don''t care for plots and insolent servants. Harrenhal can burn to the ground but I''m not leaving without royal backing. "It''s true what the minstrels say, Your Grace? That you bested a fully grown dragon in single combat?"


    "Hardly fully grown." He snorted, "Drogon was no Black Dread."


    Randyll didn''t know what to say. Rare was the liege that did not aggrandize his own accomplishments -or took them from their betters-, but to minimize them instead? So this is my liege, thought Randyll, truly examining him for the first time. The coiled tension around the neck was evident, and so were the callouses on his hands as he placed the jug back on the desk with firm motions. A warrior''s frame, through more in the mold of the Kingslayer than King Robert''s; a shadowcat more than a boar. The classical beauty of the Lannisters had been hammered by that unmistakable Baratheon sternness that made the right side of his chest itch; an old keepsake from the Battle of the Bells. The mixture lent Joffrey an august presence, like some dead Andal warlord the likes of which had crammed Samwell''s books before he''d consigned them to the fires. This is a man I can understand, thought Randyll, a smidgen of relief tickling his throat¡­ thought that might have been the drink. They sipped their cups again after a brief toast to the Reach and the Kingdom, something fruity burning his palate. Tyroshi pear brandy? He was surprised but not against it; a man could grow sick of even Arbor Gold after a lifetime of the same.


    "You Grace?" said a knight in silver armor as he opened the main door to the study, by the other end. "I felt something-"


    "It''s alright," said the King, "He''s gone now. For a while, I''d say."


    His face creased, "I''m sorry I-"


    "It''s okay, Ser Criston. He''s hard to hear, a whisper in the song."


    "I''ll do better in the future, Your Grace."


    "I know you will." He dismissed the knight with a nod, returning his attention to Randyll. Must have been one of the famous Silver Knights, he thought. And to think his son had been taken in by them; like a pet or perhaps an inner jape. He banished the shame with the ease of long practice. The water crawling against the glass distorted the afternoon light, painting shadows over the carpets. "How was the road?" asked the King. He appeared eager to leave the whole business with Hoswin behind. Good riddance I say.


    "The autumn rains slowed us down." He couldn''t keep the grimace off his lips.


    "You and half the Reach," said the King. He shrugged, "With you here we finally have enough lords to get all of this done though. Tomorrow at noon, I''m thinking."


    Randyll tried not to shuffle in his seat. I never bandied words at cross meanings before, I won''t start now. "Some Reachmen got here just in time for a noose, Your Grace."


    "And an Ironborn, but they don''t count do they?" That startled a chuckle out of Randyll before Joffrey tilted his head. "They stepped out of line. You disapprove?"


    If what the placards had said was true -and he could scarcely call the King a liar to his face- then¡­ "Not in principle, but a headsman would''ve been more appropriate for their station. It would also have avoided-"


    "Leaving their bodies out there as a warning to the others?" said Joffrey. "A point had to be made, and quickly. Either the lords would behave in a manner fitting to their station, or their crimes would merit punishment no different than if the smallfolk they raped or killed had done the deed."


    The victims were smallfolk?!


    Perhaps reading the shock on his face, the King smiled grimly, "I take the King''s Peace very seriously, Lord Tarly. Even more so when the offense is committed in King''s Land." He shrugged, "You''ve been known to hang quite a few men yourself, and for lesser deeds as well."


    "That''s during war!"


    The King gave him a knowing smile that sent shivers down Randyll''s spine. Dangerous, this one. He''d learned to trust his instincts on and off the battlefield, and right now they were restless, giving words to the King''s smile; ''And what am I preparing for, if not for war?'' "You came alone?"


    "With my son."


    "I see." The King leaned on the desk, fingers steepled. He tapped them twice, examining them for a few secondsas if debating some inner matter. Then his gaze centered on Randyll again, eyes sharp and decided. "I''m curious. Why do you think I called this Great Council?"


    The right side of his chest itched again. "War," he said without hesitation. His instincts afire; it felt like the correct answer.


    "War. War the likes of which this land has seldom seen before." The King, examined his cup, the reddish brandy tilting to one side, "It has left me with a bit of a problem, concerning your fellow lords. The Reach will need able leadership of its hosts, a steady hand both disciplined and capable." He eyed Randyll, brow furrowed, "I''ll need you to provide that leadership, when the time comes."


    "Of course, Your Grace." It wasn''t as if he hadn''t done it before; Mace Tyrell was a mediocre commander to say the least. If war there was, then Randyll had no qualms about leading the Reacher contingent from the front¡­ though he wasn''t exactly enthused about conquering a Free City.


    "This is not a task I place lightly on you." The King kept staring at him. "Meditate on what I ask of you. Do it under the shadow of those swaying outside. Look into the dead eyes of those knights and ask yourself; Can I do this? Can I hang my friends if it means my House will survive?" Randyll frowned deeply, proud to keep the King''s gaze without cowering. The King served himself another cup before leaning back on the chair. "Think on it, and give me your answer when the council''s over."


    Randyll was not used to hesitating, but he found himself doing so before he nodded slowly. Everything; the lords, the hanged, the septons and the regiments, even the lion and that insolent servant that made his skin crawl¡­ Conquering a Free City felt too petty a goal. The King swirled the brandy in his cup, the room silent but for the crackling fire in the hearth. I won''t find a better chance. "Your Grace, there was another matter."


    He waved at him.


    Randyll marshaled his arguments before clearing his throat, "I''ve a problem I think you could help me with." He wondered how many twisted plots had started with those words before banishing the grimace off his mouth, "My youngest son, Dickon, has grown to be a knight both capable and disciplined," he said, echoing his liege''s words back at him, "He is the righteous heir to Horn Hill in everything but law. A capable commander able to lead my house in war and peace." He sighed, "He stands in sharp contrast to my eldest son Samwell, who I''ve heard you''ve taken into your service." And damned if Randyll knew how the King had intercepted the men ''escorting'' Samwell to the Night''s Watch, but what''s done is done. A shame the Silver Knights need not renounce their blood.


    "I did. Samwell has served with both strength and cunning these past few years. I''m surprised the news haven''t reached Horn Hill."


    "Pardon, Your Grace, but your rule has unleashed more rumors than a man knows how to deal with. I know he was present during the Battle in the Mist, though Father knows how you managed to drag him aboard one of your ships."


    Joffrey''s gaze sharpened, "You''d be surprised how little it actually took." He seemed on the verge of saying something else before closing his mouth with a sigh. Randyll knew enough from what little he''d managed to pry from Melessa; Samwell still kept an intermittent correspondence with his mother. Knight Chronicler. He huffed, hiding it with his cup, a joke in bad taste. Leave it to Samwell to find ink and parchment in an order of ferocious knights sworn to the King.


    "Be that as it may, the seat of Horn Hill is wholly unsuited to Samwell both physically and in temperament. The boy doesn''t even want it, truth be told. I''d be thankful beyond measure if you''d lend your approval to a formal leap in succession, as if the boy had joined the Night''s Watch or-" he swallowed something acid- "the Maesters."


    The King stared at him for a while, lounging on his chair in eerie symmetry with the lion by the hearth. His own chair was comfortable enough, but hunter or not he was damned if he let his guard down with that enormous beast watching him. He''d pay good coin to learn how he''d managed to get a tamed lion such as it, much less one so big and unusually colored. Probably some Pentoshi menagerie, he thought. Finally, the King spoke, "Such a royal decree would be very unusual."


    Randyll squared his shoulders, "It is not without precedent. King Aegon did likewise many times during his conquest, and King Jaehaerys mediated a dispute that way within House Darklyn."


    Joffrey smirked, though there was no humor in it, "Been spending some time with the history books I see." He examined his nails, much like the lion examining its claws, "They can be quite useful sometimes, can they not?"


    "Yes," Randyll said after a moment, a sudden itch on his face.


    The King sighed, taking another sip. He seemed tired as he leaned back on the seat again, "I''ll have the decree signed before the day''s end, if that is truly your wish." He tilted his head, "A word of advice, my lord?"


    "Of course," said Randyll, trying to keep down the surge of righteous victory flooding his body. He hadn''t thought it would be so easy.


    "Speak with Samwell, before you add your signature to mine." He lifted his hand vaguely. Joffrey seemed as unused to hesitation as Randyll himself, "Try to see beyond the boy stuck in your mind. Try to¡­" he trailed off, his hand back over the desk as he caressed the cup. Another sigh. "He should be in the feast, or after that in his solar. One of my aides can show you where that is. Is that all?"


    Randyll nodded. If seeing his eldest son -hopefully for the last time- was what it took, then by all the Gods Randyll would do it. "Thank you, Your Grace."


    "Choose wisely, Lord Tarly," he said as he stood up, the audience over. Randyll felt vaguely unsettled as he left the room, looking back one last time before closing the door. The King had returned to the stained glass, hands clasped behind him as he gazed at the gathering rain now shaking the glass lightly. Randyll shook his head. The King was a stern man, with a lurking intelligence behind those steel eyes. He could practically smell the will gathering around him, like an evening before a thunderstorm. Tomorrow would be a day to for the maesters and their damned books, of that he was certain.


    -: PD :-

 Interlude: Tarly III

    Interlude: Tarly III"The septons have gone mad," whispered Habart.


    "What did you find?" Randyll asked his man.


    "Septon Kyle''s out there. Saw the King''s battle against Drogon." He swallowed, still coming to grips with the notion, "It must have been quite the spectacle, because the man came out convinced King Joffrey is the living embodiment of both the Warrior and the Father. Some mangled sermon about twin virtues but a single soul." He shrugged apologetically; Habart was no theologian.


    The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was absolutely filled with the nobility of Westeros, though the noise should''ve been considerably louder. Everyone was expectant. It was official; tomorrow would be the day. "And what did the Most Devout have to say of this heresy? Has word reached Oldtown and back?"


    "My lord, Septon Kyle is one of the Most Devout. He was visiting Gulltown when the King sent out the call for a Septon to officiate the trial by combat." Habart lifted his shoulder with a helpless expression, "The smallfolk out there are eatin'' it up. And not just them." His voice lowered to a whisper, "Lord Darry was on his knees by the front of the crowd. He even spoke after Septon Kyle''s sermon."


    Not just the septons then. "The whole world has gone mad," said Randyll, leaning on the table. Kings possessed by the will of the Seven and dragons slain under royal legions. He shuddered to think what the rest of the night would uncover. Not every Septon had lost his head though; Habart told him some of the newer arrivals were debating Septon Kyle vigorously every night and to great spectacle; most of it flew over their audience''s head though. Theology. Worst than the Maesters, thought Randyll. "Thank you. See what else you can glean."


    Habart bowed before walking out the hall, leaving him near the middle of the great sea of tables and benches now festooned with food and wine. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was crowded with them, and lords and ladies filled almost the entire hall from royal dais to the double doors at the back. Dickon had done an adequate job of securing their position. Still solidly near the other Reachlords, but close enough to the Stormlander contingent that he could hear some of their mutterings. Good enough for a Marcher Lord, he thought as Mace shot him an ill-concealed glance. Clearly, his direct liege had hoped he would sit this one out. Randyll snorted, returning the glance with narrowed eyes. The Reach already made for a poor showing, what with the Ashfords and the Fossoways leaving the Council before it even began, the death of their knights clouding their minds to the idiocy of missing such an event. Even the fucking squids had enough sense to stay, he thought. Rodrick Harlaw had a better head than most -for an Ironborn- and he seemed to be the one keeping that group together¡­ with the Queen''s help perhaps. Rumor had it those two were meeting frequently. Rumor also had it that Balon Greyjoy was rattling his lungs out somewhere in a solar, promising hideous torture to any maester foolish enough to get near. Perhaps the islands will have a new Lord Paramount soon enough?


    Dickon shuffled by his side. "Father, I think I saw Samwell a while ago."


    "Oh? Where?"


    He nodded at a set of stairs near the Dornish contingent, "I think he was wearing armor," he said with a bewildered smile, "Think we could talk to him?"


    Randyll scowled. "Later."


    He nodded, not questioning him further. Somehow, Randyll wished he did.


    Lord Eldon Estermont was seated on the table right beside him; the old lord leaned over to clasp his back. "Take a breath Randyll. Two feasts from now you''ll be as good as new." Him and the Turtle Lord had fought at the Battle of the Bells, and Renly''s frequent tourneys at Storm''s End had seen them clash lances ever since.


    "We soldier on," he said, Eldon returning the grim smile. He took a lackluster bite from a spiced chicken wing, rich with garlic and pepper. He took another reluctant bite. The servants kept the plates and bowls constantly full, but Randyll didn''t have much appetite even though he admitted the cook was worthy of Highgarden.


    "Rumor has it the King talked to you a couple of hours ago," said Eldon.


    "That spread fast."


    "You know how it is. And now more than ever."


    Randyll snorted.


    "Come on Tarly, is it true he has a pet lion guarding him at all times?"


    "I thought it was common knowledge."


    "Hm." Estermont tilted his head from side to side, "Kind of. Some swear by it, a few even claiming he rode it to battle against¡­" he wiggled his eyebrows at the dais. "That." Drogon''s skeleton lay perched over the gathering like some malicious raven, all sharp angles hanging from the walls by thick ropes. Below it was the royal dais, holding a long table where the Lord Hand and other notables ate their meal, though the two thrones were empty. One was made of finely carved ebonwood, the other of swords melted together. The Iron Throne had been transported from King''s Landing just for the occasion. Randyll still remembered the old Targeryen tradition of mounting the skulls of their dragons in the throne room; Robert hid them, but his son had added one to the collection¡­ by bringing it down with his bare hands. It made for potent symbolism, the one language the lords of this land understood to the bone. Dragonslayer. He could hear the awed whispers around him, even from lords who must have been feasting under the bloody thing for weeks.


    "It''s true alright. Bigger than a pony."


    "Amazing." Eldon frowned, "Perhaps the armor then¡­ no, that''s too much, even for the King."


    Armor? Randyll didn''t press, not wanting to seem completely clueless. He shifted his gaze to the group of Essosi instead. Lord Renly -Master of Ambassadors and Lord of Storm''s End- flew effortlessly from group to group, keeping the magnates and diplomats of the Free Cities content with banter and attention. "What the hells could the King want from them?" It would be terribly awkward for King Joffrey to announce the invasion of a Free City with the magisters dining right in front of him.


    "The King''s just buttering them up for another deal. I wouldn''t worry about it too much." Eldon snorted, "All they want is more trade, and the King has them leashed with it."


    "That leaves the question of what the King wants with us though." Randyll was already sick of the mystery, he couldn''t imagine staying here -stewing in rumor- for two weeks waiting for the truth. No wonder the food is so good.


    "Whatever it is, they know more than we," Eldon said, tilting his head at the cluster of tables by the other side, near the front of the dais. Northern furs and beards just as thick, still foamy with drops of ale. Grim and downing their tankards as if there were no tomorrow, the lords of the North kept to themselves. Randyll scratched his chin, watching the centrally positioned table within the group; like a command tent surrounded by palisades.


    "Who''s the one in the middle?" he asked Eldon. He recognized the Greatjon by his side, making for an almost comical sight as he refilled the young man''s tankard with a jug barely bigger than his hands. On the other he had a Manderly, keeping watch over the hall as he took a polite sip from a wine cup. The one they guarded had a warrior''s frame, lean and stocky like old Hoster had been in his youth, and the reddish-brown hair only deepened the similarities. A leather eye-patch covered his left eye, leaving just one blue gaze that pierced nothing at all. Randyll recognized that stare all too well.


    "The One-Eyed Wolf," said Eldon, taking a sip from his own cup. "Robb. Lord Stark''s first born. He was involved in some battle in the Far North, though the northeners have been surprisingly tight lipped about it."


    A brief stab of jealousy tickled Randyll before he squashed it ruthlessly. "There''s war in the air, mark my words," he said. Might it be the wildlings we''ll be fighting against? It didn''t seem likely; last he''d heard the Queen had them eating from the palm of her hand, some of them settling the land near the Neck. He turned to ask Dickon''s opinion on this, but found his son distracted by Lord Beesbury''s daughter, sending wink after wink at him from the other table. He sighed, looking at his own cup of Arbor Gold and downing it before he stood up. The feast was picking up speed, and what he had to do would brook no delaying.


    "Judging by that look you''ll be bringing war to someone soon enough," said Eldon, tipping his cup.


    "I only wish," said Randyll, "My compliments to Lady Telise." Eldon''s wife was busy by the other side of the table, but she nodded back at the courtesy. Randyll had to skirt around the Dornish tables, where Oberyn Martell was playing some sort of knife game with his fingers and those of the wench he called paramour. Polite applause followed the end of the show, and he used the opportunity to reach the flight of stairs by the other side. A fat lump had taken his leave through here.


    -: PD :-


    Randyll was unsurprised to learn nothing had truly changed about his eldest son. The furs wrapped around Samwell made him seem even more of a walrus; a walrus nestled against a fire and pouring over a mantle of books splayed haphazardly over a table. The light of the candles framed Samwell''s pudgy face with sallow hues; he whispered under his breath as he traced words with a finger, squinting at one chicken scrawl or the other and not even noticing his own father. Randyll closed the door behind him with a bang, and Samwell was up from his chair in an instant, placing a leg against the table as if ready to tip it over.


    "Father?"


    "¡­ Samwell," said Randyll, wrenching his hand away from his sword''s pommel. He didn''t know what he saw, but for an instant he''d nearly drawn his sword. He gazed at his son more carefully, but his eyes held nothing but the same doe-eyed stare that had so irked Randyll out of his mind back at Horn Hill.


    "¡­ I was starting to wonder if you''d make it," said his son as he sat again. He kept examining his books as if he were not even there, "The Reachlords were getting worried."


    "Shows how little they know," said Randyll. He didn''t take a seat, eying the bookcases lining the walls instead. The sight tore open an old wound, and he found himself scowling at his son. "The King seems pleased with your service."


    "He''s appreciated my skills." Eyes flicked up at him, then back to the old, worn parchment on the table. The unlike you was left unsaid.


    "It''s good you''ve helped your House''s standing. Despite your flaws."


    "Thank you, Father. Your acknowledgment fills my heart with pride." Randyll was unsettled. Uncanny. The only thing he could compare the feeling to was when he stared at Snatcher before he cut the dog''s own throat. The tumors had left the hound''s flesh uneven, his silhouette malformed. Familiar and not at the same time. "If the sight of me makes you want to puke, I''d appreciate you spared the books," said Samwell, still staring at the old parchment. His lips were drawn into a tight line.


    Randyll''s scowl grew, "You should''ve taken the black," he said. "Then you wouldn''t be here¡­ flaunting our House''s shame to the lords of the Seven Kingdom!"


    The parchment crumpled in his hands. "Our House''s shame?"


    "Ours!" he shouted, his fists itching to meet that weak pudgy flesh, "You''ve found your happiness here, haven''t you? Moldering with your books as you shame us with every breath?!" Randyll was breathing harshly and he didn''t know quite why, there was something about Samwell tearing at his self control like a whirlwind of blades.


    Samwell had grown red, but not with shame. Randyll blinked. Anger. "You want to know what your shame amounts to, you old fool?" He slammed a hand over to a nearby book on the table, a heavy one with a silver sword and a red star on its cover. He opened it a third of the way, finding the page instantly, "On the sixteenth day of the third month," read Samwell, "Did arrive Lord Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon, Horn Hill joining the ranks of the Great Council." He slammed the book closed, "That''s it! That''s what history will remember of you, shame and all!" He gave him an ugly smile, "I hope it was all worth it."


    This is not supposed to go this way, Randyll realized. That''s why he was so out of it. He barged in, startled his son. Found he still had a shred of hope for him, hopelessly buried as he tried and failed to make him grow a spine. Samwell cowered further and further, until he was left whispering and nodding assent to everything Randyll said before he shook his head in disgust and left. Sometimes he left a sobbing wreck, others a shivering coward. Not now. The thought stunned him out of it for a bit, and he chewed on nothing at all as he gathered his thoughts. "I''ve spoken with the King," he said in an even tone. "He''ll recognize Dickon as heir to Horn Hill."


    That made his son leave his precious parchment. He looked up at him with the slightest shimmer in the corner of his eyes. He nodded minutely, bobbing his head like a simpleton as his voice turned soft. "Okay then," said Samwell, breathing in as he blinked again. "Alright," he said as he looked down, caressing the parchment like a doll. "That''s finally settled then. I wish him luck."


    A lightning strike of fury tore at Randyll from top to bottom; a searing flush of rage forcing his body into action. He smashed his fists against the table, shredding the parchment out of those pudgy hands, "Won''t you even fight for your own birthright?!" he roared in his face.


    The table flew aside and a steel clamp closed on Randyll''s neck. His son bellowed deeply as hefted him up one handed, bodily tossing him to one of the bookcases with the force of a bear. He smashed against it and slid to the floor, his back thundering in agony as the wooden shelves and the books pummeled him from above like winter hale. Samwell was by his side instantly, lifting him up with a silent grunt and hammering him against the top of the table. Randyll tried to jerk free from his son''s vicious grasp but it was like tearing at iron, his pale eyes now alight with unthinking fury. Wrestling was a matter of life and death for a knight, and Samwell demonstrated the skill of a veteran as he batted aside his attempts to escape with almost contemptuous ease, head butting him in the nose for good measure. Randyll was blinded by the pain exploding from his nose, but he could feel the momentum of another charge as his son swiveled with unstoppable strength and they ran across the room, roaring his lungs out as they smashed into another bookcase with a deafening crack, books and parchment flying everywhere as the thing collapsed around them.


    Randyll took shuddering breaths, transfixed by the hazy fury in his son''s eyes. Spiders of pain crawled all over his back and head as his son kept him pinned against the remains of the bookshelf, both their forms now draped in pieces of parchment. Slowly, the haze dissipated, and Randyll found his voice. He squinted in pain. "All those years. Where were you?"


    "Dead." Samwell was breathing harshly, "You killed me. Beating after beating. Jape after jape."


    "No," said Randyll.


    "Cruelty after cruelty," whispered Sam. "You killed me before you got to know me."


    "No," he said, choked by something far more vicious than even his son''s grip, something cold and rusty.


    "All you know is how to destroy. Even your own vicious dreams."


    Randyll blinked, feeling something wet crawling down his cheek.


    Sam paled, squinting his eyes tight before he snarled savagely. "Get out."


    "No!" shouted Randyll, holding on to his hands. A sick terror was flooding his veins, a sinking realization as his son dragged him to the door.


    "Out!" roared Samwell, tossing him out the door. He closed it with a bang, leaving him a heap on the floor of the hallway. There, alone and ravaged by pain, Randyll wished his son had finished the job. He stared at his hands as an empty void settled on his chest; a spreading realization of some hidden dread he couldn''t name. He''d failed. Tears splashed on his hands, though he knew not why. He couldn''t remember the last time he''d cried. One after the other they fell from his cheeks, a steady trickle like blood out of a wound. He couldn''t control it, could not even name it, but he knew he''d failed. Utterly. Finally.


    Always the commander, his mind took refuge in the familiar, and realized.


    He lost the war he''d spent his life fighting.


    -: PD :-


    S?a??h the N0??F?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 75: Council.

    Chapter 75: Council.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    The rain caressed Harrenhal''s stony frame like muffled pinpricks, a silent concert in the midst of the night. It hadn''t stopped since Lord Tarly''s arrival, growing in strength with every passing hour.


    "You should get some sleep," said Sansa. Joffrey smiled as she twisted within his embrace, turning to face him. Red locks lay haphazard over her face, mingling with the blankets in a thoroughly unqueenly mess.


    "Heed your own advice," he said, flicking one of them off her eyes.


    She huffed, undoing his work as they scattered all over again. They stared at each other for a long while, only the rain and the subdued crackling of the hearth keeping them company. Joffrey had taken one look at Harrenhal''s master bedroom before staking out camp at one of the much more intimate secondary suites, and even that felt too large. The bed made for a warm little nest though, warding off the steadier chills sneaking through autumn like assassins at a feast. "We could throw some blankets on the floor near the hearth," Sansa said with a quirk of her lips.


    "Hm." He''d gotten used again to sleeping in the veritable sandpits Westerosi called beds. Mostly. Sometimes he still awoke gasping, convinced that the Purple had sneaked within without warning, dragging him to fractal depths. He took a deep breath, tucking Sansa under his chin as he brought her closer still. Ever since their bonding they''d shared a sort of complicit knowing, a wordless certainty that linked them without words. It had grown stronger with the years, and as of late Joffrey had noticed their conversations were as much felt as spoken. Sometimes it was almost like mind reading.


    Her warm breath tickled his chest, "It''s always hard to get some shut eye. The night before a big plot."


    An idle smile lined his lips. "Do you have a favorite?"


    "The time you sank a sword through my heart was hard to forget."


    "First time doesn''t count," he said. It felt like so long ago. "You remember what I told you?"


    The hearth rumbled softly, a log settling on its new place. "You said it would be beyond horrible," she said, "Beyond despair."


    A terrible moment of uncertainty settled within Joffrey, and he asked the question even as he felt the answer radiate from Sansa. "Was it?"


    "Yes." She shuffled from under his neck, looking up at him. There was no regret in that serene gaze. "But there was happiness too. Love and joy. It was a good trade."


    "Aye." Joffrey smiled. "That it was." His companion through war and intrigue, through seas and empires. His partner. His lover.


    "You told me to be brave," she said, her voice faraway. And so she''d been. By the Old Gods so she''d been. She burrowed between his neck and the blankets again, relishing in the pride he felt for her. "I''m glad you think that," she whispered.


    Joffrey caressed her neck, feeling it''s bend with calloused hands. "Your favorite though, not the most memorable."


    A silent beat. "Braavos, then." The mirth in her voice was contagious. "So awkward and hesitating. I''d like to go back to them just to croon over their innocence."


    He snorted. "I''d go back to yell at them to get it over with."


    "We''d have spared the Sealord a table at least."


    "Heh." Joffrey looked beyond the wall, beyond westeros. "You remember that time in New Ghis? When we were on the way to Asshai?"


    "I remember you playing merchant with a bunch of would-be pirates."


    "Well, someone had to make enough gold for the rest of the trip. Besides." He gave an exaggerated shrug, jostling Sansa from her crook. "You plotted the last of those insane deals."


    She mumbled as she resettled a bit lower, leaning her head against his chest. "We were still getting the hang of pillow-plotting back then."


    Cutlass wielding corsairs chased them through New Ghis'' lower harbor before Joffrey blinked the memory away. "Pillow-plotting¡­ I like how it sounds."


    Sansa moaned, she must have recognized the eagerness. "You told me you''d stop."


    Joffrey''s reply was in a deep baritone, filled with mischief. "Through sheets- and sleeves- oh plot- they did-" He ignored the nails raking his chest, "Pill¡­-Ow Talk- To scheme- and doom."


    "Stop it!"


    "Heroes are supposed to have their ballads! How else will our descendants know of our deeds?"


    "Through books, Joff."


    Joffrey sniffed. A Speck of Purple had all the makings of a perfectly valid historical artifact. He was sure Archmaester Perestan would agree. Sansa said nothing, a wordless tinge of unease making them both scuttle closer even though that was scarcely possible. The levity faded quietly, seeping away with the hearth''s diminishing heat. Distant crickets chirped at the sky, barley audible over the soft rains and the choking maelstrom between breaths. It was so close now; an eye of red crystal cold gazed and silent, it''s rate of descent slowing as it poised over a tiny world. So many times they''d plotted like this, planning how to face that Cold Wind making for their world.


    "It feels different, this time," he said after a while. Even thinking about it brought a jolt throughout his body, veins flashing into awareness before lazy heat crawled over his face. Wars fought. Secrets uncovered. Journeys to the end of the world. It was all coming to a head now, the beginning of the end. All he''d worked for throughout this life and many others. "You think they''ll buy it?" S~?a??h the ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "We won''t leave them any other choice. We''ll force them if we have to."


    "I don''t like the way they look at me," he said, his tongue dry as he licked his lips. "It was hard before Drogon, but now-"


    "They need heroes, Joff." Sansa spoke with quiet determination, "Proportional in awe to the dread of the of the Red Comet."


    "I know," he whispered. Few songs ever spoke of how lonely that role was, even A Speck of Purple fell short. It needed a stronger word than loneliness. Awe or dread it mattered not when the magnitude measured against was that of the Red Comet. Destroyer or Saviour, both were equally alienating. "It''s the last time, Sansa," he said, feeling the weight of it in his bones. Intellectually, he''d known. But now¡­ now it hit him with chills the closer the hour approached. It was the last time. The last time they''d prepare their homeland for the true war. The last time they''d plot and prepare for what was to come. Never before had they been so close to that ideal Westeros, armed and ready for the end of days. And never again they would be.


    "We won''t be denied," Sansa whispered. "They''ll march with us. And we''ll finish it."


    "For the living," said Joffrey.


    They held each other throughout the night. Joffrey didn''t quite sleep. He sailed through a drowsy half-world of dreams both broken and accomplished, the golden glow of a work well done battling with the anxieties of tomorrow. When the light of dawn seeped through the windows the rain had redoubled, his eyes opening at the same time as his wife''s. It was time.


    -: PD :-


    The Greatjon and his son were already hard at it when Joffrey and Sansa emerged from the sidedoor. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths echoed with polite talk, rumors abuzz in the air and not without a hint of wariness. Tyrion and the Umbers were squarely in the middle of the northener tables, making for a strange contrast. The northmen knew more than most of what was to come, some of them having fought wights not a few months ago when they rode to relieve Sansa and the Third Regiment. The Umbers were busy tanking down their lunch with plentiful ale, the Smalljon bellowing at Tyrion to keep up.


    The sight sent a pang of longing through Joffrey, their laughter filling him with the taste of hard ale and the bite of scaling pikes on an icy cliff. He''d been an errant young prince bumbling through the North back then, just some precocious noble with wild dreams and a dwarf uncle looking for a good time. The Greatjon turned and for a moment Joffrey expected a smile to lit up across his wide, bearded face; an offer of ale on his lips.


    "Your Grace," he said after a stunned second, his voice grave as he took a knee. He didn''t see a lost prince. He saw a pale faced king armored in steel and severe furs, a black crown of wrought iron twisting upon his brow. Sword and hammer instead of scaling pikes, forged purpose instead of wanderlust.


    "Lord Umber," he said, succeeding at keeping the childish disappointment from his voice. The nobles around him turned in surprise, kneeling as the silence spread through the hall like a tidal wave. Soon there was not a sound in the air, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms as quiet as the soldiers, maesters, merchants and ambassadors on the balconies of the second floor.


    "Rise, my lords and ladies," said Sansa, "We would not keep you from your meal."


    The subsequent smalltalk was subdued, and it seemed to Joffrey that every person in the room kept a half-eye on them at all times. "Lord Stark." He smiled at his goodfather.


    Eddard''s hair bore streaks of silver now, the Handship aging him fast as it usually did with the worthy. It hadn''t been easy for him, ''picking the shit'' of young and energetic royals with a concrete vision to execute. Some of that weight lifted as Eddard nodded, perhaps eased by the knowledge he would no longer have to keep such a terrible secret from everyone. "My king. My queen," he said, a ghost of a smile as he looked at Sansa.


    They walked on; there was nothing to say, the die cast. Tyrion waddled to their side as they passed the Karstarks. "Is he near?"


    Joffrey couldn''t keep the fond smile from his face, "He won''t leave port for a few months longer. Patience, uncle."


    "Easy for you to say." He lowered his voice as they transitioned to the tables hosting most of the Riverlanders, Sansa taking the brunt of the formalities and the smalltalk. "You look good. Both of you. An Andal warlord and his First Men queen." Tyrion nodded, eyes lingering on the assembled nobles. "They''ll need that."


    He wondered if Tyrion included himself as he said the last. Sansa looked more regal than ever in her green and blue wrap dress, the white northern pelts giving the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms an exotic edge. And suitably martial, he thought as he gazed at the ornate dagger on her belt. A sapphire coronet adorned her brow, of a color with her eyes and framed by long locks of red; they draped past her shoulders like ivy hugging a waterfall, her back straight as she greeted the Slayerfish with a hearty hug.


    Edmure held a goblet in his dragonbone hand, nodding deeply at Joffrey as Sansa stood back. "Your Grace. I''m glad we''ll finally find out what''s this all about," he said before taking a sip.


    "As am I." Joffrey nodded at the dragonbone prostheses attached to his stump, "You seem to be getting the hang of it."


    He shrugged, "This is easy, compared to the hammer." He smiled slightly, "Perhaps another session at the yard would be in order?"


    "I think it would," said Joffrey, clasping his shoulder. He''d been drilling with Edmure now and then, showing him the occasional benefits of having a hammer for an arm. The Riverlanders followed the queues of their lord with utmost respect, seeking his gaze to speak and silently giving each other their turns with the king; Edmure had them dancing like a school of fish around a shark. The ''Fishbones'' -those who''d charged Rhaegal along with their liege- were foremost in their deference to the Lord of Riverun, but they weren''t the only ones. For the first time in living memory, the Riverlands seemed to have found a liege worthy enough to follow without too much grumbling. Well, most of them, Joffrey thought with a smirk. Walder Frey and his constant scowl kept clear of the clustered nobles, content to sling his sons and daughters at distant targets before his strength waned as it usually did after noon.


    They left the Riverlanders behind, receiving oafish platitudes from Mace Tyrell and a hollow nod from Lord Tarly. The Queen of Thorns ghosted between the Reachlords, her gaze fixed on Lord Tarly before she took Maergery by the arm and they walked to the northener tables. Tywin had his own little court within the hall, with those Westerlanders in better standing now closer to him than those that were not. Nobody wanted to be seen as outside of Lord Tywin''s graces though, so it was more like a core of those most in his trust surrounded by a larger mass of awkwards caught in some kind of political twilight state. The man''s bow was so correct as to border on insolence, but for a moment he swore a smile had twitched within Tywin''s lips. "We are at your service, Your Grace," he said with a relaxed tilt of the head, "Your Highness."


    Sansa smiled sweetly, praising the Westerland''s sons and daughters and the work they''d done for the Crown. The outer group crept closer, happy to hear Sansa''s praises included them as well. Joffrey kept an eye on Tywin, noticing the approval in his eyes. He''d come to understand his grandfather''s struggle for the ''Lannister legacy'' as an impossible game, an eternal war played by Tywin against Tywin. He would never truly win, though he supposed he could be in a state of winning. Perhaps it was the closest his grandfather would ever know to true peace. I wonder if Jaime found his alongside Mother. He breathed out.


    Stormlords and Crownlanders they passed by swifter than most. With them he shared a quality that was hard to name; a synchrony perhaps, or a shared ideal. It was them, along with most of the Riverlands, that had for the most part embraced his dream of Westeros. They would follow him into war no matter the battlefield. Lord Renly had found his true calling as Master of Ambassadors, though he hadn''t neglected his own land, his charm serving as a glue for the Stormlords. By far the worst stares were from the Valelords; those had a glassy tint of a kind with religious fervor; awed and trusting. It was within their ranks that Septon Kyle''s word had reached deepest.


    Lord Royce kept a head as cool as the heights of the Eyrie -thank the Gods- but Joffrey couldn''t help but think of him as the good-faith dissident necessary to any religious saga worth the name. There could be no Hugor of the Hill without a Landon Seven-Tongues, after all. "How fares Lord Arryn, Your Grace? I hear he''s taken well to the capital," said Lord Royce.


    "He and his cousin Brandon are night on inseparable," he said, a smile getting out.


    "Tommen as well," said Sansa, "They call each other ''knight-brother'' and won''t let Ser Barristan train one without the other two."


    "Splendid," said Lord Royce, "After his mother I feared¡­" he shook his head. Lysa Arryn did not take well to the separation. After her calls for rebellion fell on deaf ears -she''d scarcely controlled her own bedchamber within the Eyrie- she''d taken one long leap down the Moon Door.


    "I think he''ll make a fine knight -and lord- one day," said Joffrey, eyes drawn by the runes on his bronze plate. Most days Lord Royce had been robed in finery, but not today.


    "I hope I live to see those days," he said, voice somber. Yes. He too felt something in the air. Something of what was to come.


    Many of the other Valelords clustered around Septon Kyle, though Joffrey didn''t manage a word before the man went prostrate on the floor, like a supplicant at the Yellow Emperor''s court. Joffrey shifted within his plate; the Valelords didn''t follow suite, but some eyed him with something that was more than mortal respect. He tugged Sansa''s elbow and they walked away. She considered Septon Kyle a useful if overzealous asset -one could hardly accuse the King and Queen of being witches if one of the Most Devout was busy canonizing them next door- but Joffrey still cursed the man in the privacy of his own mind. He''d thought of himself as many things over his long life, from monster to lover, weakling to warrior and simpleton to strategist. Even ''Last Hero'', if he must¡­ but never a god. Gods were the dread artificers that had crafted the Purple and the Red Comet, or something more abstract like the breathing-living world he''d come to understand as the Old Gods. Perhaps the ebb-and-flow of the Song was worthy of that title, but never him.


    The wearier -and perhaps weaker- of his lords were the Dornish and the Ironborn. The Dornish regarded him with sullen acceptance, content with watching Arianne snare knight after knight or Oberyn poke at Reacher pride, both sources of petty amusement until came the time to go home again. Joffrey hoped that would change soon, though Sansa''s ''handmaidens'' had done a good job of soothing ruffled feathers in the meantime. The Ironborn''s disdain had been no surprise, though amusingly enough the fact that he''d hanged one of them seemed to have garnered some respect. And with Balon Greyjoy sadly wracked by the bloody cough and unlikely to live past the month, a new center of power had formed around Lord Rodrick Harlaw, helped along by recent good fortune in some of his ventures around the Sothori coast. A battle-hardened Theon prowled by his side, lending the legitimacy of the Greyjoys when he was not with Robb. He gave Sansa a sly grin; few were the lords lucid enough to fear his wife instead of him.


    The midday feast was nearing its end when Joffrey and Sansa ascended the steps to the thrones on the dais, one made of swords and the other of ebonwood. Above were splayed Drogon''s bones, a menace hanging over the gathering like a vulture out of nightmare. Silver Knights surrounded the dais, a nearby guardsman raising the butt of his halberd. He didn''t need to slam it against the floor; the act of sitting on the throne was enough to bring a skittering sort of silence across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The tension built up as he surveyed the upper balconies, officers and merchants from Steeltown and the Blackworks returning his gaze. They knew the broad extent of his preparations, and so they couldn''t help but fear the target of it.


    The silence stretched. The heavy rain outside was like a wall separating the hall from the rest of the world; a constant drone, droplets thick with shards of ice that chilled the stones and frightened the hearths. The sounds ignored through daily life turned too loud to bare; the creak of furniture on stone, the strangled cough, the fidgeting hands. They compounded on one another as Joffrey traced the jagged armrests of the Iron Throne. The lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms held their breath without the need for herald or warning; such was the tension in the Song. He smiled grimly. This had been his dream, his hope during countless lives lost in blood and mud. To unite Westeros against the true threat. To forge a Kingdom worth saving. And now here they were. He cleared his throat but found he couldn''t speak. Legates and Silver Knights looked up at him with truth in their eyes. Northeners and Westerlanders sat side by side in peace. Stormlords and Crownlanders shared their food. All under the same hall.


    He blinked away the bit of dirt in his eyes. Now was the time to bring them into the true war. My war. My pain. My dream. Righteousness was something he''d seldom felt since the heady, monstrous reigns of his youth. Now it rampaged through his spine like an escaped beast, relishing every single second of existence. "Lords of the Seven Kingdoms," he said, projecting his voice to carry, "I thank you for your presence this day. It has been one long in the making, a road filled with sweat and blood and lost friends." How to explain such cosmic stakes? How to relate such fervent hope? The words of his prepared speech slipped into the aether, hopelessly lost as he gazed at the eyes of his countrymen. The people he hoped to save. To lead.


    His hand searched Sansa''s of its own accord and held it tight, her squeeze sending wordless love. Perhaps he was seeing the whole thing backwards. What do I want? He fought against the Red Comet and the Cycle, that was certain. But what did Joffrey Baratheon fight for? He searched for the words uttered in dreams and longing, and found one burning in his gut, a single animating light that''d saved him after Melissandre''s pyre and the silence of the Seven, dispelled the ashes of the Red Wolf and the cold neglect of his father. The seed Ned had planted one day by a Heart Tree.


    "Peace," he said, the word a hole in the silence. "If there is one law or project the Maesters will remember me by, if it is one single thing that will be said after my death, let it be this; King Joffrey Baratheon dreamt of peace." He straightened his back, the crown of wrought steel cold on his brow, "To see my friends and family together, to see my people prosper. To see weapons brought out only for jousts and melees." He squeezed Sansa''s hand again, "To grow old with my lady wife," he almost whispered. He stood up, the stares following him as he walked to the front of the dais, the limp forgotten, "I''ve chased for that peace with all I have, my lords. And when they came to take it from me I fought." He growled the last word. It seemed to startle them, "Killed for it. Defiled it so it could be protected." They were listening intently, the Song soft to his ears, "I smoked Stannis out his island and sent that bastard Aegon and his blessed sword to the bottom of the sea." He tossed a hand up behind him, "I jammed a blade through that thing''s eye so it could lie still and give me some godsdamned peace!" He held the hand as he stared at them, willing his vassals to understand the core of what he wanted. His legates were at the far back with knowing smiles, his Silver Knights closer to the dais and standing still as marble statues. "But there''s one more war, my lords. One more war before I can promise you an age of peace and plenty. Of good harvests and never ending summer." He raised his voice over startled whispers, "One more war for peace. And its one I cannot fight alone." He turned to his wife.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    "Lyra!" she said, standing up and taking his side. The sidedoor opened then, revealing Lyra Mormont and the Hound as they dragged a casket to the dais. Some of the lords whispered and pointed, others standing up from their benches as the thing rattled. Chains dragged behind it, screeching a horrible sound against the stone that set his hair on edge. Joffrey realized he was holding his hammer in his hand.


    "Your Highness, what''s in there?!" said Lord Paxter Redwyne.


    Sansa nodded at Lyra before turning to Lord Redwyne, "Our enemy, my lords. The enemy to all who breathe upon this earth."


    The lock was opened, and it emerged from the casket like a banshee from the Seven Hells. It had been a wildling spearwife, once. Now it was rotting carcass, a ragged bundle of putrid flesh clinging to a jagged skeletal frame. It shrieked a piercing wail as it leapt from the casket, scuttling like a possessed spider towards the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.


    "Seven Above!" cried Randyll, sword in his hand as he was followed by nearly half the room. Tywin appeared frozen as Lord Brax used a chair like a buckler, covering his liege and waving a bastard sword with the other. Everyone scattered back before the Hound pulled the chain wrapped around the wight, slamming it on its back. He strapped a blunted trident to its neck, Lyra doing the same as it turned to bite them. They managed to hold it relatively still between them, bits of rotten flesh tumbling away as it chafed, falling on the stone floor like enormous black leeches. Sickly black hair covered half its head like a torn curtain, doing nothing to hide the ravenous hunger that gleamed within its dead eyes, aglow with unnatural blue as it surveyed the hall.


    People hadn''t stopped screaming; the wight''s wailing had set off some primal fright buried deep within all the armor and the finery, and its dead gaze seemed to fuel the panic. Some by the back end were trying to force the doors, pushing and shoveling each other. His guardsmen -veterans from the Third- held firm, and they were not shy in pushing back. "Let us out!" cried someone, "Open the doors! Now!" Lady Whent tripped between the mayhem; she''d surely be crushed at this rate.


    Joffrey filled his lungs as if in the midst of a battlefield. "SILENCE!" he roared. The bellow reached the end of the hall and doubled back, the more martial lords standing on edge as the rest subsided to a mild panic, even the wight turning to stare at him. "Now compose yourself, rulers of the Seven Kingdoms!" he said, staring them down.


    The abrupt silence left room for the wight''s mouldy stench. It was the smell of death; that vaguely sweet edge on the final rattling breath of an old man ravaged by sickness. It sneaked into one''s nose without warning, a stale breath reaching the back of the throat. Mace Tyrell swayed as he stared at the thing, "Your Grace, what- that-" his face twitched. He hung to Willas as he swayed again, a great heave coming unto him as he bellowed his share of the noon feast back all over the table. A few others quickly followed suit, though not Willas; he was as still as a statue gazing at the dead thing.


    Joffrey flicked a gaze at the wight. It tried to reach for him, but Sandor slapped the arm away. "None of that!" he rumbled, "You stay still, dead fuckin'' bitch." It was enough to tease a smile out of Joffrey.


    "There''s no shame in panicking at the first sight of this," Joffrey said as he waved at the wight. "But you will behave yourselves when under my roof," he continued. "Lady Whent, are you alright back there?"


    "As fine as these old bones can be, Your Grace," she said, voice shaky as Lord Estermont helped her up.


    "Good," said Joffrey. "Sansa, if you would?"


    "Of course." She raised her voice almost as if to sing, and Joffrey thought Septa Mordane must be smiling somewhere. "This is but one of the scouts that ambushed the leading elements of the Third Regiment as it deployed Beyond-the-Wall. They came with little warning and under the cover of a blizzard, intent on taking my life and those of every soldier in the encampment."


    Awe. Disbelief. Dawning terror. The implications grasped some lords faster than others. Joffrey could tell by the way they paled.


    "There were thousands of them, attacking in waves so as to not disrupt their charge overmuch. Fire and steel repelled them, but at great cost," she said, the last word wobbling by the tiniest margin. He knew whose gaze she looked for in the crowd.


    "Preposterous!" cried Lord Sunglass, "She''s gone mad! Insane!"


    A direwolf growled in a dangerously low tone, and Joffrey realized with a start it had not been Lady; she was still nibbling Drogon''s tail behind the thrones. A circle formed around Robb Stark, Grey Wind by his side. The One-Eyed Wolf''s sole eye bored on Lord Sunglass with the intensity of a fired stagram; one whose warhead had leapt hight before fizzling out, now falling relentlessly on its target. "I saw them clawing at the Third''s camp like dogs around a scrap of meat," he said as he walked towards Lord Sunglass. "We slammed them from behind but there was no morale to break. They dragged the horses down. Butchered us." The other Crownlords made haste to part from his way, and he didn''t stop until his breath tickled Lord Sunglass'' quivering eyebrows. Throughout it all Robb''s voice stayed the same, a monotone cadence that was a distant cousin to the Red Wolf''s. "When you call our Queen mad you tar them with the same brush. Mormonts and Glovers and Karstarks and Umbers," Robb said, "You look into the eyes of their families and tell them they were mad."


    Lord Sunglass tried to find his voice, mumbling "Eh''s" and "Ah''s" before Robb Stark took off his eye-patch.


    "Look at me, and tell me I''m mad," he said, almost a whisper, dangerously low like his direwolf. Lord Sunglass appeared to lose himself in that gaping eye-socket, the upper half of it deformed where Robb''s skull had withstood most of the force behind the wight''s arrow. The lords of the North were deathly still, hands resting on axe handles or sword pommels as they stared at Lord Sunglass, the other worthies of the Narrow Sea shuffling a step back. Ned didn''t move to stop them, ice cold eyes looking at his son approvingly. Unwittingly, Lord Sunglass had delivered a personal affront to the North itself, and to the Third Regiment too for good measure.


    He caught Olyvar''s gaze and shook his head, the legate taking a regretful step back to his comrades. He prepared to move swiftly should things spin out of control, but he doubted it would come to that; not even Sunglass'' fellow Narrow Sea lords were sticking up for him. They''d never had much regional loyalty for each other after the Targeryen''s fell, and the gutting of Stannis'' Rebellion had stomped what little there''d remained.


    "You- they- they''re not," said Lord Sunglass, eyes flicking from that hole down to the direwolf; unsure which one was less threatening. "M-my apologies."


    "Accepted," said Robb, turning on his heels and walking back, Grey Wind sniffing Lord Sunglass'' breeches before trailing after his master. Ned stood taller amongst his bannermen, the northmen at ease again as they eyed their future liege approvingly. The hall seemed to breath a sigh of relief, and then Lord Tarly realized the tactical implications.


    "Your Highness, pardon," he said. "You said they were scouts?" He still had his sword in his hand, staring at the thing as if he''d scarcely believed his own eyes. Good thing that''s not Heartsbane or someone might have lost a finger.


    "Yes," she said, "A van for a much larger force even now gathering in the Far North. We believe the greater part of it will march south before the end of the year."


    Silence. Lord Tarly frowned, then cleared his throat, "Excuse me my Queen, but how can you be so certain?" The rainstorm outside had gathered strength, and the entire hall seemed to lean forward for an answer.


    Sansa looked at him. Joffrey took a deep breath, "Because we''ve seen them. The White Walkers march again, and the dead with them."


    A servant dropped a tray of silverware. Lord Marbrand''s daughter fainted. And then the whole room was upside down, roars and shouts and shrill voices over the sound of rumbling furniture and spilled tables. It was a tonal tempest that sought to drown even Joffrey''s commands to stay quiet; he could scarcely hear himself breath. Oberyn Martell stood over a table aiming an accusing finger at him, though Joffrey couldn''t hear a word of what he was saying. Septon Kyle and some of the other Most Devout who had reached Harrenhal were on their knees, hands held up and beseeching. Slayer and Black, both Tully fishes stood in harried conference, the Fishbones a knot around them. Joffrey blinked. Tywin was still frozen, he hoped he was alright. Worst of all, the ruckus had set off the wight again. It shrieked as it twisted; a whirling top tangled up in leather straps and dangling chains that cackled over the wooden dais. On and on it spun its head, shrieking without end. It was the prelude to the disintegration of his homeland.


    No.


    A chest-rattling roar battered the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, long and deep and touched by the Song. People watched in stunned silence as Stars padded to his side, even the wight regarding him with dead blue eyes. Stars growled a warning at it; a long crackling rumble like logs splitting within a bonfire. A light breeze played with his fur, swirling with abstract patterns, fractal runes peeking beneath silver fur. Joffrey petted him on the head, then scratched his jowl. He didn''t even need to bend his back to do so, so large was his companion. Abruptly, both of them stared at the disheveled nobles of the Seven Kingdom and the scarcely better-off balconies. "Are you all done then?"


    "It''s true¡­" someone whispered. Half the kneeling septons were crying, and Lord Darry had taken a knee in front of his drawn sword like a knight holding his vigil over a sept. Joffrey frowned before looking down at himself, feeling the weight of antlers on his head. He stared at his gauntleted hand, marveling again at the soul stuff metal. Purple fractals crisscrossed through it, framing distant stars yellowed and one white. He was almost fully encased in it, his plate of stars covering him from head to toes. He looked up at the awed nobles and breathed out. Oh well.


    Might as well take it all the way,


    he thought as he turned to Sansa. She gave him that exasperated half-smile she always had when he ''improvised''¡­ and then her face turned serious. She took a deep breath as she stared up and her arms drifted to her sides, some unknowable wind picking up and making the hearths shiver. Twin portals of skittering mirages opened up by the sides of the thrones, massive holes in the frayed canvas of reality and anchored by purple fractals. There wasn''t much shock left to give, but the lords were speechless as they gazed at the legions of wights massing in bogs and forests, crags and clearings. There was no end to them. They tore out of barrows and ancient battlefields, some little more than convulsing bones while others were almost human, armed and garbed in ceremonial bronze covered with half faded runes. Mammoths and giants dragged their torn shadows under the light of the Red Comet, columns of them trundling down vast tundras of painfully white snow now bathed in red. Most horrible of all were the Walkers; lockstep regiments of ice turning to look up at the sky. Turning to look up at Harrenhal.


    Sweat lined Sansa''s forehead, her red locks fluttering out of control. She brought her hands down with a controlled heave, the portals closing to pinpricks as the hearths roared back to life. "That is our enemy," she said, the wight looking longingly at the now empty place by the throne. "That is what we''ve been preparing for."


    "They speak with the voice of the Seven!" shrieked Septon Kyle, "Repent! Find the Father''s Light before the end finds you!"


    "Gods help me!" someone said, "I- I felt them watching me!"


    "They''re just legends!" screamed Lord Florent, "They can''t be real!" His shrill voice seemed on the edge of tears.


    Disbelief suffered a swift death, and in its place terror reigned. Except there was no where to run to. The sight of the legions of the damned had seared itself into everyone present; they hadn''t just seen the Walkers, they had felt the weight of their gaze across the portals, a smidgen of the Red Comet''s attention, almost an imprint on their souls. The portals alone might have been some trick of illusion, but with the physical wight there staring at them, even now jerking from Sandor''s grip? It was undeniable. Unavoidable. Fights broke out. People prayed. Others held each other in mute terror, still staring at the empty space where the window in reality had been. It all lacked some sort of vitality, as if a ghost had passed by and stolen the life out of them; the Ghost of Harrenhal released by the death of the last dragon.


    Joffrey''s voice was hard and loud. "We didn''t ask for this. We didn''t wish for visions of our loved ones dying. We didn''t wish to see the White Walkers carve a cold and bloody path across Westeros." He looked at his wife, "And yet we did. I don''t know if it was the Old Gods or the Seven," he said as he nodded at Septon Kyle, "Or some greater whole that hugs them all. What I do know is that those hordes are on course to break through the Wall and invade our lands. They will not stop until they have brought death to Westeros from Last Hearth to Sunspear itself. And then they will build glaciers of crystal to carry our reanimated bodies across the world. Braavos will fall. Then Lorath. Pentos. Lys. Myr. They''ll sweep through Essos like a plague and bring their doom to Yi-Ti and beyond. In time, even the sunny shores of the Summer Islands will freeze and never thaw again." Silence had loomed larger the longer he spoke; now they stared up at him, stunned and hopeless. Only the wight spoke, wailing dry like a choked miner. Its insidious screech prickled Joffrey''s ears.


    "It''s hopeless then." It didn''t matter who''d whispered it. They all felt it true.


    "No. There is a way to kill them," he said. The wight shrieked denial, louder this time.


    "How?" demanded Tarly.


    The wight shrieked again, and Joffrey scowled as he turned to face it. "Ser Samwell!" he barked.


    Samwell Tarly strode up the dais from the line of Silver Knights, an armored ball of silver steel and thick furs. He hefted a slender warhammer with both hands as he reached the wight, swinging it back before bellowing like an ox. He smashed the wight''s ribcage, sending bones and flesh tumbling away as the warhammer sunk into its chest like a sword. The Knight Chronicler of the Silver Knights extracted the warhammer as if he''d been felling a tree, and then promptly smashed the wight''s head to mushy fragments. It collapsed on the ground like a puppet with severed strings, and Samwell cleaned the warhammer against its rags. They seemed equally filthy, but Joffrey guessed it was force of habit.


    "Thank you, my Chronicler."


    "Your Grace." Samwell nodded before walking down the dais again.


    He turned to Lord Tarly, who had the expression of a man whose soul had just been flayed raw. "That is how we''ll win. With cold steel and harnessed will." He lifted his gaze to the rest of those assembled, "My lords and ladies, we are now at the beginning of the Second War for Dawn. No mercy will be given to the enemy, for we will receive none in turn." He walked as he spoke, his armor of stars shimmering with distant worlds, "The enemy will know neither fear nor honor. It will spare no woman and take no hostages. They will march on us with monsters out of myth and legend, with tides of wights and Walkers made of bone and ice. They''ll reanimate our dead if we don''t burn them first, and they''ll wield powers not seen since the Dawn Age." He smiled grimly, "War come upon us, my lords and ladies. A war to the hilt. A war to the bone. A war for every living soul on this world."


    "What can we possibly do against them?!" shouted Lord Mooton, voice laced with terror. The rain outside had turned into a proper autumn storm; one of the infamous seasonal thunderstorms that swept up and down the Narrow Sea drowning both crops and ships with relentless, ice-cold rain. They were the precursors of winter, the vanguard of the white blizzards.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop


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    Joffrey''s gaze raked across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, taking in that silent pale-faced sea of horror and fear and remembering a cruel boy lost in despair. Lightning flashed beyond the double doors, lighting the nobles in sharp relief; fine lace and glittering jewelery, polished armor and sumptuous furs. How worthless it must have all felt now, compared to the paralyzing void devouring their chests. How worthless their wealth and power. The boy had learned that lesson too, it''s truth a harsh teacher. "What can we do?" he said, voice deceptively low as thunder growled in the distance, a question pondered under cold and rain. "We could give in to despair and die. We could sit when our ancestors stood. We could make a lie out of everything we believe in." His voice rose higher with every word, "We could watch them destroy everything we''ve ever held dear. Our smallfolk. Our lands. Our keeps. Our families." The litany of woes went against everything a westerosi believed in, each word tearing a chunk out of his trapped audience, "We could watch them devour our loved ones and bring silence to this continent!" he said, flinches violent like physical blows, "We could see it all end before the first battle! The songs! The stories! The bloodlines mingling back to the Age of Heroes! The proud banners outside drenched in the rain! Ten thousand years of history brought to an end with but a whimper!"


    Outrage fed on bone-deep terror; an explosion of emotion sweeping the hall like wildfire as people roared denial. Defiance. Anything but the bleak ending of all they held dear. Joffrey shivered as he felt the Song like never before; a maelstrom far grander than the storm buffeting Harrenhal, an electric monster pouring out of them all from the inside out. His voice cut through that maelstrom with crystal clarity, fury and purpose as he took a single step forward and crushed what remained of the wight''s twitching skull, "What we''ll do?!" he roared, "We''ll gather the banners of the Seven Kingdoms and march North!" he said, pointing across the room, "We''ll line the Wall with the armies of men! We''ll stockpile enough firewood to burn the Seven Hells over! We''ll give a poleaxe to every man woman and child from Sunspear to Last Hearth and teach them how to use it!" He took a deep breath, willing steel into their spines, "We''ll fight godsdamnit! We''ll fight for every square inch of our land! Our Kingdom!"


    The Greatjon slammed his tankard against the table, cracking it in half, "None of mine ancestors will shame me!" he roared, "I''ll greet them Walkers axe in hand, King Joffrey!"


    "There''ll be plenty to go around, my Lord of Umber!" he said with a vicious smile. Their faces lit up as they realized there was a way out of the horror, and Joffrey intoned that challenge the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms had been reared to respond to all their life; that righteous powerful oath. "The enemy marches to the ruin of us all and the Crown calls its banners!" Joffrey roared, "What say you, Bannermen of the Seven Kingdoms!?"


    No sooner had he said the words than Eddard Stark was on his feet, brandishing Ice, "The North heeds the call!" he bellowed. Chairs flew back and steel was drawn; shock and soul-clenching terror given way to frenzied action. The rulers of the North hefted swords and axes as if ready to charge up the dais, their voices raw with the power of oaths. "The North!" they bellowed, "The North!!!" That guttural cry swelled Joffrey''s chest with pride, with righteousness. This is what it means to be King. To master oneself before others. To lead the way for others to rise. "War!" they promised, "War!!!"


    That soul-wrenching hope spread like a tidal wave. Nothing could stop it. "Stormking!" roared Lord Lester Morrigen, for it was the only oath the Stormlords needed. "Stormking!" bellowed Lord Selmy, the Bucklers of Bronzegate and the Carons of Nightsong drawing their swords. "Stormking!" they chanted as lightning struck again; a plea and a promise, a smile through Renly''s lips, a boom of thunder shaking Harrenhal''s stones with autumn''s wrath. It was alive now, possessed by a will of its own. "Steel or Bones!" roared the Fishbones, a cry and a challenge uttered by dragonslayers. From their midst emerged Edmure Tully, carved dragonbone hand gleaming white as he echoed the cry that had preceded a charge against a monster, "Riverlanders!" he called, "To War! To War!!!" It turned electric, a glimpse of redemption for those that''d fled and forever lost the chance to be called dragonslayers. They would not forsake glory twice. "War!" chanted the Riverlords, cravens and dragonslayers alike, "War!!!"


    The cries managed to lift Tywin out of his stupor. He drew himself tall and lifted half a lip at the screaming Stormlords. A single nod was all that the banners of the Westerlands had been waiting for. Their arming swords were drawn like one, a symphony of leather on steel as a warrior clad in bronze did likewise from across the room. "The banners of the Vale shall not be found wanting!" said Lord Royce, his armor burnished yellow before the light of the hearths. Septons held up copies of the Seven-Pointed Star like talismans, Valelords drawing swords with eyes closed and lips locked in silent prayers. The cries of "War!" kept spreading, through Crownlanders and even the Ironborn as Rodrick Harlaw smashed the haft of his axe against a table and Theon whooped a raider''s scream, at a rhythm with the call. Even the worst of the raiders -rapists and murderers- could not deny the truth, the truth that called on them all to fight against that unnatural horror, to fight for the very right to draw breath.


    Oberyn Martell rose with a theatrical flourish, relishing in the attention as he raised his voice over the calls and he gave Joffrey a smile a filled with teeth, "Rest easy, Your Grace. The sun bakes our skulls well, but we''re not as stupid as some would have you believe." He bowed, "You''ll have my brother''s banners¡­ And my spear, of course."


    Joffrey exchanged looks with Sansa. We''ll see how well a viper tangles with a direwolf, he thought. Lord Yronwood scowled at Oberyn before he drew his sword, "Then it''s done! We stand with the King!"


    "War!" agreed the Dornishmen, Stony and Rohynar.


    The mass of Reachlords by the middle of the hall made up by far the largest contingent; a mass of shell-shocked chivalry silent and horrified. They formed a hole around Mace Tyrell as he shoved Olenna back with a firm but gentle hand. His muttonchops still held bits of spittle and vomit as he stood up, but it was the eyes that made Joffrey nod. They were wild and on the edge of tears, "Those things won''t get their claws on my family!" he shouted, "On my daughter!!!" his voice hitched with the last word, hands fumbling with his arming sword, "Let them come and get a fistful of Tyrell thorns! Let them come and hear the songs of the Reach!!!"


    "War!!!"roared Randyll Tarly, voice shrill with the edge of a man who''d lost everything. "War!" roared the Reachlords, ornate swords pointing up.


    And with that, it was done. Westeros united under a single banner and a single purpose. Warnings heeded and wills sharpened. It was all over but for the war. The Second War for Dawn.


    He clasped Sansa''s hand as he materialized Brightroar with the other, lifting the sword high. The shimmering bundle of gold and purple acquired weight through fractal patterns snaking into reality, weaving a blade of light that drew kaleidoscopes across the faces of his people. They raised their steel with him.


    "The Living!" he roared.


    "The Living!" they roared back.


    -: PD :-

 Interlude: Andon

    Interlude: Andon.The first snows of autumn descended gently; they seemed almost suspended in the air, like the dandelions Taby loved to blow in his face. Andon gawked at the sight, lifting up a hand and cupping one of the falling feathers with his hand. It melted to nothing in an instant, leaving him with nothing but wet disappointment.


    His big brother chuckled, and Andon turned to face him at once. "This one''s your first winter too!"


    Bale lifted his hands innocently. "Come on, Ma'' will tan our hides red if we take too long," he said, turning to the ground and poking the leaves again.


    Andon shook his head before doing the same, searching under the bed of yellowed leaves that covered the ground. Hedgehogs within the forest loved to burrow under the leaves left by autumn storms, and made for a decent source of meat before the onset of ''true'' winter. At least, that''s what they''ve been told. "I think Old Tom had us in again," Andon said after a long while of flipping leaves with nothing to show for it except the odd worm.


    "All the better if we come back with one at least. Then we can swing it in his face."


    Andon sighed. He had to preempt his brother before he set into one of his stubborn moods, else he''d be tougher to move than Ma''s donkey. "I''d love to know where these supposed hedgehogs have been living since we were old enough to walk," he said, "You ever actually seen one?" Bale shrugged, ducking under a low hanging branch and poking the leaves closer to the great oak''s stem. It''s starting, oh Gods. He could practically see it; the long hours wandering around the forest till nightfall, coming back to Groverick wet and tired with nothing to show for it. They''d been playing in and around Faldryn Forest since they''d been six, and Andon had never seen one of these mythical beasts.


    "Just once. Tell me one time you''ve seen anything resembling a hedgehog. And Lord Dole''s banner doesn''t count."


    "That''s because they only come out around autumn''s end. Old Tom said so."


    "Old Tom also said he saw a dragon carrying the Mad Princess with the King on top, making love as they fought," Andon said.


    Bale chuckled, "Point." Groverick was closer to the Neck than it was to Harrenhal; no way Old Tom ever saw a dragon, never mind the rest of the wild tale.


    "This reeks of make-work," said Andon, trawling the surprisingly deep layer of leaves around a fallen tree. Predictably, there was not a hedgehog in sight. They walked across a sea of red and yellow, the trees around them bare like skeletons. They did little to stop the cold wind blowing from the north. "Before this it was repairing the old well. Then Goyle''s missing sheep. And before that-"


    "The hooch!" said Bale. Now he gets it, thought Andon. "It all started after Ma'' found us with the hooch!"


    "She still thinks we''re kids," said Andon, biting his tongue before he could say anything more drastic about his Ma''. The Mother wouldn''t approve. He kicked a sprawl of leaves asunder and watched them fly away with the wind. Every man in the village is drinking right now, every single one but us. There wasn''t anything else to do anyhow; with the last harvest safely inside Castle Terrick, only the shepherds still had work to do. And they were likely drinking too.


    The men were probably all in on it; more liquor for them. Fuckin'' unfair, that''s what it is. They''d worked as hard as anyone for that last, tightly timed harvest. Hells, without him, Old Tom might have cut his own fingers trying to decipher the workings of the King''s seed drill. He stopped his hopeless search as he come upon a ledge, taking a deep breath and gazing at the valley below. The fertile but stony hills of Lord Terrick''s lands held a commanding view of the Northern Riverlands, and counted Faldryn Forest, Groverick, and Castle Terrick itself within its purview. From there Andon looked upon the rugged hills and winding trails that spread out from the Kingsroad as it made its way north, entering steadily marshier terrain with every league. Sometimes, on sunny days, he could catch a glimpse of the Twins far to the west. He tried to do it now, but the task soon seemed as hopeless as finding a hedgehog napping by his feet. The overcast sky was like a grey hand reaching down, clouding his sight not far beyond the fork in the Kingsroad.


    He frowned, narrowing his eyes at the figures riding through the trail. They were heading for Lord Terrick''s lands as surely as bees heading back to the hive. "Who might those be?"


    "Can''t rightly tell," Bale said as he came to his side. "Don''t look like peddlers though." No wagons behind them, only two men in plate atop good horses trotting briskly through the winding trail up the hill; one of them carried a banner with three red stripes and a silver fist. The last one ringed a bell in Andon''s head. Weren''t those the King''s soldiers?


    "We should get back to the village," he said. Bale gave an uneasy nod. They quickly made their way out of the forest, hedgehogs forgotten as they took shortcuts over worn trails and fallen trees with the ease of long practice. Faldryn Forest was an old friend, and Alfus -Lord Terrick''s woodsman- had always been content to let them roam as long as they did not poach any deer. They reached Groverick just as the newcomers did, riding hard for the village square as if they owned the place.


    They dismounted, one of them cupping his hands and shouting as harsh as Aldon had ever heard a man. "Gather around! Everyone!"


    "Piss off!" shouted Old Tom as he limped out of his house, taking another swing from his bottle of hooch. Keeping the peace was about the only duty the aelderman enforced to the letter.


    The armored soldier ignored him, walking around the village square as he bellowed, "All villagefolk are to gather around! Gather around in the name of the King!" That got everyone''s attention. The men came out of Nettle''s Barn and eyed the newcomers suspiciously. The women stared out the windows of their timbered houses, unwilling to leave the warmth of their hearths. The soldier didn''t care, walking up to the houses and banging each door relentlessly with his steel gauntlet. "By Royal Decree, all villagefolk are to gather around!" He opened a shutter and jutted his head past the window, "That means you lot as well! Come on, move along!"


    The other soldier -this one with two bronze strips hammered to his pauldrons- planted his banner on the ground. A mob formed around him soon enough, filled with scowling farmers and drunk shepherds. "Oy! You''re disturbing the peace!" Kollin said as he shoved his way to the front of the crowd, a bottle of hooch in his hand, "Who the hells do you think you are!?" he shouted as he grabbed the man by the flag.


    From one moment to the next Kollin was on the mud; he seemed as confused as the rest of the crowd, rubbing his arm and looking up at his vanquisher. The man who dropped him swept a jaundiced eye towards the crowd; most of the women and the other children had joined the circle by now, the other soldier returning to his side. "I''m Serjeant Knub," he said, pointing a thumb at himself, "First Cohort, Third Regiment of the Royal Guard." He nodded at his confederate, "Me and Guardsman Peyter have been detached from the Winterkillers to ensure¡­" he trailed off, taking a bit of folded not-parchment from the vest that hugged his armor, "Groverick," he read before looking at them, "This is the village of Groverick, is it not?"


    Silence. Everyone knew someone who served with the Guard, but instincts honed through generations were not so easily forgotten. When armored men came asking questions you kept your mouth shut. Unless their tabards held the four hawks of House Terrick.


    "It is," Andon called out from the middle of the crowd. Villagefolk turned to stare angrily at him. What the hells do you all want me to do? He thought as he returned the stares, lie to the King''s own bloody Fists? It would be like lying to his own Father!


    "Good," said Serjeant Knub, tucking the not-parchment away. He was built like a burly pig, one of the wild ones with tusks and a mean temper. "We''ve been given the honor" -he said it as if it were a fate worse than flogging- "of bringing the village of Groverick up to Code. We''ll be starting in earnest the day past tomorrow, morning sharp."


    "Excuse me, Ser-jeant," said Taby, "I didn''t understand a word of that last you said."


    "We''re here for the C&R," he said, frowning.


    "The see what-now?" asked Old Tom.


    "The Codes and Regulations?" Nothing. "The King''s Decree? The defense of the land?" Every question out of the Serjeant brought a wave of shrugs and shakes out of the villagefolk. Soon the man was scowling and pacing, making a racket with his helmet''s flaps as he undid the string and took it off. He passed a hand through his smooth head, not a hair in sight though the gauntlet came out drenched with sweat. His wide pan-like ears were red, glowering at them. "The Others? The White Walker menace and the marching armies of the dead? Didn''t Lord Terrick warn about any of this?!"


    Oh, thought Andon. The villagefolk looked at each other, then paled. Oh, he thought again, the chill wind making him shiver. They''d been ''warned'' alright. The people of Groverick had listened dutifully as Lord Terrick''s son explained that the Others had risen from their ten-thousand year old slumber to invade the lands of the living and that soon the King''s own army would march to Groverick and turn them all into soldiers in case the wights ever stormed past the Neck. After they''d watched him ride back to Castle Terrick, they''d gathered inside Nettle''s Barn and closed the doors; they''d laughed so hard that Old Tom had fainted. Then the hooch had come out. And then Ma had fallen on him and Bale like the Smith''s own Hammer.


    But there was no good-natured gleam in Serjeant Knub''s eyes. If anything he looked even somber than Lord Terrick''s son, if such a thing was possible. They''re serious, Andon realized, another chill wracking his spine. "Bloody hells," Serjeant Knub said as he turned to his companion, "We''ll run it by the book then. Go."


    "Aye, Serjeant." Guardsman Peyter slapped a fist against his chesplate with the easy discipline of worn machinery. He went to his horse and retrieved a long piece of canvas, like the side of a tent. He nodded at his superior before taking a few steps forward, "Where''s the tavern?"


    "We ain''t got one!"


    "Don''t''ya get cheeky with me!" he said, "You lot have a hole to drink without the rain getting in the way. Now where is it?" He sneered, "Or do''yall use a trough?"


    "It''s that barn!" said Bale, and Andon never felt as proud for his brother than then. Revenge you hypocrites!


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    Guardsman Peyter walked towards it as if the crowd did not exist, ignoring their grumbling. It had the curious effect of making people stumble out of his way, and Andon swallowed a gout of envy. If he''d tried that he would''ve bounced off Long Jon''s belly like a thrown pebble, never mind the man rushing to get out if his way! He and Bale followed in Peyter''s wake, curious as the circle turned into an oval of sorts and the crowd stretched to face both men. The soldier reached the barn''s front wall and took out a hammer, nailing the wide piece of fabric across the stout planks. Andon frowned at the squiggles. "What does it say?" he asked Old Tom as the Guardsman made his way back.


    "Codes and¡­ Regulations," Old Tom read, blinking slowly, "for the Defense¡­ of the Kingdom¡­ of Westeros." Between the great letters and the mass of smaller ones was a big drawing; a wide landscape of people in all sorts of funny clothes. Some were clearly cattle-ranchers, at least going by the make of their leathers, and Andon also recognized the straw hats of farmers and sheep-herders. There were many more though; fishermen and blacksmiths, weavers and tough-looking woodsmen. Both men and women, they were all framed against a setting -or was it rising?- sun, standing in line and wielding some sort of short poleaxes against their shoulders. A silver lion lay triumphant atop the sun, but he was already entranced by the other, smaller drawings surrounding the mass of smaller text. Little diagrams of bells and signal-fires were drawn in luxurious detail, with little lines naming each part with squiggles. There were timbered earthworks and palisades, spike traps and watchtowers and strange machines of wood and rope that Andon had no name for. There were darker things as well; slack-jawed skeletons with arrows pointing at skulls and chests, burning septs with barred doors, and a blue smudge with white dots for eyes that sent shivers down his spine.


    "Goodman- I mean- Serjeant Knub," said Long Jon, drawing Andon back to this world. The Serjeant was standing atop the wagon Tabby''s Ma used to bring her wares to town, hefting a polished wooden case no longer than his forearm. "All that drivel ''bout the marching dead and the Othas¡­" Long Jon swallowed, "All that babble ''bout the War for Dawn we heard from the Young Hawk, it true?"


    The Serjeant scowled at him, but for a moment Andon swore there was pity in the man''s eyes. He cleared his voice and stretched a roll of parchment from the case, "People of Groverick! Listen now and listen well, for I speak the King''s own words!" The Serjeant''s chest puffed, his breathing deep as he licked his lips. The act of reading the King''s words seemed to fill Serjeant Knub with some nameless majesty, and Andon''s heart raced as he listened intently. The King himself was addressing him. A farmer''s son out of a village he doubted was even on the map. Not even when Septon Marimar came to preach did Groverick held its breath so. "My people," said King Joffrey Baratheon, Dragonslayer and Silver Lion, "As you have no doubt learned from your lords or ladies, we find ourselves on the edge of a great storm fit to ravage our continent. The legions of the dead march upon our Kingdom with death and destruction as their goal, and though my lords and regiments stand ready to greet them with a field of fire and steel fit to shake the world, the dead are many and filled with unnatural resolve." His voice boomed, "The war to come will offer no place to hide, no lands to forage, and no quarter to the defeated. If we are to survive then we are to fight! And if we are to fight then we are to do so smartly! It is with that purpose in mind that I''ve created a set of Codes and Regulations, to be followed throughout the land with no exceptions. If you can read, you will find the contents of it written across the taverns, septs, and castles of the Seven Kingdoms. If no one in your village can read, you may ask any of my soldiers to recite them to you by memory, for they are oath-bound to carry its edict come Hell or Last Winter." A proud smile raked across Serjeant Knub''s lips, gone in an instant as he took a breath of air, "Therein lie the lawful provisions to establish a Royal Militia, with the task of guarding your lands should the worst happen and the Wall were to fall." The words chilled Andon to the bone, The Wall? Fall?! "My people! Know that though the hour is dire, my leal lords and regiments stand ready to bring war to the White Walkers wherever they strike! Though the skies darken and the winter to come promises to bite deep, I have in my heart the utmost certainty that you will rise to the challenge with fire in your souls! If we have but the grit and bravery to triumph, I see beyond this war a future of peace and plenty, of halberds turned to sickles and summer without ending. If you but stand and bear the light with me, then I swear by all that is right and holy: We shall-prevail." Serjeant Knub came down of it with a heady breath, as if he''d taken a good hit from a long-pipe. The titles were a relief. "Signed, His Grace Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rohynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Commander of the Royal Guard. The Silver Lion, Dragonslayer, and Stormking."


    The cold wind blew little tufts of snow, the opened shutters banging against each other as the crowd stared at the Serjeant in numb shock. "What does it all mean?" someone asked.


    "It means that the day after tomorrow, I start bringing the King''s vision-" Serjeant Knub pointed at the fabric by the barn before stomping the little wagon -"into Groverick. I''ll have you learning how to move without tripping all over each other. Nothing fancy; basic directions so you can move down a road as a block and not a mob." He jumped off the wagon, "Then you''ll learn basic drill with a libard, if we ever get the damned shipment. You''ll learn skirmishing order for moving in rough terrain, and then utility stuff; things like how to build wight piles or basic field fortifications. Theory too; what''s a wight, what''s a Walker, and how to kill ''em dead. After that," he shrugged, "Depends on how much time we''ve left. The Codes go all the way from white to red; we''ll want to get Groverick as warm a color as possible."


    "What''ll that give us?" asked Old Tom, white eyebrows twisted into a fierce knot.


    "Your lives," said Knub, unfazed as he strapped his helmet back on. "A red-colored Royal Militia can be armed and formed up in less than five minutes after someone has roused the alarm. They can march out of their town or village in good order and deploy in an advanced position, perhaps to buy time for an evacuation or to make use of better terrain. If it disengages successfully, it can quick march back to town without routing, man pre-built fortified positions, and hold them with some skill." Serjeant Knub enumerated the benefits with his fingers, "They can execute basic hammer and anvil tactics, dig a dead-trench in less than half an hour, and understand both smoke signals and bell-speak. Hells," he smiled grudgingly, "They''d make decent regimental auxiliaries. Orange too. Maybe." The smile evaporated, "Not that I expect you lot to even touch that. Ask me, anything below yellow''s a waste of time. Aim below that and you might as well lock yourselves up in the sept and set the timbers on fire; save old wight the trouble."


    A voice pipped up, "Good thing Regiment didn''t ask you, ser."


    "Guardsman Peyter," said Knub as he looked back, "Shut yer'' trap."


    "Yes, Serjeant!" said Peyter.


    The corner of his mouth was twitching when he turned back to Andon''s section of the crowd. "Weekdays will be divided into short days and long days. Short days we''ll train one hour, long days two. Full day will be once a week, and yes, it''s exactly what It sounds."


    "How the bloody hells are we''supposed to find all that time?" said Long Jon.


    "Last harvest''s in," Knub said with an evil smirk, "Plenty of time between drinking and sleeping." The men ruffled awkwardly. That was a shitty first argument, thought Andon.


    "That''s not true for some of us!" said one of the shepherds. He had the decency to leave his bottle of hooch on the ground before voicing the challenge.


    "I can adapt to local conditions," said Knub, "Sell me on it and we''ll work something out. Don''t even try to fully sneak your way out of it, my patience only goes so far."


    "And thun'' what? We gonna march all day like those guard-boys crossed the fork a week ago?" said Fat Gollys, "You''ll run us all to the ground before them-" he struggled with the word "-wights coming barging down!" Things were moving so fast Andon hadn''t really processed the fact that there was such a thing as a White Walker and that it was in fact marching towards the Wall right now. Already they''d moved on to how well they could be expected to fight it.


    "An extra grain dole will be passed on from Castle Terrick. You''ll work on full bellies."


    "And what if he says he''s got nothin'' to give!" cried someone. A few nodded sagely; lords were a greedy lot, it was known.


    "Then a King''s Aide will ride to Castle Terrick and he''ll argue with Lord Terrick''s maester until they both go green. If your lord''s telling the truth then the royal granaries will bring in the food. If he''s not¡­" Knub smiled, "Well, then he''ll certainly be marching on an empty stomach."


    Strange was the King that could not protect his own subjects but could compel his lords to cough up precious grain. Then again, King Joffrey Baratheon was anything but ordinary. The man killed a dragon with his bare hands for Seven''s sake.


    "Anymore questions?" said Knub. The banging shutters were his answer, swinging faster now that the wind picked up. "Good. I''ll want everyone over the age of twelve gathered here morning after tomorrow. In the meanwhile me and Guardsman Peyter will be asking questions ''round here and surveying the land. We''ll-"


    "Wait just a moment," said one of the farmers, face red, "The women too?!"


    "Old wight doesn''t care!" Knub''s voice thundered across the square, "He doesn''t care if you''ve a shaft or a cave, if you''re old as stone or a babe in arms. He. Will. Kill. You. All!" His eyes were wide, his scowl deep and hateful. Andon was surprised by the sheer vehemence behind the man. "He''ll seek to tear the guts out of you!" he said as he slashed his hand at Old Tom. "And you! And you! Even you!" he said as he pointed at pale-faced Taby and Andon scowled. Like hell they will! Knub was deadly serious, the enormity of his claims just now punching the village in the gut. The White Walkers, the Others, they were real, and they were coming. "And he will! Unless you lot put in the sweat, blood, and tears needed to stand to up to the fucker and say no!"


    The resulting silence was heavy with the prospect of war against the undead. It was scarcely believable, but then again; why would the lords of the land, the King, and his own soldiers collude to make up such a wild tale? King Robert Baratheon had been no liar, and neither was his son. War, Andon thought, stunned. The Serjeant and the Guardsman took their silence as acquiescence, and they set off to walk the perimeter around the village, asking lots of questions and making squiggles on the short piece of not-parchment that the Serjeant carried. The day after tomorrow, their instruction began.


    -: PD :-


    The Serjeant was as good as his word. They marched up and down the trails of Groverick and the Kingsroad. They spent evenings in Nettle''s Barn not drinking but listening to the Serjeant as he explained the mechanics of wight-fighting with haunted eyes. They dug trenches and built little palisades, and then they marched again. Most of all there was libard drill; soon enough Andon was going through the guards, stabs, and crushes in his sleep. No man could walk longer than a quarter league from the village square without carrying his weapon with him, and those that did were left in the stockade to soak in the rain for an afternoon. The libard was a mongrel aptly named. A ''little-halberd''; it was a two-handed short poelaxe of an exceedingly simple design. Little pikehead on one side, blade on the other. It was so simple to make that Long Jon did exactly that, his smithy filled with the villagefolk''s scythes as he worked day and night; there were not enough libards coming out of the King''s industries to satisfy demand. The design was so that you could ram it into the earth and use it as a half-baked shoved without dulling the blade, and it was to be cared and tended to as ''that other lover you hide from your spouse,'' in Serjeant Knub''s own words.


    The months passed in a frenzy of work, autumn dying to winter day by day. Their valley began to be dotted with traps and simple watchtowers. Landslides were prepared with clever timberwork, pit traps were dug at choke points, and fortified palisades were raised at crests and hills near clusters of farms. Castle Terrick was expanded; timbered battlements and covered walkways were raised, and the approaches were filled with obstacles. Throughout it all Andon worked like never before, possessed with a communal zeal the likes of which he''d never before felt. He saw it reflected in the gazes of his neighbors; in Old Tom as he cooked big cauldrons of soup for Fulldays, in Ma as Bale corrected her posture with the libard, in Taby as they stole furious kisses behind Nettle''s Barn. It seemed everyone had been swept along into one great struggle, everyone a part of one great giant readying for a terrible blow. Itinerant Septons visited the village often, mouths filled with fire and faith as they swept their hands with grand gestures in Groverick''s square. They preached about the Sacrifice for Dawn, about the Promise of Summer and the Light of the Silver Lion. Lord Terrick bellowed with them as they raised the pillars of watchtower nine, and they cried with him when they found the Young Hawk hanged in his own room. It was a battle against terror, a war against despair waged before the first wight crossed blades with the King. They were interconnected, the whole land of one mind, everyone a soldier. Teamsters worked a path against storms and floods to bring helmets and libards to the surrounding villages. Messengers rode through day and night to deliver news to Serjeant Knub''s Militia Command in Nettle''s Barn. Work details from a hundred different settlements worked together to turn the Neck into a deathtrap fit to slow any army of the dead. Peddlers brought word of great ship convoys carrying steel and machinery to the North, of spontaneous vigils held at torchlight throughout King''s Landing, Old Town, Lannisport, Maidepool. The ''Kingdom Spirit'' Serjeant Knub called it, and it was as good a name as any. They left the ignominy of white and climbed to blue, and then to brown.


    On a chill morning still blue under the cover of clouds, Andon blinked at the new ''poster'' nailed on the front of Nettle''s Barn. A regal lady sat on a tree branch, a sapphire crown on her head and a wolf''s pelt on her shoulders. Below her were intrepid looking boys and young men, foxes between them and staring in the same direction. They were taking cover in the forest, shading their eyes or pointing at the columns of marching grey silhouettes on the valley below. "What''s that all about?" he asked Guardsman Petyer after walking inside, rubbing his hands against the anemic fire by the hearth.


    "Decree to establish the Queen''s Foxes," said Peyter, passing a whetstone on the halberd that never left his side. "Arrived with that Raider over there." He pointed a chin at the corner of the Barn, where a sharp-eyed man in boiled leathers was busy ravaging a steaming bowl of chicken soup.


    "The Queen''s Foxes?" Andon said as he turned back to Peyter, scratching his struggling beard. It felt as anemic as the fire. The guardsman shrugged, standing so close to the fire Andon feared he''d burn. Thank the Seven today''s a short day.


    "The Queen''s Foxes," echoed the Raider, suddenly standing right behind him. "I''m glad you asked." His smile was that of a killer''s.


    The Queen''s Foxes were the scouting arm of a village''s Royal Militia, made up of the boys and girls most intimate with the surrounding countryside. Andon, having played around Feldryn Forest throughout most of his childhood, was a natural fit, and the oldest of the lot trained under Raider Dalyn''s command. They learned the basics of woodcraft and stealth, their newfound duties taking them away from militia drills. When the man left, hell-bent on training the next village on the map, Andon took command of their little force of foxes. Many were barely eleven namedays old, having the time of their lives by day and screaming with night terrors by night. The forage scraped and tore at his skin, and the cold left him so numb he sometimes took hours in front of a fire to feel his feet again, but he leveraged that hard-earned experience to the hilt. He trained the younger ones in turn, running them through multi-day exercises around the defense perimeters and camping out by frozen streams and pre-covered overhangs. He reported directly to Serjeant Knub as they coordinate defense drills and trained for surprise sightings. In time he came to consider the man a friend; they spent many a stormy afternoon with Guardsman Peyter and Old Tom by their little corner in Nettle''s Barn, sketching out tactics and discussing rumors in hushed whispers as Mollie served them broth. And sometimes hooch.


    One night, glued to Taby''s back as he kissed her neck and they passed the storm under a deserted stable, he realized he''d grown into a man. "Alfus offered to hire me, after the war''s over," he said.


    Taby snorted hay, turning to look at him, "They''ll keep you traipsing in the woods, even after it''s all over?"


    "He said I''d make a fine woodsman for Lord Terrick after he retires. Make good coin out of it." He kissed her slowly as the rain redoubled, pattering the thatched roof without end.


    "Enough to buy that farm?" she asked when they broke. It was not only about buying a farm; it was about making it official.


    Andon smiled, "I''ll have to ask your Da'' about that first. If he doesn''t brain me first."


    Taby sneaked an arm past the thick covers and grabbed her libard. She thwacked him gently on the forehead, "He''ll have to get past me first!"


    They laughed and made love. That night, a snowstorm knifed autumn like a thief in the dark, and Groverick''s Royal Militia was mustered in earnest for the first time. Him and Taby worked with the rest of their section, shoveling snow and digging up the houses on the northern slopes of Koffer Hill. They found Taby''s Ma and Da frozen in their sleep, her little brothers covered in a delicate layer of frost. The Walkers had delivered the first blow. S~?a??h the N?v?lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The onset of winter saw their preparations reach a fever pitch. They gathered great stockpiles of firewood and scoured the forests for beasts to make good cloaks and coats. They listened in dread as Knub explained the particulars of ''Last Defiance'' and how to make sure their their bodies burned to a crisp, if the battle were ever to turn hopeless. News and rumors reached Groverick constantly on the voices of the septons and the peddlers, on the hushed whispers of royal messengers when plied with heat and ale. Grander happenings stormed the land; a response to the rising snow, each one bigger than the last. The Conclave gathered in the Starry Sept in Old Town and declared every man, woman, and child to die fighting the Others a martyr in the eyes of the Seven. First Swanlord Gerion Lannister and the might of the Summer Islands answered the King''s call. Nature itself rebelled against the marching enemy; sparrows and ravens brought word of troop movements beyond the Wall.


    War was on the horizon, creeping closer every night, frosting windows and smothering fires. Regimental dispatches told Knub of hushed skirmishes in the snow, the King''s Raiders and the Free Folk Volunteers seeking to delay the marching Others as much as they could. The next one asked for their color readiness.


    A grim smile had taken Knub, a single word his reply; Orange.


    Perhaps grandest of them all was the rumor that the King and Queen were destined to battle winter''s own general; the dread red light that had settled on the night sky like a second sun, glaring down on them all. The Crown had a plan, they said, a lethal strike against the enemy. Westeros had to hold though, hold at all costs. Hold and tie down the enemy for as long they could.


    One afternoon after a fullday of work, he''d finally asked Knub if he''d ever killed a wight.


    "Aye," he said after a long while, fortified by a tankard of ale. They were in their usual spot, the triangle of tables by the corner of Nettle''s Barn, the hearth flickering softly. Groverick''s Militia Command; the name was grander than reality. Great tempests of wind rattled awnings and shutters, cold and dry with not a flicker of snow in the air. The sun glowered cloudless and weary, accosted by the red light on its shoulder. "We were digging up barrows and dead mammoths when the Queen sounded the alarm. I was there when she stopped the beast with a single look." His eyes were hazy, his ears pale instead of their usual red. "Then the wights came storming out the forest like an avalanche. I''d never seen anything like it, they were so many."


    Guardsman Peyter nodded solemnly, "It was madness after they breached the palisade. Me'' squad barely made it to the second line."


    "Mine didn''t," said Knub. "We got cut off and made our stand in a barracks. Damn walls collapsed on us." He swallowed. "Too many," he whispered.


    Old Tom looked at his fingers. He voiced the question that had prickled Groverick for months, his tone respectful; Serjeant Knub had earned that. "That why you scream so'' at night, Serjeant?"


    For a moment Andon thought he''d strike him, but they''d gone through too much for that. Too many months of training together, too many salutes by funeral pyres, too many words of strength for those that''d cried as the fires waned. Instead he shrunk unto himself, the fire in his eyes guttering for the first time. "Everyone had them night terrors," he said, loosing himself in the tankard, "Mine just didn''t stop." He chuckled as a boar must''ve, if it''d been struck by a spear, "That''s why Regiment sent me here."


    A Fox stumbled through the door, all thirteen namedays huffing and puffing. Peyter was first with his halberd, but they all followed quickly, libards in hand. "Seh!" he said as he took big mouthfuls of air.


    "Breathe Lein, breathe!" said Andon.


    "Yes seh!" said Lein, massaging his throat.


    Andon waited until he looked more than two seconds away from passing out, "Report."


    He hyperventilated again, "There''s soldiers on the Kingsroad, marching north! They cover the road as far as the eye can see!"


    They exchanged quick looks before storming out of the Barn. They weren''t the first to reach the Kingsroad; half of Groverick had gotten there first, and just in time to witness the man and woman at the head of the column.


    "The King," whispered Andon. He rode a silver lion almost as large as the horses of the knights that covered his flanks, his armor as deep and mesmerizing as the night sky. Crowned in wickedly sharp antlers, his weighty gaze seemed to cup Andon with willpower alone. Then it skipped to Taby, to Old Tom, to Bale and Mollie and Long Jon and everyone standing as straight as soldiers, too shocked to kneel, libards in hand.


    That gaze found Knub, and the King gave him a single nod. "Excellent work, Serjeant."


    The guttering fire behind Knub''s eyes roared into a second life, the Serjeant standing tall with squared shoulders as he slammed a fist against his chestplate.


    "Keep your wits about you, my clever foxes," said a soothing voice, and Andon found himself looking at the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. "Cold days brave we must," she said with the Mother''s own smile. Northern pelts covered chainmail armor, her easy grace carried by the enormous direwolf prowling by the King''s side. The King and Queen passed him by too fast for him to react, and he tried to close his mouth as he gazed at the hundred knights in silver armor following in their wake. Grim-faced and armed with lances and maces, they made their way in solemn silence, and behind them¡­ Behind them was the muster of the Seven Kingdoms.


    Their marching steps made for a rumbling thunderstorm, a tempo fit to shake the world. Never before had Andon seen so many people in the same place. The lords rode their chargers with boisterous dignity, their lances held upright, the sky run amok with the banners of the west; beasts snarling to the wind, castles stout and strong, fields and flowers promising warmth and summer. Men-at-Arms and semi-professional levies filled the road from end to end, their complexions hailing from every corner of the land, their faces hiding the same fear and trepidation. They carried the panoply of war with them; mallets and hammers, longbows and spears, kite shields and crossbows. It sent a tingle down Andon''s throat, the sight of his people marching for war.


    Most fearsome of all were the singing regiments of the Royal Guard; one armored snake marching like a single man, halberds on shoulders and arms like pendulums. They sung of death and glory, at a rhythm with their stride. They sung of loves lost and last promises uttered before the dawn. Most of all they sung of summer; of children run amok and graves covered in grass. On and on they marched; crossbow cohorts with tower shields and heavy bolts, assault troops garbed in fullplate and armed with dragonglass, strike-companies hefting tripods and stagrams. Tall square-faced banners divided the segments of the snake, each section of it singing of past victories paid for in the blood of friends. The Mistwalkers, first of the first. The Nightsails, twin lines of coal beneath their eyes. The Winterkillers, bane of the Walkers. The Dragonslayers, chestplates winged and red. Andon didn''t glimpse his Da within the ranks of the Second, his ship lost long ago after ramming a Volantene galleon, but he saluted his friends and comrades all the same. Knub slammed his chestplate as the Third Regiment marched by, and they returned the honor to their Serjeant.


    They were people just like him, scared and shivering through the cold. Marching despite it all, unwilling to give up. Groverick didn''t cheer as they say the lords did when they answered the call. They bared witness instead, giving out what food and clothes they could spare to those marching souls. "Give ''em hells, Your Grace," Knub whispered as the soldiers lost themselves on the horizon, the Neck swallowing them whole. Andon hoped it would be enough. He prayed to the Gods that all the might of Westeros would be enough. Taby hefted her libard against her shoulder and squeezed his hand. Bring us summer, King Joffrey, he thought before squeezing back. For Da sleeping with Blackfyre. For Taby''s family coated in frost. For the Young Hawk hanged by despair.


    "First Groverick!" said Serjeant Knub, tall and misty-eyed, "Form up! Let''s march home." And so they did.


    Weeks later, the Red Comet surged in the night sky. The cold wind shrieked down from the hilltops and the mountains, scything through naked trees and biting through hearth and fur. The people of Groverick held vigil under that scarlet light, fluttering torches in their hands. They didn''t have to be told.


    The war had begun.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 76: The Battle for the Wall.

    Chapter 76: The Battle for the Wall.When the Red Comet first appeared in any of his lives it was as a dark red dagger, sailing across the night sky like an open wound. And in every life he could remember, he''d stare up that night and blink at its clear-cut silhouette, twinkling between silent stars. It was an amorphous herald, the Comet. Its face changed as the months flew by and the world kept spinning through the void, the intercept looming large. When he''d climbed up twisting trees and spied its form between the lush canopies of Sothorios, its tail had taken a sinuous form, its glow touched by bright scarlet. As realms fell and the world froze, from the beaches of sunny Jhalia its bulk had grown: a scaled beetle hung from the sun''s neck. No longer a herald, but a harbinger.


    Now it was a bloody ruby perched on clean blue horizons, a little moon haloed in a red mantle that waved to the ground, as if tugged by cosmic winds. Joffrey stared at his enemy in the sky, now close enough to the earth that its light casted a murky shadow on the Wall; a second sun quiet and gazing. He felt an uncertain familiarity, an echo of recognition as he strained to hear softly whirring clicks, the calculus of its crystalline mind. It''s ready, Joffrey realized with bone deep certainty. Ready for its mission. Ready to bequeath the Silence. Cold wind tugged his hair. Did the Comet sense him as he sensed it? So many lives spent looking at it, so many lives immersed in the tug of war between Song and Silence. By now it was an old acquaintance; didn''t it recognize him? Impossible, according to the Deep Ones.


    And yet¡­


    "Yes, serjeant?" he said, eyebrows knit together as he tried to make sense of the echo. The recognition.


    "Your Grace," whispered the man, fear and awe in his voice. Joffrey took the message in his hands. "It arrived by raven ten minutes ago. From the Lord Commander''s ranging party."


    He rolled open the slip of parchment, reluctantly taking his eyes from the Comet. Castle Black had been holding its breath since dawn, the usual bustle subdued as levies and guardsmen alike looked up at the unusually clear skies with suspicion. They gathered around campfires, slips of bacon sizzling between bubbling pots of stew that stank of cabbage; a sea of tents in strained contemplation. Waiting for the word.


    Found them. Blizzard hid the real numbers from the Queen. Must be at least half a million wights in the van, more behind them. Advancing on a broad front all along the Wall. Expect them by nightfall. It was signed in a shaky hand by the Lord Commander.


    Joffrey felt a crackling cold envelop his bones, spreading from the inside out as he looked up at the Comet again, its mantle of light like fingers caressing the sky. He felt its attention centered on this place. On him. As calm as the breeze over the God''s Eye. It was ready, and so was he.


    "It''s time."


    "Your Grace?"


    He crumpled the message, "Signal all castles; they''re here. Man the Wall."


    A second of choked silence passed before the serjeant nodded slowly. "Aye, sire," he said before taking off at a dead run, hollering and shoving men out of the way. Joffrey made his way to elevator four as bells began to toll; small ringing century-bells and deep clanging cohort ones, different pitches of the same cadence. Tents convulsed like raging beehives, spitting out soldiers busy donning furs and armor. Horns began to sound by the scores as knights and lords bellowed for squires, as armsmen congregated below banners filled with fierce beasts rattled by the cold wind. A vortex of will and manpower formed around Joffrey as if by the laws of nature, and he found himself bellowing orders and directing soldiers, the Song swelling with every passing minute. They would stand. They had to.


    "We''ll hold, Joffrey." Ned must have seen the simmering dread in his face; he placed an armored hand on his shoulder.


    "We need a year. Five months at the very least," he said, "We have to get those reserves out of the Crystal Palace." If they resisted enough, they''d force the Comet to commit those reserves or else spend precious power in an escalation.


    Elevator four was already winching up, powerful teams of oxen carrying aloft along with scores of knights and soldiers.


    "We''ll hold," Ned said again, a father reassuring a son in the midst of night; only now the monsters prowling in the dark were real. Ravens were everywhere, cawing as they avoided the ropes of the many elevators making their way up the Wall, whirling in a rain of dark feathers before spreading both east and west, bearing the call; Night comes, rouse the Wall.


    The Silver Knights around him breathed slowly, a whisk of both dread and anticipation hanging in the air. Now came the time to fulfill in truth those righteous vows, uttered under the light of the Red Comet and the keen sheen of Brightroar. Their Lord Commander stood as still as a statue chiseled out of bronze and silver, tower shield in one hand and battleaxe in the other. Ser Samwell had placed his warhammer over his shoulder, holding it with one hand. With the other he held hefty tome, reading it intently as they kept rising through the air, the winds growing colder by the minute. Ser Brienne paced in front of the other knights, longsword nestled against her pauldron as she pitched her voice to carry, "If the knight in front of you is killed, then you will step forward and take his place! The man behind you will drag the knight back and sever his spine by the neck!" she said, the guardsmen standing straight but craning their necks so they could see her. "At all times we follow the banner of the Antlered Lion! We will form a silver wall around the King, and slay anything that tries to flank through!" The Silver Knights nodded in unison, proud and filled with a gritty, righteous chivalry so similar and yet so fundamentally different to those Summer Knights he''d seen so long ago, jousting by Renly''s pavilion. Beyond Ser Brienne and the knights scores of elevators rose with them; stepped platforms climbing steadily up the Wall.


    Joffrey used the time to sink through the eddies of the Purple, centering his mind in the instant. The moment between inhalation an exhalation. He surveyed the depths of the Purple and channeled its fractal power out of his soul, around his body. His armor of distant stars formed beneath his winter furs; a collage of deep space speckled with dots yellowed and white, blue and scarlet. His promise to protect the little flames cast adrift on a lonely dot, sailing through the void. When the elevator shuddered to a stop at the top of the Wall, Joffrey lay encased in plate thrumming with fractal strength, pauldrons of raw copper reflecting a dull green and giving weight to its ethereal form.


    The few remaining Brothers of the Night''s Watch would''ve been hard pressed to recognize the top of the Wall. It had been crowned in parapets of timber and stone; peppered with towers and bastions, dotted with murder holes and bonfires. Joffrey strode off the elevator surrounded by a racket of steel and mail as the Silver Knights followed, surveying the defenses with Ned at his side. Guardsmen, levies, armsmen; he''d drilled them well. They carried great racks of fuel and ammunition, manning defensive emplacements filled with all manner of heavy weaponry. Long nosed siege stagrams pointed at the sky in batteries of eight, engineers winding up cranks and aiming at pre-sighted positions. Soldiers spun trebuchet ropes with purposeful heaves, stabbing long rods of wood one after the other before pulling the axles another quarter-turn back. Northeners rammed wickedly serrated bolts into the ballistas peeking over the sheer drop, and crossbows were passed from hand to hand through human chains spanning entire sections.


    He reached the bastion that had been built and expanded directly above Castle Black, the so-called Lion''s Den, a strange reflection of the Dawn Fort''s Stand which had stood upon the Outer Wall. From that raised platform he surveyed the length of the Wall as far as the eye could see, filled with activity as the sun made its way to the west. A secondary parapet had been built behind the main section where the fighting would take place, giving elevation to a second line of crossbowmen so they could loose into the melee without fear of hitting their allies.


    "Castle Black manned and ready," said one of his aides. Behind him lay the nerve center from which Joffrey commanded his section of the Wall, from the Night Fort to Sable Hall. Ravens came and went through narrow windows, sending Handmaidens, maesters, and aides scrambling for records and ink.


    Sandor had been waiting for him. He gave the big brazier by the middle of the room a healthy distance, circling around it before reaching his side. "The Raiders are ready. They''re already armed with dragonglass and taking positions all around the Wall."


    "Good," said Joffrey.


    "Any sign of Lord Commander Mormont?" asked Ned.


    "Not yet," said Sandor, "The ballsy bastard is probably seeing if he can creep in closer and count out the rearguard."


    "Queensgate manned and ready!" one of the aides called out. On the walls of the Den were mounted wooden boards marked with the names of the Wall''s nineteen castles, all with their troop formations and latest readiness reports tacked on. The most prominently displayed ones were those Joffrey had under his direct command; the seven castles comprising the center of the Wall.


    Joffrey leaned on the balcony, "He better make it back soon. We haven''t got much time."


    "Woodswatch-by-the-Pool manned and ready!"


    "Sable Hall manned and ready!"


    Joffrey listened to the reports with one ear, watching the sun make its slow rendezvous with the west as the hours flew by. It eventually collided with those distant horizons, turning into a splotch of grey orange of equal intensity to the Red Comet staring from up north. Watching. Waiting.


    Tyrion tugged his shoulder, "Message from the Shadowtower; Western Flank manned and ready.


    "That''s the Wall secured from the Shadowtower to Icemark. Tywin''s doing good so far," said Joffrey.


    "You were right to put him there," Tyrion said reluctantly.


    "Hm." Joffrey blinked at his uncle, "What are you doing here?"


    He waved the slip of parchment he''d taken from a raven, "Helping keep this whole thing from falling apart."


    "Don''t be obtuse, uncle. You know what''s coming."


    His eyes took a defiant glint, "I''ve got my armor on, as you can see. Oiled it just for the occasion."


    Joffrey sighed, "Yes but-"


    "But what?" said Tyrion, "What was that you said an hour ago? ''Every man must do his duty?''"


    "I didn''t say that-"


    "You whispered it. Must have been Stannis'' ghost."


    "Uncle-"


    "Uncle nothing!" he said, eyes blazing, "''If Westeros is to survive every man woman and child must do his part!'' You''ve said it a hundred times! Well, you need me here to oversee this gaggle of failed acolytes, senile maesters, and fretting ladies still dreaming of true love! Else you''ll say ''Oakenshield sally out'' and instead the Nightfort will go Last Defiance."


    This is important to him, Joffrey realized, before mentally slapping his face. He could almost hear Sansa''s voice, You don''t think?! He ran the gamut of possible retorts before slumping his shoulders with a huff, "Fine. Its just¡­ If something happened¡­."


    Tyrion smiled sadly, looking at the others, "What about Lord Stark?"


    A long sigh, wish he was away too. "Half the North is manning the center; they''d rebel without him here. He better stay in the Den though."


    Ned''s icy facade took an amused glint. Not bloody likely¡­


    "And Robar?"


    "I need the Silver Knights organized from here-"


    "And leave my King alone during the opening hours of the Second War for Dawn?" Ser Robar didn''t look amused, he seemed downright insulted. Stupid Vale honor¡­


    "Sandor?" said Tyrion.


    "He''s the only one the Raiders fear besides me, but he should still be-"


    Tyrion shook his head, cutting him off. He took Joffrey''s hand with his own, "Nephew- We''re all in this together; need to be. You saw to that. We can''t avoid the danger of what''s coming anymore than you can snap your fingers and order the Comet begone." He smiled again, looking at Ned and Sandor and Robar, "We need to be here. We want to. Because-"


    "You can''t do it alone," said Sandor, smile grim under the light of the bonfires soaring higher with every log fed.


    "Message from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea!" cried someone, "Eastern Flank manned and ready!"


    "And that''s Legate Snow supporting my point," said Tyrion.


    Joffrey sighed, filled with silent companionship as the hour grew closer, tension filling the air bit by bit as the fires grew taller. He could feel the breathing of a hundred thousand souls with him, a chorus in the Song swelling in life with every soldier manning his post, with every Handmaiden reaching her aid station. He''d brought them here, he''d brought them all here on the promise of life and unity¡­ and now the time came to defend that flame, to become the protectors, the watchers of stars.


    We''re ready, thought Joffrey, standing tall with pride but filled with dread, the light of the Red Comet patient, somber, constant. We''re ready, he whispered, but so was the Cycle.


    -: PD :-


    When the Red Comet lay undiminished in the night sky, the sun long buried and the moon but a tiny sliver in the distance, the first White Walker emerged from the Haunted Forest. Even at such a distance, his eye was drawn to the glimmer of its crystalline sword and the smoky depths of its icy armor, hiding amorphous shapes. Joffrey felt as if it was looking right at him, unperturbed by the thousand bonfires lining the Wall in infernal splendor.


    Whispers of Night King began to spread amongst the ranks as Joffrey locked eyes with the distant being, feeling for the solid Silence around it like a blind man groping for a nightstand. It felt slightly different from the other Walkers now emerging from the forest; a cavalcade of Winter''s chivalry armed and armored in ice. The Silence in the Song threaded through it, a nexus among the other platforms. S?a??h the N0v?lFire(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Joffrey," whispered Ned, leaning on the battlements, "Is that their leader? Perhaps if we¡­"


    He shook his head, "I fought something similar, way back at the Dawn Fort. A Commander-Walker of some sort, carrying a big hammer. Its death might have slowed the others down a bit, I''m not sure. By then I was too far gone to really notice the difference."


    Ned sighed, "A pity. Robert would''ve loved seeing you end things like that."


    Joffrey grimaced, "If only it were that simple."


    More Walkers made their way out of the forest, facing the entirety of the Wall as far the eye could see. A quick word was sent to ''Grandmaester Pycelle'', but the old man that walked up the top of the tower lacked the Grandmaester''s constant shaking for all that he bared his face. "It is indeed as you suspect, Your Grace," said Pycelle''s voice and Marwyn''s soul, eyes white and murky, "The dead face the Wall entire, their ranks so deep even I can''t see beyond."


    The banners atop the Wall fluttered under the increasingly heavy winds, red legion numerals and noble heraldry alike shivering under the deepening cold. "The entire Wall¡­" Joffrey whispered, "They won''t try to crack a breach."


    "Could they have the numbers to simply overwhelm us?" said Ned.


    "We''ve more than'' a hundred thousand men atop this hunk of ice," said Sandor, "Mormont said half a million wights. That''s five to one odds, plenty goon enough for a siege."


    "This isn''t a normal siege. They''ve got wights and walkers," said Tyrion.


    "And we''ve got the Wall," said Sandor.


    Ned frowned, his grip bone-white on sheathed Ice, "That''s just the van though. We don''t know what strength they''ve got hidden behind those blizzards."


    The discussion picked up in intensity. "Mormont must know, where the hells is he?"


    "We should have the Maesters join forces and try to glimpse beyond-"


    Joffrey clenched his teeth, tapping fingers at a beat with the Song, growing strained under the gathering silence within the edges of the Haunted Forest. The Red Comet shimmered softly, unperturbed as his inner circle kept arguing. Joffrey imagined its voice, a gravel of crushing and reforming crystal devoid of emotion and tunneled by Silence. ''Two can play the waiting game,'' he imagined it saying, massing and reanimating troops with the calm confidence of a veteran cyvasse player. It had been busy, his ancient enemy. Just as busy as Joffrey, preparing for their destined clash.


    Spoiler: Music


    ----


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ----


    His voice cut through the noise, "It doesn''t matter; whatever numbers they have, the Wall must stand," he said as they turned to look at him, "Lord Tarly and the Second Line can reinforce local breaches and cycle troops out of the front, but if the Wall outright falls even his host won''t be enough to hold them back." Determined nods and deep sights gathered around him; they knew the stakes well. The North was garrisoned along three main lines holding the might of the Seven Kingdoms, with the first -and strongest- manning the Wall itself. Provided enough time, each line could send reinforcements north in exchange for the wounded, and absorb localized breaches or raids that pierced the line above it. Such an awesome defense couldn''t make up for the brutal realities of geography though; the North was simply too big. If the Wall was outright taken by the enemy, the nearest choke point suitable enough for another stand worth taking would be the Neck.


    If the Wall falls, the North falls with it, he thought, and shivered. He thought of the Umbers ale in hand. Of Wintefell''s cooks always so frazzled by the King''s arrival. Of the quays of White Harbor teeming with fishwives and laborers as they unloaded supplies. All those people, dead or turned refugees.


    Joffrey took a deep breath, his starry plate crisscrossed by fractals. Over my dead body. He felt Sansa''s hand caressing his cheek, leagues away overseeing politics and logistics from Winterfell, the knot tying the supply lines of the Seven Kingdoms into one. Together, he heard her whisper.


    The Battle for the Wall began when the mass of the dead emerged from the Haunted Forest like an ocean swell, a horizon spanning tidal wave churning with bone and steel and bronze. They scuttled on stumps; rags of bone held together only by malignant Silence. They ran as tribes of dead hunters, walrus tusks gleaming on the ends of their spears. They charged like warriors of old, tall and straight, legends clad in bronze and gathered for one final war. All along the stretch of no-man''s land they charged, and within that mighty swell of undeath rode giants with loping gaits, churning snow aside like runaway ships. Their frowning skulls still wore caps thick with mammoth fur, and within their rotten frames they carried wights like limpets clinging to a corpse. As that massive Army of Winter devoured the distance between Forest and Wall, they shrieked a horrible battlecry of the damned; a shrill note eerie with pain and despair, a gasping song of ending. The giants echoed with cries long and deep; choking bellows whose bass grasped forth like a physical hand and crushed the wind out of Joffrey''s lungs.


    All along the Wall men shuddered back under that terrifying blast, that song of despair. Their faces cringed with fear, pale and weak under the light of the bonfires, bleached of all color. The very will to live strained under that charge, a devouring emptiness that was all-encompassing Silence.


    Joffrey stood atop the crenelations hefting a ray of shimmering Valyrian steel crossed by the Purple, antlers of stars pointing at the sky as a touch of the Silver Lion''s roar tingled in his throat. "For the Living!!!" he bellowed, a fierce cry echoing all along the Wall and beyond, beyond the fabric and through the Song and the souls of men; a roar of life and love and pure unbridled savage defiance. Westeros roared with him, a hundred thousand voices screaming at the dark, and from that mighty challenge rained fire. Hard clinks of wood on iron heralded an orchestra of sizzling ropes, scores at first, then hundreds as enormous trebuchets waved their arms at the dark horizon. A thousand fireballs leapt from the towering heights of the Wall and joined the Comet up in the sky, a red constellation that hung from the void before falling like meteors within the sea of the dead. Their impact thundered against the earth, crushing through wights, tearing chunks off giants and leaving them aflame as they bellowed agony at the heavens now red with the fires of men.


    Joffrey lowered Brightroar, "We are the Watchers of Stars," he whispered at the Comet, aglow with malignant scarlet, "We are the Masters of our Fate."


    "Fire!!!" bellowed the Hound, his face disfigured by the red. Siege stagrams ignited, fizzling screams dominated the Wall before giving way to deep roars as they tore off their mounts with savage fury. They drew contrails of smoke between the stars, entire flights of them crossing the void in waves as their roars pitched to a fever high. They reached the heaving mass of the undead and through orange flashes transformed themselves into thundering fountains of dirt; huge plumes of fire that tore wights apart and rattled the chests of those watching above. The explosions swept away entire groups as if slapped by the hands of titanic gods, leaving gaping holes in the mass of grey that were quickly refilled.


    That churning mass of screaming bone absorbed everything they threw at it, a holocaust of fire and steel devouring them for every step taken. The orgy of destruction intensified the closer they got to the Wall, fire and sweat against death and bone as ballistas added their cries to the battle and warhorns thundered across the castles of the Wall. A heady trance caressed Joffrey''s mind as he found himself between his men, Ned at his side bellowing orders and Sandor tossing soldiers at jammed siege engines. This was the war he''d been made to fight. Not of man against man, but life against end. Song against Silence. He walked amidst snarling ballistas spewing flaming pots and serrated bolts, levies of a hundred noble houses working in unison as they cranked winches and pulled levers with strained huffs. He sidestepped sighing counterweights as trebuchets let loose, wood crackling wearily under the strain. Centurions bellowed for crossbows under the light of the bonfires tickling the darkness, eyes crazed and scared and righteous. Westeros had answered the call. The Night would not triumph. They would not give in.


    He stared down the battlements as the sea of death reached the foot of the Wall and began its climb, covering its severe height inch by inch, a grey tide of climbing limbs devouring the distance in the span between breaths.


    "Scythes!" he roared, Brightroar bright-red under the clash of Comet and fire, "Ready scythes!!!" he said as the damned shrieked again. "Now!!!"


    With a deep and crackling rumble, the Wall let drop a score twin-bladed monsters made of wrought iron. Many of them were the huge anvils used by Ibbenese whaling ships, donated by the City so that all may live. They were propelled by gravity''s harsh pull, their fall drawing pendulums on the Wall before swiping the climbing dead away. Their passage over the Wall''s surface created an avalanche of ice and snow that rained down in their wake, a man made blizzard buffeting the wights caught below and making them loose their grip, burying them at the foot of the great structure. Besides Joffrey a dozen men heaved as one as they readied for another swing, twisting the great wooden crank that controlled but one of the scythes, but he knew with a glance that they wouldn''t make it in time.


    Snarling wights scuttled over the battlements as one, falling on the living as a raging swarm with no regard for itself. Clawed hands tore at throats and eyes, a tide of bone clashing against a wall of steel. Huge tower shields covered rows upon rows of halberds, the soldiers of the Seven Kingdoms bellowing back their own warcry as they sought to stand in the face of overwhelming ice. Joffrey would not see them fight alone.


    Through the nonstop cackle of crossbows and the eye-watering stench of burnt firepowder, he emerged from the smoke of leaping stagrams a twin-wielded killer. Sword and hammer, his mind at ease with his soul, he lent his strength entire to the fight for the living. The ordered volleys of the beginning gave way to a disorganized stream of fire, and under their light Joffrey led one unending charge up and down the center, from Sable Hall to the Nightfort and back, tearing wights apart at the head of the Silver Knights. They were carried by a divine wind, their sight a surge of heart and strength for the fighting men, the many banners of the Antlered Lion snarling at the night sky and following in his wake. Joffrey''s mind entered into a state akin to meditation, locked in a timeless dimension of his own as he parried and struck, dodged and maimed. Encased in his armor of distant stars, he was the tip of the spear that tore through wight-hordes frenzied by the blood of men, a juggernaut sailing through grey seas filled with teeth and bone. In his mind''s eye he accounted casualties lost and replaced, breaches torn and plugged, orders given by runner and drummer. They lost towers and scythe-bastions, and they retook them, and then they lost them again. The tides of war swept them back and forth like a shadowcat shaking its prey, a tempest of sound and blood that would not relent as night gave to day. The fallen were dragged by their grim companions, stripped and tossed to the bonfires rattling under the wind. The wounded were carried away and tended by the Handmaidens, trains of sleds bearing them away and carrying forth replacements that were never enough. Flights of ravens sent couriers running, finding him amids his Knights, drinking water and munching down what hardtack he could before jumping back into the fray. Increasingly, they found him napping between skirmishes, bleary eyed and heavy-headed. Reports turned grimmer with every passing hour, the toil of a day unending hammering his wits as he tried to make sense of the news. All along the Wall battle raged without end, the wights piling up as fast as they could kill them. Oakenshield was buckling, Sable Hall was burning. From Tywin''s command to the west the dead were trying to flank through the river, and from Jon''s flank to the east the Wall had been breached at Torches. One of the sled trains carrying reinforcements had disappeared, and it wasn''t the first.


    They have to stop eventually, he thought as he tore a wight''s head from its body, using hammer and sword like pliers. He struck the chest of another one, slipped on something and fell on one knee. The descending axe would''ve struck his head if Ser Robar hadn''t covered him with his tower shield. Growing sloppy, he thought as his Lord Commander struck the offending wight down with tired efficiency. He accepted Ser Brienne''s hand as she pulled him up, and blinked at the setting sun. Night again? The storm clouds that had been gathering to the North were now charging for the Wall; an armada of ships made of dense alabaster.


    "Your Grace, you have to rest," she told him, her vambrace leaking blood from an earlier wound.


    "No time. The Wall''s nearing collapse," he told her after taking a gulp of air, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on edge.


    She smacked him aside just in time to avoid a grasping thing emerging from the Wall''s edge; a huge hand bigger than his chest. It grabbed her instead. The dead giant hefted her aloft, a misshapen head peaking from the Wall and leering at him with a half torn jaw. Robar and Samwell dragged him back as he screamed Brienne''s name, another wave of wights surging from between the crenelations and slamming into the Knights protecting their retreat. Steel groaned within the giant''s hand, Brienne giving out a shuddering scream as she was slowly crushed. It looked ready to jump from the battlements into the line of Silver Knights before Brienne hefted her longsword; a flick of silver illuminated by the setting sun. "Tarth!!!" she screamed with bloody lips, ramming her sword up the giant''s torn jaw. They fell backwards as one, a blur swallowed by the crenelations.


    He was carried back to the Den, filled with the crying wounded and the exhausted living. His standard bearers raced up the stairs to place the Antlered Lion atop the roof, Silver Knights securing the doors. "They''re killing us," he whispered to Ser Robar, who had an ugly gash down his cheek.


    His Lord Commander flinched as a Handmaiden stabbed him with a needle, brutally efficient. "How many more?" he asked between gritted teeth.


    The Silence was thick over the Wall. In the Haunted Forest. Behind the blizzards. "Too many," Joffrey whispered, the Song rattling under the blows of winter, its melody growing distant with every death, every victory of silence.


    He dozed off into a dark and deep slumber, until an insistent shaking brought him up wielding Brightroar, Tyrion''s face desperate as he leaned close. His crimson plate had several dents in it, silvery wounds dotting the pauldrons. Had there been a fight in here without him waking up? A savage wind howled outside the Den, frost coating the shutters; the blizzard had arrived. "What''s the good news?" he asked him, trying to smile but failing.


    "The Eastern Flank is collapsing," said Tyrion, voice subdued, "Jon retook Torches, but the dead delayed him long enough to break through Rimegate in turn. No word from Oberyn yet."


    Joffrey sighed, looking at the ceiling. "That''ll put pressure on Sable Hall."


    "And let loose more wights into our rear."


    "Lord Tarly will have to deal with them. Any ravens from Sable Hall?" That castle was the next in line from Rimegate, and formally under Joffrey''s responsibility at the center.


    "The blizzard''s done a number on our ravens, but we should- hold on." Tyrion nodded at the aide, receiving a slip of paper in return. He let out a long breath as he read it. "Its from them. They say Dornish wights are attacking their right flank, charging across the top of the Wall." A slow, pulsing shot of heat dragged itself through Joffrey''s veins. Half of Sable Hall had caught fire yesterday; their defenses were already strained. If they fell apart and the wights struck Woodswatch-by-the-Pool in turn¡­


    "Gods be damned; we could loose the entire Wall if they carry that momentum here," said Joffrey. Snowballing on Oakenshield and descending on Castle Black itself. With the center gone and the King dead or missing the entire defense would collapse before Oberyn''s wight could whisper ''rout''. Think Joffrey, think. The thrumming pain covering his head made that hard. "What have we got in reserve down at Castle Black? The Fourth Cohort?"


    "You sent them to Deep Lake five hours ago."


    "Fuck, you''re right." How could he forget such an important thing? "Lord Umber''s men?"


    Tyrion tilted his head left and right, "They''re there alright, but they''re shaken as all hell and not liable to move."


    "What happened?"


    "One of the wounded they were securing to a sled wasn''t breathing after all. It tore the Smalljon''s face out."


    Great. The Smalljon flashed in Joffrey''s mind, laughing riotously before he buried it in a box deep within, a keen pain in his chest. "And Lord Umber?"


    "We don''t know. If he''s alive he''s still somewhere around the Nightfort." He cracked a gallows-smile, "Probably dueling a giant or something."


    Joffrey took a deep breath, "Alright, someone else needs to get them moving. Tell Ned-" he trailed off, where was he anyway?


    "He''s still at Queensgate. His runner said they were pushing the northmen there hard."


    Old Gods give me strength. The Umbers needed a face they knew -and preferably respected- if they were going to race off to the east and through a blizzard no less. His eyes tore through the Den in search of another northern lord, any lord before settling on Tyrion''s grim smile, waiting patiently. Oh no.


    His uncle had always been faster than him.


    "What about all that speech about needing you here?"


    "Still true," said Tyrion, "But you need Sable Hall more."


    "Uncle-"


    He clasped Joffrey''s arm, "I can move them. I know those men; I''ve drunk with well near half of them anyway." His smile turned determined, confident, "I can get them to Sable Hall in time. We''ll hold the Wall."


    Joffrey let out a pained sigh, clasping his shoulder in turn and embracing him. He''d never be like Tywin, denying Tyrion''s will out of fear of loosing control. Joffrey sought to control as much as he humanly could, but this war was beyond even him. He had to let go. Let go and trust. "You get back here alive. You hear me?"


    "A broken knight keeps his promises," he whispered back, tearing a sad smile out of Joffrey. It was only after Tyrion had left him that Joffrey realized he hadn''t promised anything at all.


    Cheeky bastard, he thought with a deep sigh. It wasn''t enough to ward off the chill steadily taking over his heart.


    -: PD :-


    The siege of the Dawn Fort had been a calculated affair; a long duel of swarms, probes, heavy units and attrition expertly juggled by the Red Comet in order to minimize losses and maximize death. It had been a subtle and conniving endeavor, slowly choking the life out of the defenders over the course of months.


    The Battle for the Wall made for a jarring contrast. For every hour the living stood there and fought, Joffrey felt the Comet gather its attention further still. Wave after wave of wights broke upon the armies of men, replaced by an endless reserve made up of generations of the dead. It wanted the Wall taken, and it wanted it taken now. Never in living memory or written history had there been a battle such as this, and never in his immortal lives had Joffrey seen the likes of this carnage. Heroes worthy of legend rose within the span of hours, and hours later their very memory was extinguished as armies were slaughtered to a man, leaving no witnesses behind. Time lost all meaning as there was only war, and still the Cycle threw everything it had at him; a brutal pounding relentless in its goal, a single minded butcher beyond mortal ken. Not only wights but Walkers began to join the assaults, each wave carrying more of them and reaping a bloody harvest with crystal swords and lances pale under moonlight. Each time Raiders and strike-cohorts fought them back with fire and dragonglass, and each time they paid a bloodier toll for it. Joffrey led the charge against every incursion, Stars roaring by his side as they slammed into the Comet''s pawns, and the Silver Knights too payed the price.


    "I see now its face. I begin to understand," said Marwyn, face slack as he gazed at the Comet from the top of the Den. He was sitting on a wooden chair, covered by a thick blanket. "Its scale. Its power. Its will," he said, dread choking the words out of him. "Itssingle minded will," he whispered. Never before had he seen Marwyn so terrified.


    Joffrey took a long gulp from his waterskin, leaning on the balcony as he tried not to fall asleep, "You see now why I did what I did?"


    "It won''t be enough. You can lie to them but never to me," said Marwyn. He was shivering, worst than Pycelle ever had, "It''s a hole in reality. A flimsy cover. Its quiet will spread," he said, voice turning to a whisper, "It will drown us all in silence."


    "It will try," said Joffrey, gazing at his distant nemesis, undiminished under sunlight. Its aura had grown as the battle progressed, the cosmic winds now rattling it rather than tugging it. He took another long gulp, then frowned. "Archmaester?"


    Pycelle was dead, face locked in a silent horror, his eyes glassy.


    As night covered the sky for the third time and the battle kept raging over the Wall, Joffrey was wracked by shivers thick with the Comet''s gaze; Ned didn''t have to wake him up. His icy demeanor looked close to crumbling, a score Winterfell men checking their weapons obsessively. "Runner from Lord Terrick said there''s spiders climbing the Wall to the west," he said, unsheathing Ice.


    "Let''s go," said Joffrey, a group of Silver Knights forming up around them as Sandor took the lead; Ser Robar was missing. A cold foreboding was filling his bones, a certainty of true death crystallizing in his breath. Outside the Den, the blizzard had hit the Wall at full tilt. The fighting was carried out under a grey, snowy veil, the sounds muffled and distant, the night sky oppressive. Crews reloaded their siege weapons amids the fighting, hammering at mechanisms to beat the frost away, and beating at the wights when they got too close. The bonfires shivered under gales thick with snow, carrying the stench of roasted flesh. The dead of Westeros were burning.


    "Lord Hightower!" bellowed a knight as he crashed against Sandor, "Have you seen Lord Hightower?!"


    "No!" he said, shouldering him aside, trying to make way as the line of guardsmen to their right surged backwards, almost crushing them against the stone parapet on the other side.


    "Push them!" roared a serjeant, "Push them back!"


    Joffrey let out long, steamy breaths as he tried to maintain the death grip on Sandor''s arm, squeezing through gaps and over fallen men. His standard bearers followed behind, the Antlered Lion flying ragged as arrows zipped above them, warhorns echoing in the distance. "They''re surging all along the line!" someone shouted, "They''re coming in force!"


    Sandor led him further into a secured section of the Wall, navigating around soldiers carrying empty stretchers slick with blood. Here the people plowed through their food with somnolent haste, clustering near covered fires as they tried to thaw out. Many had their eyes closed, and Joffrey wasn''t sure some of them weren''t dead. Grim-faced centurions oversaw the rotations, and more than one soldier cried out in panic as their turn came to jump back into the fray. The prospect had them shaking in fright; one of them was hyperventilating as he clutched the floor like a cat hanging from a ledge.


    Joffrey pushed down the weariness and the despair into a tightly locked box, straightening his stride and pitching his voice to carry, "Stand tall, men! Stand tall for the land we call home!"


    "The King!" they cried as they saw him, "The King!"


    He waved with Brightroar, "Stand in fury! Stand in wrath!" he roared, "This storm is not the end, but our beginning!"


    "Westeros!" shouted a gaunt-faced guardsman, his arm gone below the elbow. "Westeros!" shouted the soldiers in steel plate, the cooks by the fires and the levies with their longbows, "Westeros!!!" they called as they stood up, the sleepers opening their eyes and crying out.


    "Summer will come again!" Joffrey roared, tears in his eyes, "I promise you! We will live to see the dawn again!!!"


    A scythe rumbled somewhere below, the Wall trembling. "Here they come!"


    "Crossbows! Crossbows!!!"


    "Fight for your loved ones!" Joffrey bellowed as the cooks picked up mallets and the soldiers formed a shieldwall. "Fight for Summer''s Kiss! Fight for all that we love on this green earth!!!"


    "They''re here!" someone screamed.


    "Brace!!!" said Joffrey, slamming behind one of the shieldbearers as others slammed behind him in turn. The ravenous dead broke on the shieldwall like waves crashing against steel reefs; a swell of grey burying the first line and jumping atop each other. Sandor swung his two hander with a snarling heave, bisecting a wight in mid-air. Ned ripped one open with Ice, and another landed straight on Joffrey''s blade, burying itself to the hilt. It shrieked and snarled as its bony claws drew a line of pain down his chin, blue eyes aglow with undeath. Joffrey gave out a desperate roar as he slammed his antlers into its skull, cracking it to pieces as he tore them out again. The whole line buckled back, straining under the onslaught of winter as Joffrey drew arcs of light with Brightroar, cutting and smashing left and right with hammer and sword. Each wight he brought down heralded two in return, the faces of the dead multiplying by the second. Hunters and cannibals, soldiers and fishermen, they formed a never ending menagerie of the slain that surged yet again; they were not even waves anymore, just a constant stream of undead that must have charged atop each other to reach the Wall at this rate. The Comet was throwing everything it had at them.


    "We''re cut off!" shouted a centurion before a blade of crystalline ice emerged from his chestplate and splattered blood on Joffrey''s face. The man looked at it quizzically before collapsing forward and Joffrey blinked, the Walker that killed him taking a step forward and bringing down his blade again. He parried the blade as ice screeched, hefting it aside before slashing Brightroar down it''s shoulder. The Walker exploded into a rain of glittering ice, revealing more of its brethren behind, marching in silent lockstep with easy strides. Obsidian tipped arrows left holes in their ranks, but more of them climbed the Wall in turn, their blades reaping the lives of his men like wheat.


    "Attack them from two sides!" bellowed Joffrey, decapitating one before ducking below a blade and ramming Brightroar through the chest of another. It howled, its breath freezing Joffrey''s eyebrows before turning into mist. "Pierce them with dragonglass! Don''t let them mass together!"


    "We have to push through to the rest of the Second Cohort!" said Sandor, working tirelessly with his longsword and a bevy obsidian daggers strapped to his belt, "Make for that tower!" He was right; they had to link up with the rest of the defense or they''d be defeated in detail.


    "On me!" said Joffrey, splitting a wight with Brightroar, tearing the jaw off another with his mace, "On me, Westeros!!!" he bellowed as they tried to make way through the enemy, trying to reach the rest of the defenders. The blades of the Walkers worked up and down between the blizzard, flashing from within gales of snow and rending flesh with brutal precision. Lines of halberdiers were overwhelmed as the wights piled atop them, screeching and tearing with bony hands slick with blood. It was madness. Chaos. The prelude of Silence now approaching.


    "Northmen!" bellowed Ned, "Protect the King!" he said, Ice splitting a Walker by the waist. He''d never seen Ned like this; Eddard the Warlord, protecting what was his with cold determination. The man that marched south to avenge his family. "Alyn! Line abreast! Cover our right flank!" he called, bringing down Ice and jamming it against a Walker''s skull before it exploded into misty ice.


    The Winterfell men with Ned formed a shield to their right, but it was up to Joffrey and the Silver Knights to make way, leading the limping soldiers and the ragged levies behind them. "To the tower!" bellowed Joffrey, "Slay everything in your way!"


    "The Kingdom!" called the Silver Knights, clustering around him in a bevy of battleaxes and shields gleaming with the light of the bonfires, "The Song in the Kingdom!" They were like mountains of steel, making way through tempestuous tides crashing from every side, the dead now beyond numbers. That swarm was relentless, axes and spears denting plate and scratching mail, an unending tide of bone powered by End as they fell one by one. Even mountains can be ground down.


    Their desperate charge slowed to a grind. More and more wights breached the wall formed my Winterfell''s men, through the Silver Knights, ending on the tip of Joffrey''s hammer as he batted them aside. Ned was back-to-back with him, Sandor growing distant as the tides of war separated them into two groups. "Sandor! Get back here!" he bellowed, stretching a hand out impotently as more wights got in the way and the Hound''s face was buried by the tide of bone. They were split off further still as ordered ranks gave way to a generalized melee, command breaking down as the wights swarmed everywhere. Joffrey and Ned were twin rays of Valyrian steel shattering Walkers and sundering wights. They worked as one, Ice''s longer reach creating circles of action where Joffrey struck like a shadowcat, Brightroar darting it to tear chunks out of the monsters trying to close the distance. Stars roared to the dark heavens as he slammed into groups of the dead; a whirlwind of claws and teeth renting them apart. More and more of their companions were replaced by blue-eyed corpses, the banner of the Antlered Lion torn and ragged as the standard bearer cried out, a wight running him through with a dagger from behind. There were too many of them. Too many.


    The burly brother of the Night''s Watch by their side stumbled, and Ned steadied him with a hand. "Lord Commander Mormont?" he said in stunned surprise.


    He looked almost human. Black furs over armor. White beard speckled with frost. Eyes murky blue. Its mouth opened wide in a hideous snarl as it slipped Longclaw through Ned''s armpit, right into his chest.


    Joffrey gave a savage scream as he tore its head open with Brightroar, the former leader of the Night''s Watch collapsing backwards with a sigh. He felt as if he''d just been hit by a stagram as Ned took Longclaw out of his chest, the Valyrian steel dull under the buffeting storm. The Lord of the North gave him a tired smile, blood trickling from his lips. Joffrey grabbed him by his furs with hysterical strength, and Ned grabbed him back, making silent noises with his mouth. They held each other for a timeless instant as war raged around them, the screams of men and the crash of rending ice growing muted, absent. Ned''s knees gave out, and Joffrey accompanied him to the cold, cold ground. His vision turned into a pinprick, his chest crushed by an unstoppable weight. He couldn''t think anymore. He was in a sort of distanced state, an automaton whose thoughts consisted of a single, droning timbre buzzing inside his skull. Dumb hands went up to Ned''s face and then down to the hideous wound on his chest, not knowing what to do, fluttering to and fro, his heartbeat so loud it was like a gong slamming into his skull. He found himself cradling Ned''s head, obsessively cleaning the snow out of his face.


    "What? What was that?" he said as he leaned close.


    Ned''s mouth moved again, slowly, inaudible over the sounds of battle now reemerging from the void.


    "Ned? What is it? What is it?" Joffrey whispered, leaning closer, placing his ear against his mouth.


    "Son," whispered Ned. He blinked once, exhaling a final breath of steam before laying still. His echo in the Song spoke of Weirwood leaves and silent strength, fierce loyalty encased in honor. A stern leader, a reluctant warlord, a loving father.


    Joffrey stumbled upright. He gritted his teeth, tears crawling down his cheeks and freezing in place as he hefted Ice. With a single, heart-rending scream he brought the blade down and severed Ned''s spine, driving the blade through his neck. He would be no puppet of Winter. Son, he thought, looking at the wreck of his body. Son, he thought, stumbling through the battlefield. He cut a wight''s arm with Ice, and sheared the top of another''s skull with the back swing. Dazed, he parried a mace from a reanimated armsman, taking a step forward and slamming Ice''s pommel through its eye socket. The wights swarmed every man still breathing, driving bone knives through necks or eye-slits, burying the heavily armored in a pile of undeath. There were too many of them. Far too many. Soon the wights were packed tight around him, choking him with their sheer weight. Joffrey''s sight began to dim within that swirling mass, a chorus of decomposed skulls shrieking around him as they tried to grab his head with torn hands. An axe struck his helmet and left him dazed, gasping for breath, the banner of the Antlered Lion stomped on the ground, the fabric torn and scratched where the stars had been. The Watchers of Stars, he thought, the dead hissing in his ear.


    "The King!" bellowed Samwell. His warhammer peeked over the mass of the battlefield, his voice unmistakable, "Save the King! Break through to King Joffrey!!!"


    Wildfire detonated within the souls of his men, it was the only way Joffrey could describe it. Hundreds of voices picked up the cry, frenzied beyond reason, a guttural bellow taking over the top of the Wall, "THE KING! TO THE KING!!!" they roared, a behemoth awakened. The tide of battle swung back with such brutal momentum that it left echoes in the Song, reverberations carried by a tempest of halberds warhammers and fisted gauntlets that churned through the dead with visceral outrage. The skull of the wight trying to bite his cheek off exploded with soundless intensity, a mace tearing through the one to his left. The dead shrieked silently around him before being swept over by a tide of terrifying humanity, sweat and blood and rage cupping him close. Joffrey felt as if carried by a bed of feathers, faces gazing from above as they rushed him across the Wall. So many faces; young and old, men and women, friends and strangers. People. His people. They''d saved him. Above their determined faces shone the Red Comet, its halo of light waving to the ground. It surged without sound, a scarlet mantle which grew to encompass the sky entire.


    No, he thought as ice gripped his heart, It''s too soon. His soul shivered as the Red Comet reached for the Wall with many arms made of light, insubstantial, a terrible thrumming coursing through the air. The people around him looked up in sudden fright, their faces bright red under skies aglow with fierce scarlet.


    No, you cheating fuck. No. Soldiers clasped their ears tight as they screamed, an unbearable pressure building up in his skull. The very Wall trembled under that pressure, a rising crescendo on the edge of something terrible. For the first time, he gazed at the face of the Comet as it escalated: Red lines of geometric precision drew themselves over the northern skies as if seeking to anchor a great force, a searing bundle of strings like a web holding a spider in its center. Joffrey was rendered speechless as the Song gave a painful tug and the Comet opened itself like a budding flower; a heavy lidded eye swiveling open. The Red Comet exposed its crystalline innards for all the North to see; an eternal depth filled with fractals working like clockwork, structured by a forest of transcendental pillars familiar, so familiar. Joffrey stared at the dark mirror of his soul in awe; a twisted thing so divergent in purpose, yet so similar in construction. No wonder it could subsume him with but a touch; they were cousins. Brothers. Joffrey found himself on his feet, taking a deep breath as the light of the Red Comet turned night into day; a scarlet dawn rendering his people in stark relief as they covered their eyes and the hideous light sought to Silence every living soul in a thousand leagues. Was this how Walkers were made?


    If they were brothers, could he do the opposite? Through the Song instead of Silence? Together, someone whispered. He felt for his own soul, that sea of fractals and Purple. Instead of imagining a set of stout armor, he channeled the eddies of the Purple throughout the beats of the Song; the souls of his people, twisting fractals emerging into reality, a mirror to the red Silence brought about by the Comet. The Watchers of Stars, he thought as the Comet escalated again, savage red tearing at his soul as the Wall shook under the strain. They might have been brothers, but the Comet held almost-infinite reserves of Power carefully preserved through the eons; no match for the nimble strength of the Purple. He was not strong enough, and by opening himself thus he had served himself at the Comet''s feet. He would be absorbed, like countless iterations before him.


    But now Sansa stood by his side, lifting her arms wide, holding back the titanic weight behind the escalation as Joffrey breathed again. He stretched for that inner fractal core, that crystalline mechanism so similar to his soul. He was certain he could navigate it like he had the Purple so many times before, breathing deep beneath the Weirwood in Winterfell, Ned''s eyes solemn and caring. Can I end it now? Can I touch you, brother? Their clashing wills created an earthquakes above the Wall, making it hiss through screams of steam as whole sections began to shift. Joffrey glimpsed many truths in that timeless clash, complexities without context he couldn''t yet begin to understand, the inner workings of something beyond time and space.


    Its reaction was immediate. It withdrew in a flash of searing light, away from the living and thus the greater weight behind the Song. It closed its shell, day turning back to night as the Red Comet reassumed its usual form. It would not continue the fight. It didn''t need to. "Joffrey," said Sansa; a mirage in queenly regalia staring at the Wall in terrified awe. He followed her gaze and saw soldiers trying and failing to stand on their feet, the shaking too strong for them to keep their balance. The ground shifted beneath his feet; the clash had torn something out of the Wall, boiled off some source of inner strength. He could hear rumblings from both sides, avalanches of ice crumbling down the main structure. An aid station filled with Handmaidens tending to the wounded tore itself free as Joffrey watched in stunned shock, the ground giving way and letting the whole tower fall down the southern side. Enormous cracks snaked through Wall, devouring knights and guardsmen as their screams were lost within the churning ice.


    The Wall gave out under him, collapsing unto itself with a titanic sigh and swallowing him whole.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 77: The Mist.

    AN: Hello everyone! Let''s get right to it, shall we?Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    "Copper, Prince Joffrey. Not iron."


    "A time of breaking."


    "Something wrong within you."


    "The masters of their fate."


    "Son."


    The sky blinked. The Red Eye. Waiting.


    "Wake up, Joff. Please¡­ please wake up." The sun shone bright through scarlet hair, an elusive spot of warmth tangled in red reeds. Joffrey blinked under its warm glare, a little smile on his lips. "Get up, Joff," said Sansa, touching his face with ice cold hands. Twin tears fell down her cheeks, the waves crashing on the beaches of Jhala behind her. He lay on a bed of white sand, pleasantly hot, eyes half closed. The seagulls were quiet.


    Her voice hitched as her lips neared his. "Stand again," she whispered. Her kiss was cold, cold as the foamy sea.


    Joffrey became, slowly. His body acquired dead weight, limbs cold and barely there. He was buried. Dead. Encased in a dark tomb. It was over. Here lies Joffrey, first of his name¡­ But Joffrey had tasted oblivion, and this was not it. I''m alive, he thought. It was cold. So cold it was warm. A vaguely pleasant burn that lulled him to sleep. "Ah-" He swallowed, wisps of steam vanishing into the murky darkness. "Aah-" A deep breath, a stab of ice through his lungs. "Alive," he whispered.


    Was he?


    He shuffled within the dark tomb, a flicker in the gloom catching his eye. A way out. It shined through a crack in the ice around him; vibrant green, shifting violet. He crawled for that hole and pummeled the weight of snow and ice out of his way, trying to make it out of the shallow cavity that was his tomb. "I''m alive," he said again, a sea of cuts and bruises screaming to life with every breath. Joffrey welcomed that sea of pain, encased awareness, breath of life. He punched up, trying to widen the crack in the frosted snow. "I''m alive!" he screamed, legs straining under the weight of dead ice as he threw himself against the crack above him, lifting the weight of the world. Joffrey floundered up through the snow as it gave way without warning; a whale surfacing into an uncertain world. He collapsed on his back, taking quick breaths of freezing air, breathlessly giddy to be out of that dark hole. Above him, a shifting ocean beckoned.


    The aurora grasped the night sky with fingers green and scarlet, floating curtains of congealed light covering up the stars. Violets stabbed out from main branches, uncertain explorers of that restless light, skittish and quick to fall back. The deep reds were far more stubborn, slow and determined. A marching phalanx; the conquerors of heaven. The Red Comet sat at the core of that grand spectacle, off to the Far North, a radiant Queen holding court. It looked different than what Joffrey remembered. Bigger, somehow. Haloed in concentric circles of geometrical precision. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his life.


    ''Stand again,'' he remembered, and smiled. He would like to see his wife again. Sansa. The cold breeze stole his smile, a hellishly sibilant whisper crawling over the face of the earth, snatching what little warmth he had left. It served to make him groggy in an instant. Sleepy.


    I''m alive.


    He picked himself up like countless times before. Out of the choking grasp of giant wood snakes, out of the muddy grounds of tourneys, out of the unseen currents prowling the depths of the Sunset Sea. One limb at a time, and then a strain of stumbling effort as he fell back on the snow again. He felt woozy. Dazed. Had someone hit him in the head? He stood up again and shuffled without direction, lost in an alien world, a gentle slope that had no end. Here and there bits of wood and masonry stuck up from the icy wasteland, ribs of some beached leviathan long ago forgotten. Joffrey blinked. Those stout beams of oak and heavy bricks of stone spread out in every direction, both up and down the eternal slope and sideways too, the distance shrinking them until they seemed no more than twigs and pebbles lost on a frozen river, reflecting the pale lights of the aurora above. Something terrible had happened here.


    Joffrey shook his head as he walked, his mind a jumbled mess of screams and color. Had there been a battle? His body nestled that unmistakable numbness, that torn and abused sheen wrapped in a heavy blanket. The feeling of his soul taken to its breaking point and stopped just shy of a great cliff. He was completely exhausted. Moving around by sheer inertia. Too stubborn to lay down and die, his wife would say. Sansa. Was she here somewhere? The thought jolted him out of his reverie, an instant of breathless panic as he clenched his fists and reached out for her. No. She was far away. Somewhere south. Alive.


    I''m alive, he thought, the mantra lending him strength. Joffrey let the Song guide him, following the almost dead melodies accosted by silence. He came to a stop on a patch of pristine snow and fell on his knees, digging with gauntleted hands made of stars. He found an arm, then a shoulder, and a beard crusted with shards of ice, its song tittering on the edge of final silence. The guardsman was shivering, eyes wide as he stared up at him. "Stand again, soldier," said Joffrey, grabbing him by the straps of his breastplate and pulling him up. The man opened his mouth but no sound came out. Joffrey put an arm under his shoulder and half-dragged him over the frozen wasteland, "You''ve got to keep moving," he said, trudging over what looked like the arm of a trebuchet, "You stop, you die."


    "You¡­ stop¡­ you¡­ die," said the guardsman through clenched teeth, clattering in the midst of the silence. He patted at his belt as if he''d just lost a limb, "Ser¡­ I¡­ I lost m-my axe."


    "It''s alright," said Joffrey, shivering with him as another gust shrieked through the eternal slope and they made their way downwards, "Just keep moving. Keep moving¡­" he trailed off as he spotted half a tower resting on its back, as if it''d fainted after a sudden fright. It was a couple score paces down the slope and to their left; a mangled affair of stones still held more or less together, horizontal against the snow. Wisps of smoke drifted from one of the arrowslits now facing the colored sky.


    "What''s your name, soldier?" he said as they trudged towards the tower.


    "¡­Ser?"


    "Your name."


    The man blinked, shards of ice falling from his long beard, "Jorrick, Ser."


    "One of my Mistwalkers?"


    "Aye ser." A bit of life came over his voice as he thumbed his chestplate, "First of the First."


    "You were in Dragonstone?"


    "Aye. Followed you through the Bloody Road."


    "Tough fight, that."


    "Aye, ser. I reckon so."


    They stopped twice before reaching the tower, digging for survivors. Once, the man died before they could dig him out. The other they managed to haul out. "We die standing. Come on soldier," he said as they carried him by the shoulders, legs dragging behind him. He must have been fifteen namedays, clad in simple hide armor and a thin woolen cloak. A levy. He barely moved. They reached the torn tower and entered through a gaping hole on its side, escaping the whistling breeze. It was marginally warmer here, and they navigated through a haphazard sea of broken granite blocks, torn light artillery, and sundered furniture all jumbled up and stirred. A pitiful fire had been cobbled up out of reclaimed wood, and three men shivered around it, hands fisted over their cloaks, eyes empty. Two guardsmen, one man-at-arms in Karstark livery.


    "Who''s in command here?" Joffrey said as they dragged the boy as close as they could to the fire.


    They barely stirred. One of them looked at him with dead eyes before shrugging. Few times before had Joffrey seen men so shell-shocked. He knelt by the fire, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. Gods, but it was good to feel real warmth again, "You seen any other survivors?"


    The man shook his head.


    Survivors¡­ it seemed like an apt descriptor for what they were; a bunch of ragged souls that somehow survived a cataclysm. "What''s the last thing you remember?"


    The soldier stayed silent, staring at the fire. It was the Karstark man that spoke up; lilting words, as if he were already dead. "Spiders. Eight legs tingling on ice." He turned his hollow stare towards Joffrey, "Spiders. And then the sky bled."


    Old Gods give me wisdom. What the hells happened? Nameless dread congealed in his gut, screams and flaming arrows flying above his head as he clutched his temple. A great pattern rose to life, connecting everything. The Red Comet felt close, touching his cheek with red light. "Your Grace?" said Jerrick, a worried hand hovering near his shoulder.


    "I''m alright," he said, taking deep breaths. He fumbled with his belt and discovered he had a waterskin attached to it. He drunk eagerly even as the water froze his throat, cringing as it made its way down. He turned to smaller sips, breathing raggedly in between. He offered it, and men passed it around wordlessly.


    Jorrick took a swing and handed it back to him. Fire and shelter made him look more adrift than when they''d been shambling outside in the wind. "Now what, ser?"


    What now indeed? The men by the fire turned to look at him, the tiniest smidgen of life fizzling in their eyes. He felt as lost as they, and yet as even the lowliest of peasants knew; the King always had a plan.


    When in doubt, assess from high ground. His lips twitched in a silent smile. When was the last time he''d quoted Fol-Fing? He wondered how he''d stack up against the General-That-Fought-a-Thousand-Battles-and-Lost-None. I''ll be lucky to be called ''and-Lost-Only-One'', he thought, entranced by the fire. He felt like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a bit of flotsam, and no less reluctant to leave it. Jerrick was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.


    "I need a vantage point," he told him. There, I said it. I''m committed. Leaving the fire with great regret, he climbed through nooks and crannies left by the broken stones. He reached another gaping hole bathed in scarlet and green, and climbed atop what had once been the tower''s northern face. Jorrick¡ªto his credit¡ªfollowed him up. They crouched on the pitted stone, shivering against the wind, stunned by the mute devastation spread upon the land. The gentle slope continued southward, peppered by broken towers and pieces of timbered battlements, arrayed haphazardly like broken toys. Bodies lay scattered over the colored snow, and silhouettes shifted between the wreckage: whether living or dead Joffrey could not say. He couldn''t see the crest of the slope they were in. It seemed endless, going both east and west before losing itself in the mist. The mist.


    They were surrounded by it, thick and grey-faced like congealed miasma. Joffrey tried looking for the hill''s foot to the south, but the slope kept descending at a pleasant rate until it too was lost in fathomless grey. A great tsunami of snow had rocked this world, a tidal wave of frost and crystalline ice that had swept everything and everyone in its path, and beyond it lay only the mist; an unknowable wall, marking the edges of the world beyond which nothing stirred. His throat shuttered to a pinprick, the cold reaching his heart.


    "Ser¡­" said Jorrick, slack jawed as the violets above multiplied again. They bloomed and painted the snow purple, light piercing through the mist and illuminating hulking silhouettes hidden in the horizon; more towers and broken keeps, their guts sprayed on the snow. Shifting figures wandering between, lost in the grey. "Ser," Jorrick said again, voice squeezed with dread. "Where''s the Wall?"


    Joffrey shivered as he clutched the dirty cloak still attached to his pauldrons, the void in his armor reflecting the purple blooms before the aurora returned to red and green, the sky above at ease again. "I think we''re standing on it," he said, empty.


    -: PD :-


    Joffrey''s walk took him through a field of roses stretching far and wide; a sea of them covering all that was. He knelt and picked one, smelling its fragrant tang sharp with sweet summer. But there was something different about this one. He frowned, watching the flower spread its petals wide, opening and opening with no end, new petals blossoming after each set and curving outwards. The mesmerizing pattern turned faster, reckless, opening and opening as Joffrey baited his breath, dreading to see beyond the fractal sea at what lay at its core as the final petals blossomed in breath-stealing glory-


    He awoke with a scream, clutching his chest and taking big breaths. The cold. The cold was his lifeline to reality; a pervasive hollow thing, bone-deep and constant. Impossible to replicate in dream, the first thing he felt as he awoke.


    "Ser?" Joffrey blinked at the guardsman, trying to place his face but seeing only crystalline structures. Jorrick, he remembered. He must have read his expression, "You fell asleep, ser."


    "How long?" he said as he stood up, stumbling over leaden legs and taking Jorrick''s hand with a weary sigh. Gods, he felt more tired than when he''d fallen asleep.


    Jorrick looked at his hands, "A few hours. Me and the lads thought you needed the rest."


    Joffrey walked out of the tower, still clad in his starry plate. Daylight gave their little clearing in the mist a surreal edge; an oily backdrop that made him squint. Where a few hours ago they''d counted a hundred ragged souls, now more than a thousand people were scuttling around the broken tower. Some walked line abreast, sticking halberd shafts through the snow and trying to feel for flesh or rubble. Others were busy digging around the slope in organized crews, sergeants and house guards calling for more tools.


    "We''ve got another one!" one shouted. Guardsmen and levies rushed to his aid, bringing picks and shovels to bear on the patch of snow around a peeking beam of wood. They dug open a fraction of a whole bastion buried in the snow, frightful faces peering from within; one tight bundle of people bunched together for heat. Those people are depending on me, he thought, and it served to jump start his body back into motion.


    "Cover ''em up and put them by the fires, come on!" bellowed Joffrey. He walked around the working perimeter, Jorrick at his heels. "We''ve got to get moving, and soon. It won''t be long before another host comes crashing down." He trailed off as he gazed up the slope. Needless to say, what remained of the Wall wouldn''t have stopped a peasant mob, much less an army of the dead. "What was left of the army that struck the Wall must have pushed through to the south, but reinforcements won''t be far behind."


    "Aye, ser. Plenty of wights buried around here as well, both old and new. We''re digging up and clobbering ''em as we find ''em, but some already did the digging themselves." He looked around the perimeter of huffing men, hard at work shoving reclaimed wood into bonfires. "We''re already stumbling into clusters of ''em."


    "Won''t be long before those clusters turn into mobs." Joffrey massaged his head, and there''s enough dead men under all this snow to equip an entire army. I would know. Still, they''d killed many more wights than they''d lost soldiers during the Battle for the Wall. Hadn''t they? His headache got worse as he tried to remember the battle, a mishmash of screams and burning oil blanketing his head. Stagrams exploded in the distance; fountains of blossoming fire that twirled and twirled. He shivered.


    Keep moving, he whispered to himself, Keep fighting. "We need arms and firewood!" he bellowed at a bunch of shell-shocked onlookers, startling them, "Food too! Salvage only what you can carry!"


    The serjeant in charge of a nearby digging detail picked up his words. "You heard the King! Grab whatever you can and dig ''em up!" He slapped a soldier in the back, "You, put your back into it! Won''t outrun frostbite at this rate!"


    Joffrey and Jorrick helped a couple men as they dragged a sled with an unconscious soldier back to a bonfire, pushing from behind as the two men by the front pulled on a bit of rope. They pushed until they reached the line of sleds practically docked to the main bonfire, purpled faces tilting to look at him. The sight of them tore a piece off his heart. "Stand fast men of Westeros," Joffrey said, touching shoulders and clasping hands, "I need all of you alive. Every breath you take is an insult to the Walkers, and there''s a lot of cursing left to do."


    Their faces lit up as he touched them, the stronger ones reaching with their hands and touching his starry plate. "Stand," whispered one of them, wrapped tight in blankets and barely stirring. The memory hit him then, full force, sound and fury. It was the first night. The one the men called King''s Rain.


    "Westeros Stands!" he roared as he walked behind a line of siege stagrams, the acrid smell of firepowder filling his nose with snot and choking the men around him. He reached Ned by the other side of the battery and leaned down on the battlements. "They''re climbing up! Thousands of ''em!" he told the Lord of the North. But it wasn''t King''s Rain. It was the third night. It was Wallfall.


    "Son," whispered Ned, blood gushing out of his mouth in fractals red, twisting lines of a single pattern connecting everything.


    "Your Grace? Pardon, Your Grace?" It was a young lady, chestnut curls framing a heart shaped face. Her head was tilted in worry, her eyes pale and haggard. "You need to sleep, Your Grace."


    Joffrey blinked away the screams and the stench of firepowder. Son. Ned. He remembered. He blinked back tears with a colossal effort, clearing his throat and looking away from her. "I can sleep when the dead claim me," he said before forming a fake smile, "Well, not really."


    She wasn''t amused. She exchanged glances with Jorrick in that secret language of serjeants and house guard captains. Get him to sleep, you idiot, her eyes seemed to say.


    Jorrick''s answering gaze was pessimistic, You give it a try then, lady.


    Best to take the offensive before that. "I''m sorry, you are..?"


    "Jeyne Westerling," she said, giving him an abbreviated curtsy in her thick furs. He noticed the golden armband, and things clicked into place.


    "You''re with the Queen''s Handmaidens. Castle Black station?"


    A nod. "What''s left of them, at least." She gazed at the dozen women tending to the wounded, working nonstop and barely making a dent on the amount of frostbitten troops wrapped in their sleds¡­ and those were the lucky ones. There was a knight in Manderly livery clutching a broken arm as he sat on a cracked stone brick, staring at the snow beneath his feet as he waited for his turn. There were scores like him.


    "Where were you, when¡­" Joffrey trailed off, the words freezing in his mouth. When¡­ The Red Comet opened its entrails and unleashed its pent up Will. Never angry. Just quiet. Solemn. Joffrey could still feel its gaze, raking over his skin.


    Her eyes took a haunted glint, "The high aid station near elevator two. Our shift was almost over."


    Joffrey winced. Another hour and she would''ve been resting inside the lower aid station at the foot of the Wall. Paradoxically, those standing above the Wall had fared many times better than those at the foot. They''d only had to survive a self-collapsing avalanche, instead of the sky falling over them. "Seen any survivors from Castle Black?"


    She shook her head, "Not a soul that wasn''t atop the Wall when¡­ well." She gave the snow under her feet a lost look. "I''m sorry Your Grace, but I don''t think we will."


    Joffrey took a deep breath. I don''t think so either. A nearby wounded reached out, touching his thigh plate where blue stars twinkled in the void. "Will they make it?" he asked her.


    "We''re still doing triage, but it''s not looking good. Frostbite''s decimating them, and the wind''s not helping."


    Joffrey nodded, "Do what you can for them and prepare to move out. We have to get out of here."


    "And go where, Y''grace?" said Jorrick.


    "South. Lord Tarly and most of the Reach are fortified at the second line, behind Last Hearth and the Last River. We''ve got to get there before the wights bring down that line too." And it would fall, eventually. Too long a stretch to protect properly, even with the Last River serving as a dubious, half-frozen moat. They''d slow the invasion of the North, no doubt, but Lord Tarly would have to retreat sooner or later lest he risk his entire host.


    "And then?" asked Jeyne.


    Joffrey closed his eyes, following the map of the North like a raven would. After that was the third line; the Dreadfort-Winterfell-Torrhen''s Square axis. Legate Olyvar commanding the strategic reserve¡ªthe Second Regiment. Some Stormlords and half the Vale. At least three times larger than the second line and a hundred times more vulnerable. It bisected the North in half, using hills and rivers whenever it could and tiny silver dots that represented Guard Forts whenever it couldn''t. It was little more than a rallying point for a retreating army, a stopgap to buy time for refugees fleeing for the Neck.


    It hit him then; a punch to the gut, a breathless huff stolen away by the mist. The North was lost. "And then we fight," he managed.


    "For the Living," whispered Jeyne.


    A soldier screamed, two ladies holding him tight as another wielded a saw. "Lady Jeyne!" she yelled, "Lady Jeyne!" S?a??h the ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "I have to go," she said, the curtsy even more shallow than last. Joffrey watched her get to work, giving out instructions and calling for boiled bandages. How did that song go? ''A thousand Hand-maidens, as fair as their Queen, but angrier by far!'' It was a raunchy tune, sang grimly as it befit the hour of its birth. Joffrey couldn''t remember anything else but the end; Watch- those wandering hands, oh- soldier of dawn, watch those wandering hands -lest-she-take-that-saw-belooow. It beggared belief that it had taken less than three nights for his constantly fighting, hungry, and sleep-deprived soldiers to compose that song. His fleeting smile evaporated as he watched her get to work on the squealing guardsman, one of the Handmaidens giving the man a piece of wood so he wouldn''t scream. The entire forearm would have to go, judging by her aim.


    Joffrey averted his sight and walked away, lost in thought. The North is lost. How could this have happened? He''d seen something, before this catastrophe. Some fundamental truth that made his hands shake, nameless foreboding pumping up and down his stomach; adrenaline through his veins. What happened? What was it? Steeling himself as if to die, he stared up at the Red Comet hanging above their bonfire, still faintly iridescent below the sun''s muffled shoulder. He remembered staring at it as the light increased, a deep thrum echoing across the heights of the Wall, the sounds of battle dimming under an inexplicable weight that sought only to crush. Like an earthquake, filled with silent will. He was beginning to remember.


    "Jorrick," he said, looking over the common guardsman markings on his armor, "You''re promoted to First Serjeant and assigned to my staff." His eyes bulged at that, but Joffrey ploughed on before he could escape his fate, "Get this host ready to move, we march within the hour." He looked like a hare cornered by trappers.


    "But ser- I- I don''t know how."


    "You''re now a serjeant that can beat other serjeants around."


    He blinked several times, then gave him an uneasy smile. "Well, that doesn''t so complicated."


    -: PD :-


    The column made its way through the oppressive mist, foraging over the remains of what had once been the Wall. The Slope turned gentler as they marched, the remains of castles and battlements growing sparse. They stumbled across wandering survivors lost in the mist, accreting men and supplies like a lodestone does iron, though sometimes it seemed to Joffrey they lost as many as they found, figures marching too far beyond their comrades and disappearing within the thick haze.


    One survivor they found clasped by wights; four of them, furiously trying to gnaw through mammoth fur.


    "Stand back!" said Joffrey, halberdiers surrounding the bellowing figure. The giant was taller than two mounted knights stacked atop each other, wrapped in furs and covered in brownish hair that made it hard to tell which came from a mammoth and which sprouted from his own skin. He wheeled in circles, ripping and tearing at the wights clutching his chest like barnacles under a ship''s hull. "Hold on!" yelled Joffrey, sprinting past the halberds and jumping on the giants back. Eyes that were not blue but deep amber stared back, suspicion dissipating once Joffrey wrestled with the wight clutching his back. They fell on the snow, and he ended the twitching corpse with a gauntleted fist, shattering its skull in three blows.


    "Ie," said the giant after disposing of the other wights. His corrugated face neared Joffrey as he crouched. Staring up at the being, he tried to find the words in the Old Tongue. It was Sansa who usually liaised with Mag the Mighty and his host.


    He shouldn''t have bothered. "You. Thank," the giant said in the common tongue, pushing a meaty finger over his starry plate and sinking him another inch under the snow. His voice was deep and rumbling, the vowels all crushed together. "Many thanks I owe," he said as the finger turned and hooked. Joffrey took the offer in a heartbeat, grabbing the finger with both hands as the giant lifted him up with a speck of effort.


    The soldiers lowered their weapons as Joffrey got his breath back. "Keep moving!" he bellowed. He bowed his head at the giant, noting the stone tablets filled with First Men runes. They were as big as Joffrey''s palm, threaded with thick roots that fixed them to his woolly winter cloak. He was completely covered in them; a sort of stone brigandine. "An honor to meet you¡­"


    "Bor Go Tim Gan Gor," he proclaimed, each syllable thundering across their little hole in the mist. His smile was filled with thumb-sized teeth, "But men call me Borgan."


    Joffrey gave him a smile, "And men call me Joffrey-"


    "Me no men," said Borgan, "Me know you. Me call you King ''O Men. Stone Listener." Amber eyes flicked to the Red Comet, "Keep us from silence."


    He was stunned. Stone Listener. The title resounded within in a way he could not name. "Stone Listener¡­ why do you call me that?"


    "Most men, deaf to rhythm. Fearful of what little, they hear. You. You listen." A smile filled with rocky teeth, "Rhythm listen back. Rhythm become you." He looked around the marching men and the mist before venturing forth, grabbing a discarded trebuchet arm. He wielded it like a quarterstaff, walking back to Joffrey as he digested that little riddle. "Ie. Good day to walk."


    Joffrey shook his head, flabbergasted, "If you say so."


    "Me only walk on good days. So, every day, good day to walk." The giant chuckled at that, then joined the flow of the column, walking beside the sleds and giving frostbitten soldiers a hearty grin. They looked terrified.


    Joffrey scratched the thick stubble growing around his chin, still staring after the giant''s loping gait when Jorrick caught a hold of him. "Ser, the rear''s lagging again."


    "Why? It''s a good day to walk."


    "Ser?"


    "Never mind, First Serjeant. Let''s see if we can light a fire behind ''em."


    Days passed as they left the remains of the Wall behind, marching down silent roads but for the soft whisper of snow clinging to the air. Visibility was low as sentinel pines emerged from the mist like forgotten monsters, starling the men. Copses of them formed great umbrellas of snow, grim watchers of the road. Sometimes they made camp under their protective embrace, but when the snows ceased Joffrey preferred to march on and find a clearing. He slept better when far from their claustrophobic embrace. The aurora lay humbled during the day, but the sun''s passage still painted strange colors distorted upon the mist; shifting greens on the edge of sight, deep reds that sneaked above their heads. Joffrey often rode at the head of the column, riding atop Stars and leading the way into the mist with a fearlessness he did not feel. Sometimes he felt an inch away from being grasped by a phantom hand, emerging from the mist without warning and carrying him down into an eternal fall. Like the giant that caught Brienne, down and down and down below the embrace of the cold earth. So proudly they had marched North; singing, drinking in the admirations of the smallfolk watching beside the road. Now they limped back, wounded and defeated, the banners dipping low under the cold wind.


    When they reached the second line they found long stretches of palisades on the other side of the Last River; watchtowers and winter cabins almost buried under the snow. The frozen river did not even crack as they carefully made their way through, now perhaps five thousand survivors spread in one long column. No one hailed them as they entered the abandoned fort; pots and bits of cutlery were strewn about along with half buried swords and torn tents. There were no bodies.


    Joffrey picked up a ragged banner from the pristine snow; the Tarly Huntsman, its bow ripped out along with half its arms. Had they broken, or was it an orderly retreat?


    Jorrick buried a hand under a snow covered camp fire. "Still warm. Must have been recent."


    He sighed, turning the banner into a roll and stuffing it into one of the sleds. The wounded wouldn''t make it though a forced march at night. Neither would half of Joffrey''s men, for that matter. Perhaps not even me, he thought as a monstrous yawn took him. Damnit Tarly. Where the hells are you? "We''ll have to make camp here. Have the scouts comb over the camp for clues, and set up a watch."


    "Aye, ser," said Jorrick, turning to his own gaggle of serjeants and giving out the orders. Joffrey closed his eyes for a moment and almost lost his balance, using the sled as support. Shaking his head, he picked one of the cabins and fell into a deep slumber almost instantly.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 78: Compass.

    Chapter 78: Compass.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop. S?a??h th? N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    ----


    He was beginning to remember.


    The feeling, deep in his gut. A faint tingling, caress up his spine. Like swaying on a boat, a boat sliding up and down the Sunset Sea over titan waves ravenous with foam. Yes, thought Joffrey, a deep sense of familiarity tickling his tongue. Like saltwater. Saltwater spraying his face as the small yacht reached the crest of the wave and time stopped. It was one of those seconds that lasted longer. That eerie instant when the boat tips just over its equilibrium. The second between deep breaths. Joffrey tightened his grip on the worn wooden tiller, an acid itch covering his shriveled skin. Drenched in saltwater, the tang of dead kelp sneaking up his nostrils. Distant thunder roared ahead, surly clouds battling the titan waves crashing against the horizon.


    This was the moment he first heard the Song in its entirety; the Song in the Sunset Sea. Just a moment. A single second when everything connected together, every sensation captured in awareness as thoughts wisped to nothing and blank clarity remained. This is reality, he remembered thinking. This is consciousness. The melody that is.


    He''d journeyed a long way since then. What had at first been fleeting glimpses had slowly become streaks of awareness. Sansa''s warm flesh slithering against his skin. The brilliant fireworks titillating over the Sealord''s Palace. The sonorous churning of hammers powered by watermills. The surging crowds of Jhala on market day. Moments of connection; all a piece of a single puzzle. Joffrey didn''t think infinite lives were needed to understand that. The lengthy span of his life had only been necessary for him to begin paying attention. He remembered the first days of his life, crying on Ned''s lap and meditating by the Heart Trees. He hadn''t known it then but the elusive peace he sought had been the Song. Those healing moments of timeless instant that built him back together.


    Meditation was a counterintuitive exercise, and he did so now; rather than thinking about nothing, he concentrated on the tapestry of sensations holding his attention. The tug of gravity, the sense of balance, the weight of soaked clothing, the rushing saltwater breeze. He sunk in it, tasted it to its tiniest constituent sense-moment-second. Many years after crossing the Sunset Sea he''d realized that awareness could be reached anywhere, anytime. No Heart Trees needed, no preparations necessary. Just take a step back from the constant stream of consciousness and listen to the instant. The second. Even the Purple''s long journey was but a blip beside that breathless moment.


    He wallowed in it, tasting all those sensations like a fine dish, the stormy ocean rumbling in the distance. The boat rocked from side to side as he leaned on the railing and gazed down at the sea, the churning waters revealing crystal clarity before morphing to heady greens opaque beyond death. He was beginning to remember; how the Silence had throttled that Song, drowned the instant, a cover opened wide. The Purple and the Comet, two sides of a coin. A connected whole of one fabric, one being. One Song.


    His wife arrived like a summer breeze, arms enveloping him from behind and locking him into a tight hug. "I don''t recognized this place," she said.


    "It''s deep in the Sunset Sea," he said, grabbing one hand and nestling it on his neck. "I sailed here, after decoding the Deep One''s message."


    "You never really talked about that life," said Sansa, resting her chin over his shoulder as she sat behind him, next to the tiller.


    Joffrey examined the crawling lightning, illuminating dark nights like a second sun. He supposed that was true. "There were three, actually. Two drowned by the sea, the third cut short inside the Structure."


    "What was it like?"


    "I felt sharpened. Lean." Joffrey gazed at his weathered hands. "Like hard leather. I thought I was reaching my journey''s end." Distant storms wracked the skies, "I thought I was going to die."


    Her grip tightened, her voice barely audible though she was whispering to his ear, "And now, what do you think?"


    Joffrey closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, "I think we''re nearing the end." One way or the other. He could feel it in his bones, a nameless wisdom borne out of immortality.


    "Father¡­ is he..?"


    "Yes," Joffrey whispered. They held each other, the trundling waves of the Sunset Sea reaching up for the sky. They failed with restless sighs, collapsing into themselves, whirlpools of murky green. Never again would he see Ned Stark gazing solemnly at Winterfell''s Heart Tree. Never again would he hear him working till late in the Tower of the Hand. Never again would he feel his strong grip, proud and affectionate after trading blows in the training yard. Getting him into one had taken a battle in and of itself, he remembered with a pained smile. He could feel Sansa''s grief in waves; a wounded thing clenching every time she thought it through again. "Have you¡­ have you seen any of the others?" he asked.


    "I glimpsed Jon leading some troops south down the coast, though I couldn''t tell how many."


    Thank the Gods. "Anyone else?" He felt her shake her head, red curls tickling his shoulder. Sandor. Robar. Tyrion¡­he must be alive somewhere. Walking practically under the snow and periodically dragged out of it by a stout Umber man, smirking at the sight. Tyrion of course japed right back, laughing in the midst of the bleak march; some much needed humor during the end of days. His throat tightened at the imagined sight. Please let it be¡­


    Sansa wiped seawater from his forehead, "There are parts of the Wall that didn''t collapse, and even where it did there are some who survived. I see groups of them scattered all over the Gift, but they''re cut off from each other."


    He swallowed something bitter. "We need to evacuate the North."


    "I''ve already given the order," said Sansa, "But you need to get back to Winterfell, Joff. The Kingdom needs its Warrior King."


    "We''re making as good a time as we can in this weather." He took a deep breath, "You probably know more than I. How bad is it?"


    Her pained silence said much. "The collapse has already begun. You saw how little time the Second Line bought us."


    "Lord Tarly?"


    "Retreating in good order. He''s slowing the wights as much as he can, but they''re already roaming the countryside around him in force, and entire columns have melted into the wilderness. Dispersing to find easier prey, I think. It''s a mess, Joff. There''s plenty of survivors from the Wall making their way south, but they''re survivors fleeing from catastrophe, not any sort of army."


    Joffrey mulled that over between the waves, gritting his teeth as distant thunder echoed again. Without ravens, runners, maesters, and horn-bearers Joffrey felt like a cripple, flailing around in the dark. Sansa filled him in with what information she had, and it all served to paint a picture even grimmer than she probably realized. Towns and villages would be overrun no matter what they did, all he could change was the severity of the massacres to come. With the Wall broken and the bottled dead unleashed, there was simply too much territory to defend, too little infrastructure for too many people. People to feed, to clothe, to get moving¡­ and a single false step could mean a collapse of the entire front and a swift invasion of the South, the undead swelled beyond stopping as they feasted on the living.


    "You''ll have to guide them as best as you can while I rebuild the chain of command. Probably until I make it back to Winterfell."


    "¡­ I''ll do it," she said, "But¡­ the army around the Crystal Palace. It hasn''t moved, Joff. They''re still standing there. If it were human I''d say it knows of its vulnerability. It¡­ it may have guessed our plans."


    Joffrey closed his eyes. Not even after the savage mauling we gave ''em at the Wall? Could it have calculated the odds, that crystalline mind in fractals crowned? Or had another species tried the same and somehow the Comet remembered. Grim darkness settled in Joffrey''s belly; an emptiness, an ice cold dread. He stared at his palsied hands, trembling ever so slightly. The sea around the boat had grown silent, the waves still; an eternal pond stretching in every direction. "What if it never moves that host, Sansa? What if it prefers to escalate -and damn the power- before leaving itself open?"


    "Could we fight it there, bring an army-"


    "To the Lands of Always Winter?" Joffrey snorted, mirthless, "How? Marching a hundred thousand men through an icy wasteland filled with only the dead and the wind? We''d starve long before we reached the enemy." And even if they''d somehow manage to accomplish such an impossibility, Westeros would collapse long before they got to the Palace... if it didn''t in the next few weeks. It was impossible.


    "So what, it''s hopeless?" Her hug turned fierce, possessive, her breath tickling his ear, "I don''t believe you."


    Her timeless faith in him served to jump start his mind, warmth fighting against the cold dread. He tried thinking about stratagems, about battle plans and campaigns, ways he could turn around this grim ending. But his mind kept returning to the Comet, its face opened wide and so familiar. He hadn''t asked Sansa how she would rally those distant survivors, closer to him than they were to her. He didn''t need to ask how she''d reached across a thousand leagues to speak directly into his dreams. Sansa had changed, nameless insight radiating from her presence; he wasn''t the only one who''d glimpsed reality''s secrets, back when their enemy tore the fabric of reality.


    He felt her divine his line of thought. "When the Comet opened¡­ I saw inside of it, Joff. Beyond¡­"


    He remembered. Like Baelor''s Sept but filled with fractal mechanisms as far as the eye could see. "Beyond¡­" he whispered, the word small but its meaning so vast. Beyond through reality, a fabric of existence conjoined to all. The Comet was somehow anchored into the world, into the Song. Like the Purple. But whereas his ancient curse flew between the strands of the Song, the Red Comet was like a spreading plague, seeking only to Silence it. That must be why even much more powerful species had failed to destroy the Comet by conventional means; how could you destroy that which had wormed into all that is? A hole in reality, he remembered Marwyn''s last words, and shivered. A flimsy cover. And beyond its cover he had glimpsed a piece of all that is.


    "When it revealed its core¡­" he said slowly, "There can be no question."


    "We share the same creators," she said.


    Joffrey nodded, "The same building blocks. The same language; those timeless depths held by pillars written in fractals. Don''t you see Sansa? That means we can exert influence on it. We can navigate inside the Comet, just like when we repaired the Purple. We almost did it when it escalated over the Wall."


    "You''re thinking of reaching out to it through a bridge. Like the Walkers did to us back in Carcosa." Thoughts flew between them now; insights shared.


    "Why not? It should be possible to make it work the other way; to reach through the platforms to the Comet." Joffrey breathed deeply. "If we can make it reveal itself once again, at least."


    She was tense with fear, same as him but thinking it through, "It''d be beyond risky. We''d have to bait it into escalation again. Somehow. And then establish a connection it can''t shake off, but through what? Stabbing Brightroar through a random Walker?"


    "No. It''d turn into an attrition match no different than in Carcosa. We''d be absorbed." Giddy zeal wormed its way through his veins; a chance. He understood now how his predecessors had been subsumed during each Cycle, and how it had almost happened to him in the Dawn Fort and in Carcosa. The White Walkers -through their crystalline blades- had been the connector in both instances, the bridge from Comet to Purple which enabled a true confrontation. It had been a narrow bridge, however, one which the Comet had filled from end to end with its might, leaving no room to maneuver, to sneak, to outflank. It had been like two armies battling on a long and narrow rope-bridge; an engagement in which the Purple''s nimble strength had run out far, far sooner than the Comet''s own colossal power reserves. No, they needed a bigger connection. Big enough so they could squeeze into the Comet''s guts before it could turn it into an attrition match that, as he''d learned in Carcosa, would last seconds.


    Something better than a run-of-the-mill White Walker.


    "That''s it," he said, "The Night King."


    "Who?"


    "It''s what the men at the Wall called it; a different type of Walker that oversaw the battle." Now that Joffrey thought about it, he never saw it take part of the battle itself. And neither had the one at the Dawn Fort, not willingly at least; he''d had to ram the Dawn Legion into it in turn, hoping that a kill would''ve slain the others¡­ "I''ve seen its like before, back at the Dawn Fort. When it died and nothing much seemed to happen, I thought¡­ well, I thought it was just a bigger, badder sort of Walker¡­" Joffrey took a deep breath, "But they''re not. They''re a nexus in the Silence. A confluence of power within the Walkers themselves."


    "It makes sense," Sansa said after a while, "The Comet needs the Palace for its power to reach the Walkers¡­ but we''re far from the Palace indeed. Perhaps when a host gets sufficiently big it needs to create one of them to keep a handle on things."


    It seemed barely saner than marching an army into the Lands of Always Winter. To somehow bait the Comet into a big field battle where it was forced to gather a majority of its host and thus the Night King... And then push it into escalation and fight their way to the Night King itself¡­ which, going by its conduct during the Battle for the Wall and its brother''s in the Siege of the Dawn Fort, would not be leading by the front¡­


    Joffrey shook his head. "Whatever happens next, we have to survive the coming months," he said, "Salvage what we can out of the North. Avoid a complete collapse." He sighed, "Old Gods help us, Sansa. Winter is Coming." A war like none in written history. A war fought in every village, in every man, woman, and child. An avalanche of death had been unleashed on the Seven Kingdoms, and now it was up to him and Sansa to lead that desperate defense.


    "Stand, soldier," she said, kissing him in the neck before an insistent hand shook him awake.


    -: PD :-


    "Our scouts found several wight piles here, here, and here," said Jorrick, marking the map of the North with charcoal scratches. "Two of ''em were still smoking."


    "Tarly''s been busy. He''ll burn through the Outer Wolfswood at this rate." Joffrey tapped his chin, leaning back on the chair. The cabin was cramped and heavy with the smell of sweat, but the lords, knights, and centurions clustered around the table didn''t seem to mind. If anything, the combined body heat was a welcome respite from the cold. Another group of survivors had joined up with them around midnight, and some of the fight was beginning to return to the eyes of his men. "We know there was a battle here, and here," he said, tapping two locations on the Kingsroad. "He''s anchoring his right flank on Long Lake; clever, that way he can ferry supplies and wounded up and down the White Knife."


    "I''m sorry, Your Grace," said Lord Cerwyn, "But how do you know of those battles?"


    "I spoke with the Queen last night."


    "Ah," said Lord Cerwyn. A ripple of solemn nods spread throughout his war council, hushed whispers surging and dying in seconds. They held awe rather than dread; for those that''d lived through Wallfall, the superstitions of old now meant rather little. Seven-Blessed or Sorcerer-Seer, the fact that their Queen held power not of this world was a relief to these men.


    "The wight army seems to have split up after Wallfall, advancing upon the North through a string of lesser hosts. One of the bigger splinter groups is pressing Lord Tarly hard; right now they''re probably fighting it out somewhere around this fishing village¡ªKnifeboats." Joffrey looked up at his men; a veteran core of wight-fighters who''d survived an icy apocalypse and come out the other side alive. Unkempt beards framed their hardened faces, as patched as their plate and brigandine. Their hands were never more than a few inches away from their weapons. After a night''s rest with a roof over their heads, they looked a lot more dangerous. "We''re getting back into the thick of it, and the first thing we''ll do is hit that host in the rear."


    "We''re with you, Your Grace," said Centurion Donric, "They won''t tear a chunk out of the Kingdom without a fight."


    "Westeros heeds the call," muttered Lord Cerwyn.


    "Hear, hear," said Lord Piper, tapping the table with the back of his axe. Though the manning of the Wall''s castles had been mostly homogeneous as far as which regions occupied which sections, the fall and the subsequent mist had jumbled up survivors from all corners of the continent. Something had happened to them during Wallfall, something which had hardened their wills. Something which made them look at him not as a man but¡­ something else. Joffrey wondered what eldritch truths these men had seen within the clash of wills between Weapon and Comet.


    "Ser Vardis," he said as he turned to the Vale knight, "You''ll lead the forward contingent with what''s left of our horse and strike the wights hard. Then you''ll retreat to this valley, where we''ll be lying in wait." He marked the clearing with a bit of charcoal, but stopped when he heard some sort of commotion outside. He frowned, turning to Jorrick, "Go see what''s that all about, will you?"


    Jorrick slapped his breastplate and squeezed between those assembled, who grumbled all the way as he made for the door.


    "Centurion Gibbs," said Joffrey, "Still no sign of Tribune Fayse?"


    The man shook his head reluctantly, "None, ser."


    "Then you''re promoted to Tribune effective immediately. Take command of the First Cohort and merge it with what''s left of the Third. You''ll sweep Long Lake''s western approaches as we get in place for our little trap, joining with the rest of the force by noon. I''ll lead the main force to this valley here and prepare the ambush, while Lord Cerwyn-" he nodded at the lord as he kept speaking -"And the men of Clan Wull will scout our approach and make sure we''re not ambushed in turn. If the wights take the bait we''ll bloody ''em good, and take the pressure off Lord Tarly¡­ perhaps enough that we can sneak by and link up." He eyed the map, calculating distance, supplies, and morale with the ease of long experience. "If they don''t take the bait, or too many of them do, we''ll retreat to a rallying point near this hill, west of the Kingsroad," he said, frowning as he added in the rigors of marching in winter. As experienced a general as he was, that was an area in which his long lives had relatively little to say about. He''d have to look out for that. "I was told Lord Karsark''s second son was here."


    A youth in northern furs anxiously made his way forward, "I''m here, Your Grace. Name''s Torrhen."


    "You fought with the Freefolk volunteers Beyond the Wall, correct?"


    The man nodded half-way, eying him nervously, "Aye, Your Grace."


    "Good. You''ll be by my side as we march. I''ll be bouncing some ideas on you; how we might navigate this weather, for one."


    He blinked, "Your Grace! I- It would be my honor- OW-" a stray elbow caught his chest as Jorrick made his way back, muttering half-hearted apologies.


    Joffrey hid a smile, "Well?" he asked his aide.


    Jorrick told him in a low voice.


    "¡­ what?"


    "I said Lady Jeyne-"


    "No, nevermind." He turned to the rest of the war council; young and old, hefting bearded axes with easy grips or thumbing their dragonglass daggers as they waited. As traumatized as they were hardened, it would now take something beyond Wallfall to shake these veterans of dawn. "Alright, that''s it. Go to your men and get those sleds moving; make sure they don''t pack anything they''ll be dropping off twenty leagues from here. And keep a tight formation until we leave the worst of this mist behind, we''re losing enough men as it is." He gave them a deep nod, "The Walkers gave us a hideous blow at the Wall, now it''s up to us to make them regret reaping what they sowed."


    "Westeros!" shouted someone, all the pent up horror of Wallfall raw in his throat.


    A wordless snarl rippled throughout the war council, and Joffrey shared their mighty threat, "Westeros indeed," he said in a low voice.


    They filled out in good order beyond the occasional shove, and Joffrey followed them outside to find Lady Jeyne.


    She was flustered, stopping her pacing as she saw him. "Your Grace, the men outside wouldn''t let me in-"


    "They would''ve let you in had you arrived at the beginning," Joffrey told her, "The Handmaidens deserve a voice for all the good they''ve been doing."


    "We''re far too busy to watch the men play with-" she trailed off, color rising to her cheeks, "Anyway, that''s not why I''m here."


    Joffrey sighed, "I know. I-"


    A horn sounded in the distance. Joffrey waited for two more, tense. The Armies of Dawn had inherited the Night''s Watch signaling methods as far as horns were concerned. One for allies, two -though now largely disused- for hostiles, and three for Walkers. A tense beat later, Joffrey made his way to the palisade. From there he spotted a column of survivors coming from the northeast, flying tattered banners and pulling sleds with the wounded, not too dissimilar from Joffrey''s own march. And at their head¡­


    Joffrey felt a rare smile lit up on his face as the survivors merged with his own camp. Strangers greeted each other like long-lost family, joining for news and supplies. He made his way to the scarred man at the head, "Too fucking ugly for the wights, eh Sandor?"


    "Joffrey," he said, sighing as if he''d been forced to carry a mountain on his back till this moment, "Boy, am I glad to see you-"


    Joffrey bear hugged him, unable to contain himself. "Stupid dog," he whispered, blinking quickly, "Thought I''d lost you there for a moment."


    "Me too, Joffrey. Me too," he rasped back.


    Leaning back to see him better, Joffrey spotted no less than three new hideous scars, two of which crossed his ''good'' cheek. Wallfall hadn''t improved Clegane''s looks by one bit. They swapped stories as Jorrick guided them to one of the communal campfires. It seemed largely similar to Joffrey''s own tale of scavenging and survival. "After we were cut off the wights just kept expanding the breach. They pushed us the other way, don''t know for how long, and then¡­"


    "Wallfall," said Joffrey, turning to look at the survivors still streaming in around the camp.


    A by now familiar harrumph interrupted their conversation. Sandor turned to Lady Jeyne with his most fierce scowl, burnt eyebrow rising up indignantly. His fresh scars bulged in horrific dread. "And you are?" he growled.


    "Lady Jeyne Westerling. And you must be the Hound," she said, holding her head high. This rather unusual reaction from the female gender left Sandor at a loss for words. She turned towards him, "And I must insist about that matter, Your Grace."


    Joffrey gave out a weary sigh, "Yes, that. See to your men, Sandor, and come find in half an hour. We''ll be marching shortly." He nodded at Jeyne, "Lead the way."


    She guided him and Jorrick outside the encampment, snow once again falling from white skies. It drifted down gently; little feathers which could turn into whirling knives in minutes, though that usually meant there was a Walker close by. Joffrey, annoyed by the waste of time, went through the day''s marching route in his mind, and tried to avoid looking at the Red Comet perched above them all. We have to move quicker than Tarly''s retreat, else we''ll end up cut off for good. And according to Sansa there was another host marching over what was left of Castle Black right now. Sometimes, Joffrey wished he could be in several places at the same time; it would solve a great many problems. Kind of like the Song, when the Purple thrums between lives. When the fractals wind back the flow of time.


    Eventually, a lone sentinel pine emerged from the mist, surrounded by a dozen people. Most of them were guardsmen, two of them holding a black-haired man both bloodied and tied. He was smirking at a mouse of a Handmaiden, who sat on a nearby rock, fingering her golden armband. "Tecylla," said Jeyne, kneeling by her side. "The King''s here."


    She looked up, but her gaze seemed to pierce him and go to a place far, far beyond this hole in the mist. She was comely, he supposed, in a defenseless sort of way¡­ though the two big bruises and the distant look somewhat marred the effect. The serjeant overlooking the local guardsmen trotted up to him, "Commander!"


    "Serjeant. Why isn''t that man dancing with the dragons?"


    "The very question I''ve been asking myself," said Jeyne, jaw clenched.


    "Lady Jeyne, please," said Joffrey, holding a hand.


    The serjeant eyed Jeyne warily; Joffrey suspected they''d been arguing the whole morning. "Well, we were gonna to, but then he, the man that is, started spouting off about being a lord and all. So we thought; well, that means the King has a hear him ''fore we make him dance."


    Joffrey eyed the serjeant with both weariness and approval. Legally, he''d been right¡­ though Joffrey resented the damned waste of time. He had a campaign to direct. Campaign¡­ sounds better than evacuation. He rubbed the dirt out of his eyes, throttling down a sigh. If the New Westeros was to last beyond he and Sansa, then the law had to become more than a King''s whims¡­ or at least, not an inconsistent whim. "Alright then, let''s hear it directly from the source." He turned to Tecylla, "Victim first."


    She looked at him, hands clenching her northern leather hose. Out here in the front, handmaidens didn''t wear dresses. Joffrey frowned.


    Jeyne cleared her throat, "She''s mute, Your Grace. Since Wallfall."


    Joffrey realized he was resting his hand on his mace''s pommel, a lax sort of strength filling his limbs; like Stars on the edge of a leap. A mute huh? Hard to come by easier prey. He breathed slowly, "Lady Tecylla. Did that man-" he pointed at the accused, his face now blank -"try to rape you in the early hours of the day."


    She nodded once, firmly.


    "She''s lying!" the man shouted, "Don''t believe her, Your Grace! She invited me into her tent, then set the Guard on me!"


    Joffrey eyed the man, craning his neck, "And your name is..?"


    "Ramsay Bolton, lord of the Dreadfort," he said, standing straight, "My father was Lord Roose."


    "You''re the bastard I legitimized last year, are you not? I remember that letter."


    "Yes Your Grace." He nodded eagerly, "I fought with my lord father at the Wall; we hardly slept throughout the battle, giving it our all even as the wounds piled up. The vigor of youth must have helped me overcome them, but for my lord father there was no such hope. He was stabbed by a wight in the middle of the second night." His eyelashes fluttered as he shook his head, "A terrible loss, but I did my best to rally the men. Been doing so throughout the march, helping those with frostbite reach the Handmaidens. It was there I met the Lady Tecylla, actually. When she invited me into her tent in the early hours of the morn, I, well-" he gave him a guileless smile -"It had been a while, Your Grace, so I accepted. Next thing I know these fine guardsmen are hauling me out here and that lady there-" he jutted his chin at Lady Jeyne -"started shouting her silly head off."


    Lady Jeyne for one looked ready to rip Bolton''s head off, "You son of a-"


    Joffrey placed a hand on her shoulder. The only obvious wounds he noted on Ramsay were the three fresh scars on his face, raked through his left cheek. A quick glance at Lady Tellyse''s nails confirmed where that had come from. Hadn''t attended any of the war councils either. "Serjeant, I understand you have a witness?"


    "Aye, Yer Grace," he said, "Dolan! Come over here! King wants to speak with ya!"


    "Your Grace," said the guardsman, giving him a courtly bow instead of the guard salute.


    Joffrey smiled slightly, "What''s your house?"


    He seemed surprised, "Nightsong, Your Grace."


    "Fourth son?"


    "Fifth."


    "Hm. Well, what did you see?"


    "I- ah. Sometimes I like to check on the Lady Tellyse, make sure she''s alright." At Joffrey''s raised eyebrows the man -boy really- turned beet red, "Nothing like- like that Your Grace! It''s just, after the Wall fell, the lady helped me out so, so I''ve been trying to return the favor. Make sure she''s been having no trouble." Their eyes briefly met and both of them looked away. Joffrey noticed the missing middle finger on Dolan''s left hand. Three guesses as to which Handmaiden took that out.


    "So?"


    "So I went to check on her after morning muster. She didn''t answer when I called for her-" At Joffrey''s raised eyebrow the boy blinked, "Well, ah, she usually taps the tent pole with one of her instruments when it''s okay to get inside."


    I bet. Joffrey only hoped they had been using the moon tea Sansa had made available to all Handmaidens, no questions asked. This war was no place to have a baby in. "Continue."


    Dolan''s mouth did a funny little thing, his halberd trembling in his hands -"I didn''t hear the tap, but I did hear as if¡­ she were choking, or drowning. So I tore inside and found that animal atop her, forcing her hands away as she tried to claw him off. He didn''t bother to clamp her mouth shut, Your Grace," he said, voice so tight it almost squeaked, "He didn''t have to."


    "He''s clearly a spurned lover," said Ramsay, "Manipulated by the lady so she can keep a shred of dignity after being discovered like this." He smiled, shaking his head as if it were obvious, "To accuse a lord of such things with so flimsy a witness'' account¡­ why, it''s enough to make the blood boil, Your Grace."


    "You fucking liar!" screamed Dolan, launching himself at Ramsay. Two guardsmen intercepted him before he could land a blow, and they carried him back.


    Ramsay Bolton shook his head, "You see, Your Grace?"


    Joffrey walked up to the tied lord, who still had that sick smile that didn''t reach the eyes. "I think you''re full of shit," he whispered in his ear, "You know why? Because I see myself in you." Ramsay''s fake smile dissipated, his eyes cycling rapidly through Joffrey''s face, "Yeah. Even now, always looking for an angle. Another lie to keep you moving forward, searching for the perfect thing to say. To make me a friend. To avoid being hurt. Maybe you even believe them yourself; I know I did." Closer still to his ear, almost kissing it, "You reek of it. I know it because the same monster is now begging me to take this hammer and plant it into your skull; watch the blood fall and feel right. Complete. Just. Everyone here would cheer me on. No one would stop me," Joffrey said, painful longing thrumming through his being. "It grew to dominate me, very long ago. That drive to impose myself above all others. To rend flesh and tear wills because we deserve it! Because it is owed to us!" He retreated half a step to find Ramsay staring at him, mouth agape. "Because it is the only way to¡­" Feel-love-live "¡­be." Joffrey breathed, and let go of his hammer.


    "Help me," whispered Ramsay.


    "I am," said Joffrey, his eyes lingering on the serjeant''s stern face.


    "No- Wait!" he said, his cry cut off as the serjeant placed the noose on his neck and pulled it tight. "Unhand me you imbeciles! You can''t do this!" he screamed, "I am a lord! My blood is that of the Red Kings!" The serjeant threw the rope over one of the pine''s sturdier branches, the four guardsmen by the other side receiving it.


    His voice cut through Ramsay''s rant like Valyrian steel, "I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, and the First Men. Protector of the Realm, and commander of this host of dawn, do sentence you to die."


    His eyes turned wilder still, "No! That filthy whore!" he screamed at Lady Tellyse, "She was begging me to do it! Screaming it with her eyes! She''ve not the strength to even voice her mind-"


    "Serjeant."


    "Pull!" shouted the serjeant, and Ramsay was cut off with a gasp, the rope reeling him up like a freshly caught trout. He dangled up there, swaying with the cold wind as he shook this way and that, struggling to breath. But there would be no Purple for Ramsay Bolton, no fractal purgatory to break him down and make whole again. And always, he thought, gazing at the hand which had gripped the hammer, always, something remains.


    It must have been a first for him. The realization he wouldn''t just walk away from the consequences. His struggle ended gradually, bits of drool falling down his mouth as empty eyes stared north. Lady Tellyse watched it all, not blinking once. When he lay still, she turned to Joffrey and curtsied respectfully before walking towards the camp and losing herself in the mist. Perhaps the worst of his and Ramsay''s curse was the blindness; the hunger that distorted the truth of others. Lady Tellyse was not weak but strong.


    Though even the strongest of souls can get lost in this gods-be-damned mist, he thought as he eyed guardsman Dolan, who was nervously peering after her disappearing silhouette. "Guardsman! Make sure the lady finds her way back to camp," he said, though he was halfway through it when the soldier sprinted after her. "And then get back to your duties," he said more to himself. He looked up at Bolton''s body, still spinning gently though his struggles were now over. "We''ve all got work to do."


    "Thank you," said Jeyne, coming to stand by his side.


    "You''ll be helping the good serjeant here lower the body."


    She formed a silent ''O'' with her mouth.


    "What? You didn''t think we''d leave it here for the Walkers did you?" Joffrey smiled at her, "Thought I doubt even they would take him in."


    Jeyne crossed her arms, "Is this revenge for ''wasting'' your time?"


    "I believe your patron would say ''don''t ask questions you don''t want answered''." He turned to the serjeant, "Pull him down and burn him!" The mist sawallowed him as he made way back to camp, Jorrick hurrying behind him. Though he worried about others getting lost in it, for Joffrey himself it had never been a real concern. The Red Comet was always up there, even if he couldn''t see it. His own personal north pole; a compass for his soul. How could he get lost when always, always it stood above the horizon. Watching. Waiting.


    "Soon," he told it.


    "Your Grace?" said Jorrick.


    "Let''s get back into the war, First Serjeant."


    -: PD :-

 Interlude: The 73rd, (1).

    Thanks again to Duesal Bladesinger for his help betaing this chapter (and a few others!).Interlude: The 73rd, part 1.


    The triple line of marching men made more of a funeral procession than an army. The soldiers navigated the dense forest following the tracks of the scouts, making way around sharp-looking rocks and tall birches as white as the snow. First Serjeant Ross squinted at the mist, trying to find the edge where the marching halberdiers dissipated into the grey. There was no definitive barrier; their silhouettes gradually melded with the mist until they were no more, followed by the next row, and the next, and the next. It was snowing again, though this time with a windy edge, a piercing bite that blew from the north, deceptively slow.


    Blizzard in the air, thought Ross, his old wound aching assent. He had a simple rule for assessing his own effectiveness. Could he imagine the current state of his men as well as his left hand? Right now, it was like a hand half submerged in a murky pond, making odd waves with its fingers. Had to get moving and see to that, but it was a tall task in this damned mist.


    A figure dashed opposite the marching column, stumbling over the great mounds of snow between the naked birches, "First Serjeant!" he shouted. The soldiers threw him tired looks even as they tightened their grip on their weapons. "First Serjeant Ross!"


    Ross already had his hand axe out as the man practically collided with him, "What is it? Wights?"


    "No ser, survivors!" said Wigs, "Couple o'' the King''s silvers near the head o'' the column!"


    Silver as in Silver Knights? "It''s just the mist, Wigs. It''s silver bloody everywhere."


    "I know it sounds crazy, serjeant! But they''re there alright, sitting on a rock and quiet as peaches."


    Ross stared at him before shaking his head. Wigs wasn''t prone to hysterics. Then again, a lot of men hadn''t before Wallfall. "Alright, point me at them. And then go find the Centurion, he''ll want to hear this."


    Suitably armed with a vague heading, Ross gritted his teeth and hurried to the front of the column, waddling over knee-high snow with funny-looking strides. So funny the guardsmen had guffawed at the Umber men when they first got this sorry march a-going. No one was laughing now though; everyone moved with the same funny waddle that, turns out, didn''t leave you panting like a bitch-on-heat after five hours of forced marching. Aye, thought Ross, checking the shuffling column of men and making a show of it, the better to hide his own exhaustion. No stragglers just yet. We all proper winter troops now. Those who hadn''t made the cut were having their second go at it somewhere to their northeast, complete with gnashing teeth and ravenous blue eyes that stalked through the mist.


    Wigs had been telling the truth alright. He found the two knights sitting on a rock by the side of the marching column; one of them had a broken arm on a haphazard sling, the other was propping up his head over the butt of the warhammer he''d rammed into the snow. Even haggard, dirty, and dotted with a score minor wounds, they had a silent dignity about them: a steely shroud that lifted their gaze out of the snow as he approached.


    "Good day, ser knights. Didn''t ken I''d meet a couple o'' silvers down this way."


    "And we weren''t sure we''d meet another living soul," said the one with the broken arm, "Not before trying to tear its throat out anyway."


    Ross'' mouth twitched, "Well, I''ll be keeping mine if you don''t mind."


    "We''ll allow it," said broken-arm, a little smile on his lips. Seven knows we all need a bit of a laugh. Warhammer let out a long steamy breath; not exactly a chuckle, but it was something.


    "Any chance you''ve a column o'' knights somewhere close by?"


    "No such luck, I''m afraid," said Broken Arm, "What about you?"


    "Haven''t seen another soul since our host got broken up. Just our unit and a few other bits and bobs."


    "Ah."


    "Wallfall?" asked Warhammer. Funny how they had the same name for it.


    "Not really. ''Twas a monster blizzard two days later. Our whole cohort got scattered across the mist, and once you lose sight of the man ahead of you¡­"


    Both knights nodded somberly. It waxed and waned, but the mist was a patient and cunning enemy. There would be entire mornings free of its oppressive influence, leaving only the sky overcast with surly grays¡­ then it would sneak up on you in the afternoon, when the men were tired. In between blinks, the man in front of you was gone. If the one behind you wasn''t there too¡­ well. That was the reason they did everything in threes now, from blizzard-marching to taking a piss. If you got yourself lost, then at least you''d not die alone.


    "What''s this about knights, First Serjeant?" said the Centurion, catching up from behind. Centurion Donvan had a slender frame turned thinner still by the harsh winter, but his broad shoulders could lift an armored man and carry him through a rain of falling Wall. Ross struggled not to scratch the long scar on his leg lest he break it open again. I''d know.


    "Two o'' the King''s silvers. Haven''t introduced each other yet."


    "Silver Knights?" he said as he reached their little gathering by the rock, and Ross could hear the satisfaction in his voice. Or was that relief? "I''m Centurion Donvan, and this here''s First Serjeant Ross." Any bastard with a sword and a horse could call himself a knight, and these days the horse was rather optional. Made it hard to judge how useful they''d be in a fight, or how well they''d take to orders from a commoner. Silver Knights though¡­ they had a certain reputation.


    "Robar Royce, Lord Commander," Broken Arm said as he stood up.


    "Samwell Tarly, Knight Chronicler," said Warhammer, nodding deeply but staying seated. "Got space for two in that column of yours?" He looked even more exhausted than Ser Robar. While the wounded knight carried only his axe and a small pack, it was clear Ser Samwell had been carrying the bulk of their scavenged supplies. Ser Robar. Ser Samwell.


    Ross shared a look with Donvan. Not any silver knights, but the two highest ranking members of the order. Iron Rune and the Gatecrasher himself, he thought, stunned. Ser Robar was lacking his famous tower shield, but sure enough Ser Samwell had his warhammer well in hand, and the book-shaped bundle of leathers by his belt was a dead giveaway.


    "We''d be honored to have you," Donvan managed, "You are on a mission from the King?"


    Ser Samwell snorted, "Just searching for a warm fire, though I''m sure His Grace would approve."


    "That he would," said Ser Robar. "We spotted a village this morning, when the mist cleared up a bit." He pointed to the southwest with his good arm, "We were making our way there when we stumbled into your scouts."


    "A village?" said Donvan, the tiniest trace of hope tickling his voice. They''d had a hard time managing hope, after Wallfall. It had to be rationed tightly, doled out only for the surest of bets. It was the only way not to end up a wight-in-waiting. A village, though¡­ Ross should''ve known better, but he could practically taste the warm food. The fire of a good, strong hearth; so different from the pitiful campfires they''d been scraping out of wet, fallen birch limbs. As always, the centurion turned towards him, "What do you think, Serjeant?"


    "I think that''s a mighty fine idea, ser. Haven''t seen a wight in days, and the wounded could sure use a good roof." He could already feel the burning tingle in his gut, the tingle that had gotten so many men killed. Budget that hope, Ross. The food will be moldy and the wenches will be wights. "No harm in sending in the scouts first, though."


    "I agree," said Donvan, though his gaze lingered on the knights.


    "This is your command, Centurion. We won''t be getting in the way," said Ser Robar.


    Donvan nodded gratefully, "Then we''ll make way towards that village immediately. And," he hesitated briefly, "I feel I should tell you, it was Lord Tyrion who originally commanded our force."


    Ser Robar blinked at that, "Tyrion? You''re with the Master of Coin?"


    "Aye," said Donvan, "Met up with him during the blizzard that scattered us all over the Gift. Him and some Umber men. He''s not doing too well now, though."


    Ser Samwell frowned, "What do you mean?"


    Ross cleared his throat, "Wallfall banged him up something fierce. Hit his head, broke both legs. Now he''s down with some hellish fever." He gave a helpless shrug, "Haven''t found a maester or even a handmaiden to tell us what''s wrong with him, though at this point mayhaps a septon would do him more good."


    "Shit," said Ser Robar. He gave Ser Samwell a nod, "See if you can do something. I''ll show the centurion where I saw the village."


    "Alright," he said, accommodating the big bundle of supplies tied to his back before standing up with a sigh. "If you could lead me to him?" he asked Ross.


    -: PD :-


    The forest turned to oaks, and then stumps as they got closer to the village, whole copses bearing the scars of saw and axe. The remains of super heavy sleds poked out of the snow here and there¡ªlarge beasts meant to be loaded with lumber and then dragged by triple teams of horses. Now they lay beached between big lumps of snow, the northerly breeze adding new layers of frost with delicate care. "They had a hefty operation going-along here," said Ross, tracing one of the sleds'' broken side rails with a hand. It was stiff with frost, and he almost fell on his face when the end of it broke off.


    "Lumberjack''s village, no doubt about it," said the Centurion.


    Ross felt naked out of the forest''s dubious embrace; unconsciously haunched, gaze bouncing from sled to sled before he looked at the piece he''d broken off. "Must''ve cost the King some pretty coppers," he said. A little bronze shield had been tacked where the rail had met the driver''s seat, depicting a tiny lion holding a hammer and nails, framed by a big wheel saw as if it were a noble shield. He passed it on to Donvan.


    He whistled softly, "Blackworks," he said, tracing the heraldry before discarding it. "This place must have been feeding the work atop the Wall. Not firewood though; timbers for the new towers?"


    "Suppose so." Ross shrugged, "Big lot o'' good they did us in the end." Their conversation dropped to whispers as the slowly lifting mist revealed the first houses beyond the stumps. They dropped to their bellies and crawled like Gulltown eels, scuttling forward until they reached the cover of a trio of stacked logs, catching glimpses of buildings in between the mist. The place wasn''t all that small; Ross counted more than forty sturdy log cabins nestled at the bottom of the small valley before the mist turned impenetrable, their alarmingly steep roofs leaning into each other like a gaggle of singing guardsmen after payday. Probably more behind them.


    "Far-eye," whispered Donvan.


    He handed it over and watched their backs as the Centurion swept it left through right, slow and methodical. "Where the hells'' Maeber?" muttered Ross.


    "He''ll be here," said the Centurion, focusing on something and then resuming his sweep.


    "He better be," said Ross, thumbing his axe. Something smoky stirred in the air, carried by the wind and making his nose twitch, "Something''s burning."


    "Hearths?" Perhaps the only one amongst their entire mish-mash of survivors, Ross could catch the tiny inflections that passed for emotion in the Centurion''s voice. Hope. Dangerous in First Serjeants, outright deadly in officers.


    "Or some poor bastards gone Last Defiance," he added helpfully.


    "Always the cheery soul, First Serjeant."


    "Trying m''best, ser."


    "No wights," said Maeber.


    "Warrior''s cock!" hissed Ross, almost cutting the man''s head off. Third Scout Maeber lay kneeling behind them, silently tapping the wooden amulet that hung from his neck; a seven-pointed star dulled dirty-grey from a lifetime''s worth of fidgeting. "Would you stop doing that!"


    "Talk to me," said the Centurion, still looking down the far-eye. Didn''t even twitch.


    "The outskirts are abandoned, but the core''s well lit and warm," said Maeber. He spoke with that dull tone that always left Ross on edge. More than he usually was anyway. "Some desultory patrols, barely any work outdoors."


    "Must be hunkering down," said Ross, returning his gaze to the village outskirts. "Idiots. They''d be better off running south as fast as their hairy northron legs could take ''em."


    "We don''t know what they know," said the Centurion. He mulled it over before snapping the far-eye shut with a decisive click. "First Serjeant," he said in that tone that made bad serjeants flinch and good ones relax. "Bring up the column. We''ll see if the northmen live up to their famous hospitality."


    "Right you are, ser," he said before scuttling back the way they came, spraying a bit of snow over Maeber''s boots on the way.


    He made good progress back to the halted column, finding scarcely a man idle as they worked on their boots, stretched their limbs, or gathered fallen twigs from the ground. Some clipped but approving nods later, he harangued the serjeants into motion, who harangued the guardsmen, who harangued each other as they dusted themselves off the ground and through a chaotic swirl managed to transform into a marching column again. Blink and you would''ve missed it. Screw the abundant half-plate and the halberds; this was what made the Royal Guard deadly. Ross led the march, receiving short reports along the way from horseless pickets and outriders scarcely faster than the column, but still more valuable than gold now that they were in wight-lands. Wight-lands¡­ Not two weeks from Wallfall and already the soldiers considered this to be enemy territory.


    The men picked up the pace without needing to be told, another snowflake falling on Ross'' arm. Softly, silent. A green boy might have shrugged it off, but not them. Not the 73rd. We proper winter troops now, he thought as he gazed back, calculating what time they had left before the blizzard hit, looking for stragglers within the surly mist. He could now just about make the Umber men at the rear of the column; a small group of them carrying Lord Tyrion''s covered sled. They''d had a horse at first, but it''d broken its leg trying to cross a small creek. The poor Umbers had been devastated that night, and the cooks of the 73rd elated.


    Smoke drifted out of chimneys as they approached the village, drawing lazy lines which lay suspended in the air before being scythed by errant winds. A gust rich with the scent of vegetable stew caught Ross right as he took another breath. Eager saliva flooded his gob, and he had to spit before shouting at the men to keep going. They didn''t need the encouragement; caught by the smell of hot food they were now little better than wights chasing after fresh meat, marching almost in a trance. They made way past the uninhabited outskirts; wind-powered sawmills whose torn blades leered down on them. Into the village proper where the houses grew densest, almost piling on each other. A small mob of suspicious locals had formed up at the center of the village square, hefting a mismatch of libards, lumberjack''s axes, and a hell of a lot of frowns.


    Maeber and the Centurion were waiting for him, and Ross hurried up to them as the soldiers spread around the square, letting drop their packs with powerful sights that steamed through the cold air. "Awfully tight grip on those arms, ser," Ross cautioned.


    "Let''s hope they''re just scared," the Centurion whispered back. They stopped a few paces from the man at the head of the northrons. Ross spotted a lot of the very young and the very old in the mob, more women than men.


    "You lot seem ''live ''nough," said the leader. Middle aged, shorter than the average guardsman but wide, and with hands big enough to tear a chicken''s head out with three fingers. He was eying the thin centurion as if he might need only two.


    "So we are," said Donvan. There was a frosty pause before he cleared his throat, "Living, but cold and hungry. We''d be grateful for any assistance in helping set that right."


    The villagers murmured anxiously, but the man merely lifted his shoulders, "You''re the King''s Fists, them''s the laws. ''Sides, we''d be cursed right if we let our own army starve in the middle of a war and all." His sausage fingers twitched, the pops painfully loud as he tapped his chin, "We no smallfolk here though, but yeomen." He said it as if he were delivering a friendly word of advice on the nearby bear cave. "Some southrons get mighty confused and seem to treat one like the other."


    Donvan seemed to get the message, "Smallfolk or yeomen, we''ve sworn to follow the King''s Edicts to the letter. We''ll cause no trouble to you and yours goodman; First Serjeant Ross here knows how to tie a good noose."


    Ross stood straight as he gave a ponderous nod at the man, trying to appear reassuring, "Bloody expert at it. The men know better than to test me."


    The leader of the villagers stared at him for an unnervingly long while before shifting back to Donvan, and then Maeber. Finally, he nodded. A kid sprang from the crowd, handing him a clothed bundle. He took a loaf of bread from it and cracked it in three with another twitch of his fingers, passing it on to them. "Be welcome then."


    Donvan took a polite bite from his piece, all high and proper though he had not a drop of noble blood. Ross wolfed his down in two bites. It was crusty, crackling delightfully into warm little bits as his mouth unleashed all that pent up spittle. He had to struggle to keep it all inside in time to swallow. Good heavens, this is what we fight for, he thought, fighting the urge to jump the boy for more. Maeber seemed like he might do just that until the Centurion shot him a quelling look, reducing him to more amulet-fidgeting. He extended a hand at the leader, "I''m Centurion Donvan, and this here''s First Serjeant Ross and Third Scout Maeber. 73rd century, Fourth Regiment¡­ plus a few odds and ends."


    He engulfed Donvan''s hand with his own, "Folk call me Grip." He smiled dubiously, "On account of my good manners." He turned back and hollered, "Move along people, make sure the King''s men get some warm food!" The mob dispersed with a collective sigh, meeting the still arriving guardsmen by the square and handing out food and blankets. They might have been stubborn, suspicious folk, but when host rights were given the northrons took to it with a will. "To tell you the truth, I''m a bit relieved to see you lot. Haven''t spotted a single outsider since this bloody mist wafted south." He frowned, "Shouldn''t your boys be marching north, though?"


    Ross and Donvan shared a look. The silent language between First Serjeants and commanding officers was a strange and supernatural thing. Frighteningly effective thought. I''ll tell him, Donvan thought at him. Alright. I''ll see to the men, Ross thought back. The centurion cleared his throat, "Grip. Is there a place we might speak privately?"


    -: PD :-


    Sure enough, a few hours later a snowstorm charged out of the forest and through the tree stumps, rocking the village into a tavern-jig of groaning wood and trembling tarps that set Ross'' teeth on edge. The screeching timbers of Wallfall swayed inside his mind as he quickened the pace through the square, shuffling through the howling snow, cheeks raw against the wind as he went from house to house ensuring the men were warm, fed, and well-behaved. The serjeants did most of the work, but he was their lifeline to the Centurion, the channel through which their needs could be heard. "Alright in here, lads?" he asked as he moved the flap aside. Line Six''s tent had been attached to the cabin''s front like an extension of sorts, to make space for more men. Warmth drifted from the opened wooden door on the other side, along with dribs of hushed conversation steeped in northron slang. Packs and blankets lay scattered as if they''d been living here for a week, but their weapons were all close at hand and suitably untangled. Aye, all proper veterans now.


    "We good, ser," said one of the fourteen men clustered around the fire, left hand suspiciously behind his back. Ross sniffed, was that the stench of hooch? It''d been so long he barely remembered the revoltingly pleasant smell. After Wallfall, weeks had turned into years.


    "You have better traded for that bottle, Tolly. King might take in thieves, but those that keep the trade get the lash."


    Tolly''s smile froze, and he sheepishly revealed the bottle behind him, "No thieving, serjeant. Was all done fair an'' square."


    "Oh, what did you trade it for? Your guard dagger?"


    Tolly''s smile froze again, and the men around him cringed.


    Ross swept a jaundiced eye over the lot of them, making them cringe further still before he gave out a long sigh and tromped closer to the fire. "Make way, you two," he said before plopping his arse right in between Serjeant Jev and Guardsman Hollick. "Truth be told, I could do with a drink or two." Ross had met some First Serjeants that made it their duty to be their centurion''s enforcer, yammering and hollering about discipline and never ever mingling with the troops. Truth was, you had to cut the men some slack now and then. Especially now, what with the end of the world and all. They didn''t relax completely until Tolly served him a cup and he downed it in one gulp, the mellow glow of complicity spreading through the squad and the First Serjeant''s throat.


    Fire crawled down his chest, more pain than pleasure. He coughed, tears springing out of his eyes, "These Northrons sure like it raw," he rasped.


    The men chuckled cautiously, "Enough fire to roast a wight whole, eh ser?" said Serjeant Jev.


    Already the fire was fading into a warm tingle, and Ross nodded easily. The chatter picked up quickly, though nowhere near as rowdy as it would''ve been had Ross passed them by for the next tent. He lent an ear to the obligatory grousing, as was the First Serjeant''s duty. Complaints were lodged about the quality of their beddings, the warmth of the food, the taciturn villagers and the inclement weather. Tactics and grand strategy were picked apart with vicious gusto, as it seemed the King, his Small Council, his Legates and his lords had all been born without the genius good sense that the Seven-Who-Are-One had bequeathed to the common, salt-of-the-earth guardsman.


    All in all, morale was better than it had ever been since the Wall had shrugged itself into Slope. It was when the men didn''t complain that Ross took heed.


    Guardsman Vim was one of the silent ones, and no matter what Ross said the man would only stare at him blankly. Vim marched when told to, fought when directed, and cooked when it was his turn. He did nothing to justify any possible attention by his First Serjeant. And yet Ross knew the man was silently battling wights inside his mind with only one of two outcomes: a stronger soldier, or a wight-in-waiting¡­ and the latter didn''t last long before becoming a wight-in-truth. Ross cursed inside the privacy of his own mind. Would that I could battle them mind-wights with you, Vim. A good First Serjeant fought with his troops... and died with them, if needed.


    The rustling wind heralded another guest; a stout ball of steel and furs with a sharp, inquisitive stare. "Room here for one?" asked Ser Samwell Tarly.


    "Of course," said Ross, at the same time as another three men. The Knight Chronicler sat down with a sigh, waving away the offered cups.


    "What brings you here, ser knight?" said Serjeant Jev.


    "Just taking a look around," said Ser Samwell. He scratched his paltry beard, frowning thoughtfully, "Say, you men wouldn''t mind me asking some questions? For posterity''s sake?"


    The deceptively light tone left Ross wary, but there was only really one acceptable answer to that. "Ask away, ser." S?a??h th? N?velF?re.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    The knight beamed at that, and unfolded the leather wrapped bundle hanging from his belt. He extracted a hefty tome with a silvery cover; the book that gave the knight his rank. Guardsman Tolly sucked in a breath, "Is that-?"


    "The Silver Chronicle," said Hollick, awed.


    Ser Samwell caressed the book once before opening it, landing on the last written page with eerie precision. He uncorked a small inkwell, dipped a crow''s feather in it, and lifted calm eyes to the soldiers. "Your names?"


    Ross watched him jot down the date and the names of all present, nodding thoughtfully. Ross expected to be asked about some lord''s great deeds, or perhaps even the King''s though he''d not lay an eye on him since they''d marched past Moletown, before the Battle for the Wall. Ser Samwell cleared his voice, "Where do you come from?" he asked him.


    Ross blinked, "Pardon?"


    "Where do you hail from, First Serjeant Ross?"


    "I, well-" What a curious question, to ask for posterity, "Gulltown, Ser Samwell."


    "What do you think of it?" asked the knight, not a trace of humor in his deadly pale gaze. If this was some sort of practical joke, he ought to make sure never to play cards with Ser Samwell.


    "It''s alright, I suppose," he said, searching for something more to add, "There''s enough work now for most honest men."


    "How so?"


    "Well, there''s the harbor for one. ''Fore the Antlered Lion you had to pay out of one ear to dock a ship. Then again to move the cargo by wagon past the city gates. Then once again to each lord on the way till you reached a market town. It was so expensive most merchants never bothered to haul a wagonload more than a day''s walk uphill from the city." Ser Samwell''s face betrayed nothing but keen interest, jotting down words without looking at his book. Would some lord''s son learn of Ross'' words a century from now? He? Some filthy cobbler''s son from Gulltown turned soldier? An odd warmth coursed through his veins, making him speak again, "Bout a year after King Joffrey took the throne, the King''s Aides took the Vale by storm. Merchants aught to pay only once, they said. To the Aides, and they would in turn give the lords their share. Gave the merchants little copper tablets in exchange, a token of safe passage of sorts from the local taxmen." Ross shook his head in bewilderment, even after all this time it still sounded crazy, "Of course barely anyone followed through at first. And some whispered the lords were on the edge of revolting before the King slew Aegon the Surprised." He chuckled, "That shut them up alright. By the time of his Royal Progress with Prince Tommen ''round the Vale -when he took Little Robin away and left stout Lord Royce in charge- it was all running like one of ''em waterwheels. Those little tablets made it all simpler, and a lot cheaper too¡­ ''fore we knew it there were more tradesmen and merchants than you could shake a seven-star at. And not all of ''em were bright-eyed crownsmen. Plenty of local folk chipped in for an uncle or a brother or the neighbors'' dog to buy a wagon and ply the so called Guardway. You know ''bout the Guardway?" He took a breath as Samwell shook his head, his quill racing to catch up. He was hunched over the Silver Chronicle now, intent, eyes burning as he uncorked another inkwell like an assault troop does a firecharge.


    "''Twas the name the folk gave to a long stretch of road they built right through the Vale of Arryn. One of the regiments¡ªnot ours, the Third¡ªplopped down outside Gulltown and did nothing but that for a year. Laid these funny little red blocks they called guardbricks all over the Vale. Anyway, there was so much gold flowing in and out of Gulltown that even some of the high folk pinched their noses and bought a cog or two. It spread around too. Hardly any beggar left in the harbor; they were all loading and unloading ships like there was no tomorrow. The city gate was so cluttered with carts they had to leave it open until midnight, bundles of cloth and¡ªwatchacallit?¡ªtextiles made it up, and foodstuffs too. Arbor Brown, occasionally. Skins and ore on the way down. Ingots later, once they built the furnaces up near Crosstown."


    "Oy, something similar happened near Storm''s End," said Guardsman Ollyn.


    Guardsman Mandon, Ollyn''s fellow Stormlander and constant shadow, nodded quickly, "Yeah!" he said, "Fixtures and furniture, so much so we started floating the logs whole-sale down to Stonehelm."


    "Oh, do tell," said Ser Samwell.


    Line Six rushed to have their voices recorded for posterity with all the dignity of a broken dam. Many of them didn''t even know how to read, and yet all but Vim were eager to have their words recorded. The Knight Chronicler took note of Guardsman Ollyn''s adventure''s logging throughout the Rainwood. He lent an ear to Serjeant Jev''s talk about Guard drills in the Crownlands. Hollick talked about his training to be a septon before ''some disagreement'' with a lord''s daughter forced him out of town and into the Guard. Ben blabbered about massive stills and the dubious merits of the astonishingly cheap King''s Swill. "Bless King Joffrey, but the name ''Arbor Brown'' never stood a chance," he said. The man told the story¡ªwhich Ross knew by heart by virtue of repetition¡ªabout his meteoric rise from landless laborer to ramshackle innkeeper selling the King''s Swill to anyone with a copper piece, and raking in the coin. The fast transition from inn to gambling den didn''t prove as smooth, though, and two broken fingers and a fire later he joined the Royal Guard.


    "They never mended right, itched when s''was ''bout to rain," said Ben, showing the two stumps in his right hand, "No longer a problem, though. Lost ''em to frostbite last week."


    That old adage about a Guard Line always having someone from Fleabottom proved annoyingly true when Guardsman Tolly shared some of his wild tales during the height of the district''s Reconstruction, where every single one of his friends proved to be a cut-purse¡­ all now gainfully employed by the Royal Guard or the Sewer Service. All guard units were mixed to a certain extent, but it turned out that Line Six had more of a diverse gathering than usual, to the point where Ross found himself wondering at Ser Samwell''s canny choice of tent. They had one of everything; hardy miners flooded with expansions, refurbishments, and new prospects that tripled their mineral output. Fishermen working in the new, massive whaleships. Even Wardens struggling to formalize grey-market poaching. Practically everyone had helped construct something at some point in the last eight years, be it new housing, infrastructure, or even their own workplace. How each ended up in the Guard differed as wildly as their backgrounds. Some signed up out of a burning passion called the ''Silver Fervor'' or ''The Kingdom Spirit'', depending on which minstrel you heeded. Others barely one step ahead of the hangman. Ser Samwell digested this at lightning speed, jotting it all down in his own words, adding furious notes in the margins wherever he found the space.


    The long line of tales was momentarily stalled by a meaty northron girl as she walked out of the cabin''s door by the other side of the tent, carrying a heavy cauldron thick with the scent of salted meat and warm vegetables. The guardsmen all reached out with bowls like the Gulltown beggars of old, waving pewter cups for coin. "Settled yet?" she said, picking the ladle and depositing thick scoops of soup one after the other.


    "Now we sure are," said Guardsman Tolly, giving her his famous Fleabottom smile and reaping about the same success the beggars had. The woman sniffed contemptuously, but to Ross'' surprise gave him a little bit extra. Must have been a first, judging by Tolly''s face. Northron hospitality. I''ll be damned.


    They ended up circling back to the Vale. "Must have been quite the change," said Samwell, his own steamy bowl forgotten as he resumed his scribbling.


    Ross nodded. "Oh yes. Everyone wanted some of that gold; taverns sprouted all over the Guardway, and it seemed every other day there was someone in there preaching about the virtues of this or that new thing to come out of King''s Landing. Seed drills, spinning wheels, fork plows, cheap horseshoes, you name it. Folk who took a trip to King''s Landing¡ªand the ''old Dragonpit¡ªcame back changed, New Men alright. There were new market towns too; the King was none too shy ''bout giving permission."


    The quill stopped. Samwell let it hover over the paper like a miner with a pickaxe, spotting gold out the corner of his eye. "New Men?"


    "Aye," he said, startled by the silent intensity radiating out of Samwell like an overheated stove. The rest of Line Six stared quietly.


    "Do you consider yourself a New Man?"


    "Aye," Ross said after a beat, "I reckon we all do here."


    "How does that work?"


    Ross shrugged helplessly, "What do you mean? You just are."


    Ser Samwell hummed, the miner undeterred as he shifted his grip on the quill and tried for another angle. "By your features I reckon you of Andal descent, with a bit of First Men here and there. The nose, perhaps your cheekbones. And yet you are more. By what traits would you identify a New Man?"


    Ross realized he was feeling his own nose. He let his hand drop, "Well, it''s certainly not physical. Of course."


    A glint of gold in Samwell''s eyes. "What, then?"


    "It''s a¡ªa trait of the soul, I suppose." Vale-born and raised, Ross couldn''t help but look to the closest thing they had to a septon here, treading so close to heresy. Guardsman Hollick was nodding vigorously though, for whatever that was worth.


    "A trait of the soul." Samwell seemed almost aroused by the word, his quill annotating it slowly. "A fine chapter heading. But what traits?" he said as he turned his gaze back to Ross with all the suddenness of a hunter. Or a gold-crazed miner. There was no stopping now until he satisfied the knight''s quest.


    It was Vim that spoke up, his low voice gravelly with disuse, "To look forward instead of backwards," he said, "Our glories wrought by our own hands, shared in all eyes alight with a single certainty; this is our time, this is our land. Dreams instead of History. Soul instead of Blood." He blinked, the fire fading from his eyes, "Ours is our fate."


    Ross stared, his throat tickling with something tight and right. He took a long sip from his cup, two fires meeting in his belly. "¡­ Aye, that''s about right."


    Ser Samwell jotted that down intently, "Yes," he muttered. "Yes." He took a deep breath before closing the book with a clap. They jumped up at the sound, a spell broken. "Thank you, Line Six. First Serjeant." He stood up, stashing his book. "I think I''ll continue my walk now. Lots of things to think about."


    Ross nodded back, then looked at the rest of the Line, as if sharing a single thought. Silver Knights¡­


    -: PD :-


    Ross closed the door to Grip''s warehouse with a firm thud, muffling the shrill snowstorm outside. He stamped the snow out of his boots before closing in on the hearth like a bee after honey. Grip and the centurion were chatting by the orange light of the burning cedar limbs, sharing a flask of something awful smelling. Seemed he wasn''t the only one drinking. "How are the men?" asked Donvan.


    "Settling in alright. Morale''s soaring like a bird set free¡­" Ross hesitated, looking at Grip. Donvan nodded. "A mangy, limping bird. But it''s something," he finished.


    "You''ll be flying alright," said Grip, shooting both of them a resentful scowl. "South as fast as your little wings can carry you."


    "I was just informing the alderman of the current strategic realities," explained Donvan, passing him the flask.


    Inexplicably, it tasted worse than Tolly''s contraband hooch, but it put a fire in his belly. Another one anyway. "It''s gonna be mighty difficult marching with this snowstorm, ser. We might need to wait this one out." Possible, but harder than they''d marched in as many days as he could count.


    Grip crossed his arms, "And you''ll gorge on our food and firewood in the meanwhile," he said.


    "This position is untenable," said Donvan, sounding like he''d gone over this a hundred times already. "Rimegate didn''t outright collapse on itself, but Lord Commander Royce says there were whole chunks that did, all along the center." He tapped his chair multiple times, "We didn''t wait for Legate Snow''s word, and how the left flank''s faring is anyone''s guess. Either way, the path to Winterfell is open¡ª hells, White Harbor even! You need to evacuate as soon as possible."


    "With this weather?" said Grip, "We''ll need sleds for the old and the little ones; lots of ''em. And we''ve not a lot of men to make ''em, being as they ''all fighting north¡­ or so they claimed." He lifted half a lip at that, a missing tooth leering through.


    "You''ve got plenty of tools, just need a little time," said Ross, giving the flask back to him. "I''m guessing you''ve got a bunch of experienced woodworkers around here." The place they were in was a dead giveaway, if the remnants outside the village hadn''t been enough. Mallets and saws hung from the walls, and sinuous carving tools lay scattered over heavy work tables.


    Grip''s shrug was like a rolling earthquake, starting on one shoulder and ending on the other, "Aye. But most of the heavy workshops outside town froze over. We''re¡ª"


    A harsh bang rattled the warehouse as the side door bulged open and a frost-encrusted wight grinned at them with twin rows of teeth. Ross was already flipping the table, carving tools rattling all over the floor as Donvan took his sword out and Grip gave a startled cry. "Get back!" shouted Ross, grabbing the man''s arm and dragging him behind the table as Donvan covered the other end.


    The wight didn''t walk so much as hover, its legs dangling over the wooden floor before it flipped over and Ross saw the looming shape holding it from behind. Ser Samwell Tarly tossed the wight at their feet, it''s shattered chest leaking broken ribs. One of them rolled near Grip''s feet, and only then did the alderman grab his woodman''s axe. "Found this one and three others sniffing out the outer perimeter," said Samwell, frowning at the wight like a Septon in a whorehouse.


    "Shit," said Ross. Knew there was something to this one. He gazed out the cracks in the timbered wall. Snowstorms had a sort of bite when Walkers were about.


    "But¡­ you killed them, right?" said Grip, staring at the wight as those who''d never seen one before did. ''Horrified awe'', as Guardsman Hollick put it.


    "Doesn''t matter," said Ross, "If they were being all sneaky and not charging in for blood, then that means someone''s pulling the strings."


    "A White Walker," said Samwell, "Or several, probably leading a larger force not that far from here."


    "Damn it all to hells," Ross said as he turned to Donvan, "We''ve not the strength to make a stand here." He''d defend his decision in front of the troops, but that didn''t mean he''d be an enthusiastic supporter of defeat in detail. "We have to withdraw immediately."


    "I can''t move my people in this weather!" said Grip, face ashen as he gripped the Centurion''s arm, "You''d leave us to die!"


    "Ser, every day we stay here will be another day closer to encirclement!"


    Donvan seemed caught between two hounds. He stared at both of them before turning to Ser Samwell. The knight didn''t bat an eyelash though, and simply stared back.


    The Centurion lifted a palm in a familiar gesture, asking for quiet. Five seconds later, he nodded at Grip. "Get your people to work on sleds, small ones capable of carrying those who need it. We''ll defend the village for as long as you need us."


    Grip seemed taken aback, "Thank you. Old Gods as my witness, we''ll owe you our lives for this."


    "That''s what they pay me for," he said with a disbelieving grin, as if he couldn''t believe what he''d just done. It was one thing to face the legions of the dead behind a sky high Wall and the entire Kingdom at your back. Quite another to defend a no-name village cut off from resupply. Ross'' stomach dropped, cold sweat blossoming along his back. For all they knew Winterfell had fallen already. "First Serjeant, we''ll need to see to the village''s defense in the meanwhile. Sketch me a map of which entrances to barricade, and who to man them with."


    Damn it all to the Seven Hells. Survived Wallfall to die here of all places. Such was life in the Guard. Ross closed his eyes, "Aye ser."


    "Ser Samwell?" Donvan hesitated before plowing through, "Could you lead a scout force? Tell us how much time we have?"


    "I can," said the knight.


    "Good. Good," said Donvan. "A more organized force will meet you later, see if we can''t slow down the wights. Let''s get to work."


    -: PD :-

 Interlude: The 73rd, (2).

    Interlude: The 73rd, part 2.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    The Red Comet cast a murky red over the snow, violets singing in the night. Greens and reds shoved each other in a spectacular tug of war for a piece of the starry heavens, waving in long, sinuous forms.


    "The aurora''s growing restless," said Ross, shoving his hands between his armpits. The breastplate was as cold as a whore''s kiss.


    "Hm," said Ser Robar. The Red Comet had changed, after Wallfall. It was as if a facade had been torn; lines of impossible geometry anchored it to the night sky, concentric circles of perfect scarlet seared in place.


    Their perch atop one of the village''s few three story houses made for an excellent HQ; it commanded a view second only to the windmills near the outskirts, and was centrally located right beside the village square. It had a long gash through its northeastern corner, where unimaginably strong winds had torn a hole big enough to drive a wagon through. The night the Wall fell seemed to have echoed all throughout the North, if the village was any indication. It made for a handy lookout, though.


    Something crashed below them, and Ross made use of the hole to look down on men cursing, angry oxen lowing right back, half a house tumbling to rubble behind them. It neatly blocked one of the square''s streets, though the owner looked ready enough to tear the guardsmen''s heads off. "Keep at it, lads!" he shouted, "You might finish sometime next month!"


    "Aye, First Serjeant!" they hollered back, surly and mutinous. Ross didn''t blame them¡­ the numbers drove a harsh reality.


    "How''s Lord Tyrion?" he asked Royce. The Lord Commander looked pensive, even more so than when they found him.


    "Samwell did his best," he said, voice clipped. "Infection''s set in."


    Ross cringed. The King was sure to have questions regarding how and why, exactly, they had mauled his favorite uncle. If he made it out at all. If they all made it out. "Will he live?"


    "Maybe," said Royce. Discouraged from further talk. Ross forced himself to endure the wait in silence, bubbles of unease thrumming through his stomach, like a boiling soup full of rotten ingredients. He''d finished his rounds, and nothing he''d seen had discouraged him from the notion that the stand to come would be their last.


    Some timeless, angst-ridden while later, Grip and the Centurion reached the third floor, the big man closing the hatch behind them. They''d been arguing about something before each apparently decided there were more pressing matters at hand. "Alright," said Donvan after taking a look through the missing corner. He took off his gauntlets and sat in front of a map of the village drawn with charcoal atop a table. He ordered a bunch of wooden splinters by the side of the map; allies ready to be placed in or around the village, as tactics dictated. Ross couldn''t help but imagine them as the hordes of wights even now massing for an assault on the hapless defenders.


    "Right. What have we got to defend this place?" said Donvan.


    Ross saluted absentmindedly, "You''ll get a kick out of this one, ser," he said, "The 73rd century has exactly 72 men still drawing breath."


    "Hm. Let me guess, Martyn?"


    "Aye, died last night."


    Donvan took off his helmet, passing both hands over his short hair. "An omen, of course."


    Ross smiled, "A bad one, according to the men."


    "When is it not a bad one?"


    "I doubt such a thing exists, ser."


    He cleared his throat. "Alright. Break it down for me."


    Ross took out a list and read it out loud, "We''ve got 46 healthy, flea-ridden guardsmen, none too happy to be here. 16 walking wounded of various stripes, and 10 gravely ill."


    "What about the rest of the column?"


    "We''ve got 41 Umber axemen grimly eager for another go at it¡ªthey''re already fighting at their home''s doorstep by anyone''s guess¡ªthough they insist in dragging Lord Tyrion into whatever scrap they get up to. We''ve also 24 armored crazies from the 52nd Assault. They''re still keeping their heads down after the, ah, incident by the waterfall."


    Donvan''s face turned stormy, "I bet they have. What else?"


    "We''ve a ''quarter battery'' of field stagrams¡ªthat''s Guardsman Bogs'' way of saying one, ser¡ªand five stout lads to man it. Including Bogs. We''ve also an astonishing mix of halberds and crossbows from what seems to be the entire Regiment, and one man who swears he''s actually from the First. 29 total, plus various bits of equipment; firespears, some dragonglass, shovels. Add in three brothers of the Night''s Watch, two silver knights, and one, ah, incapacitated Lord Tyrion Lannister. ''Bout 13 wounded from all that lot."


    "Adds up to 170 fighting men, or close enough," said Donvan, "If we hand crossbows to the wounded and prop them up like scarecrows behind a barricade." He shook his head, as if to say not good. Not good at all.


    He turned to Grip, "How''s your C&R?" All eyes turned to the alderman, and for the first time Ross saw him squirm.


    "It''s¡­ green."


    Donvan''s face puckered like a duck tearing at a lemon, "Light Green?" he asked, half in hope, half in dread.


    "Dark," said Donvan, looking at the floorboards. The indignant silence made him look up with a growl, "We haven''t had a lot of time to train, what with giving the Wall a wooden crown! Add in all the work so the village doesn''t freeze over¡ªgetting firewood and shoveling snow out¡ªwe''ve barely managed to stay alive!"


    "Easy, Grip. Easy," said Ross, raising both hands, "No one here''s questioning your will to fight," except Third Scout Maeber, but he''s out with Ser Samwell, "those battlements saved a lot of lives." Before Wallfall at least.


    "The Serjeant''s right, you did good by us," said Donvan, frowning at the map. "How many warm bodies can you give us?"


    "Those not busy with the sleds and with enough strength to shove a wight back¡­ 200, maybe 250. Children too young to apprentice and woodsmen with no trees to cut... those that didn''t march north at least. Its mostly women though, and the old." At the dubious looks he added, "They can hold a barricade, just don''t ask them to move while a wight''s chewing their ears off."


    "We''ll have them manning the last line of defense," said Donvan, pooling twenty wooden chips and arranging them in a top heavy rectangle covering the village square. He nodded to himself in a gesture familiar to Ross, working up to a plan in his head before debating it with the rest of the men. He was an officer in the Joffrian mold, laying down broad but adaptable plans using local geography, common sense, historical tactics, and leaning heavily on able subordinates. All based on achieving strategic goals. "The square below us is Harrenhal, connecting the entire village¡ªand thus our defense. It''s where we hold most of our supplies, and where the sleds are being built. Our rallying point. Behind it lies our line of retreat. We lose the square, we lose this battle, same as if the Mad Princess had killed the King back at the real Harrenhal. We must center our tactics on first delaying and then stopping an assault on that position. " He tapped a piece of charcoal against the roads leading to the square, "The village has two main roads, both crossing each other by the square: the one we used to march into town, going north to south¡ª"


    "Wallward," Grip got in.


    "¡ªand one that goes north-west to south-east."


    "Fool''s Walk."


    Ross gave Grip a look. The man responded with another one of his rolling earthquake shrugs, "Something about a drunkard. Before my time."


    By the quality of the local hooch, Ross was surprised they didn''t call it Deadman''s Walk. Donvan tapped the table for attention. "From what I saw outside, Line Nine already collapsed a house across the northern half of Wallward road," he said, crossing out the northern approach to the square¡ªHarrenhal. "We''ll want to do the same to the western side of Fool''s Walk. These two barricades are sure to receive the brunt of the attack on Harrenhal, at least at first."


    "Two gates for our castle, eh?" said Ser Robar, "We can call them Fool''s Gate and Wallgate."


    "Why not," said Donvan. "In any case, I want to soften the wights before they come barreling down Wallward road; so, we''ll set up most of the Guard in an outer perimeter around the village outskirts. It''s nice, clear terrain for the crossbows."


    Ross hummed, picking another piece of charcoal and drawing crosses along the perimeter, "Put them from here to here, close enough to the village we can use the houses for cover in the retreat, close enough to the mills we can drag all those logs for a makeshift palisade."


    "I like it," said Donvan, scratching below his eye. He''d done this before, the bouncing of ideas with the centurion before battle came calling. They were a well-oiled machine optimized in reaping lives¡­ or unlife, as the case may be. The familiar back and forth set Ross'' mind at ease, the acidic bubbles in his belly relegated to background noise.


    "We can raise a small platform for Bogs and his stagram around here," he said, tapping the northern start of Wallward road, at the heart of the outer defensive line, "He could get a couple of shots off before high-tailing it back to Harrenhal."


    "Get the stagram in play early. Might even catch a Walker. Do it," said Donvan.


    "I''ll tell the men to build a little ramp atop Wallgate, so they can roll the thing up quickly into its final position." S?a??h the N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "A drawbridge for the gate!" said Ser Robar.


    "¡­ you''re enjoying this," said Ross. "Ser."


    "First Serjeant, I''ve been leading upwards of three thousand knights for years now. That is when I''m not discussing grand strategy with the King." He tossed out a boyish grin, at odds with his scarred, lugubrious face. "To be frank, being back in charge of a compliment of two is a great relief." He walked to the table and drew a line around the outer perimeter, "Though I can''t help but notice you''ve a first line of defense, and then," he tapped Harrenhal, "A last stand. We''re missing something to bleed them in between."


    "What are you suggesting?" asked Donvan.


    "A portcullis for our castle. Several, in fact," he said, grabbing Ross'' charcoal and drawing lines of attack through the cabins.


    Grip slapped his massive hand on the table, "Yes! Make use of the cluttered houses to ambush groups of ''em!"


    Ross frowned, "Attack in between the houses? Alleyways?"


    "No no, the snow already blocked those," said Grip, meaty fingers erasing charcoal lines as he snaked shapes through the map, "Through the cabins! Many of them are already connected¡ªsometimes it''s the only way to move around town when the snows set in. We could hack holes between conjoining houses, put up covered corridors where they''re too far, turn it into a maze of sorts."


    "Wights have all the common sense of a toddler," Ser Robar said, "Many might get hopelessly lost, chasing the battle''s echoes unless a Walker is minding them at close range."


    Donvan''s eyes were glittering, "We''ll mark the way to and out of Harrenhal with squiggles. And stack firewood around strategic junctures. We might burn off whole mobs if they chase us in."


    Grip gave them a mighty frown, as befit a man thinking about burning his own village, "You think that''s wise? If a blaze reaches Harrenhal we''ll be as dead as if the wights took over."


    At least we won''t give them fresh bodies, then, Ross thought but did not say.


    "Unlikely the fires will stretch that far," said Royce, "We''ll be fighting under a blizzard, remember?"


    Ross smirked, "High time we flipped their favorite card on its head."


    "What you''re all suggesting," said Donvan, "Is not a portcullis but a warren."


    "Aye," said Ross, grinning evilly, "But in this warren the mice have castle forged steel."


    -: PD :-


    Ross ran through the forest as fast as he could, frigid air flooding his lungs and misting with every puff. Screams and shrieks echoed catastrophically close among the bearded fir trees, and he clipped one with his shoulder before tumbling on his face over the snow. He lost precious seconds recovering, axe in hand as a shriek drew in closer. He realized he''d just lost Maeber, the nimble fuck was probably already ahead of him. "Fuck," he whispered, struggling through knee high snow, "Fuck fuck fuck¡ª"


    He half turned to a wight drawing in close, sprinting diagonally and shrieking with a torn jaw. Ross swung and the axe caught it in the neck just as it reached him, cracking it in two. He kept running, green flares bursting beyond the treetops ahead of him: The wights had already reached the end of the forest.


    "Fuck!" he screamed, running for all he was worth. They''d used a tiny lull in the storm to ambush the wights but good, smashing their staging area in the forest before Ross had gotten greedy and gave pursuit. Now the hunters had become the hunted. He burst out of some scrub bush right in the face of a wight. Not wasting a second, he tackled it and they both went down in the snow, rolling and rolling before Ross realized its chest had been hollowed out. He shook off the corpse to see Ser Samwell Tarly beset on all sides by a trio of wights, or perhaps more accurately, a trio of wights beset by the Knight Chronicler.


    Ser Samwell gave a shrill roar as he smashed one of them against a thick tree trunk with all the force of a rampaging bull, splintering it to bits on impact. He whirled in a half circle and caught the other one with his hammer, sending it flying right next to Ross. The third charged with claws outstretched, but Samwell charged right back and ducked at the last second, leveraging his impressive weight right at the wight''s knees. Something cracked and the wight cartwheeled in midair two times before landing in a heap of convulsing bones. Ser Samwell finished it off with a strangled huff, and Ross blinked. How could a man so large move that fast?


    He stood up and finished the wight which had landed next to him. Ross was almost shamefully glad to see another living being, even one as daunting as the silver knight. Was this the same deep-thinker which had spoken of New Men and New Ways back in Line Six''s tent? No time for that.


    They ran off south with barely a word between them, shrieks behind them.


    "Where to?!" asked Samwell.


    "Rallying point near the forest''s edge! Follow the flares!" said Ross.


    The undead they ran across were practically plowed on by Ser Samwell, which tore through shrubs and wights with equal, demented zeal. Ross covered his flanks, following the path of destruction as fast as he could until they finally reached the banners of the 73rd. Various lines were forming up all over the edge of the forest, reconstituting themselves into fighting formations as more survivors reached the rallying point. Never once did he fear they''d break -not after Wallfall- but he''d been terrified of finding his lines decimated. "Who''s in command here?!" he yelled, jogging to one of the more organized lines. Line Three.


    "The Centurion!" said a guardsman, pointing him to Donvan.


    "Ser!" he said as he got there.


    "First Serjeant. Report." He sent the serjeant he''d been talking to running for the back lines, then turned to Ross.


    "Ambush went off as planned," said Ross, taking a deep breath, "But I fucked up, gave up pursuit too late."


    "Never mind that First Serjeant," he said, causally absolving his guilt, "Now it''s time to get to the Outer Perimeter. Get the men moving."


    Ross blinked, "Yes ser!" He turned to the line of ambling men and hollered with all his might, "Marching formation! By lines, move!"


    "Line Three! Marching formation!" bellowed a serjeant.


    This was his rightful place; not leading out the century but channeling Donvan''s orders, a conduit of command. He arranged the lines into marching rectangles of men, moving south towards the village at a quick march. He jogged beside Donvan, echoing commands and making sure the serjeants kept the troops organized. Wights were already making it out of the treeline, sprinting out in ones and twos.


    Donvan cursed; it''d be enough to slow them down. "Get back there and cover our rear!"


    "Aye ser!" He rushed back to the last line in the retreat. Line Six. "Serjeant Jev! Skirmishing order, now! Fighting retreat!"


    Jev echoed the cry, and with Ross lending his voice the change went over quickly, not that he expected anything less from veterans. Line Six''s quick-marching block dispersed into a spread out double line, each halberd covering a crossbowman. The crossbows would reload, dash, and shoot, while the halberds spread out in a loose line covering their backs, dashing when crossbowmen shot their load. The halberd would smack down any wight who got close, then run while the crossbow covered him. They repeated the dance again and again, and soon the wights running across the open got bolts on chests and heads, tumbling in the snow with ululating shrieks.


    Ross jogged in between the pairs, axe on his shoulder as he called out with a grave voice, "Aim low! Quick reloads!"


    More of ''em started running from the treeline. They reached the skirmish line in one''s and two''s, the halberds angling to cut off their sprints with heavy blows that left them twitching on the snow. Ross smashed one on the head, Ser Samwell at his side stopping one cold on its feet and smashing it back three paces, its chest exploding in an arc. They dashed off together, bolts zipping past them. Stragglers had made it through though, forcing Line Four into the slower skirmishing formation as well. Beyond them, the rest of the century marched at a quick, efficient pace, blocks of steel singing marching songs in huffs and puffs, at a tempo with their gait. Groups of Umber axemen battled the wights on the flanks, falling back on all sides. The Outer Perimeter was growing tantalizingly close, crossbowmen already starting to line up on the crude log wall.


    "Keep your spacing! Stay wide!" he shouted, "Halberds! Don''t lose your partner!"


    "They''re starting to clutter up!" said Guardsman Ben, the once-fat distiller with a penchant for Arbor Brown. He rammed a wight through with the undead''s own momentum, tossing it aside in the tried-and-proven guard toss, another one right behind it. A bolt got it in the skull, but a scuttling third jumped up from the snow and brought him down with a gurgled scream.


    "Keep moving!" screamed Ross, running past Samwell and stopping some distance past him. Any more and they''d have to form up into a proper hedgehog¡­ but then their speed would be reduced to a crawl. The Silver Knight swung wide and caught two at chest-height, batting a third down with a gauntleted slap to the skull. He ran towards him with two wights not ten paces away, dashing past Ross who now braced with his axe. A bolt missed the nearest one; an ugly guardsman missing an arm and half his brains. Always hard to shoot on one''s comrades, he thought as the thing jumped him. He heaved high with his axe, aiming for the missing helmet and getting it right in the middle. It revealed another wight who''d been dashing right behind it, a blue-eyed Handmaiden with a tattered cloak. It tackled him to the ground, jabbing a dagger at his half-plate and somehow worming through to his leg, right on his old wound. Ross screamed against his will, grabbing a hold of its head even as it bit his thumbs. He twisted sharply, the head lolling sideways. She must have been a beauty when she was still alive. He shook off the dazed thought and stumbled upright, out of breath.


    The skirmishing line was already forty paces ahead of him, and wights who''d been dashing all around him stopped on their tracks, turning to finish him off. Limping like he was, he''d never make it.


    "HRRRYAAAA!!!" screamed the Knight Chronicler, sprinting right towards him. The madman ran down one of the wights, heavy stomps smashing its ribcage before he swung his hammer in a wide arc that sent two more flying. "Come on! Let''s go!" he shouted as he pressed an arm under Ross'' armpit, helping him along into a haunched half-sprint.


    Most of the guardsmen were already lining the chest-high log wall, free-shooting bolts everywhere. Ross swallowed a scream with each step, Samwell''s great strength almost lifting him from the ground. Shrieks grew close as wights sprinted sideways, their cries cut off closer and closer as bolts flew all around them, one of them ricocheting off his shoulder.


    "Almost there! Come on!" said Samwell.


    The guardsmen at the log wall made way just as they jumped through, reforming behind them. Ross lay there in the snow for a moment, panting his lungs out and waiting for his heart to give out. The shrieks grew distant as he gazed at the cloudy skies, the tiny break in the storm now closing again. When Samwell helped him up he saw they were retreating, dashing back all over the clearing. Measure that hope, Ross. Probably just regrouping.


    "You mad bastard," he told the equally panting knight, "Should''ve left me out to die."


    "We save the Kingdom one man at a time," he said, kneeling down to check on his leg wound. Donvan''s bellows echoed throughout the wall as crossbowmen secured their weapons, the storm starting up again. It hadn''t been enough to try a breakthrough south¡­ but it''d been enough to bloody the bastards.


    "Which dead maester said that?" he asked him.


    He tied up a bandage with a brutal knot, making Ross wince. He looked up with a grin, "I did."


    -: PD :-


    The wait was the worst, ask any soldier. All the time to pick at doubts and fears, none of the frenzied action to put the mind in the now. Ross didn''t know why he''d ended up back in Line Six''s tent, waiting for the inevitable as the men took their breakfast. They picked at their food with steady deliberation, a task to be completed more than a treat to be enjoyed. Over where Guardsman Ben had sat there was now only a bowl with the same soup everyone else was eating. It would be left there until the men ate their fill, only then to be reverently picked up and its contents returned to the communal cooking pot. Absent bodies and funerals¡ªnot even a burning wight-pile¡ªnew traditions had risen to fill the void. No one talked.


    The blizzard outside howled sharper for a few seconds as someone entered the tent, and Ross turned to face Ser Samwell. The men immediately perked up, lifting their cups and calling him out. Word had already spread about the man''s heroic feats. Ross had made sure of that.


    The Guard can always use more heroes, he thought with a hidden smile.


    Ser Samwell shrugged off the fur coat over his plate, sitting down with a sigh. After a bit of small talk he was content to leaf through his Silver Chronicle, and the men soon gave way to oppressive silence again. It was always like that, when a Walker-storm raged. Men did anything to cut up the white noise of the howling knife-sharp wind, with little success. Some sharpened their weapons; an uneasy taunt to the horrors lurking outside. A couple men played a desultory dice game. Ross found himself oddly soothed by the sound of Samwell studying his book, softly-turning pages drawing his eyes. He contemplated Ser Samwell''s neat and loping script; blocky paragraphs escorted by skirmisher notes scribbled on the margins. The knight raised his gaze to meet Ross''. "I wanted to ask one more question, if you don''t mind."


    There was a hidden danger in that question, a warning given in good conscience. Ross stared at his hands, gaze drifting to the bloody bandage by his leg. Two times he''d almost been killed by that wound. Two times he''d been saved. Once by Donvan, sprinting in between bits of falling Wall. Once by Ser Samwell, running between wights with blood on their eyes. Ross nodded at the man; he ought to pay off at least one of those debts.


    The Knight Chronicle already had his crow''s feather out. "When the Red Comet opened, what did you see?"


    Shivers swept him down low, cobweb feet as Ross hugged his knees tight. One of the players dropped the dice. The insistent shriek of whetstone on halberd ceased, and only the storm remained. The opened eye of the Comet bored inside his mind, a silent spider-queen with steadfast will. Nobody talked about the Comet. Nobody who''d been there.


    And yet there was Ser Samwell, patient and relentless, quill in hand as he stared at him. He realized with a start that the historian was just as fierce as the warrior¡­ and just as merciless. He looked away from those zealous eyes, swallowing hard. "I saw¡­ I saw light. Light so strong it ran straight through me."


    "And beyond the light?" he asked him, eyes hard and still on him even as he scribbled something down. "What did you see?"


    "It was¡­ connected," he whispered, "Everything was. Everything was connected into one great pattern." Guardsmen were nodding, and it gave Ross the strength to continue, "And it sat there, weaving its will throughout it all, trying to crush it. Everything was part of what it sought to destroy; the Wall, the trees over the Haunted Forest¡­" He swallowed again, "Us." How could he forget it? The existence that bound him to his brothers, to the very land itself. Once seen the terrible innards of the Comet could not be forgotten, that infinity that sought to silence. And as a light inevitably casts shadows, so had the Comet''s opening revealed that which it sought to destroy. Men and women. Birds and trees. Land and sea. It was Line Six all around him, it was Samwell Tarly with his silver book. It was the northron woman next door. A thoughtful fisherman near Lannisport. It was a lone oak tree around a river bend in the Stormlands. All-that-breathes, all-that-lives. Through the Comet''s guts he''d seen all the world, and all who lived. He''d seen, he realized, what the Silver Knights must call TheSong.


    The constant scribbling shook him out of his trance; a reverie so enchanting he almost thought it was happening again, seeing far beyond all that is. Had he said all of that aloud? Samwell nonstop writing seemed to affirm that, and he''d not been the only one listening. Around him the guardsmen of Line Six came back from their own trance as well. Some shaken and on the edge of tears, others with nascent smiles swift to rise. Many came out of it slowly, as if waking up. Some shot him harried looks, and he shrugged helplessly in return. It was all too easy to get lost in it when someone started talking about it.


    "I felt the King and Queen rise to stop it," said Guardsman Vim, "Like the Seven''s own Angels they faced it down¡­"


    "And the Comet flinched," said Ross, smiling savagely. Guardsmen shared fierce grins, for all had felt the presence of King Joffrey and Queen Sansa, twin figures facing that piercing glow like arrows made of Valyrian steel. Their love for each other, for their land, for their people so bright and visceral so as to bring tears to even the most beaten down cynic or wight-in-waiting. How could a line, a cohort, a regiment break when every soldier in it had felt their King and Queen''s love for them.


    "Thank you," said Ser Samwell. Though satisfied with the morning''s work, even he looked rattled by the telling. He was there, too, Ross remembered.


    He spent the rest of the morning building up his mental picture of the century''s current state. By the square and under tarps worked the people of Wintron, building crude sleds out of wood reclaimed from the outer sawmills. Behind them, Grip''s warehouse was stacked with supplies for the coming fight. Serjeants counted out buckets filled with crossbow bolts, doling them out to runners as they ticked the numbers on their ledgers. Patrols came and went in constant rotation, warming up by the indoor fires and taking a quick bite or two.


    When the horns thundered, they were ready.


    The storms had stopped. Instead, as crossbows lined the log wall and Ross knelt beside Donvan, all he could see was the mist. "See any Walkers?" asked Donvan, handing him the far-eye.


    He scanned the battlefield as he''d been taught, but found nothing but shadows and formless shapes lurking in the mist. One of them was actually running right towards them. Ross frowned, focusing the far eye as a bolt whisked past the figure.


    "Hold those bolts!" he shouted, lowering the piece. "Serjeants! Enforce bolt discipline!" Another one flew off mid-sentence.


    "Hold ''em! I said bloody hold ''em!" he heard his order echoed.


    "Easy lads! Easy!"


    The sprinting figure reached the line, bolting over the logs and landing next to Donvan. Third Scout Maeber looked as agitated as ever Ross had seen him, eyes wide as his hands convulsively patted his pouches and belts, of which he had many.


    "What is it? Did you see them!?" said Donvan.


    "No! It''s my amulet, I can''t bloody find it!" said Maeber, patting himself as if he''d lost a limb.


    He shared a look with the Centurion. "They can carve you a new one back in town," said Ross, "Now what did you see, dammit?"


    He shook his head, visibly distraught, "Oh. Yeah, they''re coming alright. Funny thing though, couldn''t find the Walker leading them. Must be some squat fellow." He returned to his pouch-looking, "Must be ''round here somewhere."


    Donvan stood atop the log wall, throwing his helmet at Ross. "Alright lads! Looks like this is it!" He surveyed the troops, hand on his sword, "They already chucked a Wall at us, everything''s gonna seem a bit of a let down after that!" A grim chuckle spread throughout the ranks, ending swiftly. "Follow your serjeants'' orders. Make sure those wights stay down. And be ready to fall back to the Warren at the sound of the horns!" He licked his lips, "Those people back there, those northrons who have fed and sheltered us, they''re counting on us to do our part!" The men growled assent, banging metal on metal, banishing the oppressive silence, "To cover our part of the deal and defend Kingdom ground! What say you!?"


    "Blood and Mud!" Ross screamed, the men taking up the cry. Stomping and banging their weapons, they prepared for what was to come.


    Donvan hopped back behind cover, "How did I do?"


    "Getting the hang of it, ser," said Ross, handing him back his helmet, "''Fore soon you''ll be spitting ''em out like the King himself."


    Donvan chuckled, "It''ll be cold day in the Seven Hells, Ross."


    "With this cold they must''ve frozen about a month ago."


    A distant shriek sounded out through the mist, rebounding eerily. Ross took out his axe, and Donvan turned back to the raised platform where Guardsman Bogs and a few others were manning what remained of their field artillery. "Ready one-fifty!"


    "Ready, ser!" said Bogs, fiddling with the back end of the launcher. Carried on two wheels and protecting its crew with a wooden shield, the stagram had already been loaded into the launcher, the tip of it peeking through the shield.


    "Here they come," whispered Maeber.


    The shrieks grew louder, pale-blue eyes blinking in the mist, amorphous silhouettes acquiring weight as they ran for the log wall. Like an itching phantom hand Ross felt the men nearing for their triggers. "Easy!" he shouted, "Make ''em count, lads!"


    "Now," said Donvan, the far-eye tracking the oncoming mob.


    Ross turned to the platform, "Fire one-fifty!"


    "Fire!" said Bogs. The stagram ignited with a banshee scream, tearing off the launcher and roaring for the mist. It clipped a wight, tearing off its shoulder before detonating fifty paces past it. Bits of bodies rained down over the scuttling undead, more and more of them emerging from the mist.


    "Lower fifty!" said Bogs, "Reload!"


    "Now ser?" asked Ross.


    "Alright. Start dropping them."


    "Right ye''are ser." Ross filled his lungs to bursting, "73rd! Loose at will!"


    "Loose!"


    "Punch ''em!"


    Crossbows sang through the mist, the volley felling wights in two''s and three''s, others charging on with bolts still stuck to their chests. Firespears groaned in dull frooms, silent killers piercing through the mist and bisecting wights in half. The veterans of the 73rd and the other survivors from the second cohort worked in tandem, crossbows reloading as they switched places and another volley thrashed through the undead.


    "Fire one-hundred!" roared Bogs. The stagram leapt short, erupting in a fountain of snow right in front of the wights; they jumped the small crater like spiders, jaws hanging agape, their eerie shrieks growing unbearably loud.


    "One more volley," said Donvan.


    "One more!" shouted Ross, "This one''s for the Wall!"


    "Loose!" shouted the serjeants. Wights dropped in the mist, plowing headfirst into the snow as their legs gave out. One of them had a centurion''s plumed helmet; it took a bolt to the chest and fell to its knees. It stumbled upright as another two broke apart its rotting ribcage and it fell back, it''s shriek filled with agony.


    "Fire fifty!" roared Bogs. The stagram made a queer fizzling sound, staying in its launcher.


    "Misfire!" screamed one of the guardsmen.


    Ross tackled the Centurion to the ground a second before an earth shattering boom raked his hair with burning pinpricks. He swatted at the nape of his neck, putting out his burning hair as he struggled to hear anything but a powerful drone. Back where the platform had been there was now only a hole, a couple of burning Guardsmen stumbling around like wights themselves. Donvan slapped his shoulder as they stood up, shouting something. Ross shook his head, tapping his ears. Donvan pumped his arm at the town, and Ross nodded shakily as he picked up the cry.


    "Fall back!" he roared, though his own voice sounded distant, "Fall back to the Warren!" The halberds were holding the line against the wight onslaught, using the height of the log wall to leverage their polearms. Crossbowmen sprinted back by sections, serjeants directing the retreat with their axes.


    Assembling by lines, the halberds started to retreat as well. In serrated rows they covered each other, falling back as more wights jumped from the log wall. He saw Ser Samwell and his Lord Commander fighting in one of the blocks before they reached their predetermined cabins, squirreling inside. Ross followed Donvan into one of them, the guardsmen behind him closing and barring the door.


    "They''ve taken the bait!" shouted Ross as crossbows spat from windows and cracks in the walls, further baiting the undead. Some of them were barreling straight down Wallward road, towards the barricade and Grip''s people, but many others were distracted by the juicy meat hiding right beside them.


    "I can hear you, First Serjeant," said Donvan, "Come on, this door is not going to hold out long." The entire house was rattling from all sides as they retreated down the first ''warren'', planks torn apart as wights snaked their arms in between. They got into the next one just as the door and part of the wall gave out, wights shoving each other in.


    It turned into a brutal close quarters fight, one where the Guard used their halberds to keep the wights at bay, crossbowmen squirming in between and loosing their bolts at point-blank range. It took supreme trust to hold like that, keeping from the temptation to smack the wight scrabbling at your feet and instead keep aiming your halberd against the main press behind it; a mass made out of pinned wights, their arms shaking forth. Sooner or later one of the halberds in the back row reached out and killed the wight closest to you, and the line held. He realized he''d picked Line Six again, and a second later he realized why; they were the bravest, smartest bastards in the century. If the Centurion was going to make it out alive, then there was no better way of tilting those odds than by fighting besides them.


    There were no brilliant plans now, no heroic charge to break the enemy. Now was the time for Guard business; the dirty work of pushing and stabbing, no speeches but grunts and huffs. Trust In the man beside you. Fight back the enemy until your arms would no longer rise. They went from house to house, choke point to choke point, staying as long as they could at each place before the wight onslaught started bringing down the very walls.


    Ross stood by the door''s frame as soldiers kept streaming past, two''s and three''s until a large cluster of them showed up moving far more slowly, a forest of halberds separating them from a veritable wall of wights gnashing and screeching from one side of the corridor to the other, like a clogged sewer. They retreated slowly past Ross, grunting and shoving with all they were worth, being pushed backwards at a steady beat. "Ready!" he shouted, body tensing. He nodded at the assault trooper at the other side, "Now!"


    The man took the spool from his firecharge and tossed it down the corridor at the same time as the halberdiers stumbled back and cleared the doorway. Ross closed the heavy door at once, a second before a wight with no teeth reached him. The door trembled before a dull explosion shook him to the bone¡­ and then more wights starting smashing against the door.


    "Ser, get out of there!" shouted Guardsman Hollick, holding one of a dozen halberds all pointing at the shaking door. Ross and the man from the 52nd squirmed between them, mindful of the edges.


    "You seen any Walkers yet?" he asked the assault trooper. He was armored beyond the standard guard half-plate, covered from head to toe in steel and trained for one job only.


    "No!" The burly assault trooper threw him a frustrated look through his angled helmet. "But I''m saving my last one for when it shows up!" he said, brandishing another firecharge; the size of a big wooden round of cheese, a flint spool jammed in the middle. It hung from his shoulder like a particularly bloated wineskin.


    Ross shied away from it, "Just mind where you throw that!" Already he could smell smoke drifting from below the door, along with quite a number agonizing shrieks.


    "Sounds like they''re cooking good, boys!" shouted Guardsman Tolly, reloading his crossbow, "Roasted wight, an all-guard-special!"


    "Shut yer trap and keep moving!" said Ross, shoving back soldiers to the next house in the line. They repeated the pattern time and again, holding choke points and tearing up undead before falling back. They mixed it up with fires here and there, enough to keep from being predictable. The storm was picking up outside, stopping those from spreading much further. The commanding Walker must be getting near¡­ Still, as bad as they were blooding the wights, Ross felt his belly give out every time he looked outside. More and more of the bastards were ignoring the houses, preferring to run down Wallward road. They were in danger of being cut off.


    "That''s enough!" shouted Donvan, "Back to Harrenhal! On the double!" A wight had broken parts of the boarded up window beside him, and he shoved his sword through its eyesocket. Another one tore down a piece of the wall, its bony arms snaking through and grabbing guardsman Hollick from behind.


    "It got me! Help! HELP!" he screamed, gurgling blood as it feasted on his neck.


    "Die fucker!" shouted Vim, spearing the wight''s head. Thus released, Hollick stumbled between shooting crossbowmen, blood fountaining from his neck before he collapsed on the ground.


    "Move damn you! Back to Harrenhal!" shouted Ross, shaking them out of it. "Move! Serjeant Jev! Get your men in order!" He hacked at the dead valeman''s neck, severing the spine before following the retreating soldiers south.


    They moved quickly, the ominous rattling growing in intensity as they scuttled through the warrens. They linked up with other lines retreating south through the darkened nest of cabins and connected houses, pale faced guardsmen shouting challenges before standing down and joining the flight. "To Harrenhal! Run for Harrenhal!" roared the serjeants. It seemed everyone was converging on the town square. On their last stand.


    They emerged from a big house right into the madness of the main square. Rows of stretchers held the recently wounded, people racing between them carrying food and water and crossbow bolts. A big wight-pile burned right in the middle of the square, the tall flames casting a light on crossbowmen shooting from slanted rooftops all around the square. The two main barricades¡ªmounds of rubble, really¡ªwere swarming with northrons, hacking down at wights unseen with libards and woodman''s axes. Inevitably, one of them would stumble back bleeding or get pulled down by the unseen masses, and another would take his or her place. Ross took a few seconds to catch his breath as Donvan shouted orders to the men still jogging out of the house, and he found himself staring at two sobbing children leaning on the wall.


    They must have been no older than eight and nine, a girl and a boy watching the horrors of the War for Dawn in misty-eyed shock. There was something about the way they held each other that tingled Ross'' throat; it was as if in this new terrifying reality the only certainty that remained in the world was the grip they had on each other. Ross knelt beside them.


    "What''s your names?" he asked them, shaking them both, "Your names!"


    "Arby," sobbed the girl, "A-and he''s Derron." The little boy didn''t say a word, crying in big, breathless sobs.


    "Why aren''t you helping?!"


    Arby blubbered something.


    "Speak louder girl!" shouted Ross, tapping his left ear, "I said why aren''t you helping?!"


    "I can''t!" she said, squealing.


    "The hell you can''t!" said Ross, tilting them away from the barricade, "You see those men in the stretchers?!"


    "Y-Yes!" she said.


    "Those are the King''s men needing your help! You an oathbreaker?!"


    "W-what?! No!"


    "Then go! Give them food and water! Fetch bolts for the boys on the rooftops!" He shoved them towards Grip''s warehouse. Now given something to do, they rushed at the wounded, their sobs softer to Ross'' ear. Shell shocked soldiers or sobbing children, the remedy was the same; give them something to help with.


    "First Serjeant!" roared Donvan, "Where are you?!"


    "Right here ser!" he said, standing up. Gods, but his bones ached. His limp had flared up after the third house. Now he couldn''t go anywhere without a waddle funnier than the Umber''s.


    Donvan sighed in relief when he saw him. "We got to find Grip!" he said before jogging towards the barricade by Wallward road. Ross followed, climbing the rubble and avoiding sharp-looking beams. Some of the smaller women and the older children had formed a chain of sorts, lifting chairs, bricks, anything of weight up the barricade. An entire stag''s head, complete with its oaken frame, followed Ross'' journey up until it reached the hands of some big northron boy with not a speck of a beard on his face. He tossed it down with a shrill roar at the sea of wights by the other side of the barricade, catching one in the skull.


    "Good toss lad," Ross told him, slapping his shoulder and following Donvan to the middle of the barricade. Grip wasn''t hard to find. He was wheeling his woodman''s axe in big circles, bringing it down to cleave the heads off wights that clambered too close.


    "How are you doing up here!?" Donvan shouted, struggling to be heard over the dull roar of battle.


    Grip moved back from the front line, "We''re holding," he said, nursing a cut by his forearm. The lack of vambraces made any Royal Militia brittle to attrition, but Grip didn''t seem inconvenienced by the fact; try enraged. "How did the warrens go?"


    "We ate up a lot of them before being overwhelmed. Now we''re here."


    "That you are," he said, looking at them strangely. He offered his hand, "You''re alright, Centurion. For a southron anyway."


    Donvan took it, nodding at the man, the message clear. Then Grip offered it to Ross, "You too, First Serjeant."


    Good company to die in. "You''re not too bad yourself, Grip." Ross gave him a gallows smile, "For a northron anyway." His forearm was slick with blood.


    The arrival of guardsmen put a spine into the townsfolk''s defense, and for a good long hour they held the barricades of Harrenhal against the onslaught, both main and secondaries. The wights slowly surrounded the main square, and the men working on the sleds gave up and joined the defense; any progress they managed by now would be wasted if the front failed. Ross stayed by Donvan''s side, bellowing out orders and pulling men back and towards the fight as they rotated around the square, surveying the defense. Three times they had to wade into the fight itself, shouting encouragements and bashing wight skulls left and right. The persistence of the buggers was astounding, launching themselves at the barricades and tumbling through new breaches through crumbling houses.


    Ross found himself resting by Maeber''s side with the rest of the wounded. The Third Scout had a long ugly gash through his torso; someone had tied a few bandages over the wound, probably more out of doing something for the man than out of any real hope of saving him. The patchwork job was soaked red, and blood had already dripped down his sides, forming a pool below his stretcher. Maeber, though, was smiling from ear to ear, as serene a face in front of death as any.


    "What are you so godsdamned chipper about, eh, Maeber?" Ross asked him, "You''re a dead man."


    Maeber blinked at him. Slowly, he raised his amulet with bloody fingers, "It was in my left pocket."


    Ross stared at him, his throat tingling. He didn''t know whether to cry or laugh, and so opted for the latter. Maeber laughed with him¡ªa good, nice, healthy chuckle. One of those that crept up from the belly.


    When they stopped, Ross had to wipe the tears off his eyes, but only succeeded in drawing blood over them. "They should hand us handkerchiefs along with those daggers, eh, Maeber? Like those yellow ones the Handmaidens prance around with."


    But Maeber was dead, still grinning, still holding his amulet in an iron grip. "Come on, happy dead man," he told him after closing his eyes. He lifted him up by the shoulders and carried him to the wight-pile. He tossed him in with a heave, almost burning his own eyebrows off. The amulet burned with the body, and Ross stumbled back, gazing at the powerful fire. Sparks and smoke flew up in a constant torrent, lighting up the skies with the fires of men. Banishing the mist.


    "The storm''s breaking," he muttered, frowning at the sky. It was then he heard the Guard cheering, the townsfolk picking up the cry.


    He clambered up the barricade to find Donvan surveying a smoking crater by the other side, wights still trying to climb up and getting beaten back by those at the top. There lacked a certain push to the effort though, their coordination between groups all gone.


    "One of the assault troops from the 52nd got the Walker," said the Centurion. "Ice Spider. The only one it seems; looks like the rearmost wights are already wandering off."


    Ross smiled. He had an idea about which one it''d been. "That crazy bastard. It''s almost enough to wipe that whole waterfall fiasco clean, eh ser? Where is he now?"


    "He''s dead. Threw himself at it with firecharge in hand."


    "Oh." Ross stared at the smoking crater, blobs of fire still burning here and there.


    "Once the last of the wights are dispatched I''ll want a head count. Who''s alive, who''s wounded. And have the serjeants count out how many bolts we''ve left. Recover what they can." Donvan sheathed his bloody sword, Ross by his side as they climbed down the barricade. In his mind he was already reconstructing the image of the 73rd and allies with what information he had, almost as clear a picture as his left hand. "We''ll march off tomorrow at first light. See that Grip''s people are ready."


    "Right ye are, ser," said Ross, making a mental list. Such was life in the Guard. No rest till final death. You fought through hell, saw friends die, and then you picked yourself up and did it again. No grand moments of legend. Only daily acts of silent heroism.


    For all the living, Ross thought as he looked up at the Red Comet, a ruby-red moon anchored to the sky. May whatever be birthed from this terrible war be worth it.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 79: Sons.

    Chapter 79: Sons.Spoiler: Music


    ------ S~?a??h the n0v?l(?)ire.?et website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    AN: Right click, set to loop.


    ------


    Lord Damon Marbrand reached the peak of the hill on jittery legs, leaning on one of the oaks as he struggled for air. The light mist parted to reveal a cragged valley down below, dotted with enormous boulders. It steeped back into a sharp climb before reaching the next hill, where squat oaks impeded the view. He turned behind to gaze at the survivors from Stonedoor; the column of stomping soldiers and worn sleds was strung-out and on its last legs, men dropping by the sides as the rest marched on like sleepwalkers chased by a nightmare. Those who fell were swiftly covered by the howling snowstorm, turning into mounds of snow in a matter of minutes. Damon could only hope that would slow them down when they opened their eyes again.


    Ser Fedrin caught up to his side, using a Guard halberd as a walking stick, "M''lord. They''re gaining on us. Lord Prester''s detached from the host and''s fighting a rearguard." He said it matter-of-factly; the man was beyond shock. It wasn''t the first rearguard action to doom itself so others could live, though Damon suspected it might be the last. They would barely march another league with the half-hour Lord Prester could buy them¡­ at most. He stared at the ascending column; ghosts in the mist carved out of the aurora''s light. The banners of House Marbrand, Lydden, and Foote swayed with their half-dead standard bearers, surrounded by a caravan of limping armsmen, shell-shocked knights, and shivering Handmaidens. Of the three thousand men that had manned Stonedoor, less than a third remained. Fewer still, now that Lord Prester''s men are gone.


    "This is it then," he said, looking at one of the lead sleds as it passed by him. Addam seemed almost purple, eyes closed shut and his beard rimmed with frost. Wrapped in furs too big for him, his son''s frame had waned to the point he seemed more wight than man.


    Is this truly my son? Damon wondered as he blinked twice. The burly knight who''d won the tourneys at Lannisport, eyes mirthful as he gave his wife a crown of flower? With mounting anguish, Damon tried and failed again to convince himself otherwise. Even bone tired and at wit''s end, Damon Marbrand would always recognize his eldest son. "Stop the sled," he told the man pulling the horse ahead. He thought Addam would wake up then... but of course, his son slumbered on.


    He found himself gripping his dagger as he touched his son''s cheek. ''Ear to ear; spine and twist,'' went the wisdom of the smallfolk. It''ll do for my son and heir, he thought, bile crawling up his mouth as he reversed the grip.


    "No, my lord," said a familiar voice.


    Damon turned in an instant, shock crawling up his flesh as he saw a woman stand by his side. Her courtly dress did not sway before the harsh winds, but the white furs around her neck stood on edge, as if roused by hidden danger. The dagger slipped from his fingers as Queen Sansa gazed at him, eyes aglow with bright sapphire, of a color with the three gemstones on her coronet. Her presence held a surreal edge, a miraging quality that seared itself into one''s vision. "My Queen," he whispered as he fell on his knees, half-convinced he was hallucinating again; sleep deprivation had grown rampant even amongst the nobility.


    The gasps of his companions put paid to that notion. "Seven Above¡­" whispered Ser Fedrin, eyes wide as knelt on the snow, his scarf whipping around him like a strangler''s rope. The rest of his retinue followed suit¡ªfrostbitten faces aglow as they gaped at the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.


    "Rise, Lord Marbrand," she said, touching his chin. Though he couldn''t feel her touch, his entire face tingled as he rose to his feet. "There''s another group of survivors beyond the next hill, fortified below an overhang. If you but join forces with them, you''ll stand a chance against the wights."


    Damon slipped a look at his son. Was he even breathing anymore? "We''ll never make it time," he whispered.


    "You will if you hurry. Move!" said the Queen, and it was not a suggestion. "Move for Ser Addam! Move for the men in your care! Move, lord of the west!"


    Her utter certitude propelled him to his feet, a second wind filling his lungs. "Yes," he said, giving his son one last look before turning to the nearby soldiers. "Yes!" he yelled, shaking them out of their reverie as they stared at the Queen, "Pick up the pace! Safety''s but a hill away! Run damn you! Run!" he said, infectious hope tingling in his belly as they picked up the cry.


    "Move!"


    "To the next hill! Quick pace!"


    "Move!"


    The column strained like a twitching snake, pushing forth against the blizzard with one last gasp of effort. They went down the slope and through the valley, up again between cragged boulders bigger than castle towers. Though made lesser by the distance from the Wall''s corpse, the mist was still thick enough to hide tantalizing depths, crawling with terrors real or imagined. It seeped between the heavy boulders that dotted both slopes; towering masses too large to have been carved by giants, relicts of a forgotten age witnessing man for the first and final time. The Queen was their pathfinder, their talisman, dispelling unknown horrors as she led them through the mist. She was a mirage half-glimpsed between the boulders, pointing at trails with imperial certainty, the tails of her fluttering dress leading stragglers back to the main force. Words floated through the mist, guiding Damon through the broken landscape, her silent encouragements felt rather than uttered, felt by lords and levies alike. They could just about see the campfires as they reached the squat oaks atop the second hill; pinpricks of misty light cowering under a big overhang, carved out of the valley''s side. Just as the Queen had said.


    "Faster," she whispered in his ear.


    "Come on!" he roared, waving his hammer up against the howling snow, "Double time! Reach for the lights!" They twinkled amidst the storm, tiny dots of light promising warmth. A haven. Warmth for Addam.


    "Reach for the lights!!!" he screamed. The men surged forward, shaggy northern horses whinnying with foam as their handlers struck them with bloody whips, eyes as crazed as their handlers''. Men howled against the storm, pulling their sleds with ropes thick with frost, torchbearers pointing the way. The Westerlanders made their way down the second valley with desperate hope, dragging limping comrades and tattered banners. One man collapsed and didn''t get back up. Someone screamed in the distance; an agonizing screech cut short. Lord Preston''s men, come back to haunt those who left them to die. "Faster!" said Damon, "Faster!!!" His son''s sled clattered over a patch of crumbled stones, his head rattling from side to side. They were going too slow.


    "To the left," said the Queen, urgent haste dripping from her voice, "A spoiling attack."


    "Left flank! Shieldwall now!" he bellowed, taking the kite shield off his son''s sled and leading a line of Marbrand men, forming up to the left of the caravan. Have to buy time, he thought, wrestling with the shield''s strap as it refused to buckle unto his arm. Damon looked around him; the wights would come screaming out of the mist any second now, and he had but few men to stall them. His heartbeat roared louder as he struggled with the leather strap, his fingers numb and clumsy. Ser Fedrin did his best to order the ragged ranks closer together, poleaxes emerging from the gaps like a grudging hedgehog roused from sleep. They didn''t have enough shields.


    Ser Fedrin''s face was locked tight as he reached Damon''s side, "We won''t last for long," he whispered.


    Damon clutched the man''s pauldron like a lifeline, "I know."


    "Hold fast, lions of the Westerlands," said the Queen. She was a vision walking in front of the line, sapphire gaze touching the faces of his men. Damon followed her steady stride with rapt attention. "Let them shriek and cry, let them howl and tear." Her gaze settled on Damon''s own¡ªhe pulled the strap secure, the shield tight against his forearm. "Let their fear crawl over you and leave nothing but bared steel."


    An ululating shriek scythed through the mist, halberds and long axes quivering as Lord Marbrand took a breath of frozen air, "The Queen''s with us!"


    "The Queen!" shouted the men, panic and defiance twined together, "Westeros!!!"


    "Now," she whispered to him.


    "Shields high! Brace!!!" said Damon¡ªwights flew from the mist in between breaths, slamming against the shieldwall with a deafening crack. An undead wildling almost cut his head in two, flailing at his shield with twin axes made of bronze. He strained backwards, feet sliding through the snow as he raised his hammer and paid him back seven-fold. He tore two holes in its skull, but it kept pummeling at him as if in the midst of a rage. "Hold!" he bellowed, voice breaking at the end as the wight tore a wound past his vambrace. He planted his feet on the mud below the snow and pushed back with a heave, and now the wildling lay replaced by a fresh wight in brigandine. One of Lord Preston''s men, and more behind it. The unarmed wights flailed like whirlwinds against Daimon''s men, tearing the shields out of their hands and leaving them open for their armed brethren; leaping devils armed with hammers and axes¡ªobsidian daggers glinting in the fog. Even the King''s fearless Raiders could be turned.


    "Nothing but bared steel." Damon whispered the Queen''s words at the wight clawing at his shield. It peeked above the steel rim with pale blue eyes, staring into him with such unnerving precision he slipped on the mud yet again. The whole line was ground back under the onslaught, but they held. Longer than he''d hoped. Somehow, for a while, they held. It was all he could ask.


    When the end came, it came quickly. A thrown axe whistled past him and slammed into Ser Fedrin, who''d been covering his right side. It tore through his cheek before he collapsed without a sound, and then a sword sneaked past the shieldwall and caught the man to his left in the armpit. Damon didn''t see the blow that got him; he gasped as something churned inside his groin, warm blood gushing down his legs. He turned to see a wight standing over Ser Fedrin''s corpse, a bloody longsword in its hands which was now making for his head. Damon blinked and realized he was on the snow, Westerlanders falling all around him as blurry figures scuttled between them at a dead run, making for the rest of the column.


    He stared at the campfires in the distance, his head numb. The searing cold crept up his back, tinier and tinier wisps of steam escaping his nose as his vision turned into a pinprick. They never told you how fast it was, but he''d known. Learned it when the Reyne cavalry smashed into their right flank and Ser Fedrin''s brother died without a pip¡ªhe couldn''t remember his name. Knew it when Tywin brought down Tarbeck Hall with a single boulder. Old lessons learned anew when the Comet''s gaze brought down a Wall. He wondered if his liege was still alive. Carving up a deer or an elk in his very command tent as some young lord was ushered in for the first time; they always looked so green at all the blood. Gods but the Old Lion was fond of that trick. Hard to find an elk in this mist though. Hard to survive in this mist. Did the Shadowtower collapse like Stonedoor? They''d found a man from Sentinel Stand and he''d sworn his part of the Wall had barely swayed. He wondered why he felt so cold. Addam, he remembered, the thought a light against the delirious darkness.


    Queen Sansa crouched by his side, eyes serene but rimmed with unshed tears. The Comet pierced through the mist with ease, its distant glow shining scarlet against the Queen''s hair. "Breathe and close your eyes, Lord Marbrand," she said, her voice soft and soothing. "Close your eyes and rest." It was a tempting proposition; he had the strangest certainty she had done this before. Still, not every lord''s deathbed had royalty by its side. Lucky. He was forgetting something. Addam.


    "Son," he whispered.


    "He reached the camp with the others," said the Queen, her palm over his breastplate. Her touch was there but not, her smile grieved but real. "You did your duty, my lord. You saved them."


    Damon sighed in relief and closed his eyes.


    -: PD :-


    Sansa came out of her trance with a sigh, wisps of wind tugging her red locks as if reluctant to let her go. Yesterday, it had been Lord Marbrand and his men. Today had been the Karstarks. The maesters and Handmaidens around her stood up attentively, and Sansa swallowed a thick knot before nodding at them, "The Karhold couldn''t evacuate in time. They gave the wights one last defiance."


    They turned to the great map tacked to the wall of the tower, crossing out the Karhold with a thick red X bisected by a third line. There would be no fresh wights coming from there. Sansa gazed at the map for a long while; the red X''s on the map spread from the Wall like smallpox, most of them bereft of the third bisecting line that signaled a Last Defiance. Lines of yellow string pinned with her handmaiden''s sewing needles signaled the course of the various armies of the living fleeing south, brown ones noting lines of fortifications. The grey ones pointed the axis of advance of known wight hosts; an inverted grey dawn radiating from the Wall along main roads and snaking valleys.


    Though the Weeping Water and the Lonely Hills were a solid anchor for the North''s right flank, the center was pummeled everyday, the lines shifting just a tiny bit southward with every report she received¡­ with every death she witnessed. Joffrey and Lord Tarly were doing their best to maneuver and use each other as hammer and anvil, but by now their retreat along the King''s Road had left Long Lake behind and was solidly into the Wolfswood; skirmisher''s terrain. The pitched battles had devolved into one drawn out twenty four hour brawl between heavily armed patrols and rearguards against wight hosts broken up by the forest. While the left¡­


    The conflicting lines and pins hinted at something of the mess that was that front. The broken terrain of the western mountains hindered the retreating Westerlanders almost as much as they did the wights chasing them. The Westerlanders¡ªbeing no strangers to hilly terrain themselves¡ªwere slowly eking out a lead over the chasing wights, who sometimes preferred to scatter when reaching new areas, searching for hamlets or lone survivors before moving on. The danger wasn''t so much the dead breaking through there, but the Westerlanders getting cut off if the front reached Winterfell before them. She''d have to speak with Lord Harlaw and Theon, see if they could send a few more ships to recover the groups nearest the coast. Ease logistics. If they haven''t burned down Bear Island yet.


    Maege Mormont was a dependable lady, but hosting a third of the Iron Fleet in her island had chafed more than a few old blood feuds raw. I''ll catch my breath and contact-


    A strong hand gripped her shoulder. Wylla Manderly had been working on her frown, "It''s been enough for one day. Why don''t you lay down for the rest of the afternoon? I''ll keep watch over the paperwork here."


    Sansa rubbed her face, feeling rebellious, "Joffrey''s out there working on three hours of sleep. What kind of Queen would I make?"


    "A sane one," said Wylla, unimpressed, "The offensive over the Weeping River stalled to a halt again. I don''t think Lord Royce will need you till tomorrow."


    "I need to speak with Lord Harlaw-"


    "Staring over the old man''s shoulder isn''t going to speed up those ships. They already know, there''s nothing you can do there."


    Sansa kept staring at the map, the lines blurring as a forceful yawn took her by surprise. "Alright," she said after a moment, "But you tell me the minute a raven arrives from the front."


    "Count on it," said Wylla.


    "Liar," she told her, her smile teasing one out of Wylla in turn. She left the First Keep and walked on the elevated passageway over the Guard''s Hall, turning on the Armory. The constant storms blew the snow sideways, flanking the tiled roof enough that every morning they had to be swept clear. Legate Rykker¡ªnever one to lose an opportunity¡ªhad immediately set up a scheme whereas soldiers on disciplinary duty would serve as sweepers for two whole days, paying the price for tavern brawls or other transgressions. Whatever they thought of the punishment, they bowed like Silver Knights when she passed them by, almost falling over the railing in their haste to make way.


    Winterfell was fit to bursting with activity; sled trains arrived every hour, bringing in the wounded and departing with tied crates brimming with supplies. Scouts and outriders stomped the snow out of their boots by the covered fires, and teams of lumberjacks sharpened their axes with steady shrricks that lulled the ear.


    Something gripped her hard as she stopped over the training yard, looking down over the handrail. For a moment she could almost glimpse Jon and Robb trading blows in the middle of the yard, Ser Rodrick''s gruff voice cutting over the sound of wood-on-wood. Arya would flit by in a moment''s notice, running from Bran with a quiver full of poached arrows. Sometimes she would spot Father standing by the door of the armory, a rare smile lighting his face as he tied a fur cloak around his shoulders. He''d always have that same smile, as if considering the merits of chasing after the both of them before deciding, always¡ªnot this time.


    A droplet fell on her hand and startled her. She looked up to the blurred sky, looking for clouds but finding none; it was one of those rare days when the clouds kept their distance, letting the tired sun shine at will. Another droplet scurried down her neckline, and Sansa sighed as she took out her handkerchief. She couldn''t stop seeing Father''s face, smiling that rare, crooked smile, standing by the Armory''s side door. She pressed it tightly against her cheeks, focusing on the ringing barks of the serjeant down below. Instead of her brothers, a double line of Stark levies hollered before charging in a rain of halberds against their wooden targets. Shieldbearers followed close behind, moving up to cover them as the halberdiers retreat two steps back. They formed a ''Penitent Hedgehog''¡ªas Joffrey had named it¡ªand held for a minute or two before the serjeant reorganized them and the exercise was repeated all over again.


    Sansa took a breath of frigid air, steam curdling to nothing as she gripped the railing tight. At least she''d had the Purple before; always the prospect of seeing him again, no matter what happened. But not now. Never again. Sansa knew she needed more sleep, but she didn''t want to go to her bedchambers. She didn''t want to dream about Father.


    A rhythmic beat on the floorboards made her turn towards a dashing figure, charging through the walkway at reckless speed before she started sliding on the slippery surface. She crashed against Sansa with a muffled umhp. "Arya!" she said, though it sounded more like a whine, "Don''t run like that! You''ll snap your neck!" Arya scoffed hard as she grasped Sansa''s furs, a wild smile on her lips. A wave of disorienting nostalgia shook her to the bone as she beheld her huffing sister, the rest of the scold dying in her throat. Arya had grown taller these last few years, her so-called horseface acquiring a slender grace that often left the older hands reminiscing about Lady Lyanna.


    Gone were the leather scraps of her youth; Lady Arya Stark wore furs over chain mail, Needle and an obsidian dagger strapped to her belt. Though her war-duties mostly consisted of scouting through warged beasts, her martial training had not been neglected. Every couple of days she''d challenge one of the green boys just arrived from the south; snot-nosed lord''s sons boasting about how they would fell a Walker with two stroke. Guardsmen on rotation from the frontlines would always line up in the courtyard and swindle the boy''s friends of all the coin they had, because surely he wouldn''t be defeated by this slender lady and her oversized toothpick?


    That was today''s Arya. Fierce and independent. Still not quite tempered, but possessed of a certainty absent from her childhood. Armed and armored¡ªcloaked like her brother Robb. A perky violet plucked from the glass gardens dangled from her hair, hanging on for dear life. It was her only concession to Mother''s fussing.


    "Sansa!" she said, "Marge is-" Sansa cut her off as she enveloped her with both arms; an inescapable bear hug. She gave only token resistance before returning the embrace, her yard-trained muscles pushing the air out of Sansa''s lungs. She didn''t need an explanation; Arya understood. When they separated, her sister''s eyes held the tiniest sheen; she wiped them off before giving her an excited smile, "Marge! The baby! It''s coming!"


    Sansa gasped, "What?! Why didn''t you tell me sooner?!"


    "Come on!" said Arya, sprinting over the walkway and dragging Sansa with her. Soon they were running around the Main Keep as if they were six again, their wild gibbering echoing across the hall. Sansa gave the servants a wide berth as they ran, half forgotten instincts flaring up. But instead of moving to cut off their escape, they stood aside with muffled ''m''ladies'' and ''Your High''ness'', eyes filled with respect instead of good-natured anger. They arrived outside Margaery''s bedchamber to find Robb pacing like a caged direwolf, Ser Rodrik sitting quietly by a bench.


    "Any news?" said Robb. He was scratching his face around the eye-patch, something he usually did when awaiting word on whether his right flank was in position or routed altogether.


    "We''ve just come the other way you dolt!" said Arya, punching him on the shoulder. Robb didn''t even notice.


    "Is there anything you can do?" he asked Sansa.


    "I pray there is," said Ser Rodrik, staring at Robb in irritation, "Else the boy''s going to gouge out the other eye!"


    "I''m a sorceress not a midwife-" she said before a hideous scream rattled the door. The stream of invective that followed had more in common with dockside sailor-speak than Highgarden poetry. Either someone was murdering Maergery, or the baby was on the last stretch.


    "I''ll do what I can!" she said before she and Arya barged through the door. Just in time for Margaery to scream again. The sheets need to be replaced, was the first thing Sansa thought. There was a lot of blood.


    "I can''t!" screamed Maergery. She was on her bed, legs splayed¡ªher dress hid the midwife on the other side. Maester Luwin stood by a cupboard on the other side of the room, furiously mashing something with a mortar and pestle.


    "Yes you can," said Mother, confidence oozing from her voice as she held both of Maergery''s hands, "Just one more time, one more time and it''ll be over."


    "Liar!" howled Lady Stark, "That''s what you said last time! Fuck him! Fuck Robb Stark and the prick he rode me with! I never should''veaaaAAAAAA!!!"


    They stood by the door, horrified by the sight, not daring to move an inch. Arya clutched her arm like a lifeline, teeth gritted together. "Never," she whispered.


    "Everyone''s breathing down my neck for an heir. And if I do it you''ll damn well do it too!" said Sansa, squeezing back just as hard.


    Mother looked up, "You either help out or get out! Which is it going to be?!"


    Their grip on each other turned painful, but in the end there was no real choice. They washed their hands and moved in to console Margaery, but scarcely five minute had passed before her screams were joined by a squealing cry, a cry accompanied by the howls of direwolves. Sansa could feel Lady startle from her light sleep by the Godswood, jostling Nymeria''s head as they howled to the tune of Grey Wind, who must have been prowling right outside the keep because his howl was positively deafening. The entire pack howled long and hard, ululating near the end.


    They both stared at the bloody, shriveled baby with something close to awe, at least until Arya shuffled her shoulders. She shot Sansa a glance. "Nymeria was far lovelier at that age."


    "Which is it? Which?" Margaery gasped between breaths, the midwife cleaning the babe before handing it off to Maester Luwin. A thorough examination. A nod.


    "It''s a boy," said Mother, a proud smile on her lips as she received the swaddled bundle of twisting limbs. He cried with mighty lung-fulls of air, clearly unhappy to have been born. Can''t blame you, little one, she thought. The world was not exactly a welcoming place right now.


    But it could be. The warm-cold longing in her chest took her by surprise.


    "Thank the Seven," said Margaery, lying back on the bed with a heave. "Oh Gods. Never again."


    "An heir and a spare, dear," said Mother, smirking at the sweaty wreck that was her good-daughter, "Heir and spare."


    As if summoned by a spell, Margaery screamed again, long and hard like the direwolves, almost startling Sansa out of her skin.


    "Mother what''s wrong?!" she asked her.


    She looked between her and Margaery, the baby in her arms wailing louder still, "I don''t know, I-"


    Margaery screamed again, gasping. Sansa''s heart leapt to her throat, and she grabbed Margaery''s hands in fright. "Ohh Sansa! It hurts!"


    "Hold on!" she said, her own blood preparing to lash out to the phantom enemy, "Just-" Something''s wrong-


    "It ''tain o''ver yet!" said the midwife. To their shock, after another gut-wrenching scream, Maester Luwin emerged from behind Margaery''s dress toting another baby.


    He examined it with an expert eye, "An heir and a comely girl to marry off too," he said, a smirk on his lips as Arya crossed her arms, "All in a day''s work."


    "Twins?!" said Margaery, receiving both crying bundles. "Grandmother''s going to kiss Father silly," she said, entranced by the babies. She coddled them with newborn instincts, a rainbow smile on her lips as the girl smacked her with a clumsy arm. In an instant she was feeding both of them, and Sansa couldn''t help but stare at the sight, fascinated. She''d just witnessed something inexplicably hallowed. She imagined herself in Margaery''s place; holding a little bit of Joffrey and herself in her lap, a tiny speck of life unconcerned with war and snow. Only food, apparently.


    "Bring another towel," Luwin told the midwife, shaking Sansa out of it. She eyed the blood past Margaery''s thighs with a frown. It certainly didn''t look healthy. Luwin shrugged at her silent question, so she passed a hand over the mess, blood pooling around her arm before entering her bloodstream; Margaery''s skin was left as clean as her newborn''s. Less chance of sepsis that way, she thought, throttling down a sigh of pleasure. A bit of it must''ve been the baby''s because¡­ Yep, definitively Robb''s. Blood of Kings indeed.


    Arya raised both eyebrows at her.


    "Baby blood''s more delicious," she told her.


    "Ewww!"


    As the midwife returned from the washing tub and puzzled at Margaery''s clean skin and sheets, both sisters surrounded the new mother. "Well done, Marge!" said Arya; anyone still conscious after that ordeal deserved all the praise they could get.


    Sansa wiped the sweat off Margaery''s brow, using her handkerchief. It felt silly she''d once been jealous of this brave woman, thrust into the unfamiliar North mere months before a world ending war. All so Tyrell blood could join Westeros'' ruling alliance¡­ almost exactly as Lady Catelyn had done, more than twenty years ago. History rhymed in its own interesting ways, no edicts from the Purple needed. No wonder Mother took to her almost instantly. "Congratulations, good-sister," she said, beaming at her.


    Margaery giggled, exhausted, "One day it''ll be me giving them to you."


    Sansa stared at the babes, happily suckling for all they were worth. "I think¡­ I''d like that," she said. Maybe. Possibly.


    Hard knocks thundered against the door. "I heard crying! Everything alright?! What happened!?"


    Mother glanced at Arya, "Better open the door before he brings a battering ram."


    Arya giggled. "It''s a girl!" she said as she threw the door open.


    "And a boy!" said Sansa.


    Robb stumbled into the room. He''d looked less shell-shocked the night the Wall collapsed. "A girl¡­ and a boy?"


    "Congratulations, my lord," said Maester Luwin, nodding happily; he now had two generations of Starks now under his belt. Mother kissed him in both cheeks, though he couldn''t take his eyes off the twins.


    "Look Eddard, it''s your Father," said Margaery, gently extracting the baby from her breast and holding him out to Robb.


    "Eddard," said Robb, falling on his knees by the bed and receiving the baby like a flask of wildfire. "Of course," he whispered in a pained voice, smiling.


    "What about the girl?" asked Sansa.


    Margaery smiled like the cat who caught the raven, "And this feisty bundle," she said, interrupting the girl from her meal. She began to cry at once, moving tiny limbs in outraged distress. "Is Olenna Stark."


    Sansa sputtered, hiding her mouth with one arm. Goofy grins spread around the room, and they all just stood there before little Eddard started crying again and Robb looked as if someone had jutted a torch straight into the wildfire. News soon spread around the castle, and all throughout the day and the following night Sansa could hear the cheers and toasts from the soldiers, servants, knights, and visiting lords, boasting raucously of the One-Eyed Wolf and thanking a certain wight for going high instead of low. Robb withstood it all in silent mirth, telling the men they should thank Lady Stark instead of him¡­ and his codpiece instead of the wight. Sansa of course greased the wheels with food and ale; a relatively extravagant gesture in times like these, but in the end completely worth it.


    It felt good to be reminded of life and love, in times of white and death.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 80: Fall.

    Chapter 80: Fall.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    As she found connections between the rhythm of the Song and the horror of its Absence, between the lore of warging and the strictures of blood magic, between the secrets of the Red Comet and the certainties of the Purple, Sansa began to piece together an understanding. Insights that pointed to a common thread, revelations that shined a new light on old certainties. Reality was a vast tapestry, and though she knew but a tiny sliver of a single thread, she had gazed into titan tools which weaved and unwound it at will. Witnessing the escalation had been the key; the anchoring, the ripples in the Song, the fractal conduits of will left bare for all to see; it had bridged her islands of knowledge into a connected whole which had no name but was a certainty of being. Of self.


    It was bitterly ironic then that in the end, for all her growing understanding, she''d still been unable to stop her homeland''s death.


    Sansa lived the Fall of the North through the souls of her people. As Joffrey fought his way to Winterfell and a semblance of command and control was built out of survivors from the Wall and Tarly''s battered Second Army, Sansa soared on fractal winds throughout the lands of the North. From raven''s eyes she watched strung-out columns battling against blizzards as they marched under the Comet''s light, and from the Song''s skein she projected herself out of chiseled fractals to the marching men, for distance was nothing to the Purple. She did her best to guide lost battalions through the mist, to direct reinforcements where they were needed, to warn villages of the coming storm. She failed as much as she succeeded, which often left her the last witness to acts of both grand heroism and terrible ignominy.


    Perhaps most bitterly ironic of all was how the soul of the New Westeros¡ªhers and Joffrey''s greatest dream¡ªexpanded even as its body died. As the chaos of the first weeks after Wallfall subsided, the pace of the war lessened from hectic to blisteringly fast. The mishmash of breaches, skirmishes, battles-on-the-fly and missing patrol reports stabilized into what might have been charitably called a front. A steadily expanding front, filled with desperate rearguard actions, heart-wrenching evacuations, and pitched battles of a fury previously unknown to the continent. Legends were born almost as fast as they were extinguished, and their names were uttered with fervent hope by those who read or heard of the Missives from the Front, penned by Sansa''s own hand. They needed them, for if this was an age of legend then it meant the Walkers¡ªthis terrible foe better fit to children''s tales than real life¡ªcould perhaps be defeated.


    So was born the Hammer of the Hornwood; the blacksmith''s son who climbed through the ranks of the Fifth Regiment one wight at a time. Lord Damon Marbrand, the last man to fall as he covered the retreat of hundreds of men. Bronzewall Yohn, the stalwart shield which for a month held the Weeping Water against the dead; battling every day against revenant reavers emerging from the river itself, moss on their skulls and rust on their arms. She flew with those who came to be known as Tarly''s Lances, giving them tactical information before they raised their banners high and smashed their barded horses into cut-off hordes, singing summer songs. She conferred with sea-captains in White Harbor and stopped a riot in the docks before blood was spilled, her glittering sight calming the panicked mobs and leaving them on their knees. She directed the beasts of the forest to rend and tear unto the wights, foxes and wolves and bears and elk storming out of the green and relieving defenders¡ªdelivering warnings when she was too tired to manifest herself. And so too did her own legend grow; of the Queen of Mirrors and the Voice of the Woods, the Sapphire Light that battled the Comet''s shadow.


    The days passed quickly as noble houses were extinguished in battle; as half-evacuated hamlets were overtaken while people fought amids burning buildings. Sansa had a unique, invaluable bird''s eye view of the Comet''s campaign against life, and so she watched their systematic slaughter unfold with all the efficiency of a Myrish clock, a kind of cruelty beyond man. The White Walkers used their mastery of the cold mercilessly, their advance cooling the earth by the tiniest smidgen with each step taken south. Their strategy felt not random but unintuitive; the product of an alien mind with objectives only it could fully comprehend. Some concentrated into battalions of mobile shock-troops, striking out from nightly blizzards and tearing into camps and towns with crystalline blades, reaping harvests of men and freezing supplies. Others spread throughout the North in lonely missions¡ªclockwork knights of death wandering in the dark, shadows moving through side-roads and deer-tracks and leaving only frozen leaves in their wake. They brought the terror of the War beyond the North, carried ever onward by their even strides. Neither swamps nor mountains stalled them for long, and in time even the Stormlands felt their scourge.


    They raised themselves entourages of the dead, standing alone over ancient battlefields which heaved like earthquakes, bony hands bursting through frozen mud. They cracking open forgotten barrows with great blows which spilled the rotten dead, spreading over the countryside to ambush travelers and terrorize villages. Others went straight for the living; lone figures appearing in village squares or local inns five thousand leagues from the frontlines, blades glittering in the night, screams waking the townsfolk. Though such forays south were always eventually destroyed, they served to bring the fear of the dead to the tiniest hamlet, the most remote of farmers. The War was not for the North alone, but for the Kingdom entire.


    Wights were far more common. They spread among multiple axis of advance, their scuttling columns blanketing roads and plains. Their many faces were variations of a common theme; from wildlings of old to long-buried dead, from armored guardsmen to freshly slain farmers, hoes and libards still firmly in hand. They all shared the same hunger, the same blue eyes that thirsted for death. Some kept fighting even when bereft of all limbs, only fire extinguishing their thirst.


    Joffrey was perhaps the only man who''s legend rose to be the equal of the White Walkers. He was her people''s guiding light, their wildcard who could transform hope into reality. How to describe Westeros'' King? On the map of the North he was a strategic whirlwind with a will of its own, a vortex around which the many sewing needles of her Handmaidens tied themselves into knots¡ªimpossible to follow, foe and friend conjoined and rebuffed, battles and withdrawals melding into each other and spraying into new patterns that changed not battlefields but entire campaigns. Through raven''s eyes, Sansa followed his path of destruction by the wake of wight-piles still smoldering well into the night, his marching and counter marching confusing the Walkers into inevitable battles where he savaged them without mercy, withdrawing before they could converge.


    Her husband campaigned like he fought; tactically aggressive even as he retreated, pinning enemy hosts in vulnerable terrain and smashing them apart with quick and brutal successive hits. He had an artist''s creativity when waging war, and it seemed as if every day he came up with a novel way to make the Comet pay for its terrible sins. His skirmishers were everywhere; their far-eyes glinting under the muffled sun, their bows and firespears poking the enemy day after day. He wielded cavalry hosts like his own twin hammers¡ªcharging and wheeling one after the other, peeling wight hosts like a fisherman does a trout. He ambushed columns with point-blank stagram-fire, blowing apart even the ground beneath them with preplaced mines. His cohorts of guardsmen fought and fell back on each other like an armored snake twisting its way throughout the North, complex formations changing and morphing as he drew steel over the landscape. Here a wedge divided a charge into two parts of a crevice, there multiple squares stood their ground in open terrain, crossbows volleying massive crossfires that scythed through the charging dead. His skirmishing lines fell back into rows of halberds, his cavalry flanking the Walkers who gave chase, his mobile artillery always plinking at the enemy. They couldn''t seem to get a handle on him; and through his genius and the bravery of his men he saved hundreds of thousands, buying precious time.


    And he wasn''t alone. His leadership spread throughout the ranks, beyond his physical presence as he reached out by raven and runner, and sometimes, it seemed, by thought alone. From the armsmen of a hundred noble houses he handpicked men suited for each task and set them to work. He let loose behind enemy lines veterans from Robert''s Rebellion; rebels and loyalists alike who''d slaughtered each other in furious skirmishes in the Riverlands, in the Stormlands. Now they pierced into wight-lands together, striking the dead at their staging grounds as they gathered in one''s and two''s, freshly raised from fallen hamlets or forgotten barrows. He put dependable house guard captains in charge of evacuations, canny former merchants to revive his supply train, shaky levies to be hardened by gradual combat. He went through knights and lords mercilessly, putting their leadership to brutal tests that saw the competent rise beyond their wildest dreams while the inadequate died in droves. Even the women of Westeros weren''t spared; her Handmaidens were a constant sight just behind the frontlines, tending to the wounded with desperate efficiency and fighting the wights themselves when those armies were overwhelmed. The nobility didn''t complain; it was a war like he''d promised back at Harrenhal. A war fought to the hilt, to the bitter end. A war fought in every town and every hearth, in the heart of every man, every woman, and every child. It was a war like none other. It was the War for Dawn.


    -: PD :-


    History rhymed in strange ways. Soldiers and servants, knights and lords all knelt when Joffrey passed the gates of Winterfell atop Stars. He rode at the head of the combined Army of Dawn, veterans and fresh-faced recruits alike marching behind him. He dismounted with a practiced swing, walking for those assembled in the courtyard. "Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," said Robb, head bowed as he took a knee, along with Sansa and the rest of the Starks.


    Joffrey pulled him up and embraced him like a brother. "Did¡­" Robb whispered, "Did you make sure he..?"


    "I did. I made sure," said Joffrey.


    "Good."


    When they separated, Sandor strode forward with Ice, presenting it to Robb. "Lord Eddard Stark died a hero not only to the North but to the Kingdom entire," Joffrey said out loud, his voice carrying across the snowed courtyard. He received the blade from Sandor before giving it to Robb, "And I''ve no doubt you''ll prove a Warden of the North as loyal and capable as he was."


    "Thank you, Your Grace," Robb said gravely. He held Ice close, as if he could still feel Father''s grip on it.


    That important duty done, Joffrey wasted no time embracing Sansa in turn. "I missed you," she said, caressing the back of his head and refusing to let go.


    "Me too," he said, an edge of deep weariness crackling in his voice. He might have fooled others, but up close Joffrey couldn''t hope to conceal it from her.


    "You''re here. You made it," she whispered.


    "Not for long," he said as they separated. He lowered his voice, "We have to leave Winterfell."


    She''d already begun, of course. Sansa looked back to the godswood. To the crypt where generations of her ancestors had been buried; now their bones burned beyond the castle walls, their rusted swords fed to the furnaces in the south. She gazed at the main keep, aglow with candles which drew fleeting shadows through the windows; the servants were still packing all the essentials. She remembered staring out the southern window as she sewed, submerged in that timeless peace that so permeated her childhood, a bored girl dreaming of romance in the South. What would''ve thought that Sansa of yore? Of this sorcerer-queen in southern dress, crowned in gold and white fur? Would she have cried, watching her abandon her childhood home?


    Sansa felt oddly nostalgic as the rest of Joffrey''s caravan reached the castle, her mind flying back intermittently to those sunny days of her childhood, of awe and wonder and then later of plotting and lovemaking. Of course, Joffrey''s caravan proved far more surreal than any of Robert''s iterations. Reacher knights in plumed helmets followed in his wake, Lord Tarly at their head, bits of many-colored cloth flying from their long lances. Guardsmen of a score mingled cohorts marched at a steady gait, and Tyrion made a triumphant return at the back of a giant named Borgan. He boasted of how he''d linked up with Joffrey after Wallfall, only to then make fast friends with a certain giant covered in First Men tablets worn like stone brigandine. They''d shared a passion for ancient lore, he explained. On and on they marched, Dornish and Stormlanders, lords and levies, veterans and fresh recruits. The armies of Dawn, battered but not yet defeated.


    The evacuation went as smoothly as they could''ve hoped. Mother took formal command over the Handmaidens tending to the wounded in the Guest House, overseeing their part in the caravan; she''d already been absorbed by the role since Father''s death. Robb made sure the towers, gates and vaults of the castle were sealed with earth and stone, while Arya warged through crows and ravens, scouting the hinterlands for villages that were still populated.


    The sleds and wagons formed a long procession out of Winterfell; thousands of soldiers marching south with them, veterans of a thousand battles that were soon joined by long trails of refugees fleeing the ill-named Barrowlands. White Harbor was evacuated by the Royal Fleet, and the Stony Shore by the Ironborn. By night, the exodus painted vast stretches of snowy countryside with cook fires and tents shivering in the wind; restless mules and flint-eyed refugees clustering by the communal cauldrons, where guardsmen gave out meager rations of soup. The Comet lit the horizon a sharp red, turning dark skies into a permanent, uncertain dusk filled with twinkling stars. Under its light spread tales of terror that all gathered to hear, from wide-eyed children to soldiers stiff with grim pride. There was something about mankind that longed to hear about the terrors in the night even as they fled their onslaught. A drive to understand it, perhaps. In hushed whispers they spoke of the balls of crystal scuttling on eight legs, the so called ice spiders that descended from tree branches silent as death, their victims only screaming when they''d been carried halfway up. Veterans spoke of the Walker vanguards of winter, smashing into allied armies right in the middle and cutting them in half, their grim harvest slaughtering men by the dozens as stagrams flew overhead and soldiers swarmed them with pikes and axes. Tales of wights were ubiquitous; everyone either knew someone who''d seen one, or had battled one themselves. They scoured the countryside in packs that ranged from the dozen to the thousands, mindless beings that knew no rest and fought day and night, spreading throughout the North like rot on a wound. But were they truly mindless? ''A low cunning'', Sansa heard them whisper. ''Like a starved dog searching for scraps''. Could something of the person that had been remain there still? Screaming for company in the only way it knew how?


    Snowstorms turned more frequent as rearguard skirmishes turned into pitched battles, and she and Joffrey tried their best to keep their people''s head up high. Names and epithets spread as fast as the horror stories, melding truth and rumor; Samwell Tarly, the Chronicler-Knight who wrote down the name of every wight he''d killed on his silver book. Tyrion and Borgan; the giant-and-a-half debating philosophy as they plowed through undead hordes. Jon Snow, the Iron Legate whose flesh neither Walker nor dragon could wound. They were so many Sansa lost a hold of them entirely as they spread and merged and changed, carried like flies by the smaller caravans connecting them to the South, spreading throughout the Kingdom entire. The One-Eyed Wolf that changed into a howling beast before battle, tactical genius given way to berserker fury. The she-bears Maege and Lyra taking turns with Longclaw, avenging their father one Walker at a time. Theon Greyhand and the Reavers of Dawn, screaming wight heads still nailed to their masts as they sailed through ice-cold seas. Heroes surged from the North and the south, from the Vale and the west, from the Riverlands and the Stormlands and the deserts of Dorne. The smallfolk of the Kingdom were not left behind, and their names too grew into legends. Of fishermen turned warriors, of seamstresses flying banners over falling keeps, of singing craftsmen still working three leagues away from the frontlines, straining to forge one last hammer, one last axe. So many legends birthed to life in a dying world¡­ and always, the Comet''s glow turned brighter.


    The North fell with last stands hearkening to the Age of Heroes, with tales of horror that left grown men bawling in raw sorrow. It fell with fury and with terror, with fire and steel and blood and mud.


    Far from the half-decade of struggle that Joffrey had envisioned before Wallfall, by the time they crossed the Neck one thing had become clear. They would be lucky to survive another year.


    -: PD :-


    S?a??h the Nov?lF?re .??t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.

 Interlude: Prince Tommen.

    Interlude: Prince Tommen.Spoiler: Music


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    "Let''s go! Lets go!" shouted Tommen, dashing up the Serpentine Steps in full armor. They made a terrible and¡ªindeed¡ªominous racket, four armored men fierce and committed to each other even unto death. He held up a hand as they reached the gate to the Middle Bailey. It was time to address the Young Swords one last time. "Alright, everyone! This is it!" he said, searching for the right words. The Young Swords stared back, huffing after the dead sprint through the stairs, anticipatory grins lighting up their faces. Tommen opened his mouth and¡­ Damnit, Joffrey makes it look so easy. "This is it! No quarter given! We''ve trained for this!"


    Brother could''ve done better in his sleep. The Young Swords didn''t seem to notice though; they snarled like lions, pumped up and ready to win. Their infectious enthusiasm propelled him out of murky doubt. "That''s what I like to hear! Today we win! Once and for all we wipe the floor with the bastard! Let''s go over the plan again. One last time. Cousin?" He nodded at Tytos.


    Tytos Lannister was their anvil, their unstoppable weight which absorbed blow after blow, consuming all attention. Not even twenty namedays and he was as thick as a bull; clad in full plate as he was, the dull-grey steel contrasted menacingly against his dark Summer Islander skin. Lannister-blond eyebrows clashed in furious thought, "I''ll charge straight at him," he said, banging his sword against the big tower shield on his other hand. "Force him back, make him focus on me."


    "If you manage to make him loose his footing, the battle will be half won," said Tommen. He turned to Bran, quick witty Bran, always ready to make use of an opening, "Then?"


    The Stark boy shifted the grip on his bastard sword, eyes lean and focused, "I''ll attack him from the side, make a nuisance of myself."


    "And I''ll hit from the other side at the same time," said the Young Falcon, his arming sword in one hand and his bow on his back. Observant and always with a comment that could turn previous assumptions on their heads, the smaller of the four made it up with senses as sharp as those of his House''s sigil, "He''ll try to wheel away. We can''t let him focus on either one of us."


    "Watch that sword!" said Tommen, "He''ll swing it in circles, trying to create space for an opening. Don''t fall for it! Push him in!"


    "And you?" said Robin. The heir to the Vale knew the answer, but it was exactly the right question to ask.


    "I''ll swing around, use the time and the distraction and strike!" He hefted sword and hammer, licking his lips, "Behind his knee, making fall on the ground. He''ll yield then. He has to."


    "What if he doesn''t?" asked Tytos.


    "Me and Bran will grapple him to the ground. Robin will put a sword to his neck. You plant your shield right over his sword arm, we can''t let him swing it again!"


    They nodded, armed and armored, forming a triangle with Tytos at the tip. Tommen placed his back against the side of the gate. "Ready!?"


    Summer barked.


    "Summer, no!" said Bran, "You stay!"


    The giant direwolf chuffed.


    Tommen shook his head, trying to pump himself again, "Now!"


    Tytos roared like a giant unleashed, charging through the gate. Bran and Robin ran by his flanks, weapons high as they echoed the cry. Tommen closed the formation from behind, holding a hand on the back of Tytos shoulder as a sort of steering oar. "Go! Go! Go!"


    They stormed into the Middle Bailey like they said Ser Samwell did at Dragonstone, adrenaline searing through his veins and tunneling his vision. He remembered Joffrey''s lessons and scanned the area despite the euphoria, searching for their target. Their hopelessly surprised, hopelessly outmatched opponent. They would win this time. They would win this time!!!


    They charged all across the Middle Bailey, servants scrambling out of the way. But there was no sign of their opponent. "A trap!" said Bran.


    "Fall back to the middle!" roared Tommen, "Penitent turtle! Back to back and keep your eyes open!" They scrambled back to the middle of the courtyard, forming an oval of sorts. "Robin! Get your bow out and use those blunt arrows of yours! If he wants to play dirty we''ll do him no favors!"


    "On it!" said the Arryn heir. He nocked an arrow as they waited, tense, circling like drunk guardsmen and pressing shoulders against each other. "I don''t see him¡­" he said. Tommen frowned, tense. If Robin didn''t see him, then he just wasn''t there.


    "Where¡­ where is he?" said Tytos.


    The servants were all looking at them like they were the best mummer show ever to grace the face of the earth. A group of guardsmen by the Maidenvault were outright laughing.


    "Somethings wrong," said Tommen. He could feel his face going beet-red. Oh gods. These past few years it had grown worse and worse. And the more he thought about it, the more his face tingled. "Oh no."


    A serjeant took pity on them, and he walked up to the Young Swords with his palms out, as if saying Don''t strike me down! I''m unarmed! "Got bad news for you boys." He nodded at Tommen, "My Prince. Ser Barristan didn''t show up today. Looks like your bout''s canceled."


    "And what a damn shame," muttered one of the guardsmen, with feeling.


    -: PD :-


    Spoiler: Music


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    "I''m sorry, but he needs his rest," said Maester Galwyn.


    "Oh let them in already!" came the voice from the bedchamber.


    Maester Galwyn sighed, opening the door for them. "Just- keep it short. He needs to keep his breath."


    Tommen entered, the Young Swords behind him, creeping up to the old man''s bed as if it were wildfire. The bedchamber inside the White Tower had a little sharp tang, sweet but sour. The smell of old men, perhaps. Or death. Tommen felt like a pilgrim shown a most horrible sacrilege¡ªthere was something deeply wrong with seeing a god laid so low. Ser Barristan Selmy, legendary Kingsguard, gave them a wan smile. It dissolved into a coughing fit with a bass louder than that demonstration stagram that almost took Robin''s head off. "Oh come sit already," he said after it was over, hiding the handkerchief out of sight, "I promise I won''t hit you unconscious. Practice''s out for the day."


    They clustered around him in a rush, sitting on tiny, spartan stools and sheepishly leaving their weapons on the floor. "Ser Barristan," said Tommen, "Are you¡­ alright?"


    "I''ve been worse. I''m sorry about the bout, my Prince. I sent a page with word about it¡­" He sighed.


    Tommen shook his head. He was still stunned to see such an implacable task master like this. Paler than his sheets, his white eyebrows wild and out of order. The words Ser Barristan and out of order just didn''t mix. "I think I speak for all of us when I say we don''t care, Lord Commander. That is, we care about you." He smiled awkwardly, how to phrase it¡­ "It''s¡­ it''s not-" lethal?


    "I''m not going to die yet boy," he said with confident smile, "Though I wouldn''t mind it if I did." His gaze turned to the window, where tiny ships stretched as far as the eye could see, coming and going in columns that stretched well past the harbor and into Blackwater Bay. His smile was dangerously melancholic, "I''ve lived a full life. Served more than my fair share of Kings¡­ but my time''s long past, my Young Swords. As, it would seem, the Kingsguard''s." His eyes turned turned serious, riveting unto to Tommen''s with such force that he had to quash the impulse to ready his guard. "I can see we won''t survive this war unscathed. It makes sense, in a way. The Silver Knights will be much more useful to King Joffrey''s rule. Larger numbers. More flexible. No pesky permanent vows in the way." A grim smile, "And some of them are almost as good as King Aerys'' old Kingsguard. But sometimes, Prince Tommen, ''almost'' just doesn''t cut it. There''s no almost between dead and alive."


    Tommen frowned, trying to decipher the old man''s words. And failing. Ser Barristan shook his head, "I''ve trained you¡ªall of you, because it is my sworn duty to do so. And," he added as he looked at Bran, "Because some of you would like nothing more than to join our ranks. I''ve no right to ask anything for that, but¡­" The look he shot at Tommen was almost pleading, "But if my lessons have been of any use to you, I''d ask you if you would prevail on King Joffrey, after the war. Talk to him. Convince him not to dissolve my order. To not let us die of old age and leave our posts empty." He stretched and grabbed Tommen''s hand, old strength briefly holding it painful tight. "There is no almost, Prince Tommen. Remember that."


    Tommen nodded slowly, "I''ll do my best. But¡­ you''ll be there too, Ser Barristan. We''ll team up together, for once."


    He gave him a wintry smile, "I hope so, my Prince. I hope so." He was wracked by another coughing fit, and waved them away, "Now go. Rest for today. Seek Ser Arys and the good serjeant tomorrow. Vary the routine, seek different opponents¡ªrope in a few of those centurions coming in from the Silver Keep. Don''t think I''ll go easy on you after this!"


    They made the appropriate sounds and left the bedchamber, Maester Galwyn shoing them the rest of the way. Leaving the White Tower, they ambled impotently around the courtyard, coiling energy now sagging into glum non-action. It made Tommen feel dirty. "He''ll be okay," he said out loud. The Young Swords stayed silent.


    By some unconscious, shared consensus, they ended up walking out of the Red Keep and into the city proper. They strolled about without a clear purpose, making dubious smalltalk and dissecting the latest news yet again. Young Lord Aldon Estermont was the talk of the city; the man and his group of hardy Stormlanders had somehow battled their way out of Barrowton a full three days after the city had fallen, sneaking through storm drains and marshy canals to reach elements of the Iron Fleet around the Saltspear''s mouth. Not content with that, they''d helped the Ironborn hold the river long enough for the evacuees there to board their ships. And then they''d commandeered a longboat and sailed it through the Fever River up to Moat Cailin, joining up with the rest of Joffrey''s force.


    "The man was reckless," said Bran, swirling a cup of Arbor Gold, "Should''ve left the city before the wights enveloped it."


    Robin nodded along, chewing slowly and gesticulating with his fork, "Crazy. No sense to the whole thing." Tytos banged his tankard in approval.


    "Yeah," said Tommen. They simmered in silent envy for a while, eating their food without much gusto. They''d taken an early lunch near the Street of Silk; roasted venison with carrots-and-onions. It was snowing outside. Again. Not even noon and the tavern-keep had already been forced to get the candles out, trying to make up for the choked sun. The pale light gave the whole table a lugubrious, hushed tone.


    Tytos wiped his mouth with his silken handkerchief. A gift from his Mother, Tommen remembered. Nadhata, High Priestess of Jhala. "What now?" he asked.


    The Young Swords looked at each other, lost. Without Ser Barristan''s daily, grueling routine, carried about both by himself and by his helpers in the forms of Serjeant Gywen and Ser Arys Oakheart, everything felt off. Undeserved. Here they were, dining King''s Landing''s finest while men starved by the frontlines. Now they did not even have the excuse of a sound thrashing in the training yard.


    "We could¡­ go to the Street of Silk?" said Bran, not quite wanting it himself.


    They boasted, demurred, set their way towards it and then promptly got lost. Their hearts hadn''t been on it. It''d only add salt to the wound¡­


    They ended up sitting down on a bench near the harbor, which had sprouted a seemingly permanent forest of masts. Ships barely managed to dock before longshoremen clambered on board, engaging in shouting matches with the sailors and helping unload their cargo. Crate after crate. Bundles of cloth. Salted fish. Quay after quay of them and more¡ªthe activity was such that ships had anchored out past the harbor, unleashing rowboats and skiffs laden with cargo. They sailed up the Blackwater Rush so they could unload in the less overcrowded riverside-docks. Purple galleys from Braavos docked next to Volantene galleons, smaller swanships darting in between, sun-tanned sailors sniffing at the light snow. It fell like tiny white petals, stubbornly nestling on the ground and refusing to melt.


    Tommen let his eyes glaze over the throngs of sailors and longshoremen walking along the jetties, all loud boasts and complaints, sharing news and rumors. He could pick some of it, but his low Valyrian was a far cry from Joffrey''s. He''d once seen him haggle with a Pentoshi trader himself, not too far from here actually¡ªusing his dominance over the flying dialect like a cudgel all so he could buy a keg of pear brandy ''for a less outrageous price''. The sailors sought cover under wooden roofs erected on the sides of the roads that reached the harbor, squatting down in groups to drink, play dice, and fondle cheap wenches before some quartermaster inevitably rounded them all up and threw them to the longshoremen. They didn''t complain much; there lacked a certain vigour to the half-hearted partying. As if they were just going through the motions.


    The Young Swords stayed on their bench, cold and grateful for it, snow perching on their shoulders.


    Bran wiped a fluff that had posed on his nose, "We could steal aboard one of the cogs headed for Saltpans," he said.


    And now they were back to their favorite timewaster. They all knew it would get them nowhere, but much like a hopeless addict, they couldn''t help scratching the itch.


    "Bad idea," said Robin, "We''ll get picked up before Lord Harroway''s town." He sneaked a peek at Tytos, "No offense, Rockhead, but you''re rather conspicuous."


    "None taken, Pidgeon," said Tytos. He looked at his hands, "Sneaking away like that would bring shame to my Swanlord, anyway. And my House." And he almost believed those words. s?a??h th? N?v?l(F)ire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "But he''s your Father!" said Robin, "Can''t he like¡­ help us?"


    Tytos shook his head. Tommen could sympathize. Great-uncle Gerion was probably the funniest man he''d ever met¡ªafter Uncle Tyrion, of course. The sudden swing from boisterous good-cheer to dead-serious menace was somewhat less savory. And there was scarcely a better way to catalyze said swing than by bringing up the subject of, oh, fighting in an actual war for the living.


    "We could steal a skiff, though," said his cousin. Screw the shame, apparently. "Back home, I learned to sail when I was six." He was warming up to the idea, nodding compulsively, "It doesn''t have to be very big. If it''s got a sail we''re good."


    "Yeah!" said Bran, "We could sail it up the Trident! Dump it before the Twins and walk the rest of the way. Things are bound to be hectic nearer the front! We could pass off as the young dregs of some mercenary company. Or maybe Essosi volunteers?" Their first choice, posing as young squires, had been discussed to death and ultimately discarded. It would create more questions than answers for whoever took an interest¡­ especially when word got out that four young very similar and very high ranking nobles had ran off from King''s Landing, seeking to get themselves killed in the frontlines.


    "No good," said Tommen, "The first are few and far between. Joffrey doesn''t trust them. As for volunteers¡­" He looked at the young nobles; making them pass off as adventuring Essosi would take a minor miracle. Still, the itch. Tommen couldn''t help shuffle the options again. Masquerading as members of the Sealord''s Foreign Guard was out of the question, for one. Besides, the elite Braavosi group was small and probably knew each other by name. Combined Summer Fleet? Tytos would fit right in¡ªthat is, if no one recognized him as their commander''s son¡­ and his Lannister hair was atypical indeed. Which would still leave the rest of us¡­ The image of the other Young Swords all passing as Tytos'' hired bodyguards made him shake his head in hopeless mirth. TheFree City Legion? Not much better. They numbered less than a Regiment and nobody here had a good enough grasp of low Valyrian. The bulk of the Free Cities'' aid was economic anyway, not martial. They''d stand out like a sore thumb and draw unfortunate comparisons to¡­


    Tommen grunted, the irony hitting him badly.


    "What?" said Bran.


    "Nothing. It''s just our best bet would probably be to pose as former Golden Company squires."


    They chuckled sadly at that. Not an association one willingly put out. Not in Westeros. He pictured himself and the other Swords brought before Joffrey and put on their knees. My King! We found these Golden Company assassins just as they reached the camp! His expression would''ve been priceless, at least.


    "Besides, Joffrey''s got guard forts straddling every Fork. And you can bet the Green Fork is going to be the worst of the three." One scorpion bolt across their bow and they''d be forced to heave. "The Guard would bundle us back to the capital faster than you can say ''Uncle Renly! It was a mistake!''"


    "Its not fair," said Tytos, watching one of the Sawnships as it unloaded thick stacks of treated ebonwood. "Mdeta can prance around with the Queen''s Handmaidens¡ªpractically in the frontline herself!¡ªwhile I get left behind here. Aren''t we supposed to be fighting for the world''s very survival?!" His Summer Islander accent turned choppier as he grew madder, "We need every shield fighting! Why won''t Father see?!"


    "Preaching to the choir, cousin," muttered Tommen.


    "You think you''ve got it bad?" said Bran, "My whole family except Rickon is up North! Robb''s leading our bannermen, Jon a damned Regiment, Sansa''s the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Arya-!" His face contorted in adolescent rage, "Arya''s out there scouting for Joffrey''s van!" They all cringed. "Arya! His van! Warging ravens!"


    "Oh quiet you lot," said Robin, sharing a look with Tommen. He seemed morose, "At least you''ve a chance. No way in seven hells the King risks the heir to the Vale." He said both words with enough understated loathing to make Grandfather Tywin proud. "Much less Lord Royce. If I so much as stub a toe they''ll be whispering he hired the door that did it¡­"


    "Yeah¡­" said Tommen.


    They all blinked, then looked at him sheepishly.


    Yeah. And no one''s more cursed than I. The heir to the entire realm. The only way he would see a White Walker was if it came for him in Maegor''s Holdfast, climbing over the bodies of the entire keep. Bit too late to make a meaningful contribution by then¡­


    A growing commotion brought him out of that spiraling line of thought. People were clustering around King''s Aide''s and centurions, their voices scarcely heard over the storm of conversation each announcement seemed to unleash.


    "What the hells'' going on?" said Bran.


    "Sounds like bad news. Look at all the glum faces," said Robin.


    "Maybe," said Tommen, "Come on, let''s find out."


    The Young Swords weren''t much known beyond the Red Keep. To the rest of the city they were just a bunch of lord''s sons with enough coin to buy good equipment, and so managed to get close to one of the groups without making a show of it. The Swords formed up around Tommen without a word, Tytos taking the lead and shielding him from the flying elbows of the crowd. Some of them cried, others just stared in dumb shock. Smaller groups were engaged in hushed conversations, arguing, shouting. A line had formed before the centurion atop the overturned cart, advancing slowly as the man directed forth. They spelled their names and occupations to the serjeant below the officer, using the cart as a writing aide as he scribbled with quill and Silver Keep-issue paper. "One line! One line only!" shouted the centurion, gesturing with both hands, "Keep it orderly, people!"


    Tommen gently shook a girl who was holding a fist close to her mouth, staring at the snowed street. "Excuse me, goodwoman. Would you mind telling me what''s going on? Is there some sort of announcement?"


    "The Walkers! They''ve struck the West!" she said, distraught, "Ser Jaime Lannister''s rallying a defense but more''s sure to come!"


    Tommen''s head spun. Walkers? In the Westerlands? How? It didn''t make any bloody sense. She was off before he could get another word, squeezing in between the crowd. "Lomard!" he could hear her scream, "Lomard! Don''t you dare go!"


    "I thought the front line was around the Neck," said Bran, flabbergasted.


    Tommen shook his head, "It is. Come on, help me get to that centurion over there." They reached the man just as he jumped from the cart and spoke with the serjeant.


    The serjeant looked up from his list, "One line only! If you want to volunteer, the line starts over there!"


    "We''re just looking for some information," said Tommen, "What-"


    "Do I look like a fucking herald? King''s Aide is over there! Now get in line or get out!" he said, pointing with his quill.


    The centurion placed a hand on his shoulder, frowning at Tommen. Uh oh.


    "My Prince!" he realized, bowing, "Almost didn''t recognize you there for a moment. What can we do for you?"


    Tommen sighed, "Just trying to understand what''s going on, ser. What''s this about Walkers in the Westerlands?"


    "You don''t know? Wait, no, you wouldn''t." He shook his head, "We just got word ourselves. Glass Candle by the Silver Keep wouldn''t stop shining. Maesters in and out." He snorted, "Wasn''t long before they brought in the Guard, and Lord Renly too."


    "So it''s true?" asked Robin, "The Westerlands have been invaded?"


    The centurion took a step towards them and lowered his voice, "Invaded is a strong word," he cautioned, "But there''s been landings. Great Wyk at first, and then on the Westerlands proper; Fair Isle, the Crag, Castamere. Not raids but fast, small hosts. Supposedly stormed out of reanimated Leviathans, spilling out to the countryside." The man shivered.


    "Father Above," whispered Robin.


    "What about the metal raiders?" Tytos cringed, "I mean, the Ironborn."


    "Above my head, but I''d guess they have their hands full with Great Wyk. Lord Renly''s aiming to send some sort of fast relief effort through the Blackwater Rush and then on through the Gold Road¡­ But we''ve more river galleys than people to man them. Even dredging up some of the Goldcloaks, we simply lack warm bodies."


    "Everyone''s up fighting north," Tommen whispered.


    The centurion nodded, "Lord Renly''s put out the call for any volunteers to sign up and be here by noon tomorrow." His head jerked to the side, "I said a single line! Excuse me, my Prince." He stomped off, "Single line! You three! Are you deaf?!"


    They stumbled out of the crowd as the line shuffled forward, ending up back on the bench. But whereas before Tommen had sat with a sigh and a headache, now he was holding his sword''s pommel in a tight grip.


    "This is¡­ this is bad," said Bran, "Lord Tywin and three-quarters of the Westerlands are out fighting in the North. What does that leave to Ser Jaime?"


    "A lot of Royal Militias and a few old veterans to stiffen them up," said Robin.


    "There''s no way the Others take Lannisport with what they''ve landed," said Tytos. "I don''t care if its an undead leviathan, you simply can''t cram that many wights."


    "They don''t have to," said Bran, "All they have to do is lay waste to the countryside; swarm villages, grow fat on fresh bodies. Sap the strength from the main war effort by the Neck."


    Force Joffrey to weaken his lines. Collapse the front. Generate panic.


    "We''re going," he said.


    They looked at him as if he''d grown a second head. Then they smiled viciously. "Hells yes," said Bran, "Though, how do you plan to sneak out from Lord Renly?"


    "We won''t," said Tommen. "I''m telling him right now. And we''ll be bringing what''s left of the Kingsguard with us."


    There must''ve been something to his tone of voice, because now they looked as if he''d grown a third head. Tytos smacked his shoulder, "Almost sounded like your brother back there, cousin. You''re going to do the House proud."


    That or die and mess up Joffrey''s succession to hells. He''d take precautions, but he wasn''t going to take a ''no'' from his uncle. "Let''s get back to the Red Keep. We''ve got some packing to do."


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 81: Death.

    Chapter 81: Death.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    Sansa received the messenger with a tilt of her head. The girl whispered into her ear before departing the council room, leaving her to brood by the window. "Old Walder''s dead," she said.


    "I''ll give Olyvar the good news," said Joffrey, "If I can bloody find him. He has a habit of misplacing the Third Regiment."


    "Mind where we are," she said, frowning. s?a??h th? N?v?lFir?(.)n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Sorry." She could practically hear him smile; that was good. Something to be cherished, like a wild flower found in the depths of winter¡­ even if it wouldn''t reach his eyes. "You''ll have to wait though, he''s still crossing the Neck," she said, gazing out the window. The Twins held a spectacular view of the northern Riverlands; the tributaries of the Green Fork spread out into a spiderwebs of creeks as her gaze followed the land upriver, feeding fertile hills until they lost themselves into the mires of the southern Neck. The land was covered in work crews still digging up ditches and planting palisades, only looking up from their work when the food carts stopped by, jingling their tiny bells.


    "There''s been new sightings," he said, making her turn. Joffrey was leaning on the table, clutching his back with one hand as he marked the map. "Ser Jaime confirmed at least three new landings along the Westerlands. One on Fair Isle-"


    "Another one?" she said.


    "Yeah. And not a word from House Farman. By now we must assume Faircastle has fallen."


    She sighed, "The other two?"


    "One near the Bainfort, repulsed by local militias and dispersed to the countryside, and one somewhere around Feastfire. That last one''s the most dangerous."


    "That''s what? Three days from Lannisport?" asked Sansa, joining him by the map table.


    Joffrey shook his head. "For a wight? More like one. He said he was rounding up Lannisport''s Royal Militia. And whatever dregs Tywin didn''t take North." Joffrey gritted his teeth, "Must''ve fought them already, for good or ill. Could you see what happened there later tonight?"


    Sansa hid a weary sigh, "Of course," she said, gazing at the map. It was the eastern edges of it that worried her the most. There were old marks on the Sisters, and fresher ones farther south¡­ the Vale was now in play; the shore around the Bite, the Fingers, even Coldwater had reported sightings¡­ The productive heart of the Vale¡ªthe Vale of Arryn itself¡ªlay thankfully undisturbed for now, but her ravens assured her wights roamed around the northern mountain ranges. ''The War for the Vale'' they were starting to call it. She had no doubt the budding campaign to defend the Westerlands would earn a similar epithet soon.


    "We have to fight off these raids, and quickly," said Joffrey, "Those leviathans don''t carry enough wights to take out a good fortified position-" the uncertain fate of Faircastle cut him off, "-well, at least not if they''re part of an integrated defense¡­ but the outlying villages-"


    "We can''t play into their hands," Sansa interrupted him, "The Cycle wants us to send troops south. It''s baiting you out of position."


    "Hm. Ironic, given we wanted to do the same." She shivered at yet another similarity between them and the Comet. Joffrey stretched his back with a pained grimace. "I know that''s what it wants. But we can''t let them roam wild, else we''ll be left with nothing to defend even if we manage to hold off the main horde here."


    "We''ll have to place our trust in the militias," she said, "There''s just no other way."


    Joffrey clutched his face, pressing forcefully as if the pain would make the way clear. Sansa held his arm, trying to rub the cold away, "We''ve done all we can, Joff. Prepared all we could. It''s in their hands now."


    He let his arm drop, smiling at her, "Our people." His gaze turned to the window, "That''s what we wanted, wasn''t it? A New Kingdom that could fight for itself. A unified whole¡­" He shook his head, "What''s the latest news from the East? I''d kill for a hundred Greatborn lancers right now. Or just half a House''s worth of blood matrons."


    "I wouldn''t hold much hope for that. The dead are pressing them hard," she said, "They''ve reached the Dry Deep and cut the allies in two. The Legions are falling back to the Five Forts, trading space for time."


    "And the Bloodless?"


    "They don''t have that luxury. Bladahar''s turned into a meat grinder."


    "Hm. If the city falls, the way will be open to the dead till they reach the Mountains of the Morn¡­ So, High Warlord Ka-Mil''s throwing everything at the walls? He looked like a sharp one back in Carcosa."


    "Well, he''s not High Warlord yet¡ªhis father is still alive... But yes, he''s in charge of the defense."


    "Hurray for competence," said Joffrey, arranging beads on the map, testing experimental stratagems around the Neck. "And Vajul?"


    She looked to the east before shaking her head, "He''s running ragged keeping both the Legion''s and the Bloodless'' airfronts clear of raiders."


    "Hm." Sansa knew that look, his campaigner''s mind working on numbers, distance, supplies¡­ "It could be worse. Yi-Ti is still in one piece, at least. And there''s barely been any landings on Western Essos. We must be taking the bulk of the Cycle''s attention still¡­" He looked at her suddenly, "Is the army around the Crystal Palace moving yet?"


    If only¡­


    Joffrey must have read her expression. It was his turn to clutch her arm, painfully. "We can''t hold for much longer. We''re out of time, Sansa."


    It was true. It didn''t take a genius to realize they were out of strategic depth. They had to risk it all in hopes of using the ''Night King'' as a conduit, and soon, else even that fleeting chance would vanish. "So it''s come to this¡­" she whispered. "We''ll have to force it to escalate."


    Her husband turned to the map, a manic glint in his eyes. "First we need the Night King where we can get at it. And as it only follows the main bulk of the wights and the Walkers-"


    "We''ll have to force the Cycle into giving battle with a majority of its host, I know. But where?"


    "Somewhere we can plug its main advance before it breaks into the southern Riverlands. Force it do deal with us if it wants to move south in any meaningful numbers. Like it had to at the Wall. I''m thinking¡­ here." He traced the line on the map, north of The Twins but just south of the Neck proper, using its many hills as anchors for a huge battle line.


    He was making the best of a bad situation, she could see that. "We''ll need more troops to hold a pitched battle there," she said, eying the map skeptically. Even such a reduced frontline as the southern Neck afforded them, they simply needed more bodies. Attrition had been terrible as of late.


    Joffrey nodded, "We''ll bring the Eighth Regiment out of training. Scrape every fighting man not engaged in the War for the West or the East. Arm more of the refugees from the North¡­" He sucked air, "Mobilize every Royal Militia in the Riverlands. Every last village." His fingers tapped an uncertain rhythm on the table, growing strained as he revealed the magnitude of the gambit, "The Night King will be somewhere in there, serving as a nexus for the massive amount of Walkers needed to keep a grip on all those wights."


    If they were going to risk it all, it made sense to play every strength they had. But would it be enough? It had taken truly horrendous losses at the Wall to make the Comet escalate¡­ and its savaging of the North had filled its ranks with plenty of wights. She caressed the edges of the map, "We''ll need something more to make it escalate. More than just mauling its troops."


    Joffrey stopped his tapping, closing his eyes. He wasn''t in his starry plate now, but bits of it seemed to shimmer out of the ether, flickering before disappearing. "I''ll taunt it," he said at last.


    Taunt it? While her own growth after witnessing the secrets of the Comet had been evident for all to see, Joffrey''s own revelations had been far subtler. He grunted at her raised eyebrow, "I have an idea, don''t know if it''ll work."


    "It''s the module we found in Carcosa, isn''t it?"


    "Spoil sport," he said, his smile turning grim. "Yeah. That and more," he said, fisting his hand. A starry gauntlet drew itself through fractals before dissipating the same way. "Armor. Hah. I''ve been thinking too small¡­" He shook his head, "We''ll see if it works. For now we have to make sure the Comet commits the majority of its forces."


    Sansa felt as if on the edge of a leap. A long, hard fall over tempestuous seas. She remembered her sister being dangled over the battlements of the Red Keep after Renly''s coup, her shoe spinning without end as it fell and fell and fell... She followed soon after, her throat slit, her body tumbling down rocky reefs before the sea swallowed her whole. Sansa swallowed acid. "And if we lose?" she asked, her voice unnaturally tight.


    "If we lose," said Joffrey, his grip on the table now white, "The Riverlands fall almost immediately and Westeros is cut in two, its best troops decimated again. Supply lines from the Blackworks are severed. The Crownlands would fall in short order; King''s Landing within the month¡­ three at most, if I''m still alive to play around Darry with a regiment or two. The supply-ships from the Free Cities would then have to dock at Sunspear or Old Town, if they kept coming at all." Joffrey said it calmly¡ªthe air of a terrible prophecy hanging on his words, steel-green eyes tracing the map further south. Further. Sansa imagined every last stand, every atrocity and massacre inflicted upon the land they''d given so much to save. It didn''t take much effort; it''d be the Fall of the North all over again, but multiplied by a thousand. It was enough to hitch her throat. Joffrey droned on, "The defense of the Kingdom would turn regional, uncoordinated. The Walkers would cut into the Reach from the southeast and spread like the bloody flux, gorging on our most populous region before overwhelming what''s left of the Westerlands. Most of the Stormlands would wither away under the strain." He took a deep breath, "The fight would go on, of course. Whoever''s left could last quite a while, if they''re clever enough with geography. Dorne, parts of the Vale, Stormlanders around the Rainwood... though by then even the village idiot would know enough to realize the war is lost. Morale would hit rock-bottom, and holdouts would be flooded by refugees. Wights would be everywhere not protected by stout walls, turning the roads dangerous to traverse even in broad daylight. Starvation though¡­" He shook his head, "Starvation would be the real enemy by then. If we''re still holding some semblance of authority and the Royal Fleet hasn''t deserted, I suppose we could escape to Jhala with Tommen and the others."


    "A court in exile," muttered Sansa, "Waiting for Winter''s claw." They''d get to watch the rest of the world fall as they survived for a few more years. Arya and Myrcella would marry local Islander nobility, to buy support from the land they were practically invading. Bran too in all likelihood, but she''d save Tommen for whatever highborn Westerosi lady they''d manage to find¡­ hopefully one from the largest regional subgroup within the refugees. Dornish, probably. She grimaced. And then? Another exodus down the Sothori coast with whatever ships they could get away with? She''d have to reframe the Westerosi identity into something at ease with constantly running away. Like the old Andal warlords searching for their promised land.


    Joffrey was looking at her with a private smile, "Always planning the next move."


    She blinked the pointless thoughts away, "Just a reflex. By then it wouldn''t matter anyway." Her throat tightened yet again, despite her best efforts. She gave an idle turn, facing away from him, "I think we''d all be better served by taking a last trip to Nahdata''s temple."


    "Why prolong it? We could make our stand in the Red Keep. We kept enough of the wildfire it would blow sky high." She knew he was smiling, but she also knew that smile didn''t reach his eyes. It''d been some time since it last did. A beat passed, heavy with loaded meaning. "It''d be quick," he whispered.


    She hugged him tight, thick angst coiling in her gut. Would Bran and Arya die with them? Or would it be better to send them away, to eek out a few more years in the south watching their world die? "Going out in a blaze of glory. Why am I not surprised?" she said with a silly smile, blinking as fast as she could. Which death would be best for little Eddard and Olenna? Wildfire? A slit throat? Thrown off from the heights of Maegor''s Holdfast as the wights stormed the corridors? She''d seen so much death throughout the past few months she could picture it all in excruciating detail. She''d seen the deeds; mothers holding knives over freshly silent cribs, that horrible silence so sick and wrong. She''d borne witness to hollow-eyed men tossing torches to the wood stores, shouldering bloody libards before taking one last tumble down timbered walls¡­ Death. So much death.


    She managed to keep her sobs to quiet, dignified things. Coming and going with slow ease, just a few tears sliding down her cheeks as Joffrey''s grip tightened around her, his chest swaying with each long breath. He was her stout weirwood, her mighty tree with roots to the center of the earth, wise as ages and strong, so strong she could hang on and never once drown. It was his turn now, but later it would be hers. Later, when night came and his terrified screams woke her up to eyes as wild as those of a wounded lion, bleeding from wounds only she could see. Then it would be her turn to cup him close, to whisper sweet nothings as his ragged breath found its rhythm again, the nightmares fading but never quite leaving. It was as they promised each other, so many, many years ago. Taking turns being stronger.


    "Together," she said into his chest, her voice raspy but unbroken.


    "Together," he whispered back, caressing her head with long, calming strokes. Death loomed over them with a white hand, its crushing grip growing ever tighter, tighter than ever before to the point she sometimes struggled to breathe. Perhaps it was fortunate the end was at hand, one way or the other. They would have their peace soon, whatever happened.


    Soon, she could feel the Comet agree, a scarlet moon perched over grey horizons, it''s light bathing the tiles past the window. Soon.


    -: PD :-

 Chapter 82: Dreams.

    Chapter 82: Dreams.What is a song without a listener?


    As the day of days approached, Joffrey found himself contemplating the waters of the Trident, as ever flowing to the sea. Clumps of floating ice and snow had replaced the bundles of leaves, autumn now a memory of better times. When Samwell sat by his side and asked his question, as Joffrey knew he would, the river turned blurry and diffuse. He thought about it long and hard, and took another breath of frigid air.


    "It dawned on me slowly, I think," he said. "As I died a petty tyrant time and again. Choking, burning, bleeding. I had to understand it here," he said, tapping his chest. He thumped it again, harder, trying to put it into words, "Viscerally. The fact that pain, that suffering, that the dread that haunts the soul was, that it was¡ª" he shook his head, "That it was real. That by becoming aware of myself I was birthing them to life, inextricably bound to me. And that they could not be denied, not for long." Samwell''s quill sounded abnormally loud, scratching over parchment at a steady flow before coming to a stop. "Life is how we come to grips with that suffering," he said, the scrich-scratch of the quill echoing his voice in the tongue of ages; the written word, preserver of folly and wisdom. "Fight it. Hide from it. Give it meaning. Get drowned by it¡­ and it was universal!" He stressed the last as he lifted his head and stared at Samwell. His knight chronicler was zoned into a state of absolute focus as he jotted down his ramblings in the Silver Chronicle, tiny beads of sweat sparkling from his brow. "As I sailed through our world, as I endeavored to reach its farthest lands, its most secret nooks¡­ I met a variety of peoples you wouldn''t believe¡­ A span of cultures and tribes and empires words will never be able to do justice. Gods, the breadth of it all." Joffrey tried, he tried with all his soul to put into words that infinite creature that in the end was one. "Extremes of savagery, of kindness, of simplicity and sophistication, humble horrors to chill the soul and complex schemes that sought only happiness. I met ruthless trade-venturers, savage tribesmen, proud highborn, righteous cultists. I saw ancient wisdoms scribbled on the jungle mud; pictograms passed on from generations. I read of long dead poets from vases made of porcelain, of long-slain kings from scrolls stacked to the rafters! I witnessed bloody rituals and bleeding whales, living roads lined with swaying lanterns, dead valleys crawling with weathered monuments. All that and more, do you understand, Samwell? All that and more!" he said before hitting his thigh. He was failing, as he knew he would. It was too much, too potent a meaning to be transmitted by words.


    But he didn''t have to, he just had to get close enough. Let those that come after him work for his wisdom, or else make something entirely different from it¡­ just as Joffrey had done with the wisdom that came before him. He gathered his thoughts as his Chronicler caught up, the quill feeding on ink before returning to the parchment with machine-like precision.


    "I realized we were all gripped by that suffering. That same suffering that tormented me in the beginning and that later became my companion. Essosi and Westerosi. The Hairy Men of Ibb and the Brindled Men of Sothoryos. Do you understand? What share the winged soldiers of Carcosa and the smallfolk of the Crownlands? The bureaucrats of Yin and the merchants of Braavos? The lords of the West and the masked folk of Asshai? We are all tormented by that weight of existence. Our wars and our plans and our schemes and our customs¡ªall of them, as diverse as they may be¡ªare different answers to that same question: How do we respond to the weight-that-is? To the brutal solidness that is to experience?" He sighed, tired as if he''d just shook off an illness, "We are comrades in arms, in truth. All who live and breath. We live out our struggle, our answer to the question, and in doing so give meaning to all that surround us. We become connected, when we acknowledge that. When we realize we are the solidness. We are the weight. It is we who live, we who are conscious, it is us!" he shouted, "Us who construct what we call reality!"


    Joffrey took another deep breath as the rattle of Samwell''s quill came to a stop. "That, ser chronicler, is what I mean by the Song."


    It had been a disjointed and rather long winded answer to a simple-seeming question, but Samwell didn''t mind. He had the look of a Braavosi maestro at the end of his masterpiece; giddily exhausted, gliding on leftover enlightenment as he scribbled in the margins here and there, seeding ideas for later revisions, adaptations, and commentary. No work felt too long when you could glimpse the path to its end. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said with a profound nod, standing up.


    "You''re welcome, Ser Samwell," he said, "May our children survive to read those words."


    The knight left him to his thoughts, the river murmuring close by. It wasn''t long before another group of visitors reached his side, however.


    "I knew we''d find you here," said Sandor. Joffrey smiled at the sight of his Broken Knights sitting around the bend in the river, though Tyrion had brought a chair of his own. Jon wheeled him next to Joffrey before sitting on a rock by his side.


    They kept their peace as the river flowed, murky-pale waters cold and full of ice. The magnitude of what was to come discouraged small talk, but here, in this clearing, it seemed as if they could share each other''s presence for a long while indeed. There wasn''t anything left to say; his friends knew of the Purple, knew of the many lives they had shared and laughed and died in. Joffrey stared at the river and wondered if he''d ever sail it with them, wars and rulership a distant worry for other times.


    Somehow, he didn''t think so.


    A song without a listener, he thought; a paradox of thought. The question held a key.


    It was a goodbye of sorts. No words uttered because none were needed. Joffrey turned to look at Tyrion, at Sandor, at Jon. Each returned gazes loaded with meaning, with care, with forgiveness for past sins. When the moment came to address the mustered commanders of Dawn, they came with him


    -: PD :-


    The assembled mass of people parted before his stride, forming a long tunnel of humanity for him to traverse. Joffrey walked between them in his armor of stars, men and women in furs and armor kneeling as he reached the center of the great gathering. Sansa was waiting for him, clad in white furs over half-plate and leaning on her spear. Around her were the commanders of Dawn; legates and Lords Paramount, knights and Knight Commanders.


    He felt old as he gazed at his friends and vassals, the commanders of the biggest army to ever take the field in Westerosi history, the table at the middle filled with tiny beads. Discussions were had; plans prepared. The order of battle was simple, front line troops and reserves cycling as the battle wore on. Most of the Royal Guard at the center, along with the majority of the Riverland''s Royal Militias and Gerion''s Summer Army; Legate Snow in command. The right under Bronzewall Yohn Royce, to stand their ground at all costs come what may. With him, the Lords of the Vale and the muster of the Westerlands, anchored in hills and fortifications and ordered to fight to the last man. Legate Olyvar would command the left, with his Fourth and the banners of the Reach and the Stormlands. In reserve; the North, the Riverlords, the Crownlanders and what was left of Dorne''s spears, commanded by the tactical genius of the One-Eyed Wolf.


    s?a??h th? N???lFire.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Once the wights have ground down our center, they''ll send in their reserves to ratchet up the pressure," said Joffrey. It wasn''t hard to guess; it was a favorite tactic of the Cycle. "As it usually goes, that forces us to reinforce our lines, and then the Comet sends in the Walkers as shock troops, piercing us right in the middle and dividing our force in two. This time, though, I aim to turn the tables on the bastard."


    "How, Your Grace?" asked Lord Tywin.


    "We attack!" he said, thumping the table behind the approximated position of the Comet''s center, "The ''Night King'' and the bulk of the Walkers always survey the battle from on high, meaning one of these little hills over here. If we strike with an overwhelming cavalry force after they''ve sent in the bulk of their wights, we could wipe out a large chunk of Walkers in one blow and thus sever part of the Comet''s connection to its army. Wights will continue to fight, but many of them will do so as individuals instead of units, giving us the advantage¡­"


    "It''ll escalate then, if it hasn''t done so before," said Sansa.


    "Exactly. Which is when we deliver the killing blow," he said. "Its hard for us to explain, but we believe that if we can get a hold of the Night King while the Comet''s in the middle of an escalation, we might use it as a bridge from which to attack the Cycle itself."


    "What happens then?" asked Jon.


    Joffrey shared a look with Sansa. "We don''t really know," she said, "But we were somehow designed for this; to end this horror once and for all."


    The silence was heavy with foreboding; thick, like choking smoke. "We trust you, Your Grace. Your Majesty," said Lord Tully, nodding at the both of them, "After what we''ve seen you do I''ve no doubt that if anyone can stop that thing, its the both of you." He accommodated his dragonbone prostheses, looking at the map, "Its what comes before that that worries me. How many Walkers will there be around this Night King?"


    Joffrey gritted his teeth, "Commanding a force such as the one barreling down on us?" Sansa''s visions flooded his mind; wights without ending, a storm of undeath wading through the swamps of the Neck. "Hundreds. Probably thousands."


    Mace Tyrell looked gob-smacked, but by side stood Lord Tarly, chewing something sour. "A charge against an army of White Walkers?" He chewed some more, in search of the word, "Casualties will be¡­ substantial."


    "That''s one way to put it," said Tyrion, struggling to shut his gaping mouth, "It''s bloody suicide!"


    "It has to be done," said Joffrey.


    Tyrion''s eyes took on a manic glint then, "¡­ Well then, if there''s no better plan¡­"


    Oh hells. I never like what comes after that glint. Joffrey looked at his commanders, "Any questions?"


    There were none. Joffrey nodded slowly, "Very well then," he said, gripped by unexpected pride. His lords and soldiers, his instruments of summer, all committed to ending this. Once, they fought each other over bloody scraps. Many times, tearing at one another for titles and power, wealth and prestige. Now, forged in the fires of Winter, led by him and Sansa, they were finally one. Even if all died, even if all was lost, Joffrey found unexpected strength in the thought that however short, however transient, he''d managed to unite his fractured people into one. He remembered the dreams of a lost boy, and smiled. "Very well," he whispered.


    -: PD :-


    Author''s Note: We are now approaching the finale of Purple Days. Chapter 83: The Battle for Dawn, will be uploaded tomorrow (Friday). After that, it''ll be a new upload every 24 hours until the story is over. Thank you all for the kind words and your support throughout all these years, and I''ll see you on the other side.

 Chapter 83: The Battle for Dawn.

    Chapter 83: The Battle for Dawn.Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    Andon swallowed bile as he leaned on the tent pole, trying not to throw up. The ground rumbled at a steady beat; a dragging cadence pounded unto the earth by thousands of marching boots. "We''ll be okay," whispered Tabby, tying his helmet with trembling hands.


    "Stay with me in the melee. We''ll watch out for each other."


    They kissed¡ªquickly, desperately. It was over all too soon as Serjeant Knub''s voice rang over the encampment and they ran out of the tent, libards in hand.


    "1st Groverick!" said Knub, "Prepare to move out!"


    Almost the entire village had gathering into one long block, moonlight and comet-glare melding into a vermilion night that splattered over their helmets. Their faces were almost unrecognizable under the strange light; here Old Tom cringed in fear, there Bale and Mother held each other''s hands, and beyond them Long Jon stared into the distance, to the road north where fires glimmered in the dark and screams drifted with the wind. Mothers gripped their libards next to their sons¡ªchildren as young as ten namedays with dangling waterskins swept over their shoulders. Others had arms themselves, libards and torches comically large to their frames, throats bobbing as more people joined the block. They weren''t soldiers¡ªnot really¡­ but they had answered the call.


    He and Tabby took their posts at the front of the column, and Serjeant Knub stopped his pacing by their side, clearing his throat.


    "Serjeant," said Andon.


    "Andon," said Knub. He looked jittery, licking his lips after every explosion in the distance.


    "We won''t freeze up, Serjeant," said Andon. "You trained us well."


    "Aye," said Knub, biting his lip again as he looked at the column.


    "You won''t freeze up," he said, grabbing his shoulder.


    Knub took a shuddering breath¡ªthe nightmares had never stopped. His gaze wandered, lost in the horizon before coming to rest on Andon''s. "Aye," he said slowly¡ªa nod.


    Andon squeezed Tabby''s hand as the Serjeant walked down the column, "Alright! You''ve faced raids and lone wights, but never before have you fought the bastards in open battle!" Knub spat to the side of the road, where the dust kicked up by the latest unit to march through still hung in the air. "It''ll be bloody mayhem, but the King gave us the tools to hold them back! It''s time we fight for all the people in our Kingdom besieged, and show the bastards what a red Royal Militia can do!"


    Andon shouted with them all, hefting libards up and screaming out his fear. "Groverick!" they roared, stomping their feet, "The Kingdom!" It helped to get his blood moving, to shake his body into something beyond paralyzing terror.


    "1st Groverick! Forward march!" Serjeant Knub called out. Instincts swept his legs, muscle memory overriding panic. They set out at the steady gait they''d practiced up and down the Kingsroad¡ªa single unit of men, women, and children marching north, north to the sounds of battle. To the place where the fate of Westeros was being decided. Andon breathed deeply with each step, the rumble of his friends and kin close by, a comforting rumble even as fear gnawed his chest. All would fight for Dawn, the King had said¡­ and so it would be.


    Groverick marched down snaking trails before joining the King''s Road, freshly cut and expanded to accommodate the huge influx of troops swarming the Northern Riverlands. The full moon and the hellish glare of the comet painted the hills and valleys of the land in broad strokes of white and red, marking out great encampments and watchtowers over hills and near rivers. A subtle murmur of battle hung in the air¡ªan indistinct buzz on the edge of audition¡­ as if the whole world were having an argument just beyond the hills to the north. Occasionally, a hollow scream would fly over the buzz; a sharp gurgle as if an arrow had reached out and gotten Tabby in the neck. But every time he looked, she was there marching by his side, her eyes almost obscured by a helmet too big for her¡ªher only piece of armor. And so was Old Tom, and Mother, and Fat Gollys, all with their eyes fixed forward, darting constantly for the sight of carnage.


    "Steady, Groverick! Steady!" Knub called out, striding beside the block with his axe in hand. Andon could see another block of people just cresting the next hill, libards bobbing under red light. He scrambled his mind for what little Knub had known, trying to take his mind away from the formless dread sawing through his chest. The 7th Maidenpool. Must be, we''re to be right beside them at the front. The battle had been going on all throughout the day, but everyone knew it''d be the night when the wights gave it their all. The errant screams grew sharper still, more numerous as they kept up the pace. After another bend, Andon saw a cluster of open aired tents by the side of the road, bands of gold sewn over their sides¡ªthe Handmaiden''s sign, spotted by softly falling snow.


    Field Hospital, he thought as they marched towards it. Men were screaming, crying out from simple stretchers laid on wooden supports, the gagging stench of rot thick in the air. Handmaidens and maesters ran between them, their bloody instruments gleaming under torchlight as they gave out orders and restrained their patients, stumbling unto fresh wounded as they shambled out of the fields and into the light. "Help!" screamed a boy maybe sixteen name days, half his face lacerated to shreds. He was carrying someone in a full-bodied embrace, her head tucked to his chest, limbs dangling loose from which blood trickled down like water. "Please help her!" he screamed, stumbling over the middle of the road as the column began to falter.


    "Steady Groverick! Keep the pace!" shouted Knub, the edicts of war merciless.


    "Watch out! Get out of the way!" shouted Andon, breaking ranks and sprinting forward. He tackled the couple out of the road and into the trampled field to the side.


    "Please do somethin''!" the boy begged, tears crawling down his cheeks and mixing with blood and muck. The girl in his arms did not move¡ªher face slack, eyes wide open, in awe of the comet above.


    "Go on! Go to the hospital!" he shouted, lifting him up and shoving them towards the lights. The boy stumbled aimlessly before falling on his knees again, rocking her back and forth. He stared at the boy and the dead girl, his heart painfully loud as he replaced her face with Tabby''s. He gave out a dry grunt, like an ox choking with its own plow and pulling still. Pulling. Pulling.


    "Andon!" drifted the potent voice of Serjeant Knub. A lifeline. "Get back in line!" He broke out into a sprint, desperate to see his wife''s face right now, devoid of that horrifying dead awe. He got back to the column just as they passed beside the hospital¡ªthere was Tabby, alive, still marching, adjusting the libard''s bite on her shoulder. The Red Comet made it look as if she were bleeding.


    "We''ll be okay, Andon," she whispered, eyes darting to the tents. More figures were emerging from the dark, drawn to the light like moths and calling for help. "We''ll be okay," she whispered again, his hand clasping hers.


    A hair-raising scream made him jump. Right besides them, in the hospital¡ªa guardsman wrestling with a boy and a handmaiden. "NO! Mother''s mercy please don''t saw it off!!!" he screamed, clutching the mangled ruin of his arm like a miser does treasure.


    A maester rushed to the struggle, pushing him back to the bloody stretcher. His handsaw was a wicked gleam of steel in the night. "Restrain him! Hold him still-!" One of the wounded jumped at his back with a chilling wail, blue eyes alight as it bit off a chunk of his neck. The maester screamed as he wheeled with the fresh wight at his back, crashing against a table and falling to the ground in a rain of bloody instruments.


    "Wight!" shouted the handmaiden, taking up another saw and pummeling the undead with the wooden grip. "Burn detail! Where are you!?" she said, breaking its spine with efficient hits to the base of its neck.


    Another boy ran to her side, "M''lady I''m sorry! We''ve-"


    "Sharpen up your watch!" she snarled, wrapping a bandage around the whimpering maester''s neck, "I want them burning the second they stop breathing!" She turned back to the wounded guardsman, "And you! We''re either cutting that arm or you''re going headfirst into the wight-pile! Which is it going to be!?"


    Andon swallowed, loosing sight of them as the column kept going. They passed bonfires thick with the scent of roasting flesh, like pork left too long under a fire. Far too long. Teams of men and women tossed body after body into the piles, the scalding heat washing over him as great gouts of fire flared up into the night. Serjeant Knub matched his pace to that of the front row, and eased his way beside him. The light of the fires gave him a fierce visage, "I''ll be keeping overwatch from the middle, but you''ll be right at the front," he said, voice low and barely audible through the rumbling march. "If you think we''re about to crumble, I want you to call a withdrawal before it happens."


    He gave him a shaky nod. With Guardsman Peyter gone to train another village also not on the map, he was technically Knub''s second.


    "Only if you think we absolutely can''t hold," said Knub, closer this time, "Word is the front is stretched thin. Wights keep expanding the line and we''ve not the reserves to plug every gap in good time. We mess up a withdrawal and we might end up creatin'' a breach. Doom thousands." He frowned at the passing fires, alight with burning silhouettes. Did some of them stir? "Millions, maybe."


    "I''ll do my best, Serjeant," he said, his throat impossibly dry.


    "All of us," whispered Tabby.


    Knub nodded, "I''ve faith in you," he said, looking back at the marching column, "In all of Groverick."


    In all of Westeros, thought Andon, gritting his teeth and willing it to be true. Soon enough they reached the hill where they''d lost sight of the 7th Maidenpool. This valley was the last before reaching battlefield proper, marked by orange glows beyond the next set of hills. They passed groups of soldiers going the other way¡ªlimping, bleeding, holding each other in mutual embrace. Many of them didn''t have any weapons. "They''re marching the wrong way!" said Fat Gollys, three rows back from Andon. He realized with a start these were guardsmen. They carried their splintered tower shields as if they were made out of lead, their banners flickering torn and tattered, at the whims of the freezing wind. "Hey!" said Gollys, "Where are you going?!"


    One of the soldiers spat blood to their side of the road, "Too many casualties. Can''t hold the line." He was gone before anyone could reply.


    Another looked up from the ground as if surprised to see them, still dragging a halberd even though the other arm hung limp¡ªa twisted broken mess, "It''s the end of the world," he said, declaiming it like a herald. He shook his head, looking at his feet again, "It''s the end of the bloody world."


    "Bloody unbelievable is what it is," muttered Gollys.


    "Quiet in the ranks!" said Knub. The sorry lot shambled on, more wight than men, more mob than unit. "They''ll be broken up after an hour''s rest, most like," whispered Knub, "Sent in to patch another unit."


    Gods, he thought, What''s happening past those hills? And he''d thought he''d had it hard spotting enemies with the foxes and poking wights from the town palisade. How many wights had those guardsmen faced? How many beyond the next hill? It could be worse, he whispered to himself. He could be skirmishing in the Vale, where whole villages vanished from one night to the other. Much better to know the score of things. Right?


    Dug outs had been carved out of the descending slope, each position centered around a long range stagram battery pointed at the sky. The long-snouted siege weapons had their backs covered by long tarps, where artillerymen in Guard colors huddled in groups, not a campfire in sight. The snow fell harder now¡ªclingy snowflakes flying from the north and settling on Andon''s woolen cloak like mayflies. He was shivering, but whether out of fear or the cold he could not say. Probably both.


    A centurion trotted out to meet them from one of the dugouts, "Stop! Halt immediately!"


    Serjeant Knub scowled before filling his lungs, "1st Groverick! Halt!"


    The village stopped awkwardly, shuddering without spilling people to its sides¡ªa sight that left a little ember of pride in Andon''s gut; a ward against the cold. Knub bent his head at him before walking to the centurion, and he hurried after him.


    "Which unit?!" the centurion bellowed before Knub could get a word in edgewise.


    "1st Groverick Militia! We''re expected at the front, right flank!"


    The centurion shook his head, "Not anymore!"


    Knub lowered his voice as they closed the last of the distance, "Ser, what''s going on?"


    "They want to break the center, and they''re doing a damn good job of it," said the centurion in the same voice, "How good''s your C&R?"


    Knub spat at the ground, "Red. As red as the glowy bastard up top." S~?a??h the N?v?lFir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    "Good. Good."


    "We''re not going to the right flank?" asked Andon.


    "No. Center section. Straight down the road and up that hill, no breaking off. Some officer will meet you there and pick your place in the line. You-" A horse squealed out of the night, spittle spraying over Andon''s face. Knub pulled him back as the horse reared with a foamy whinny, the rider yanking on the reigns. He''d almost run down the centurion. "Who the hells do you-!"


    "Wights!" said the rider, struggling to regain control of his mount, "Massing again! It''s the big ''one!"


    The centurion passed from red to white as his teeth showed, "What? Where?! Where godsdammit!"


    "Hills one through eleven!" he wheezed, "The blue treeline and Tyrek''s pass and-" The horse drew a circle as he pulled on the reigns again- "Mooton''s section and¡ª bloody everywhere alright?! They''re gathering all along the center! You are ordered to fire until out of ammunition, and then to join the fray!"


    "What?!"


    "With frying pans if you have to! Legate Snow''s own words!" He circled once again before whipping his horse and galloping back to the battlefield.


    "Seven Hells!" shouted the centurion, running to the nearest dug out as he waved his arms, "All batteries! Blanket bombardment! Fire at will!!!"


    "Come on, let''s go," said Knub. They jogged back to Groverick, weapons in hand, shouts and tiny bells ringing from behind. The gritted faces of his people lit up with every stagram launch, their eyes following their contrails as he and Knub got in position.


    "Sounds like things are falling apart," Andon whispered, changing the grip on his libard time and again.


    "Haven''t you heard?" said Knub, his grin hideous, "It''s the end of the bloody world."


    They marched out as more stagrams ignited with whistling screams, launching off from positions all along the hill and flying beyond the small valley. Explosions bloomed in the distance¡ªorange glows beyond the hills, hollow crack-oms echoing down the slopes. More and more until it was one rolling barrage.


    "I''m scared," said Tabby, her face blank though she winced with every boom. She was his better with the libard, but her smaller frame meant there was only so much strength she could put behind a blow.


    "Me too," he said as he grabbed her hand again, remembering the boy and the dead girl. Would he carry her the same way? Would his brother carry him instead? Would he turn into a wight before they burned him? He didn''t want to die. Nor Ma. Nor Bale. Nor Tabby or Old Tom or anyone. Fucking wights, he thought, snarling quietly, what did we do to fuckin'' deserve you?


    As they climbed the last hill the sounds of battle became defined. Acquired weight. Voices with striking individuality rang out above the mayhem; roars of frenzy, screams of terror, solid bellows heavy with the sound of authority. Explosions too, the wheezing of stagrams out of fuel now free falling before detonation. Steel, most of all. Steel-on-steel. Steel-on-flesh.


    Near the crest of the hill were several blocks of infantry, all furs and axes and blood-curdling screams. "They took our people!" roared their leader, a one-eyed warrior with a giant wolf by his side. He paced from banner to banner, going from horses to mermen, from bears to lizard-lions; beasts and kettles, unchained giants and flayed men still livid red¡ªbanners wild against the wind, exiled sigils thirsting for blood.


    "They took our land!" he shouted, "They took our pride!" His host roared back in righteous fury, warriors banging their shields¡ªa symphony of steel, "What will they take now?!"


    "Death!" they roared.


    "What will they take!?"


    "Death!!!"


    "Northmen!" He raised Valyrian steel up in the air, "What will they take!!!"


    "Death!!!!!" they roared, their defiance electric. Andon found himself marching quicker, Groverick at a pace, war on the horizon. This was it. This was the time. Would he live to see the Dawn? The first banners were already advancing over the hill, the northmen still chanting as they went to war, disappearing beyond the crest. In between breaths, it was Groverick''s turn.


    Andon stumbled as they reached the top of the hill, gales of snow buffeting him backwards and revealing the battlefield in all its terrifying glory. White and scarlet, twin moons in the sky painted the valley below, running east-to-west with gently sloped hills on either side. On the southern side of the valley lay the forces of the living¡ªa network of fortifications manned by a boiling sea of humanity snarling and heaving; screaming and dying. Successive lines of waist-high earthworks, stakes, and palisades had been erected all along the hill''s slope, and more than half of them lay wrecked and unmanned. Banners of fallen units lay scattered over the wreckage like toothpicks, scattered fires burning bodies in between¡ªa wasteland bathed in red glare. Further up¡ªonly a few minute''s marching time¡ªlay the current battleline, where the remnants of some earlier wight army was still smashing into rows of stakes and halberds, firespears unleashed at point-blank range.


    On the other side of the valley¡­ on the other side¡­


    "Oh gods¡­" whispered Andon, Groverick faltering with him. On the other side of the valley massed the army of Winter¡ªa swollen mass of Westeros'' dead now marching as one. A frothing sea of undeath. Their conjoined shrieking hit him worse than the snow¡ªa song of the lonely damned, pleading for company. They swarmed and swarmed¡ªhordes of them cresting the top of the northern hills, one after the other before shambling down the slopes. Andon could see guardsmen and wildlings, faces torn and crusted with frost. He saw knights in full plate hefting rusted axes, giants shambling in between as if dragging the weight of the world. Entire villages clustered together¡ªsmallfolk just like him hefting libards and tweaked hoes, marching against the land who''d let them die. How many fathers in that featureless mass? How many wives torn apart and made to dance¡ªdance to Winter''s wrath? Far worse were the children: solemn and blue-eyed, long gashes from their necks to their bellies. They''d been murdered not by wights.


    "Keep the pace!" bellowed Serjeant Knub. A lifeline.


    "Steady, Groverick!" roared Andon, forcing his feet forward one at a time at a pace with his people. Remember the Kingsroad. Remember the Dawn. In the middle of that undead tempest stood the White Walkers; ten thousand marble statues whose crystal swords glittered under moonlight, still and patient as the dead washed around them like high tide. Dawn, thought Andon, his heart yammering out of his chest as he cringed in white-terror. He was going to break down. Curl in the floor and scream. Remember the Dawn. The kiss of the sun beyond the clouds. Wildflowers unleashed. Tabby''s lips warm and tight. Dawn Dawn Dawn Dawn.


    Knub was calling out the beat now: ''One-to, One-to, One-to'', like he''d done so many months ago, when they''d been but a rabble practicing war. Andon held on to that voice as Groverick marched to war¡ªthat reassuring rhythm, that song on the edge of audition. He focused on his immediate surroundings, his breathing at a beat with Knub''s voice.


    They marched past lines of black-skinned archers in plumed armor, their immense longbows crackling sharply every five seconds. He cringed every time he heard them loose¡ªswarms of wasps buzzing above and into the distance, off to rain down on the dead. Onagers and ballistas followed suit with bolt and stone, barrels of oil exploding above the wight vanguard and lighting up the night in brilliant orange.


    "Keep going down!" shouted a man in legate''s armor, twin red wings painted on his tabard. Legate Jon Snow, thought Andon, awe beating terror. A messenger had handed him a written missive, which he used to point at Serjeant Knub. "Straight down this road! Cover the 43rd''s right flank!"


    "43rd''s right flank, aye ser!" bellowed Knub. The column snaked its way down the middle road, Andon searching for the 43rd''s banners as Knub kept a grip on the march¡­ but all he could see was blurred color, meaningless heraldries and numbers he could not read mashed all together with death and madness. Make it stop. He wanted to get out. He wanted to run but Groverick''s claustrophobic embrace cupped him close, marching him inexorably forward towards the line. Towards the wights. Stop.Father Above please help me. Mother sweet and caring, Mother warm and loving¡ªhelp! Help me!


    But it did not stop. It could not stop. Sweat and blood hung in the air as they delved deeper¡ªfurther down the slope, whips hissing as men and crazed horses shoveled wagons up and down the hill in endless trains. One of them tumbled sideways and crushed a man from the waist down. He cried in agony as Groverick marched past him, piecemeal reinforcements jogging past the column in two''s and threes as they dashed to positions beyond Andon''s sight. He couldn''t stop marching¡ªGroverick had him, the relentless ''One-to'' of Serjeant Knub harsh against his ears. "Ser Beric!" yelled a squire with a livid gash across his face; he smashed into the side of Groverick''s marching column, squirming in between and tearing out the other side. He ran past them, towards the battleline. "Ser Beric!!!" he bawled like a child lost in the woods, "Ser Beric, where are you!?" He stumbled into a couple of soldiers busy taking mallets to a jammed catapult, shoving each other and then him as they argued. Inexplicably, a wight had impaled itself halfway into a stake well beyond the current frontline. It snarled at Andon, hopelessly trying to get its hands on him as they marched past. This is madness.I''ve gone insane. We''ve all gone insane.


    Most of the wights were retreating, scuttling back across the blasted valley, back to their dead brethren on the opposite hills. Seeking to bolster the next charge? The line let out a tired cheer as the wights fled, their ranks loosening as they repaired obstacles or carried bodies to the piles. Others just sat¡ªlistless wights-in-waiting with hollowed out minds, waiting for the end until an officer got them moving again. Groverick nestled into a growing gap right beside the 43rd, taking cover behind a waist-high timbered earthwork thick with dried blood. "Form a double line!" bellowed Knub. A lifeline.


    "Double line!" Andon yelled, his voice shrilly, "Ready those libards! Watch your spacing!" Obvious reminders. It made him feel useful. I''m control, he thought, I''m in control. I can help. I can do this.


    By now most of the wights had retreated back to their brethren to the north, though some remained. A guardsman was walking past the stakes covering the approaches, taking a mace to the wights helplessly impaled there. "Where''s your commanding officer!?" Knub yelled at him.


    There was a disturbing parsimony to the man¡ªcalm concentration as he bashed skull after skull. Meaty thunks one after the other, brains sprayed on his tabard. He lifted his calm gaze and pointed at a wooden platform to the other side of the 43rd. Bits of flesh and gore dribbled from his mace.


    A surge of nausea wracked Andon like a hit to the gut. He doubled over, gagging, taking halting breaths of air. "Come on, boy," whispered Knub, his breath close against his ear, warm against the blizzard, "Don''t die on me now. Follow! Follow!!!"


    "Aye Serjeant!" he managed, half-carried as they jogged together, passing through the 43rd''s rear. Here men nursed minor wounds, scarfing down meals from tiny cookfires. "Bolts!" snarled a serjeant as he saw them, grabbing Andon with a fierce grip, "You''ve got my bolts?!"


    I''m sorry, Andon wanted to tell him. He didn''t know why. I''m so sorry.


    "Do we look like a supply wagon?!" said Knub, shoving him aside.


    "What are my crossbows supposed to do?! Huh?! Fucking spit at them?!" The man shouldered them aside, "Bolts! Where are my godsdamned bolts!? Romard! Get up the hill and fetch me another load!"


    "Romard''s dead ser," said one of them men by the cookfire.


    "Then you and his ghost better pick up the pace!" he said, pulling him up and shoving him uphill.


    "Come on Andon, keep moving," Knub whispered urgently, troubled eyes scanning the ragged troops. It was all melding together¡ªthe stench of rotten meat carried forth by the blizzard, the bubbling vegetable stew by the cook fire, the shivers crawling up and down his back like a seesaw. Gore dripping from the stakes. Knub''s grip was now the only thing holding him together.


    They somehow got to the raised platform and clambered up, finding a heavyset man in battered plate, taking a big swing from his waterskin.


    "You''re my right flank?!" he said as they reached him. "Maiden''s sweet tits, now we''re well buggered."


    "Centurion." Knub rammed a fist against his chestplate, "I''m Serjeant Knub, this is Andon." He took off his helmet, pan-like ears springing free and reddish. He scratched one desperately, "1st Groverick."


    "This is what they''re plugging the center with? Militia?" the man stared at the enemy hills before shooting them a disapproving frown, "I''m Ollen. Welcome to the Seven Hells."


    Andon took a big breath. "Our orders?" he managed, watching the wights massing by the foot of the enemy hills. Between the Comet and the full moon, there was enough light to see the entire battlefield even through the blizzard. Errant long-range stagrams still landed here and there, blowing wights apart in thick fountains of smoke. An undead giant bellowed at the living¡ªdeep bass, long and resounding before a stagram caught it straight in the chest; a freak lucky-shot. It exploded into a million pieces, its roar cut off with terrifying suddenness.


    "Orders?" said Ollen, "To hold this line. Or die trying."


    Andon leaned on the railing and puked his guts out. Acid churned through his throat into a helpless torrent. And again. Again. They hit him one after the other¡ªpunches straight to the gut that left him not a second to breathe.


    Gods. I want to die. I don''t want to die. Oh Gods-


    Knub''s hand. A comforting weight on his back, "Now, lad. Breathe. Breathe. Remember what I taught you." A lifeline.


    Andon focused on his breath, a long line of spittle wobbling in the wind before an errant gust jammed it against his cloak. Below the platform a soldier jeered, "You missed the serjeant, boy!"


    He felt a bit better, somehow. Lighter. "Andon. Remember." Knub''s voice was low, below the mayhem of a world dying, "How do we face the fear?"


    He took another breath, swaying, swallowing acid as he straightened. He locked gazes with Knub. "Face on," he rasped. Just like the serjeant with his nightmares¡ªnight after night in Groverick, his screams waking half the town. Fear; it was there¡­ and there was nothing you could do to avoid it. Nothing.


    You just had to face it.


    "Head on," said Knub, squeezing his arm.


    Ollen did not look down on him. If anything, there was pity in his iron gaze.


    "It''ll be bad, won''t it?" he asked him.


    "Aye," said Ollen.


    "You''re ready for this," said Knub, something wobbling in Andon''s chest. Knub could feel it too. A melody on the edge of audition. His grip turned tighter, more confident, "We''re ready for this," he said, a fire guzzling to life behind eyes, somehow gazing beyond the nightmares, gazing at something on the right flank.


    The sickness buffeted out of him as he heard a rolling cheer, a budding scream on everyone''s throats¡ªa roiling something crisp and clear surging within his chest. On and on it swelled, a surging thing sweeping the assembled ranks from east to west. A plea for salvation¡­ No. A roar of determination. Upon that wave of human emotion sprinted a silver lion the size of a warhorse, its prowling gait quickly bounding through the broken field in front of the battleline. Its rider was clad in blackest armor, its sheen ignoring the snow-riddled clouds above and reflecting the night sky as it should be¡ªwith stars fierce and bright, and in his hand¡­ in his hand bloomed fractal light like a recursive thunder strike, a purple construct shaping itself into a long pole from which detonated gold and silver. Like a glittering mantle it weaved itself out of shimmering air, longer and longer as if the pole were driving a gash upon the fabric of reality, spilling silver paint. A grand banner, waving at the armies of Dawn as if thrust by cosmic winds.


    Andon found himself breathing like a bull, staring at the colossal banner flying atop the figure¡ªimpossibly large, hanging upon the sky like a soaring dragon. A banner he''d never seen before but which seized him with sudden, brutal comprehension; seven rays of light radiating from a single sun dawning over mountains. Seven rays of light for Seven Kingdoms united in vision. In purpose. In dreams. They were seven rays of light emerging from a single dream of Dawn that reached out to cup Andon''s very heart. A single heart-wrenching hope. Andon gazed at the spreading banner of Dawn and felt Tabby so close, closer than ever before, her mirthful eyes and her kind soul, her quick anger and her sorrow deep. It was Bale and his belly-rolling laughter, steely quiet Knob, Ollen the card-loving centurion, it was everyone now gasping in supernatural insight. Hundreds. Thousands. He could feel them all.


    It was the banner of Westeros, and it was carried by Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of his Name. He was their hope through Winter''s wrath. He was the man that made them into one. He was-


    "THE KING!!!" he roared as loud as his lungs could bare, Knub and Ollen and Groverick and Westeros entire with him.


    -: PD :-


    He''d wondered, what shape it would take. To protect, to safe-keep; a suit of armor had been an altogether intuitive leap. But what about hope? Connection? Love? What shape the Dream of Dawn? Joffrey rode down the length of the battleline at high speed, Stars'' bounding prowl easily navigating the wreckage of the battlefield. The construct given shape by his soul kept spreading from the long pole¡ªlike an artist''s brush leaving wide trails of color in canvas unleashed. It seemed made more of ethereal light than cloth; an aurora of the living rising up to the skies and stretching for far horizons. He couldn''t see it¡ªhis vision drawn to slits as the wind raked his face, Stars furious speed carrying him ever forward¡­ but he could feel it. The love he felt for his people. For Westeros. For all the living hanging unto the dream of a green future warm and bright, a new age beyond the terrible cold, beyond the numbing blizzard choking them all. "The King!" his people roared as they saw him, raising fists and iron to the air, "The King!!!"


    He didn''t respond, not yet, riding Stars as fast as he could as they dashed across the battlefield with the banner of Westeros held high; the dawn sun of the Kingdom fluttering in between the falling snow. He gazed at the faces of his people as he passed them by; lords bellowing oaths, militias raising libards and screaming out their fear, battle-scarred Guard veterans slamming halberds against the ground. It was good to remember, before the end. What he fought for. What he''d given so much to protect. To create.


    He didn''t feel different now; it had been an understanding, more than a transformation. A closing of a circle which he''d begun to draw long, long ago, when he could still remember the face of Jon Arryn. It felt logical, natural even, a consequent end to his journey. His brother the Red Comet had shown him what lay behind the fabric, behind the tapestry. All throughout the Kingdom the people had seen those eldritch truths, revealed on open skies as a hole in reality. But to Joffrey? To him who had sailed the skein of time through countless lives? To him who''d listened through purple cathedrals and heard the singing melodies of existence? To Joffrey it had revealed not only the secrets of Comet and Purple but of the existential sea they shared. The Song they heard. The last piece had been slotted into place and he''d understood. What is a Song without a Listener?


    He was connected now, almost like Comet and Walker, as if he could touch the souls of every man, every woman, every single living person on that grand army of Dawn and beyond, beyond to the land itself and the roots of the world, the Silence nibbling its edges like termites on wood. The Song burned mighty in his veins, an intimate wildfire coursing through his body and soul that reached out, out to the sea of humanity now bellowing defiance. He felt their burning hope, their fathomless dreams of peace over green fields¡ªa silver dawn over a new world. He felt their purpose and channeled it right back, infusing the Song with silvery timbres that echoed, echoed so loud even little Eddard could hear them, far away in the Red Keep. It echoed through everyone¡ªthat powerful, breathtaking realization that they were not alone.


    They were the very thing the Silence sought to quench; they were the source of the Song that gave shape to all that was¡­ They were not just the Watchers. They were the stars.


    He rode all the way to the left flank and back to the center, gliding on the cheering fervor of a people united in purpose. Stars leapt atop a mound of rubble and reared up in an awesome display of puffed silver fur shaking under wild winds, giving out a world-ending roar that reached for the high heavens. The answering clamor would''ve driven his old self drunk, and there was still a part of him that reveled in savage joy at the sight of thousands upon thousands screaming his name¡­ but it went far beyond that now. When they cheered for him they cheered for the hope of dawn. For life beyond the Cold, for the love of all that breathed in this tiny world hung from the void. It was bigger than him. Bigger even than the Comet. ''King'' they''d roared, and that was what a King should be; a conduit for his people to rise.


    "I will not lie to you!" he called out, his voice clear across the valley, "The claws of winter dig deep into our land, ''tis true! The North has fallen! The east and the west lie besieged! And on that hill and beyond," he said, Brightroar materializing in his hand as he pointed north, "There lies the grand army of Silence, intent on ending!" The wight legions were already moving, shambling at a steady almost-marching pace as they sought to cluster tighter still, a quaking avalanche of grey blanketing the valley in blue-eyed bone. "Intent on ending the warmth you feel coursing through your souls! On killing that bond now pulsing between us all! The vibrant choir that gives this world meaning!"


    The severity of such sin was beyond words. Men cried openly¡ªstern soldiers hardened by brutal combat now gasping under the weight of endings. Others screamed denial, defiant cries reaching out for Joffrey, blood and rage in the air. The gall of the Cycle, the Walkers. To seek to silence such a beautiful thing as a human soul¡ªa fragile treasure each unique and infinitely complex, now revealed for all to see. To understand. It seemed now, at last, did they understand what Winter''s final victory would truly mean. The enormity of such catastrophic defeat. At last, they understand, Joffrey thought, his eyes watering ever so slowly, a happiness with no name filling his gut. At last, so they understand. The banner of Westeros glowed over dark skies, turning radiant with each new understanding. With each new will now woken up and defiant. Lightning flashed in the distance.


    "But tonight," he said, voice loud and clear, "It is they who shall end! Tonight, we''ll return a debt long in the making!" They would not go quietly into the arms of such Silence. They would not kneel before such sacrilege. The murderous Cycle and its parsimonious Walkers, slayers of life and dreams. How dare they? Righteous rage filled Joffrey''s belly, intertwined with the will of his people made manifest, their understanding now one and the same. Not even in the highest heights of his sadistic, unthinking rage, that towering cruelty of his youth¡ªnot even then had he felt such powerful crystal-clear hate. "We''ve watched them ravage our land! Tear down what generations have built! Frozen all that is green and beautiful!" he said, the words crawling out of his mouth like stagram-fire, explosions of outrage buffeting his people. "They''ve made puppets out of our dead! Out of our heroes! Out of our children!" Thunder strikes bellowed near the horizon and closer still, a rolling barrage of echoes creeping closer as his hair stood on edge, his back crawling up and down. Blinding flashes speared through the skies like curled yellow hooks, afterimages seared into his eyes¡ªthe Song surging, bursting through the fabric into a savage dry thunderstorm, a wall of warm air clashing against the Walker-storm screaming from the North. Joffrey breathed in that dry warmth, the combined outrage of a continent made sharper still by the clarity of the Song tying them now together¡ªa shared injustice binding them all in revenge, ozone in the air. Every word out of his mouth brought forth another roar from the Army of Dawn, another thunder strike connecting earth to heaven as he channeled horror and outrage back into their bonded souls and the Song feedbacked out of control.


    He slashed with Brightroar at the columns of the dead, at the Walkers perched high and mighty on their hill, "They''ve spread their cold misery from the Wall to the seas¡ªthis scourge on our hearts unleashed! This nightmare with no end! This all-consuming total war! They-" Joffrey gasped, his mind caught by visions of his Kingdom ravaged¡ªhis cities burning, his armies slaughtered and raised, his people freezing¡ªdrowning as they swam for the evacuation ships, scuttling aboard as swollen wights. So many bright dreams turned to ash under a muffled sun¡ªsuch awesome potential now destroyed. Oh Sansa, what we could''ve built. Ned flashed his thoughtful smile, blood bubbling through his lips. They-


    "They stole our Summer!!!" roared Joffrey, wisps of lightning crawling down Brightroar''s edge, "They stole our Dawn!!!"


    "Dawn!!!" bellowed Westeros, a pulsing clamor thick with hope and longing, a bursting battlecry savage and defiant, fit to terrify even an army of the dead. A human thunder one with the storm raging above their heads.


    A promise to take back what was stolen.


    The Cycle flinched, its attention riveting unto Joffrey with steadfast will. He rode back to the command post atop the hill, mounted drummers and hornbearers accreting to Star''s gait like fillings to a lodestone¡ªrunners and knights and officers connecting his will to that of his men. He could feel the Comet''s order, emerging from its crystalline mind like a commandment; a single-minded directive.


    Silence, whispered the Cycle. The dead of Westeros broke out into a shambling sprint¡ªdriven mad by such encompassing desire, a roiling sea of shrieks and moans carried forth by one timeless edict.


    He felt the Song surge as he surveyed the battlefield, the Silence enroaching like a crushing grip as the wights crossed the valley. He would give the order, one last time. "One last time, my friend," he told his legate. Jon smiled back.


    Spoiler: Music


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    "Artillery," he said, turning to the hornbearer, "Loose at will."


    His command reached forth, through the air and up the sky as horns sang long and low. Trebuchet-arms let loose with wooden groans¡ªpent up torsion released into wide swings, long arms waving at the night air. Short-ranged Stagrams took flight by choirs¡ªflurries of them leaping for the skies by the scores. Flaming boulders tore through the charging dead, drawing fiery gashes on the valley, explosions sweeping through wights like meteors. Burn, thought Joffrey, his grip on Brightroar waning and waxing as the dead crept closer. The plumed archers of the Summer Islands let loose with their longbows at extreme range, greeting the charging dead with a hail of iron that snapped bones in two, skulls exploding into mush. Ballistas and onagres swept entire lines, bolts and flaming pots ravaging them¡ªdestruction compounded as crossbows let loose by sections, their volleys raking the dead hundreds at a time. The wights didn''t care¡ªthey leapt atop each other like demented spiders as they swept over the slain, an avalanche consuming fire and steel. Closer. Closer. Joffrey steeled himself.


    The battlelines crashed like a storm wracking the Mountains of the Vale¡ªdead bone tearing into living flesh, people screaming back defiance, weapons rising and falling. From a battalion of runners, drummers, and horn-bearers, Joffrey sought to keep up with the brutal pace dictated by the Red Comet¡ªalmost a dance of sorts, a partner with which to maximize death and destruction. For every move of his enemy Joffrey had an answer; to charging undead giants he met with giants of his own, Borgan''s kin armored in enough steel to outfit four knights each. Their tree-trunk maces blew the jaws off their undead brethren, sweeping smaller wights away with all-bodied heaves. To massed waves of wights Joffrey answered with reserves, cycling out troops and countering numerical superiority with extensive fortifications, buying time for ballistas and catapults to decimate the clustered masses. Each shot raked dozens, leaving wakes of fire which burned a hellish orange¡ªflames titillating under gales of snow. It was a battle of stratagems, of attrition, the mud painted red with the blood of men and with the snowy guts of the Walkers. The map under his fingers glazed over as he swept beads and figures, spelling out messages for his runners he would later scarcely remember, his mind adrift from the flow of time as he zoned into a state of absolute concentration¡ªa game of Cyvasse against the horror in the night sky in which the tiniest mistake would mean final Silence. His people would not make it easy for it. Terrified but defiant, ground down but unbroken. Knights and militias, Freefolk and guardsmen, they fought until their limbs would no longer rise. Wights-of-the-Living, vessels of the Song, they''d understood the stakes of this war. Of this battle. Unlike the puppets of the Comet, they threw themselves willingly into the horrendous maelstrom lashing at the front lines, fighting against all odds. Fighting for hope. Fighting against the Silence.


    And oh how it wanted that Silence. The Comet''s glare turned a sickly scarlet as the battle wore on, pale brilliance ever brighter¡ªan ethereal momentum gathering in its gimlet gaze. As Westeros piled up the dead in great wight-piles which blazed from the hilltops, as the banner of Westeros still hung from the air like a living aurora¡ªas the Song still surged defiant through blinding thunder strikes that warmed the soul, Joffrey could feel its crystal mind edging towards a conclusion. An ultimatum. He could feel it in his skin, in the way the hair on his arms stood up as if caressed by those same cosmic winds now tugging the Comet''s red mantle. He could hear it in the chill around him, in the sound of steel on flesh biting deep, in Star''s purr which crackled by his side like a forest fire, entranced as it gazed up at their enemy. With every minute that the living stood their ground, the red orb on the horizon grew larger. This thing that he had unleashed, this Song Aware was like acid to its thirsting Silence¡ªa taunt beyond words that forced it to seek its immediate destruction, its end no matter the cost. The Comet shared Joffrey''s drive, his will to protect against its will to destroy.


    His fingers came to a stop. He stared at the beads representing the armsmen of Houses Rosby and Darry, and then leaned back on his seat. The Red Comet stared back, its will absolute.


    The runner by his side stopped his scribbling, raising eyes from his orders. "You were saying, Your Grace?"


    He stood up. "It''s time."


    Jon nodded; he felt it too. Another enormous mass of wights was already surging from the undead lines, flowing between the still Walkers like the sea between reefs. He didn''t need a far-eye to see it was the biggest wave yet. "I''ll hold the front here," said Jon, "End this, Joffrey. For Father."


    "For all the Living," he said with a smile, clasping his shoulder.


    He rode down the hill opposite the battlefield, around to the left flank as his bones tingled¡ªa thrum in the air. In the clearing he found the cavalry force already mounting their horses, as if they, too, had felt Joffrey''s decision. The Comet''s decision. Sandor joined his side as he reached the knights, carrying the banner of the Antlered Lion.


    "Knights of the Seven Kingdoms!" Joffrey bellowed, and the thousands of knights bellowed back. He could see Samwell and Robar leading the Silver Knights, riding out to form up around him. He saw Lord Tarly and his Lances leading the Reach, Tywin and the lords of the west taking up his right. He saw Renly in his armor of summer carrying the Stag of the Stormlands, Edmure Tully and his fishbones chanting out defiance. In the way of legends, the Lords of Westeros had gathered for one final charge. Even though it might mean the death of them all, Joffrey could see that they were glad for it. An ending fit for a song¡ªone last charge for peace. Final rest, either way.


    Joffrey straighten his legs atop Stars, raising Brightroar, "You all know what''s at stake! What we hope to win today!" he said, the earth trembling as the Comet began to unfold like a scarlet rose, petals twirling to reveal a hole in the fabric of reality. Sansa reached his side, Meera Reed and Lyra Mormont flanking her. "So raise those proud banners high and follow me to the Night King! For Westeros!" he roared.


    "Westeros!" shouted Sansa, raising her spear high. "Westeros!" bellowed Tyrion, strapped to Borgan''s shoulder as the giant echoed with a powerful battlecry. "Westeros!" roared Lord Tarly and the lords of the Reach, of the Vale, of the west and the south and the exiled North.


    They charged through the far left flank, smashing through a wight spoiling attack and bypassing the mighty host of Winter which was now tearing into the center. No time for that, thought Joffrey, forcing himself to gaze at his prize¡ªthe army of Walkers standing atop their hill, the Night King at their center. They had been preparing to charge the already splintering center, but it seemed as if his move had caught them by surprise. They swerved from their march downhill, arranging themselves into rectangles around the Night King. Faster, thought Joffrey, Faster, urging Stars forward as the Comet continued its escalation¡ªan almost unbearable weight forming in all-that-is. They had to strike now before it recalled the greater part of its horde. Before the escalation ground them all to pieces.


    Joffrey did not dare look back, but through the Song he felt the charging host of knights close behind; a rolling earthquake of hooves on mud and snow, neighs and roars and banners snapping against the wind. He rode on a wave of dreams and hope, a defiance of the Silence which he materialized through the Banner of Westeros forming out of his closed fist; a mighty symbol made of light, the will of his people made manifest. It lifted some of the terrible weight, the will of the Comet finally finding its equal. Joffrey could feel its surprise, its immaterial recoil as an arrow of humanity reached for its icy heart, shielded from its wrath by a banner of hope. Of Song Aware.


    Obsidian-tipped lances exploded into splinter storms as Westeros roared its challenge, Walkers screeching to high heavens as they were pulverized into misty ice. Broken. Torn. Trampled. Warhammers swung down in powerful arcs, thrown axes wheeling through the air, banners snapping free and flying away. Away. The crushing momentum of the charge carried them through rank after rank as he swung Brightroar in nonstop arcs, tearing a huge wound into the assembled Walker lines. The cost was enormous¡ªriders flew from their mounts, horses were cut in half by crystal blades. The dreaded ''ice-spiders''¡ªperfect spheres of icy crystal scuttling over the snow¡ªleapt from the masses to snatch knights out of their horses, piercing them with eight limbs as sharp as any Walker blade. Stars received a slash that dissipated him back into the Purple; Joffrey rolled through the snow and fought on dismounted, tearing through the Walkers as fallen knights congregated around him. Sansa fought by his side, her spear leaving misty holes in Walker lines as tendrils of blood emerged from her back¡ªscorpion tails spearing through half-a-dozen Walkers at a time.


    Above him, the Comet stretched out with arms made of light¡ªa monstrous aurora enveloping the horizon, an alien language writ large on skies now crawling with fractals.


    "With me!" Joffrey roared, reaping another Walker with a berserker slash. They had to reach the Night King whatever the cost, but the initial wedge of the charge had crumpled into a many-pronged assault. He could see other groups of men making separate progress in between the lines of the Walkers, "Robar! We have to join forces!" he told the knight by his side, "Westeros! With me!"


    "With the King!" roared Ser Robar, more survivors joining their group as others¡ªstill mounted¡ªcharged on ahead. Joffrey''s pauldron stopped a Walker''s blade, and he stabbed it in the belly before twisting out. He had to concentrate in the now¡ªin immediate survival. He could feel a nexus in the silence close by; the Night King channeling the Comet''s escalation into the Walkers. Above him his ancient enemy sang in discordant tunes, buffeting the Song as lines of geometric precision drew themselves through the heavens, drawing support pillars for the hole in the sky. It was not backing down.


    "Let''s go! Push on! Push on!" he roared. Close by a Walker screeched as it grew, taller and thicker even as it malformed, ice and crystal filling its frame until its humanoid figure became distorted by the Comet''s power. An Abomination like the one''s they''d fought at Carcosa. Its head now lay encased in the chest of the new creature¡ªa towering thing with five limbs of crystal glowing sharp in the brightening dark.


    Joffrey sprinted at it as it began smashing people apart with careless ease. He leapt after one of its swipes, ramming Brightroar where its head used to be. It screeched before melting into nothing, but it seemed as if every second another of the hulking figures transformed nearby. He could feel the Comet sharpening its attention here, pouring forth precious power like a sieve. It, too, wanted to end this now.


    Another of the hulking monstrosities rammed into a group of Westerlanders just a bit forward of Joffrey''s group. It stomped over three dismounted knights before folding its arms like a pair of scissors and lashing out, cutting a still mounted Tywin cleanly in half, steel and flesh parting like silk. His grandfather fell with nary a sigh, the Westerlanders behind him stumbling back in horror. "Push on!" yelled Joffrey, "Lord Crakehall! Raise those banners high! Make way to me!"


    Lord Crakehall picked up the cry, but before long another Walker slew his standard bearer. Two ice spider leapt at the lord, skittering limbs jutting in and out of his body as they stabbed him to shreds. The Walkers reduced the entire group to corpses as they closed the circle from all sides. There''s so many of them, thought Joffrey, dodging and killing, dazed as Ser Robar caught a blade through the chest. The Knight Commander of the Silver Knights had risen his battleaxe high; he brought it down on the Walker''s head with one a last gasp of effort, shattering it before giving Joffrey a bloody smile.


    "We built something wonderful, didn''t we?" said Ser Robar.


    He collapsed before Joffrey could answer, eyes still and wide open.


    Samwell smashed the guilty Walker to bits. "Close ranks! Protect the King!" he bellowed. The Silver Knights died around them in droves, their bodies shielding their advance as the pressure kept mounting.


    "Dismount! With the King!" bellowed Lord Tarly. The horses were now more of a danger to them than to the enemy¡ªas battle hardened as they were, there were simply too many Walkers around, driving them crazy with fear. Joffrey pushed forward and tore a wight out of a knight''s back, stomping on its neck and cutting down another one before it got to him barehanded. Every second he delayed would mean another death. Another ending of friends, family, and vassals. Faster. Faster!


    "It''s just ahead, Joff! Just ahead!!!" said Sansa, gritting her teeth under the pressure of the Silence.


    "Keep moving! With me!" he shouted, feeling it too, Sandor taking up Robar''s position by his side as they joined forces with a group slightly ahead of them; Edmure Tully and his Fishbones. Together they pushed onward, hand-crossbows spewing obsidian-tipped bolts and covering knights wielding maces and battleaxes. For every Walker they brought down four men fell with it, and on that wave of self-sacrifice they reached a cluster of Walker-Abominations forming a circle around something¡ªa spike in the Silence, a nexus radiating overwhelming pressure. The light of the Comet was now as bright as the sun, reflected off the monsters'' crystalline bodies in painful kaleidoscopic radiance. Night turned into day as people screamed, holding their heads in pain.


    Silence, whispered the Cycle.


    Such was the light that Joffrey didn''t see the giant till the last second. Borgan gave out a thundering war-bellow as he smashed his trebuchet-arm against one of the abominations'' chest, knocking it to the ground. Tyrion, hanging from the giant''s shoulder, shot the Abomination beside it with a hand-crossbow, melting off half its frame.


    "The Living!!!" Joffrey roared as he charged after Tyrion, Brightroar held high. Sansa and Sandor and Samwell and Meera and Edmure and all who remained alive running with him and tearing down the Walkers in the way.


    They smashed against the crystalline guard of the Night King under a red dawn; Lyra Mormont brought one down with a savage blow from Longclaw, moments before twin arm-blades tore through her chest with frightening speed. The Abomination lifted her up in the air before tearing her apart from the inside out, pulverized blood mixing up with the falling snow. Faster, Joffrey thought as he brought down one of the monsters with twin slashes at its bulging knee and its crystal chest. Lord Tarly pressed Heartsbane into his son''s hands before collapsing on his knees, his belly a mangled ruin. Faster. He parried and pivoted alongside Sansa, his blade reaping the Walkers that sought to surround them, his heart beating like a kicking horse as he strived to fight beyond horrific sights that ghosted in and out of his vision. Borgan bellowing in agony as a spider pierced his shoulder, Tyrion falling to the ground. Sandor clutching a bloody stump as he stumbled back, an ''O'' of surprise fresh on his lips. Faster!!!


    And then he buried his blade into the chest of a Walker with eyes as red as that of the Comet. Its even stare promised escalation unrestrained as he drove the sword deeper still, churning it inside its guts, Brightroar shining like a star as spiderwebs of lightning crawled out of its glowing frame. Sense-moment-time. The instant. The second.


    Joffrey felt the fractals of the Purple multiply and meld with those of the Red Comet, Sansa gasping as they pushed through that connection with all their being. Joffrey saw with a million Walker eyes, felt the void of space and the fire of the atmosphere licking his skin. It was coming here. The Red Comet. Hurtling through the sky as it spread its guts wide in a fractal dawn, covering the heavens with its presence. It was coming here to end this.


    He stared up at that sea of fractals unleashed. There was no Purple or Cycle now. Only a single thing with a roiling soul battling for its own identity. He closed his eyes, bracing himself before such potent might, Sansa by his side, pillars surging impossibly tall as time screamed.


    Joffrey opened his eyes to the fabric of reality.


    -: PD :-


    Author''s Note: Chapter 84 will be up in 24 hours.

 Chapter 84: The Song.

    Chapter 84: The Song.Spoiler: Music


    AN: Right click, set to loop


    He flew through a hurricane of awareness, a labyrinth of pillars which had anchored itself into reality and was now beyond it. He felt like a rock dropped on an endless pond, a mediation on infinity sinking without end, his awareness spreading in fractals throughout a storm of raw creation as he sought to understand. Where am I? What am I?


    There had been a clash of wills, an explosion in the fabric of existence. He remembered stabbing the Night King with Brightroar, bridging a connection just as he''d once done with Sansa. He had felt a titanic presence open wide; the Red Comet as never before he''d seen it. A living mechanism of crystal thought; a yawning abyss of recursive will. He had not hesitated.


    He had leapt at it. He and his wife. Pierced into its sea of fractal will and carrying a sea of their own. There had been a crash. A burst of being. A collision of wills. And now?


    What am I?


    He was enveloping existence entire; a sphere of purple fractals surrounding a core of red-hot power. The fractals and the red-hot core were melding; twin scriptures of the same language forming a complete sentence as the fractals flew where his mind wandered. What would it say?


    Who am I?


    The red-hot core lashed out like a striking snake, unbearable pain spearing through his soul. Joffrey woke up.


    He sat there on his bed in King''s Landing, nursing his head and taking a sip of water from the cup by the nightstand. He''d just had the strangest dream. He yawned, stretching wide before walking to the window. Father was readying for his hunt, already bellowing for wine and sending Lancel in search for more, complete with a kick on the arse. He got on his horse with the help of a little footstool, shooing away servants and beckoning at Ser Barristan, who had a boar spear in hand. One last hunt before they all went North. Right, the North.


    Joffrey scowled at the thought of a full month on the road, gallivanting around the countryside so Father could see some old friend. Bunch of savages. One could only hope they had clean sheets in Winterfell. He was forgetting something terribly important. He paced around his bed, frowning. Something to take North? No, that''s not it.


    It was something grander. Terrifying. Cold as ice and as entrancing as a song. A promise on the tip of his tongue. What was it?! Nameless dread urged him on, hope for a silver dawn.


    An itch between his shoulder-blades made him turn. Above his bed there was a growing gash thrumming with skittering fractals. Twin hands made of crystalline ice tore through the hole in reality, winter snow pouring through like a pocket blizzard; twin blue eyes piercing him in place, gusts of cold wind chilling him to the bone. Joffrey screamed.


    The Hound smashed against the bedroom door, drawing his sword. "What in the Seven¡­" he trailed off.


    "Clegane! Help!" he screeched, scuttling back as the figure tromped towards him with even strides.


    The Hound met the monster''s blade with his own; it broke with a clean clack, letting the blade continue on and tear half his sworn shield''s head. Blood spattered over Joffrey as he screamed again, running through the opened door. In the corridor servants cried out as they were cut down by more of the figures, converging from both directions. He was trapped.


    "Help me! Somebody help your Prince!" he screeched, cold hands grabbing him from behind as the monster that slew Sandor positioned its blade over his chest. "W-Wait! No! I have ransom-" the monster rammed its blade through his chest, ice filling his guts and stealing his voice. Light erupted from the blade and he felt a terrible thing grasp his soul tighter.


    He fell down a bottomless existence; a train of thought chased by red will. He had been building something. Yes, he could see it now, see it spreading throughout the existence that surrounded him, fractals drawing a labyrinth that started from the outside and inched inward towards the red core. It was understanding. It was the answer to a question.


    Who am I? He felt as if on the ledge of a great precipice, staring down, convincing himself to jump.


    The Cycle tore at him again- He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own.


    "But I don''t want to go North!" said Joffrey. Mother cupped his cheek, smiling, "I don''t want to either, Joffrey. But a Queen must fulfill her duties¡­ and so must the Prince." She looked down the balcony, an edge of bitterness lining her voice, "And someone has to make sure your Father doesn''t give away the Kingdoms."


    Joffrey scoffed, rearing his head away. Going to Mother had been his first, and admittedly last, option; facing Father''s rage gain was simply beyond him¡­ And it was probably too late anyway.


    He walked outside Maegor''s Keep and reached the Outer Yard, followed as usual by the hound Mother had put on him. "Would you stop following me, you useless dog?!"


    Sandor Clegane lifted half a burnt lip, "As you wish," he said before walking back and leaning on the tower wall. And good riddance. Still keeping an eye on me, though.


    Joffrey shook his head. Mother would insist on keeping the dog close to him while they were in the North, as if going there was not punishment enough. He''d have to get used to it¡­ though being followed around by an armed man ready to do his every bidding did have an appeal. He''d seem mighty and important in front of all those savages, as a prince ought to. Something to think about.


    The courtyard looked like a summer fair, complete with trains of wagons and hollering smallfolk. Servants were busy loading baggage into the carriages, their usual indolence turning the whole process into a crawl. And they were supposed to leave today. "What is this?!" he asked the one carrying a huge chest.


    "Ah, ''tis Prince Tommen''s toys, M''Prince!" said the girl.


    "Tommen''s toys?!" Joffrey said with a massive scoff, "Leave it!"


    "M''Prince?"


    "''Mmm''Prince?''" he echoed her with an idiot''s voice, slurring the ''m'' like a drunkard.


    The stupid wench just averted her gaze.


    "I said leave it!" he shouted, shoving her back. She fell with on the cobbles with the chest on top of her¡ªa tiny scream of pain. "What are the rest of you looking at!? Get to work!"


    The servants scurried about like little rats, avoiding his gaze as they rushed, a warm tingle releasing throughout his chest. Amazing what a little fear will do to the smallfolk. When he was King he''d be sure to teach that lesson to all involved.


    It seemed as if they would be carrying half the Red Keep with them; there were garments in all manner of chests and crates, food, kegs of wine and ale. Gods, even furniture. Two of the servants were carrying a big mirror of all things, squirming with effort as they brought it to the Queen''s Wheelhouse. Joffrey smirked at them as they passed him by. Reflected on the mirror he saw a man armored in starlight, a Valyrian steel sword in his hand and a helmet with tall antlers on his head. A long gash ran down his right cheek where something stubby had raked his face¡ªthe most prominent of scars, though many other nicks and cuts adorned his face and neck. The eyes of the man pinned him in place; a silent intensity that was both loathing and forgiveness.


    Joffrey frowned as the servants walked past. A deep unease was worming into his soul; terrible knowledge thick with angst and enlightenment. Who was that man? What did he want with him? Joffrey sure as hells didn''t want anything to do with him. The unease turned to pressure as he squealed and went on his knees, breathing hard. He didn''t want to know. Or did he? Something was worming its way through the sky, high above him. Something terrible. Something unstoppable.


    "My Prince?" asked the Hound, shaking him. Sandor. "Prince Joffrey? What''s the matter?"


    He breathed hard between his hands, hyperventilating, his heart readying to jump out of his chest. That man. That man was¡­.


    He had to remember; he had to remember! "Sandor, somethings¡ªwrong!"


    The Hound narrowed his eyes as his breath misted, cold winds raking through the courtyard and crawling over the cobbles in hissing dread. A servant cried out as sheets were torn out of her hands. A Redcloak tripped, falling on cobbles now layered with frost. Joffrey''s gaze was drawn to a place a few paces to his left¡ªan unremarkable spot between a chest and the wheelhouse. "Sandor," he squeaked, pointing a trembling finger at it.


    He was gripping his sword''s pommel tight, "What is it? What''s going on?" he asked, looking from the stumbling servants to Joffrey and then the empty place. Gods, its freezing! Joffrey took deep breaths, puffs in the cold, some strange instinct making him close his eyes and feel the tug of gravity on his body. The feeling of his lumpy muscles rusty with indolent disuse. The touch of princely clothing on his body, billowing and uncomfortable.


    The Cold Wind raking his flesh. "I think I''m¡­ I''m fighting something." But what? What? Panic tore through his concentration like a runaway horse, his heart beating faster and faster as he gripped the Hound white, something was coming¡ªsomething was coming!!!


    "We have to run!" he shouted, dragging the startled Hound out of the courtyard. He felt something drop in his belly, a deep thrum turning into a low drone. A drone that snapped. Befuddled warning cries. Screams behind them. Joffrey ran, the Hound by his side and taking out his sword as they sprinted through the Middle Bailey and down the Serpentine Steps two at a time. They reached the Lower Bailey just as a knight began making his way up. He cried indignantly as Joffrey shoved him out of the way, running for all he was worth down a covered walkway and into the southeastern tower. His blind dash had brought them to a dead end.


    No. A defensible position.


    A gaggle of Redcloaks had been playing dice. A few got out startled bows as Joffrey closed and barred the door behind him.


    Barret''s his name, he thought, looking at one of them. Insight from beyond.


    "Barret!" he told him, "Get your men ready and¡­ and¡­" he grasped for the thought, trusting on alien instincts, "Fortify this door! We''re under attack!"


    The others looked befuddled, dice still in their hands, but Barret simply shrugged, "As you say, my Prince." Probably thinks its a prank.


    But it wasn''t. He knew it was not with a deep conviction he had never before felt in his life. A growl tore its way out of his throat, thick with inner authority, "What are you waiting for?! Arm yourselves and help him!" he roared with a voice not his own. Who am I?


    That shook the other Redcloaks into action, Sandor hounding them on as they buckled on helmets and grabbed blades from the sword hangers by the walls. They started dragging crates and other junk behind the door to the tower while Joffrey paced behind them. Pacing helped.


    Sandor got to his side and talked low, "It would help if you told me what the hells'' going on. My Prince."


    "I don''t know!" he screeched at the stupid dog. He raised his palms, "Sorry. Sorry." Keep pacing. Think. Remember. "I need time. I need time to think."


    "Well, you better think fast," said the Hound, the tromp of armored boots echoing past the barred door and away. Calls to arms sounded in the distance; echoing steel, screams cut short. He shifted the grip on his blade, knees bent as he took quick peeks through the arrowslits, "Sounds like a fucking war out there."


    Joffrey tapped on the brick wall of the tower, an uncertain rhythm as he leaned his forehead on it. Those things out there had one purpose only; to kill him. He knew this with an iron certainty. That could not be allowed to happen. The intensity of the thought frightened him. Well of course I can''t die. That would be the worse thing¡­. To happen?


    No.


    The force of the revelation took the air out his lungs. He didn''t fear death. Not anymore. Nonexistence. The thought of dying forever didn''t fill him with anguish. It would be¡­ peaceful. He crouched, still facing the wall as he hugged himself. It was the consequences of his death that brought such intense anxiety, such blood-freezing terror. He bit his fist as the horror mounted, tears falling down his cheeks. Never in his life had he felt such despair.


    "Oh, Sandor," he whispered, holding his face, trying to contain the tears.


    "It''s snowing," said one of the Redcloaks, shaken. Joffrey craned his neck and looked through a nearby arrowslit; a savage snowstorm had birthed to life somehow, raging through the Red Keep and reducing visibility by the second. Figures drifted in and out of the Lower Bailey; panicked mobs of smallfolk, groups of confused serjeants. Ser Arys Oakheart, his billowing white cloak hugging Myrcella as they ran with their heads bowed down, away through the mist. A flake of ice drifted past the arrowslit, settling on Joffrey''s palm and melting¡ªmore and more of them as the gray outside consumed the courtyard. Joffrey blinked. Now the world beyond the arrowslit was little more than a smoky swirl.


    "M-Maiden''s t-t-tits, I can b-barely see p-p-past the w-w-walkway," said Barret, shivering like a man with the palsy. Another Redcloak lit a torch, and they clustered around it as another¡ªOrland¡ªtook Barret''s post. The distant sounds of battle turned elastic. Sometimes close, sometimes far. Muffled. Joffrey blinked, touching his face. Tears had frozen over his cheeks. Why was he crying?


    Because if the things outside¡ªWhite Walkers¡ªkilled him, then all would be lost. All would die. Green would give way to gray, life to wight, Song to Silence. Who I am? The question held the key¡ªit held the key! Joffrey banged his head against the wall. Think! He had to answer it before final death. It was the way. The Completion. The End.


    A bang shook him out of it. Orland ran from the arrowslit, "There''s scores of ''em outside!" he screamed, "White knights ''o some sort with blood on their blades! They appeared outta nowhere!!!"


    Another bang rattled the door, a blade of crystalline ice erupting through it, splinters flying like shrapnel. One of them caught Barret in the throat; he dropped to his knees, gurgling as the Redlcoaks stumbled back. Blue eyes leered through the hole in the door.


    "Stand your ground!" shouted Sandor, readying his blade and pushing the men forward. Three more blows and the door and the rest of the crates were reduced to shavings, revealing Winter''s cavalcade in all its glory. Several of them; icy armor lined in crystal, eyes bright blue and reeking death. Orland gave a shrill scream and charged the lead White Walker. It parried the blade sideways and cut him down like nothing before tromping his way in. Its brethren followed it inside, the storm howled behind them.


    "Stay behind me!" shouted Sandor, eyes wide in incomprehension as he shoved him against a corner. The White Walkers slaughtered through the Redcloaks in the blink of an eye, silent automatons calm and precise. Who am I? Joffrey shivered as they got closer and Sandor threw meaningless taunts. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who-


    He gasped, an icy spear piercing his soul though no wound marred his body. He fell on his knees, gasping, agonizing as Sandor gawked. A pain beyond flesh ground him apart, an angst that crushed. Sansa. They got Sansa.


    He fell on his belly but didn''t touch the floor. He flew instead; a chain of thought, a coalescing comprehension surrounding the red-core. The Cycle. His enlightenment were the spreading fractals around its core, that indrawn labyrinth surging to life from the outside and scribbling its way in wards. He was beginning to remember¡­ but slow. Too slow.


    The Comet, no, the Cycle lashed out. Sansa. The thought brought him weight. Existence.


    He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. And then he was shame.


    The merry song prattled off senselessly, lutes and bows harping on top of each other like a tavern jig. Joffrey forced a smile through the noise; Mother had admonished him quite sternly on how he ought to behave, when they''d been a week away from Winterfell. Between the song and the laughter, the cheers of the northrons and all the people Father had brought North¡­ it was almost as festive a place as home. Except with worse music, and the fact that Father was actually happy. Jealousy spiked his heart as he saw him clasp Eddard Stark''s shoulder before the Lord of the North begged off; Father threw a bah before turning to the plump serving wench over his thighs, guffawing as he shook her this way and that, her giggles tearing at his ears. Joffrey took another drink from his goblet, leaning back on the chair. Winterfell''s great hall was full to bursting; people ate and drank around tables, or standing up around the hearths, or in the little space that remained in between all the mayhem, talking loudly and slapping each other''s shoulders at some joke or another. The servants navigate the mess carrying platter after platter from the kitchens¡ªroasted venison, fresh fruit from the glass gardens, pork and poultries all wetting his appetite. He stretched out and grabbed a dumpling; the salty treat was dry and crunchy. He coughed, and washed it down with more wine. Is a good meal too much to ask of these people?


    He tried to locate again the one they said was to be his betrothed¡ªif Lord Stark accepted Father''s offer. She was comely enough on the eyes, he supposed. Mother had insisted he treat her right... And to begin seeding the ground. He tittered at the pun. Might as well start now, he thought, skimming over the tables until¡ªthere she is. She''d been speaking to Mother and Lady Stark, before returning to her seat about three tables in front of him, right besides¡­ what was her name? Jeyne something?


    Sansa sneaked a glance at him but froze, her timid smile crawling off her face. He did not see a northron girl in a quaint dress of her own making, awed by banners, gushing about the south and adventures not yet lived. Joffrey leaned forward, the cup of wine slipping his fingers and tumbling over the floor. He saw a woman with sapphire-blue eyes of a color with the gems on her crown; a queen facing off a great storm that shook her hair into tangled reds, a spear-maiden whose blood rose behind her in tendrils glinting under moonlight, cold wind raking her white northern furs.


    Joffrey found himself walking towards her, squeezing between the loud guests¡ªFather''s friends and Stark bannermen guffawing at the King''s antics, fueling them with attention. Her gaze bored into his own and did not wander; they were tidally locked, hypnotized, put under an unshakable spell. A blob of thrown food caught her in the cheek just as he reached her side, but she didn''t even flinch, not even when Arya giggled madly and loaded another shot on her spoon, guests laughing. She just stared up at him.


    Joffrey got a handkerchief out his pocket and cleaned her cheek. The movement was automatic, so ingrained and sure of itself that Jeyne lowered her own abortive attempt. He swiped carefully, making sure every bit of food was swept up. Her sapphire gaze was an ocean''s abyss; a deep trench where he could lose himself forever and be happy. Be loved. An ocean of care and love and bravery and intellect as entrancing as any sea he''d care to name¡ªSunset, Summer, Jade, Shivering, made no difference to him. His hand lingered on her face; a caress. She leaned into it, grabbing his hand and slowly rubbing her cheek on it, closing her eyes with a sigh and at last breaking line-of-sight.


    But the spell was not broken.


    "I know you," whispered Joffrey.


    She looked up like a hawk at the words. Another glob of food landed short, spilling a glass of watered wine beside her as she stood up. "Joffrey," she said, tasting it, the word like a forbidden secret.


    "Sansa," he said, the word so vast, so all-encompassing it brought stabs of memory, of sensation; of fiery kisses under bright fireworks, of knowing smiles flashed in council chambers. It was intoxicating. As heady as fine pear brandy, as addictive as purest spicemilk. He wanted more.


    "Joffrey," she whispered, a tremulous smile on her lips. She brushed a tuft of hair off his brow. A familiar gesture.


    "Sansa." Long sea voyages spraying saltwater on his brow, her hand a warm brush. A hole in the sky as they fought in ancient Stygai, her back against his as they wheeled and wheeled surrounded by shadows thirsting for blood. Forbidden kisses in the Red Keep; a rain of them, passion unleashed and purpose shared. More. He wanted more!!!


    "Joffrey," she whispered in ecstasy.


    "Sansa," he said, joy and horror and sadness and love drenching his mind in a storm of memories; a storm of Being.


    They embraced like drowning sailors¡ªshaking, dazed. His hands roamed throughout her body, desperately trying to feel her, to convince himself that this was real.


    "Oh Joff," she whispered as she did the same, tears sliding unto his neck, "Oh Joff¡­ what have we done?"


    "What we had to," he whispered back, holding her tight, "We did what we had to. Now we have to finish it."


    "Its already coming. Again. Its coming again, Joff. I don''t know if I''ve the strength."


    "Me neither, Sansa. Me neither," he said, his own voice shrill to his ears. He reared back and held her head against his, foreheads joined, her face his world, "But we have to. We have to end it before it ends us."


    "You''re building something. I felt you in the-" Purple-Cycle-Being-Self-Tapestry. Her thoughts breached him cleanly, their meaning and intent.


    "I think its what I was meant to do. To smash together against the Cycle and subvert it. Turn it- us into something else. Into-" Union-Awareness-Axis-Time-Gestalt.


    "Time for bed, Arya!" said Robb, hurrying to her and stopping another projectile before it could leave the spoon. He frowned as he walked towards them, "You too, Sansa."


    She maintained her death grip on him, and they retreated back from Robb''s confused advance. "I can buy us time, Joff. I know I can, but not for how long." There was a chill in the hall already, a servant throwing wood into one of the hearths.


    Joffrey gritted his teeth, his mind flying above the Purple-Cycle-Tapestry-Self. There were no distinctions; his perception was his construction, his thoughts and observations now purple fractals tracing a new shape. A new form scribbling to life that used the Cycle''s very power as raw material. A meditation on the nature of existence. "Can you¡­" Joffrey shook his head; it was damnably hard to do that and interact with the other side of that coin. With their side of reality. "When you can''t hold ''em any longer dump ''em as far from us as you can. Outside the castle if you''re able. Even if it costs us a few more seconds, we''ll gain that much more as they make their way to us."


    She swallowed as she looked at Robb, "It''ll be a slaughter." Her gathering will tingled Joffrey''s spine.


    Robb''s expression had turned from confusion to anger, forceful as he took another step and grabbed Sansa, a hand on Joffrey''s chest. "What are you doing?!"


    Sansa turned the grab into a lock before shoving him away, "Stay back, Robb!" The nearby guests leaned backwards, startled. Catelyn frowned at Joffrey as Cercei stood up.


    "Wow, what''s going on here?" said Ser Jaime, an idle hand over his sword''s pommel. "That''s the Prince you''re shoving around, little wolf. Terribly bad manners down south, don''t you know?" His smile was full of teeth.


    Robb pointed a finger at Joffrey, "Then tell him to lay his hands off my sister!" he yelled. People turned to stare, the hall growing quiet.


    Joffrey returned from the spreading fractals of the thing he was building. Of the thing he was understanding. "We don''t have time for this," he muttered, taking a deep breath as he centered himself. S?a??h th? ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    Sansa squirmed, sweat sliding down her forehead as she gripped him tighter and sidestepped another grab from Robb. "They''re close, Joff. They''re getting close."


    "Let one through. Let one through right here, Sansa, the rest anywhere else."


    She gasped, holding her head as a hellish drone swept from beyond, fractals skittering over air as the fabric tore open under the power of the Red Comet. Right besides Joffrey, atop a table, a White Walker dragged itself out of the fractals like a man tearing himself out of a tar pit. People screamed and fell off their seats, Robb and Jaime stumbling back as the thing screeched mist and raised its crystalline blade.


    "Westeros!" Joffrey roared, jumping atop the table with Brightroar in hand, his body shimmering in recursive lines which swirled in concentric patterns¡ªstars hanging in the void now cast into armor, antlers high and sharp. He brought down his sword with a two-handed heave, splitting the Walker from shoulder to hip and bathing Robb and Jaime in a hail of crystal.


    There was a second of vital silence, and Joffrey caught it with the ease of long experience. "Everyone quiet!" he bellowed, pointing Brightroar at the keep''s double doors, "There''s more from where that came from! Sound the bells! Arm yourselves with whatever you''ve got!"


    He turned to stunned faces. Cercei holding her mouth, Catelyn standing up from the table, Ned gobsmacked and Benjen Stark by his side, sword already in hand. Sansa, bless her heart, let through another one right besides Robb. Her arm slashed through its neck like Valyrian steel, decapitating it in one fell stroke. "Now!" she shouted, "To arms men of the Seven Kingdoms!"


    There was an instant of fatal doubt, of unreality, of panic in the air. And then King Robert Baratheon shoved the serving girl off his lap and stood up. "My warhammer!" he thundered, "Bring me my warhammer!"


    The room exploded into motion, men taking out swords as servants dove for cover, girls screaming in the chaos as Catelyn cried out to Sansa. But there was scarcely any time; Joffrey could feel his flesh pucker up, hairs squeezing against his skin as his breath misted in front of his very eyes. They were coming.


    He walked through two worlds. In one his steps left fractals in their wake, a budding understanding as he examined the might of the Cycle, the wisdom of the Purple, the secrets of the Pillars. Two half''s of an emerging whole. But could he complete it? On the other world¡ªno, the other side of the same world, he strode towards the keep''s doors on a wake of organization. He had to buy time; a more effective defense would give them just that, and so he threw himself at it. Like countless times before.


    He grabbed men who were still shocked into silence and bellowed in their faces, "Help barricade that door! Move! You two, grab those benches!" He caught one of the heavy oak tables and flipped it over, spilling those still seated with food and wine, "Help me get this to the door, now!" Befuddled lords and guests quickly joined him, though Joffrey felt he could have managed it with half the help. He hadn''t willed just his armor. He felt lean and strong; fast and deadly, his body a sharpened tool with a well-worn handle. Expertly trained and carefully coaxed to reach the peak of its potential. It was the body of his last life.


    "Wait!" yelled Ser Jaime, "Tyrion''s out there!"


    Screams outside, a bell toling madly in between the screech of a budding blizzard. Jon and Tyrion. Joffrey gritted his teeth, "There''s no time, I''m sorry," he said before hurrying off, squirming in between two groups of northrons carrying more tables. His wife had changed as well, though she didn''t seem to realize it. She looked taller, her frame filled out, not a trace of baby fat on her cheeks. Lean and regal, a crown of sapphires on her head and a snowfox pelt around her neck. She was explaining something to a group of people that included Robb, Benjen, and practically everyone who had sat at the high table.


    "They''re weak to Valyrian steel and dragonglass; we''ve got some of that squirreled away in the crypts-"


    "It''s too late, dear," said Joffrey, his mind weaving fractals, "We''re already cut off inside the main keep." He looked back, "They''ll be busting through that door any second now."


    Catelyn took Sansa''s hand, feeling the calluses and looking a this strange queen in the eye, "Sansa¡­ what happened to you?"


    She looked at herself and blinked, "Oh." Her gaze found his and thoughts flew. Reality''s growing frail, Joff.


    It''s all melding together. Past and Future, Dream and Truth, Will and Being.


    It might spiral out of control. We have to keep on top of it.


    Yes I-


    Both of them turned to the door. They''re here.


    Jory got to Ned''s side, handing him Ice, "My lord, we are under attack. The courtyard''s overrun by- by things and I can''t reach the rest of the guard!"


    Ned shook his head, "Get the women and children to the top floor, and¡­ I¡­" He kept shaking his head, lost, "My Prince, please tell me what-"


    Cold.


    "No time!" he said, turning to the doors, "Watch out for splinters! Get ready and don''t let them mass!"


    The Walkers hacked down the door at a prodigious rate, but this time people fought back. Knights and lords shoved swords and firepokers through the holes, trying to fight off the assault as a dozen Stark guards got into the hall from the other side, still buckling on armor. The Red Comet was an unfolding rose, a maelstorm of power now beyond restraint, a sledgehammer of reality whose assault made the earth tremble under Joffrey''s feet. He could feel the breaches through the fabric, bursting to life in the courtyard, the towers, beyond the walls in the Wolfswood. Scores of them piercing through reality at a time, cutting down all they saw and carrying a horrific winter with them. Joffrey felt it beyond his bones, in his soul; they were inexorably linked now. Two sides of the same coin. The madness would not stop until one of them subsumed the other.


    The Walkers forced their way in like a group of knights in formal ceremony, their strides calm and precise as they pushed the defenders past the chokepoint. They carried their breach forward in a wave of screams and blood, cutting down guests with such clockwork precision that people began to break, running for the back entrances and tripping on each other.


    "Hold!" shouted Joffrey, jumping into the fray and churning a Walker''s guts with Brightroar. "Hold for Dawn!"


    But these people were not the veterans of the Second War for Dawn; they were half-drunk guests armed with cutlery and wrought-iron fire pokers. They were routed, and Joffrey soon found himself surrounded, Sansa at his back as they wheeled in circles and her blood lashed out to rend and tear like pliers made of Valyrian steel. A Walker snarled ice and lifted its blade high.


    "Ours is the Fury!" roared King Robert Baratheon, his warhammer careening into the Walker''s chest and shattering it into a million pieces; a rain of Other-entrails misting around him. He kept the momentum going, spinning in a half circle and slamming another one with a mighty bellow; it flew across the room, landing on the hearth and putting out a fire.


    "Sansa!" shouted Ned Stark, Ice sweeping the Walkers to their right and shattering them in an arc.


    "Father! We need more time!" she said, bisecting a Walker in half with twin blades made of blood.


    "You''ll have it!" he said, taking out another Walker as Winterfell''s guard rallied around him.


    "Get back here you gutless worms!" bellowed King Robert, bringing his hammer down vertically and collapsing a Walker''s head, "Twenty years I''ve plied you all with boar and wine! Now you''ll bloody well die by my side!"


    "To the King!" roared Ser Jaime, parrying a Walker''s blade sideways and planting a dagger on its eyesocket, "Kingsguard! To the King!"


    The rally put a spine on the defense, shieldwalls made out of benches consolidating their lines even as they were pushed back. Joffrey and Sansa squeezed out of the melee, breathing hard as they surveyed the battle from the high table.


    "We''ve got minutes before we''re overrun," he said.


    Sansa snarled, the blood of the slain pooling around her feet before darting off like arrows, flensing bits of armor and icy flesh from the Walkers past the frontline. Her other efforts were far greater, and far grimmer. Joffrey could feel the fabric press around them, as if bulging with a score tumors rippling with undeath. "I can''t hold them off much longer either. The Cycle, it''s-"


    They both gasped in pain, scores of Walkers materializing just past the broken doors, pushing their brethren onward by sheer mass.


    "I need more time, Sansa!"


    "Let''s get up the tower, we can- AH!" Walkers tore through fractals behind them, surrounding the living from all sides and leaving scarce time for words.


    They covered the defense''s back as best as they could, Joffrey tracing fractals with his eyes and growing faster at it as he began to understand the pattern he was building. It was consolidation. The lessons of a thousand lives congealed into a single understanding and awareness. He could feel the fabric of reality like lines vibrating together, a coherent whole given weight by living perception. It was the seas and the land, the skies and the void, a canvass witnessed by the mind and given vibrant meaning. Given Song. What could he do with the Comet''s might? A Song Unleashed through Red and Purple will? Robert was laughing like a madman, wine and mania hand in hand as he spun in circles with his warhammer, crushing small groups of Walkers and dodging their blades by mere inches. Ned jumped in right when Robert''s momentum lay spent, Ice renting them apart and deflecting strikes that would''ve skewered his friend. Robert took the breather to accommodate the grip on his warhammer, taking two steps back before whirling it overhead into another one of his spinning, unstoppable smashes just as Ned backed out of the fray¡ªthey were a well oiled tearing machine. "BWAAAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!" he bellowed, catching a Walker by the thigh and sending it down, smashing its head with the haft. "Just like the Rebellion, eh Ned?!? EH?!"


    Ned grunted something unintelligible. Joffrey didn''t know if it was agreement, scolding, or a prayer; whatever it was supposed to be, it appeared to be exactly the right thing to say because Robert laughed harder still, his hammer catching a Walker by the chin with an uppercut.


    The press of Walkers turned tighter around them as they fought over the bodies of the slain; scores of stern faces locked in ice, crystal blades rising and falling. Joffrey gasped as one of them emerged from his own chest, lifting him up into the air. He gaped, surprised, blood dribbling down his mouth as he craned his neck. Robb and Theon stared at him. Jaime in his bloodied white cloak. Arya still gripping a dinner knife. Ned and Robert side by side, eyes glazed. All dead. All wights. Sansa screamed as they got her as well, brilliant light lashing out from the blades. He''d been too late. Too late.


    They fell down bottomless depths, the Cycle''s power crushing reality. Joffrey marveled at the thing he was beginning to understand; many times bigger than the Cycle or the Purple, an emergent being greater than the sum of its parts. A listener in the Song.


    Who am I?


    He traced birthing fractals coalescing around a whole. He saw them- a drone of power. Terrible pain lancing through his mind like a frozen pike and making him forget-


    No!


    He surged with budding understanding, trying to claw back his identity, his self from the Cold Wind ripping him to shreds. Breathe. Listen to the instant. The moment. The second.


    He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. But he was more, wasn''t he? He was shame. He was curiosity. He was the spray of saltwater on a ship''s bow. He was the sound of rustling leaves swept aside to reveal hidden temples.


    It was the Trident. The constant rumble of its waters, low but full of life, a lion''s purr promising more. A fixture of his lives, a companion through angst and joy. Joffrey found himself straining to hear its soothing currents, a close friend who''d seen almost as much as him. Awareness washed over him like a Summer Storm, hot and tingling, pleasant to the heart. It was warm. Sunny. How long had it been such he''d felt such sunny days?


    "What are you doing here?! Go away!"


    "Your sister?" A nod.


    "And who are you, boy?"


    "Mycah, my lord!"


    "He''s the butcher''s boy."


    That voice. He knew it. He reached out for it.


    "He''s my friend!"


    "Butcher''s boy who wants to be a knight, eh?" said Joffrey, "Pick up your sword butcher''s boy, let''s see how good you are."


    "She asked me to, m''lord, she asked me to!" Mycah looked terrified.


    "I''m your prince, not your lord." He kept his gaze fixed on the butcher''s boy, "And I said¡­" Joffrey trailed off, looking at his sword. He was holding it wrong. Why was he holding it wrong? Sandor would be ashamed of him. I am ashamed of myself. Arya was tense beside him, hands fisted as her gaze jumped from him to Mycah. The boy swallowed dry, eyes on the tip of his sword. A stick lay on the ground between them. Another one in Arya''s hand. They''d been playing.


    Joffrey cleared his throat. "And I said¡­" What had he said? "Pick up your sword¡­" he whispered, looking at the stick on the ground. What an idiotic thing to say.


    "But its not a sword m''prince, its only a stick!"


    Joffrey felt the smirk slide off his lips as he heard the Trident rushing beside them, its low gentle purr like a promise of Dawn. He walked past Mycah and Arya, towards the river. It held a message for him. Something important. "Joffrey, what are you doing?" said Sansa, confused as she followed him in.


    He waded knee deep into it, frowning at the ripples in the currents now tugging his legs. His reflection gazed back; an armored warrior out of some legend, a stern figure with a tug on the corner of his lips. He too, could hear the river. The summer. The promise.


    Joffrey looked at his gaudy sword, now gripped correctly in his gauntleted hand, stars distant but alight as he turned his wrist. He dropped it on the river, its splash adding to the ripples and distorting the reflection. When it came back he realized there was another one standing beside him, a Queen in southern riding dress, white northern fur around her neck.


    "Where are we?" said Sansa.


    "I think¡­" said Joffrey, turning to grab her hand, "The Riverlands. Come on, we''re Walker bait out here."


    They waded out of the river with long strides, Joffrey turning in all directions, looking for threats.


    "They''re probing again. But I think I can hold ''em off longer this time." She too was fulfilling her purpose as a weapon.


    "Good," he said as they reached the shore. Mycah and Arya shuffled back.


    "Sansa??" she said, "You look¡­ different."


    "I know, sweetie," she said, hugging her by surprise.


    Joffrey knelt on the grass, rubbing his head, "The jumps are growing larger in time. Exponential, I think."


    "Just like after Carcosa."


    "Yeah. Except now there''s no way out. Either we win¡­ or are subsumed." He traced the sea of fractals growing around the core. What are you? What is your purpose? Multiplying recursions were his answer, a spike perpendicular to reality. An axis of being.


    "Joff¡­ you know where that will take us." Her voice was filled with angst.


    "My wedding," he whispered, dread in his gut. The Purple. The Strangler. His first death, and perhaps his last. But he would not die in fear.


    "We''re getting back from the North, correct?" he asked a startled Arya. She nodded mutely. "That means the camp''s close by. We should arrange the defense there."


    "Hm. Let''s not play into its strength," said Sansa, surveying the land before finding Joffrey''s gaze, "Let''s ride. Escape as fast as we can."


    Joffrey nodded slowly, then faster and faster, "It''s worth a try. Come on!"


    Stars shimmered to life by their side, Mycah falling on his back in stunned awe. They mounted the silver lion and were quickly bounding through the forest, their heads low as the foliage whisked above them, Sansa''s arms tight around his armor. "It''s starting," she whispered.


    "Let them in gradually. Let them eat dust."


    The pressure abated slightly as Walkers roared to life around them, Stars dodging their swipes and leaving them behind as they tore out of the thicket and unto the King''s Road. Servants and soldiers startled back as the silver lion dodged and weaved between carriages, shouts behind them as they leapt past a gaping Ned. They raced beyond the caravan, into the open road at furious speed.


    "Something else is coming! Get ready!" shouted Sansa.


    He materialized Birghtroar just as a skittering mirage erupted to their right; an ice spider leaping at them. He slashed its abdomen¡ªa perfect sphere of crystalline ice¡ªand turned it to shards, slitting his eyes against the mist. The dread ice spiders that had so terrified his men were no wights, and nor were they Walker mounts. They were Walkers themselves, perhaps modeled¡ªlike Walker and man¡ªout of another intelligent species that had existed within this cycle. Had those spiders been the Walker''s first casualties, in the First War for Dawn?


    Two more scuttled behind them at speed, crystal legs skittering over the dirt. Sansa blew them a kiss; a red miasma which congealed over them into a crushing weight, leaving naught but pulverized ice.


    "Come on, Stars! Come on!" shouted Joffrey, faster as Walkers emerged ahead of them. Stars weaved left, back into the thicket. Fractals raced with them; leering Walkers and wisps of enlightenment. One second they were rushing through a wall of leaves, the other they were tumbling on the ground. Joffrey blinked the grime out of his eyes just in time to see a featureless ice ball with eight legs rearing up; it slammed its two forward legs into his torso, his scream echoing Sansa''s.


    Who am I?


    Joffrey tore through that sea of oblivion like a man raging through a sandstorm, "I am!" he roared, "I! Am!"


    He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. And then he was shame. He was curiosity. He was the spray of saltwater on a ship''s bow. He was the sound of rustling leaves swept aside to reveal hidden temples. He was a brother of men. A roar among thousands defending what was theirs. He was the smile of one hopelessly in love.


    There was no break in awareness. Coalescing fractals deposited him on the Iron Throne, the people of the court simpering as Ser Meryn Trant readied for another blow at Sansa''s back. Oxcross.


    "Hold that sword, Ser Meryn!" he said, dropping down the stairs two at a time as starry plate swirled around him. The knight stumbled back as he offered Sansa a hand. The woman that stood up was not the girl which had knelt a few minutes before; more regal than any simpering courtier, more hardened than any Kingsguard; she wore no torn dress but full court regalia, coronet and tight wrap dress like the ones of her Handmaidens, elegant but streamlined with practicality in mind.


    His Queen looked troubled, her breaths deep, "We won''t survive another one. We''ll leap past your death. Past your wedding."


    "Then we better win this now."


    Sansa surveyed the throne room, "We won''t be able to run this time. Maegor''s Holdfast?"


    "Sounds like a plan," he said. He stuttered when he saw Lancel, but pushed on, "Lancel! Sandor! Go rouse the men of the night watch! And ring the bells! I want every fighting man ready to repel an attack on Maegor''s Holdfast in five minutes! Go!"


    "Y-yes, Your Grace," said his cousin, backing up as he bowed, as if blasted away by Joffrey''s orders. Sandor gave him a mighty frown before Joffrey urged him on with both hands.


    "What are you all waiting for!?" he roared at the courtiers, "Arm yourselves and follow me!" This pack of sycophants would barely slow a Walker down, but at least they''d take a hit instead of a more capable Redcloak¡ªor hells, even a Goldcloak.


    They walked out of the throne room followed by a stunned entourage, only to bump unto Tyrion and his sellsword. Bronn. "Nephew?" he said.


    "Uncle! On me!" he said, walking through the Outer Yard. Joffrey sniffed; there was a chill in the air.


    "What the hells'' going on?" Tyrion asked Ser Meryn Trant.


    "We''re about to be under attack, that''s what''s going on. Bronn, Ser Meryn, go to Traitor''s Walk and gather as many of the guards as you can find. Bring them to Maegor''s Holdfast; gold, red, I don''t care. We''ll make our stand there."


    "Nephew, have you gone insane?"


    "More or less." He turned, feeling the weight of his armor of stars flexing with his muscles, looming over both figures, "You have four minutes or you''re staying outside."


    Ser Meryn leapt at it, and¡ªa nod from Tyrion later¡ªBronn followed. His uncle scanned him up and down, "That''s quite the armor," he said, stunned.


    "Wait until you see the sword," he said, making way to the Middle Bailey. Bells were tolling, men hollering as they ran out of barracks and guard towers.


    "You''re close, Joff. Growing¡­ Like breathing," said Sansa, her eyes faraway but her stride sure. Joffrey gritted his teeth as understanding became awareness. He could feel the Cycle''s strength, the Purple''s fractals like never before. A single being coming to life which spanned time and space in an elegant confluence. Sansa was right; he was close. Who am I?


    They crossed the dry moat into Maegor''s Holdfast, Joffrey waving the troops back inside. "It''s growing desperate," said Sansa, a chill breeze swaying her hair sideways. Snow was drifting from above; tiny feathers eerily out of place in summer.


    "It ought to be," he snarled, hollering at the men milling around the entry hall and readying a defense by groups around choke points. Sandor and Bronn''s groups arrived shortly after. About a second before he ordered the door barred, Lancel and a group of Goldcloaks made it inside too.


    "Can we wait for Ser Meryn''s group?" he asked Sansa.


    She shook her head. "They''re already breaching all around the city. The Outer Yard too."


    "Shit. Okay. Bar that gate! Barricade it!" He grabbed a servant, "You! Go to my chambers and get my crossbows. Pass ''em on to the guards here!"


    Tyrion grabbed hold of him before he could wheel to Sandor with the next set of orders. "Joffrey! Mother''s Tits what the hells'' happening!? What the hells happened to you?! And to Lady Sansa!? And where did you get that sword!?"


    "Tyrion¡­" he said, grabbing his shoulder in turn but trailing off. How to explain such vast stakes, such cosmic war? He stared fondly at his uncle, this brave man who thought he was a coward, this light in the darkness always with a quip in hand, a laugh to share in the midst of death.


    Tyrion blinked back, his mouth closing slowly. "I see," he whispered. "I see¡­"


    "They''re swarming the outer gatehouse; more manifesting inside the Middle Baily," said Sansa. "I can keep them out of the holdfast but not indefinitely!"


    "Just give us what you can!" he said, raising Brightroar high, it''s fractaled glow painting light over the faces of his people. In this life, and all the rest. "Remember your orders! Follow me, men of Westeros!"


    These men couldn''t have hoped to understand what was happening¡ªwhat this was all about. And yet¡­ and yet there was a dream of Dawn surging in the Song, a half-remembered hope reaching across time as his own awareness grew; spines straightened, faces were set. When the Walkers began smashing against the small gate of Maegor''s Holdfast, not one of them ran away. Joffrey fought it on two worlds; slowing down the Walker advance, accelerating his recursive awareness. Faster and faster, reality squirming as his will grew to match the might of the Red Comet¡ªusing its own escalating power against itself as every surge powered the both of them to-


    They retreated through another corridor, and suddenly it was not Lancel the simpering coward fighting by their side; it was Legate Lancel Lannister in his Royal Guard half-plate, a knowing smile on his lips as he rammed a halberd against a Walker''s head. It was Sandor¡ªnot the Hound¡ªcovering their escape as Walkers caught him from two sides. Tyrion smiling as he pulled on a firecharge and immolated himself, taking with him a whole room filled with Walkers. They ran to the last floor, to the crenelations atop Maegor''s Keep as men died shouting ''Dawn!'', fighting past their breaking point, as the Red Comet streaked against the atmosphere and bloomed like a reaching hand towards the keep. Escalations piled atop each other so fast Joffrey could scarcely breathe and then-


    He found himself looking at the Walker piercing him in place, the blade churning in his guts. Hundreds of them standing around he and Sansa, thousands all over the keep; millions, blanketing the city of King''s Landing and beyond. The Red Comet circled above them¡ªa moon floating above the Red Keep and covering up the blue sky.


    Joffrey fell, lightly. Fractals forgotten; dreams in the wind.


    Who am I?


    He felt himself land on the courtyard, the guests of his wedding smiling awkwardly as he stood with Valyrian steel in hand, having just carved a cake.


    He looked down at the cup in his hand, the wine swirling inside. Had he taken a sip already? He licked his lips¡ªmoist. Had he? He felt unsteady, dropping the cup as he turned to the high table. He gave Lady Sansa an apologetic smile. He felt he''d failed at something, though he didn''t know what.


    She stood up slowly, her frown turning into horror. She rushed past the startled guests, reaching his side and shaking him wildly, "Did you drink it?! Did you drink it?!"


    "I¡­ I know you," he said, swaying; his throat tingled. It felt¡­ tighter. He collapsed on his back, gasping for air. Above him he could see the Red Comet growing larger, a streaking moon now the size of the sun, now larger still. It was coming here.


    Who am I?


    "Yes," whispered Sansa, "And you know me; You''re mine. Mine alone," she said, her hand pressing against his chest as his blood boiled, the Strangler pooling around it as he screamed in pain. It bought him time. Time to think. Time to remember.


    "Do you remember what you told me? All those years ago¡­" she said, her voice so familiar, "What you promised me?"


    He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. And then he was shame. He was curiosity. He was the spray of saltwater on a ship''s bow. He was the sound of rustling leaves swept aside to reveal hidden temples. He was a brother of men. A roar among thousands defending what was theirs. He was the smile of one hopelessly in love. A leader amongst brothers; a leader of men. He was the sword that pointed the way. He was horrific destruction measured and aimed, a holocaust with a will of its own that sought to protect.


    He was a strand of the fabric. Watcher and Star. For what was a Song, without a Listener to give it meaning? The fractals cohered into a single whole and he breathed. The instant. The moment.


    He was Joffrey. He was Joff. He remembered.


    "Together," he said.


    They looked up at the arriving Comet, its guts spreading to cover the sky entire above the city and beyond, people screaming in fright. But they were not afraid; Joffrey extended a hand up to the sky. This was not their home. They did not belong here; neither them, nor the Comet.


    Take us back, Joff, thought Sansa. Back to the dream of Dawn. Back to the death of Winter. He felt anchored to that memory, that vision of his Kingdoms united, that hope that survived through loss and destruction¡ªthey had earned their triumph. They had earned their Dawn.


    They jumped through titan pillars powered by Comet''s might, fractals spreading in dimensions beyond mortal ken¡ªtime and space bending to their will.


    -: PD :-


    Author''s Note: Just one more to go, friends.

 Epilogue.

    Epilogue.Spoiler: Music S?a?ch* Th? ?0velF?re.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


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    AN: Right click, set to loop.


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    The Comet spun slowly above them. It had raced through the atmosphere to stop them¡ªnow it hanged over them all, an orb the size of a continent, its fractals spread in all direction and blanketing the sky in red. It shimmered softly, the crystal wisping into nothing as Joffrey willed it so. He felt both different and not; himself but more. It was as if he''d finally understood a paradox; found an answer to an open dilemma. The Red Comet dissolved into twirling recursions that rained above the battlefield like tiny wisps of brilliant snow, a softly falling spectacle silent and majestic. He lowered his gaze and found his wife''s, a fond smile on her lips. She cupped his cheek as he held her other hand, a warm joy bouncing between them as the sun emerged from the mountains behind her, far to the east. It bathed the silent battlefield in warm light; radiant through the falling fractals like floating chandeliers, kaleidoscopes of dawn sweeping the earth. The Walkers around them melted into snow, their anima now subsumed, the wights collapsing on the ground as their strings found no puppeteer.


    The armies of dawn lay entranced by that falling crystal, that spectacle of light now warming not only their souls but their bodies, their wounds healed under that radiant light. Knights and lords, guardsmen and militia, men and women now gazing up at the death of Winter¡ªat the ethereal rain bright and dissolving.


    He felt the Song Resplendent, the Song Victorious. Like a grand choir humming past the climax, smooth and distant but never quite ending. It suffused everything now; bereft of the Silence''s assault, it surged taller and wider, a promise now fulfilled and expanding still. He felt it in the swaying of the trees beyond the hills, in the potent hush of the Trident down south, in the hearts of his people now surging with joy.


    They smiled together, he and Sansa, hugging each other and giggling like triumphant children. It is done, thought Joffrey. He was stunned into awe by that impossible thought, disbelief melting like the Walkers around him, a mighty certainty crisp in the morning air. They twirled as they laughed, twisting like the guests of honor in a ball, holding unto each other and basking in that warm light now more intoxicating than any luxury known to man. The storm had lifted. The clouds were gone. Now, between dispelled fractals peeked a sky brilliant blue, crisp and fresh and filled with raw promise.


    Their giggles died down as they beheld each other, their foreheads joined as they took big breaths, a towering weight swept away. He felt light, free¡ªon the edge of flying away into the sky.


    "What now, Joff?" said Sansa, her face his world as he smiled again, a rakish grin he''d almost forgotten. What now indeed? The power of the Red Comet was now theirs¡ªthat overwhelming reserve built to last eons now at their fingertips.


    "We could let it go," he said, "We could live our dream. Together."


    "Together," whispered Sansa, looking to their side with bright eyes that pierced across time. Joffrey followed her flying gaze, away and through a future fulfilled. He saw himself lift Brightroar high, a powerful bellow crawling out of his throat. ''Victory!!!'' he roared, breaking the army of dawn from its trance as they raised their weapons to clear skies, the cry filled with rapturous joy¡ªunchained relief, ecstatic awe. A roar echoed throughout the Kingdom, filling all that breathed with primal joy and intrinsic understanding¡ªthe knowledge that Winter was dead, that the Silver Dawn now peeked between mountains. He saw himself and Sansa walking under a tunnel of swords and libards, people crying on their knees, fierce whoop''s in the air, and later¡ªthrough King''s Landing with the army behind them, petals of newly blossomed flowers jingling in the air as the city celebrated, people dancing in the streets, hugging each other. He saw them lead the Ceremony of the Fallen, kneeling alongside his people entire as the dead were burned in one mighty pyre, their ashes interred under a grand monument facing Baelor''s Sept. The dead were mourned and honored; stories and accounts compiled and published.


    And then?


    Joffrey''s breath hitched, his belly tingling like a storm of bright butterflies. And then¡­ he saw his Dream of Dawn brought to life. Without harbingers of doom waiting on the wings, their legitimacy unquestioned even by the mad, at last they had time. The greatest of powers¡ªtime beyond the clutches of the Purple and the Cycle, time beyond the deadlines of war and winter. So much time that it brought angst to Joffrey''s Purple-trained instincts; what to do with such overwhelming power? What destiny could he create now unbound by a rewinding world?


    But he didn''t need to see that future to know, for the answer was obvious; he''d mobilized his people for savage war, why not for lasting peace? Time on the throne uncontested, his name living legend¡ªtools to create.


    So much time¡­


    Tears filled his eyes as Sansa guided him through that future, years and years, decades of peace in the Kingdom of Westeros; the Kingdom of Summer Eternal. No people could survive such an apocalyptic war and emerge unchanged. But what emerged? What defects of old? What virtues conserved? The Second War for Dawn was a massive forge which had broken apart the ingredients of his people and his culture, leaving everything jumbled up and stirred¡ªa golden opportunity for which worthy rulers would''ve killed for; died for. And now that terrible furnace had spit back the purified metal right into his hands; a raw material of limitless potential ripe for the picking. He would not waste the chance.


    Joffrey licked his lips in greedy delight as he saw King and Queen work that Kingdom like master smiths. Artists on their grandest¡ªtheir last¡ªcommission. Through the power of bureaucracy in the hands of the Aides he erected great roads and bridges, sewers and boulevards, parks and monuments; halls of administration spreading his hand to every city, and every town. Through shrewed dealings and meritocratic orders he spread the fires of industry and commerce¡ªa self-fueling endeavor spawning harbors and manufacturies; warehouses filled with goods brought by trade fleets which spanned the world.


    His wife ruled by his side, together as it was meant to be, her influence a tidal wave of creation leaving theaters and music halls in its wake, famed storytellers and elaborate minstrel''s shows roaming the land and touching every last corner of it, spreading the coalescing identity of the Silver Kingdom. Under Sansa''s aegis was magic reborn; the secrets of blood and of warging spread to those who would use them for the benefit of all, the might of the Song a guiding tune. He watched grow orders of healers and woodsmen, their work a blessing on the land. He sailed with ship captains whose seagulls perched on their shoulders, the birds taking flight to range wide¡ªlooking for lands beyond Sothoryos, searching for storms and shoals of fish. He trained with shock troops bonded with bears armored in steel, their sight a swift deterrent to any thought of invasion from the east or the west. He saw tall academies raised on the capital, their corridors connected to hospitals just as big, their blood healers praised by the smallfolk on the streets.


    Beyond the physical, it was the culture that changed. The soul. Through the examples of the Guard and the Handmaidens, through the works bringing prosperity to the land, and through the very will and example of their King and Queen, Westeros changed. The vows of knighthood turned from thin veneer to cast iron conviction, a sacred belief to be followed no matter the war, no matter the lord. The pathetic and lopsided relationship between lord and smallfolk was transformed; through the war melted, then forged with care and time and patience, Joffrey oversaw its renaissance as a soul-deep bond. A gut-felt instinct to see one''s vassals prosper; an obligation to nurture and protect from which turning back was the gravest of sins¡ªthe most horrifying of shames. ''We won the War for Dawn, yes,'' Joffrey would often say, ''But what of the peace, my lords? We must be worthy of this peace.'' Sansa was his co-conspirator, his partner and lover neck deep in this reforging. Her vanguard of Handmaidens paved the way for many of the women of Westeros, and the realm grew stronger as their talents were unchained, as their potential was nurtured. They made cunning spies and diplomats, free-thinking scholars arguing and innovating, self-assured merchants raking coin and exotic spices.


    It was not all perfect. There was conflict and tension, but it flowed through mechanisms cannily built out of immortal wisdom, powering on the Kingdom instead of rending it apart. They never really stood a chance, he thought, still smiling as he saw his people become all they could. Battlefields and castle keeps gave way to dueling fields and manor houses as prosperity circled without end, palaces dotting the countryside and overlooking bustling towns whose grand squares were filled with song and trade. The Song hummed Victorious throughout it all, a constant reminder of their shared bond, an instinctual melody on the edge of audition, growing grander by the passing years. It bonded the people with their land, with the seas, with each other. It was a different age¡ªa different world, a response as mighty as the war that preceded it. It was the Silver Age, and thus did the people acclaim their ruling House, its banner that of the Kingdom; the banner of Westeros.


    "Sansa¡­" he whispered, her hand squeezing his. He saw their children; thoughtful Lyarra and her shadowcat partner. Laughing Tygel and his love of tourneys. The twins Robar and Edvard, hounding Sandor for another match and uncle Tyrion for another tale. "No more," he whispered, shielding his eyes and wiping tears. "Show me the end."


    He saw himself become old¡ªalways working, always moving forward. One day they took a boat down the Trident. It was a usual pastime for the royal couple, increasingly so in later years. They visited not just old friends and family, but the people working the land between the rivers. They shared ale and tales with old veterans of Dawn¡ªasked about their children, and their children''s children. Joffrey smiled as he gripped the river galley''s railing with gnarled hands, listening for the Song. He met eyes with himself across time, and past and future selves shared a little smile.


    That night he and Sansa went to sleep, and on the morn didn''t wake up¡ªthey died as they lived; together. He saw their caskets flanked by soldiers and nobles as they marched to Baelor''s Sept, the city weeping with their family as people lined the streets. They were burned, as had been their wish, their remains spread throughout the land they had loved so much. Joffrey breathed deeply as he saw their ashes fly untethered, carried by the wind out beyond the earth. Grass had covered the scars of the land; the wight-piles feeding fields of flowers which surged in a riot of colors¡ªfierce violets, vibrant yellows, deep reds tinged in scarlet; they covered the old battlefields in rainbow hues, swaying gently under the wind. Peace at last, final rest for his soul.


    He turned back to Sansa. Mere seconds had passed. Seconds in which he''d lived a whole life. "It''s beautiful," he whispered, playing with her chin, looking at her lips. All they had wanted and more. A peaceful life, loved and cherished, proud and accomplished.


    But¡­


    They gazed up at the Comet''s corpse¡ªthat juggernaut of existence, twirling slowly as it dissolved to shiny wisps. "We could go beyond instead," Sansa whispered. Grab the Cycle''s power entire and push through the fabric, to meld with the Song and reach a state incomprehensible to mortal-kind. So many mysteries remained¡­ Had the creators of the Purple and the Cycle gone there? What purpose their creations? To create a being such as he and Sansa, through the strife of Song and Silence? Or perhaps to forbid it entirely¡ªa blockade on ascension. Had they disagreed, formed two factions engaged in civil war? Joffrey could see the lines of the fabric vibrating as a single tune, a Song perpendicular through time like an eternal axis. Could there exist different tunes? What strange dimensions pulsed between the fractals? What forbidden realms thick with both mystery and enlightenment? Joffrey itched to know, his explorer''s instincts leaping to the fore. What to do? To ascend into the heavens, like the Night Lion and the Maiden-Made-of-Light of Yitish lore? Or to fill his guts with that primal scream of Victory, to lead his people into an age of legend?


    "Sansa, what do we do?" he said, equally torn.


    She smiled that sweet, secret smile of hers, "Kiss me first."


    An excellent plan. They kissed long and hard, her breath filling him from top to bottom. As heady as strongwine, as addictive as spicemilk. They kissed under the glittering remnants of the Comet destroyed¡ªlittle fractal snakes drifting with the wind, the light of dawn spreading throughout the land with a warm touch, filled with peace, a promise fulfilled.


    THE END.


    - : PD : -

 On Purple Days and What Comes Next (Or, a big fat Authors Note).

    Spoiler: MusicJust because I can.


    *Sits back with a mighty sigh*


    It''s over¡­


    I can barely believe it myself... and yet, it''s done. Those big bold THE END twins jutting out of the epilogue (man, the chills when I wrote down those words). So, story''s over. Why the threadmark? What is there left to say? Well, much like Joffrey at the end of his tale, I find myself wanting to lay down some rambling thoughts on the whole journey¡ªa closure of sorts. Thanks in advance for indulging me


    . If you''re not in the mood to read me reminisce about stuff, then please jump to the end (I''ve marked it with a big "HEY"). You see, I''ve a request for you. Yes, you. No, its not a Patreon


    .


    So, what to say about Purple Days? For me, it has been practically a second career throughout these past few years. A constant companion through both good times and bad... as it was, I now see, for many of you. I think Joffrey''s existential struggle against such titanic enemy was no doubt powered in part by my own struggles in constructing an adult identity, and in finishing my professional degree (which took longer than the fic itself, if only by a week or two. My final exam is scheduled for next monday


    ), and looking back from here there was definitively a depression or two throughout the long march of all those years*.


    I''ve always loved a good timetravel story, and especially a Groundhog-loop story. The concept of a wiser, better person going back in time to correct the mistakes of their past struck a deep chord in me. Sometimes it was not the ''fixing-mistakes'' aspect that entranced me so, but rather the full-bore use of opportunities that you''d left fallow, recognized only years later, unused in the past and brimming with bittersweet what-could''ve-beens. If only we''d been more mature, more self-aware, could''ve things turned out differently? And in the here and now, what could we achieve with limitless time? Immortality is often depicted as a curse both in myth and in contemporary literature¡ªa gray forever filled with nihilism and hate, both for the immortal himself and for the mortal denizens which come in and out of his life like characters in a play. The world turns drab and excruciatingly boring. We lose protective innocence and benign ignorance. We lose our humanity and become monsters, obsessed over petty schemes and petty lives. Why such potent horror? Has humanity really figured out the ins and outs of immortality? Or perhaps we have deluded ourselves, saying no to something we can''t have regardless? We''re better off this way, it''d be a curse anyway. Like a disappointed kid convincing himself he didn''t really want the thing he couldn''t have anyway.


    I often ask myself, would it really be so terrible? Or has inevitable Death, as Nick Bostrom so eloquently puts it in his parable of the Dragon-Tyrant, veiled our eyes? Could we instead grow wiser, more competent, more kind, more humanistic and more knowledgeable if we had more time? Time to perfect ourselves, to perfect our world, to drench ourselves in all those sense-moment-time''s that lay in our world, nay, the cosmos, ripe for the picking? Call me idealistic if you want, but I choose to believe that a post-human humanity would resemble more in outlook to that of Carl Sagan''s, than to that of Dracula''s**.


    The other part of the equation was Game of Thrones. Man, what a ride, am I right? I devoured season 1 (don''t get me started on seasons 7-8... Actually, please do


    ) and promptly read the entire ASOIAF series (what we have of it at least). The world, the characters, the plot-twists, it was just insanely fun. GRRM created a wonderful (crapsack) world that served as the framework for my entire story, and I can''t thank him enough for that***. I hated Joffrey a lot at first. My first fanficky musings were about a team of spec ops commandoes rappelling down from circling blackhawks into the face of stunned Redcloaks and machine-gunning season 2''s Red Keep and all the bastards inside it (Lol). But as I lost myself in the world of fanfictions (boy did I read a lot of them back in the day) I began to think about trying my hand at it, because why not? It looked like fun, and I liked to write. From there I began to muse about the idea of a groundhog-style timeloop with an ASOIAF character. Joffrey was the obvious choice: after all, the lower they start, the higher they can rise, and his relatively young death meant his character was also not set in stone. His position as King left the door open to a lot of interesting shenanigans, and his sadism had an infantile strain that made it seem as if he was a toddler... thus, with potential to grow into a man. Astonishingly, another story with the exact same premise (my friend Duesal''s Return of the King) appeared in AH a few weeks after I''d thought about the premise (and never told a living soul. Talk about coincidences). It was the catalyst for me to jump in and try my hand; a slap from destiny as if saying ''what are you waiting for?!''


    And so the saga began. I didn''t have an ending in mind¡ªin fact, I had no plan at all beyond ''break Joffrey down and build him back up''. The writing was atrocious¡ªgrammar was all over the place, descriptions were lame and disjointed, and at parts it got so bad I still cringe today when I read them over. I was having fun though. A lot of fun... and I think some that shined through. There''s a lot about the story itself that I could talk about, but I''ll leave most of it for the Q&A (more on than later).


    The going was hard, sometimes. There were a few times I was sorely tempted to just abandon the story, times when writing barely gave me a tenth of the old oomph... why, I can''t say with 100% certainty. The depression(s) definitively played a major part, masking themselves as Author Burnout (author''s beware, your muse may actually need counseling), but there was also a genuine exhaustion after so much time and so many words. Gradually, as my craft grew and I became more confident, GRRM''s world began tilting from a useful scaffolding to a constricting cage. I had so many ideas for new worlds and characters beyond the scope ASOIAF''s lore, themes, and even genre (yeah, even beyond PD''s expanded lore), that sometimes PD felt more of an anchor than a release. Fortunately, the core premise that made me write down that blasted prologue in the first pace still shone as brightly as ever. I also kept thinking back on all of you. How many awesome fanfics had I read that ended without warning? Those itch-scratchers that made me lose sleep as I binged on them like a junkie? Sometimes it was upfront, like a door banged in my face, with an AN explaining the reasons. Sometimes it was like a long drawn out stabbing¡ªeach new fragment of hope mercilessly quashed as I checked on it month after month for a new update, sometimes years later. I didn''t want to do that to y''all, it would''ve been cruel and a bastard move. Just as important, what would that do to me? Purple Days was the catalyst that made me realize I wanted to write for a living (more on this later)¡ªand how in the hells I was going to call myself a writer if I couldn''t even finish one piddly fanfic?! What hope when publishing an actual series? An honest to god trilogy? No way jose, not going to carry that weight of failed expectations for the rest of my (hopefully long-lived) career. And so here we are. Goddamnit but it was hard¡ªentire days watching at blank computer screens (don''t do that to yourself), but by the Old Gods I prevailed****.


    Anyway, as this fic grew and grew, and I whiled away entire weeks writing***** updates, I realized I enjoyed doing this more than anything else in my life. Sounds cliched, but it was true (more than gaming even, which was saying something). Definitively more than Law (yeah, that one was long year. shivers.), and more than psychology. I loved it. I felt I, don''t know, as if I''d been made for this. The one thing that got me to concentrate without the threat of certain death hanging over my head. To pour out my creativity in the written word, finally in a way useful to others*****. I wanted to do this for a living. I wanted it more than anything else in this world. But, as you''all can attest, my writing was not up to par. Nope. I had to git good.


    So I cut off my fanfic intake by 75% and set on a diet of trad-published authors, trying to get into my thick skull what they were doing right (and sometimes really wrong. You can get away with a lot of stuff if you put Penguin Random House next to your name). Read scores of ''how-to''s'' about the craft, some of them awesome, some of them trash. Watched Sanderson''s YT lectures******* and other audiovisual stuff. But most of all? I kept writing Purple Days. You guys, with your ideas, your corrections (AAHH THAT GRAMMAR!!! KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!), your enthusiasm, your praise, and even your disappointment (*Yi-Ti arc whimpers in the corner*there. there, boy,) were like a whetstone on which my craft was continuously honed. And for that I can''t thank you all enough¡ªyou who stuck with me through arcs with dubious conclusions and contradicting prologues, you who patiently waited for months as I sorted my own shit so I could get back to writing, you who were with me for the good bits and the bad... thank you. You helped make Purple Days what it is.


    And while we''re at it, I''m giving another shutout to Rilby and Labinnac , the Russian and Ukrainian (respectively) translators who contacted me out of the blue asking for permission to pass Purple Days into those languages, free of charge. They just loved it that much********.


    So, what comes after Purple Days? In a word, going pro. Is my writing there yet? Maybe. I still have trouble with verb tenses sometimes, capitalization keeps tripping me up, and though grammar''s armies finally lay defeated, the bastard has deployed guerrillas all over the land. I think English is simple to learn, hard to master (I''m not a native speaker, in case you, ermm, hadn''t noticed). Some turns of phrase still sound good to me but weird to natives. Though on the other hand, is writing ever there? I honestly can''t say. It can always get better. I look at chapters as little as 20 updates back and still cringe a little. No doubt I''ll cringe looking back at the epilogue, 100k words later in my life. The trick is to never stop learning. As long as the curve''s pointed up, that''s fine by me... and the only way to keep it that way is to publish. And publish again. And again and again and again. This is where you guys come in.


    HEEEEEEEEY!!! JUMPERS AND TL;DR''S, OVER HERE!


    To all the people hoping I write a fanfic of XYZ fandoms (hilariously, some of which I''ve never heard in my life. They sound cool though) I''m honestly sorry to disappoint, but I don''t have it in me anymore (at least not for now). What I can offer you, is original content. A whole freaking ton of it. From Sci fi to Epic Fantasy to Horror to one very particular mind-ISOT and more, I''ve been stacking settings and story ideas throughout these past few years like cordwood, promising myself that ''I''ll do it when Purple Days is over''. Its a lot, and it''ll take years to unpack (and some of them sadly won''t make the cut), but there''s a whole galore of ''em itching to get out. I''m talking about Victorian-era secret agents waging war across dimensions, nuclear-powered jet fighters defending Earth from asteroids, fantasy paladins making common cause with the undead, Club-goers taking psychadellic pills to enter a masquerade centered on the Song (yeah, that Song), one whole bunch of novels and sagas that''s basically Synthwave-the-music-genre made literature and- look, it all sounds silly when you blurt it out like that, but it makes sense in context, I swear. And with so much stuff, there''s bound to be something that will eventually tickle your fancy.


    But in order for any of that (and more. Trust me. More) stuff to see the light of day, I need to be able to make a living out of the whole equation. You see, the prevailing theory around success for Self-Published authors seems to center around the ''1000 True Fans'' mantra (or at least, that''s the one that makes more sense to me). Theory goes that your first priority as an up and coming author is to gather the people that really love your work in one place. Often through a mailing list or a website you''ve cobbled together over the years, person by person. As long as a novel nets you a single ''true fan'' you can then add to your ''tribe'' (mailing list, website, etc), then it was worth it. Why? Because¡ªrule of thumb goes¡ªwhen you reach 1000, you hit some sort of critical mass in terms of reviews and word-of-mouth, giving you a shot at surfacing through the BILLIONS of fics published on Amazon (and Applebooks and Google and all the rest) every year. The competition is real. Now, this does not guarantee success. It merely gives you a shot at surviving the algorithm so your work is shown to (at least some) prospective buyers... hopefully starting a snow-balling chain reaction if the work is good (there''s also a lot of luck involved). A shot... that''s all I can really ask. If it was good enough for Joffrey, it''s good enough for me... and in between all that theory reading I came to the rather obvious conclusion.


    I''d found my tribe already. Most everyone reading this made it past seven hundred and fiftythousand of my words, plus, (at least for some) five years of waiting. If that doesn''t qualify as being a ''true fan'' then I don''t know what the hell does. We just have to make it official.


    So, would you be part of my tribe? (sorry, I had to say it like that


    ). If the answer is yes, then send me your e-mail by private message, and I''ll keep it safe and sound in a big list. When I''m on the verge of publishing something I can actually sell, I''ll send you the link through that e-mail (I''ll also post the news in my profile here and in AH.com, but relying just on that would leave my nonexistant career at the mercy of mods and site administrators. Not that I plan on doing anything banneable in the near future, but that just doesn''t sit right with me). What you do then is up to you, but if you really enjoyed Purple Days and would love a way to pay it back, leave me an honest review then (be it on Amazon, Google books, or wherever the hells I publish it... Yeah, probably Amazon). If the algorithm gods are merciful, you''ll be the seed that grows a true fanbase! As part of this prestigious(tm) group, you''ll also get freebies (basically short stories and/or novellas set within the same universe as the latest work), and maybe behind the scenes stuff. I promise not to spam you, they''ll be rare and to the point... anyway, I''m at least a year away from publishing anything, so this is all just seeding the ground.


    Thanks for sticking with me so far. This got... a bit longer than I anticipated. This doesn''t have to be goodbye though; I''ll be hanging out in the thread for the next couple of weeks, answering questions (might want to ping me again if you did and I didn''t answer. Sorry!), offering interpretations, and¡ªas the americans love to say¡ªshooting the shit. Fair word of advise though; I''m heavily Watsonian (most of the time anyway) in my interpretation of literature. Purple Days is over. Closed. Whatever I have to say on it, 7 times out of 10, I''ll say it as another reader instead of the author.


    So, ask away! And send me those yummy emails! (I promise this is not an elaborate phishing scheme 5 years in the making).


    -----------


    *Don''t worry, I sought help and I''m doing fine now. Seriously, get help if you need it. Psychologists are useful, and I''m not just saying that because I spent 5-6 years mashing my head against the subject XD).


    **That is, if a CRISPR-tailored virus doesn''t wipe us all before the singularity. (Someone for the love of god please invest in biotech safety! Also, protip: check out your amazon smile charity and set it to ''SENS Research Foundation'' (they seem legit to me, but do your own research), so you can poach money from Bezos'' pocket and send it to researchers. Maybe you''ll gift a labcoat to the guys that end up cracking aging. Hope is good and all, but helping is better).


    ***Even though he hates fanfics with a passion. His reasoning seems to be along the lines of ''Anyone who writes a good fanfic would be better off writing their own fiction and are thus crippling themselves unnecessarily. The rest are filthy shippers doing disgusting things to my characters. UGH, RAMSAY, CERSEI AND JOFFREY?!?! WITH A SPOON?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?! STOP!!!''.


    ****If you''re stuck on a rut, my advise is to take a break. Write something else. Don''t write at all. Then get back to it and just write, even if you keep cranking pure crap. The good stuff is clogged somewhere inside. Get professional help if you feel its not just your writing which is suffering. It did the trick for me.


    *****The older hands remember those days. Three 10k updates a week,, week after week. Man that was insane.


    ******Though I''m also told I''m a fun GM.


    *******Cliched amateur writer trope! I know! I don''t care! Love or hate the Stormlight Archive, the man teaches really well. Recommend it to all authors here even if they never plan on going ''pro''. Your readers will appreciate it. S?a??h th? ?ov?l?ir?.n?t website on G??gl? to access chapters of n?vels early and in the highest quality.


    ********On a slightly hilarious sidenote, the existence of those translations somehow started the rumor that I was Russian or had Russian ancestry or something


    . I''m sorry to disappoint, comrades... though I will say this: I think the anthem of the Soviet Union as sung by the Red Army Choir is the most beautiful national anthem I''ve ever heard. Look it up on Youtube, its better than any Hellmarch.