Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

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—

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 façade 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 façade 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.

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.-