Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

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.

"—and 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—I don't know—I 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.

"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 I know, 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.-