Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

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—" 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—all of them, as diverse as they may be—are 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.

"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 :-