Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Brindlewood was a veritable sea of tents and pavilions, banners from dozens of different crownlander houses adorning the training rings and makeshift stables that surrounded the small core of wooden houses. Joffrey rode with Sandor, Ser Barristan, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn at his back, the two worst fighters in his Kingsguard balancing out the Hound and Ser Barristan. He'd been reluctant to leave Tyrion completely defenseless against the machinations of every other courtier in King's Landing, so he'd left him the most capable ones except, Ser Barristan excepted of course.

He rode past the bowing guards, through the absolute mess of an encampment dodging stray dogs and hangover soldiers. He quickly made sense of the labyrinth, angling his horse towards the biggest pavilion, from which countless Baratheon stags and Lannister lions seemed to leer at him, hanging atop poles. It seemed a feast was in progress… to his honor no doubt. He could hear the roaring laughter and the buzz of conversation as he dismounted swiftly, striding towards the pavilion as a couple of knights at the entrance barred the way. "Halt! Who…" trailed off one of them as he took in Joffrey's fine armor and the three white cloaks at his back.

"Make way for the King you cunt," said Sandor as he walked forward and almost tossed the startled knight aside.

The corner of Joffrey's mouth twisted up as he looked wryly at his sworn shield. He said nothing as he pushed the flap aside and entered the tent, Sandor, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn with him as Ser Barristan kept watch outside. Inside, the great pavilion that had been erected in his 'honor' boasted great wooden tables and swarms of serving wenches, catering to the rowdy gaggle of knights and lords with ale and hearty meats freshly hunted from the nearby forest.

Joffrey walked towards the center of the tent, dodging drunk knights and wenches suspiciously devoid of trays and drinks but with ample bosoms instead. "Good afternoon my lords, I trust the merriment has been worthwhile?" he called out, his voice clear.

The noise died down very quickly, heads turning in his direction as looked at the assembled crownland lords and knights, slowly turning around and gazing at the scene around him.

"Your grace!" called someone behind him, and Joffrey turned to the sight of Lord Darlan of House Buckwell. Not everyone in the tent was armored, but Lord Darlan sported a smartly polished half plate, the twin stag antlers of his house emblazoned over his chest. The man was a semi regular constant about four months after starting each life, his quest for a fine suit of armor to gift to his son sometimes carrying him to some of Robert's feasts.

"Lord Buckwell, it's good to have you here," Joffrey told him as more and more knights and lords took a knee as they realized the brat before them was their king.

"Rise, we've got work to do my lords," Joffrey called out.

"King Joffrey, please accept my condolences, your father was a great man, an inspiration to us all," said a man in a fine purple doublet with a silk voice as he stood up. Joffrey nodded as he waited for the man to continue, exanimating the three black lances laced over the purple. "We were prepared for your arrival, a feast is already being prepared in your honor for tomorrow, to share all the plentiful bounty of the Crownlands, followed by our oaths of fealty of course," he said with a magnanimous, helpful nod.

To Joffrey, it looked as if the feast had started without him, not that he cared. He didn't like the little 'helpful' way everything had been ordered for him. Who did they think he was? A child?

… probably, answered an uncomfortable voice inside his head. Who was this lord again? Lances over a field of black…

"Don't worry about that, Lord Gaunt. It won't be necessary," Joffrey told him, taking care to note who was in armor, who seemed too drunk, and who was still armed with something bigger than a dagger.

"The oaths?! But, your grace-!" started Lord Gaunt only to be interrupted by a wave of Joffrey's hands.

"You misunderstand me my lord, there will be no feast. We'll need those supplies once we're past Harrenhall. I'll take your oaths of fealty now," he said as he pierced him with his eyes.

He seemed vaguely nonplussed as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, Joffrey still staring at him until he finally kneeled. "Hail, King Joffrey. I'm yours to command," he said stiffly. The other knights and lords followed soon after with varying degrees of excitement or surprise, though eventually all kneeled.

"Rise, lords of the Crown. You all have an hour to sober up before we meet again here, we'll need to march fast," he said as he turned back and walked out of the tent. "Ser Boros, get me a map of the Riverlands," he commanded, leaving the stunned lords behind.

-.PD.-

The banners of the crownlands (or at least, those who had joined Joffrey in time) marched north at a snails pace. About eight thousand men had answered his call, way below the theoretical maximum of fifteen thousand that the mainland lords of the crownlands could call upon without straining the harvest too much. It was a pitiful force compared to the enormous armies fielded during the War of the Five Kings, but Joffrey honestly preferred it that way. He feared any larger force would actually move slower than a snail, and that was a cost he was not prepared to accept. As it was, his ordering and ongoing restructuring of the gaggle of quartermasters every single lord and knight seemed to field was a colossal time sink that was already earning him the ire of his 'leal vassals' and a permanently throbbing headache. The mere act of organizing their horrendous, hodgepodge logistic systems into something vaguely approaching 'acceptable' had unleashed irritated muttering from absolutely everyone, earning him the dubious nickname of 'The Baggage King'.

And they hadn't even reached Harrenhall…

At least the pace had picked up slightly once news of Robb had reached the host. The Lord of Winterfell had already crossed Moat Cailin, marching south hard with upwards of fifteen thousand angry northmen at his back…

He was riding in the van along with Lord Darlan Buckwell and Lord Renfred Rykker, two nobles which had managed to gain his attention. Lord Darlan was a veteran of the Trident and a simple sort of man who disdaining courtiers and spent most of his free time sparring or hunting when he was not ruling the Antlers. The short but stocky Lord Darlan fought hard for the dragons but still answered his call… of course, the fact that his lands bordered the Riverlands may have played a part in his willingness to serve him, both to be informed and forewarned in case of defeat and to reap the lands of their vanquished foes if victorious. Simple, but not stupid.

Compared to Lord Darlan, Lord Renfred Rykker was a study in contrast. A young, excitable boy barely past his nineteenth name day with the frame of a bull and a voice to match, the young crownlander had a Seven given knack for organization. His late father, also named Renfred, had died in a hunting accident shortly before he called them to levy. Joffrey had basically kidnapped him into serving as his overall quartermaster, a task most would have found insulting and demeaning for a Lord… a task Renfred had embraced wholeheartedly. The brutish looking lord's sheer joy at the royal attention would have left Joffrey wary for plots if not for the fact that it seemed so genuine. Lord Rykker almost preened with the responsibility he had been entrusted, and had dedicated himself completely towards the task, something that Joffrey (and his throbbing forehead) couldn't thank enough.

He was shaken from his reverie by Sandor's gruff warning. "Rider from the front," he said, signaling at a man in boiled leather riding a small horse as fast as he could, straight towards Joffrey as he dodged the columns of marching peasant levies and men at arms.

"Ya'grace!" he bellowed once he got there, reining in his horse brutally as he bowed his head. Joffrey winced at the poor handling of the animal as he nodded at the rider.

"What news from Ser Ethon?" he asked.

"We've spotted an armed host ya'grace, some two thousand, maybe four thousand strong camping smack in teh' middle of the Kingsroad a few hours away from 'ere," said the man.

"Northmen?" asked Lord Rykker, suddenly wary.

"Impossible, they're still too far out," said Lord Buckwell.

"Spot any banners, soldier?" Joffrey asked him.

The man nodded quickly, "Aye ya'grace, a red salmon over white and a plowman over brown, there were a few others too," he said.

"Houses Darry and…" Joffrey trailed off.

"Mooton, your grace," supplied Ser Barristan, who had been riding at his back.

"As well as 'a few more'," ended Joffrey.

By the gods what I would give for a Patrol or two of true Scouts, he thought sourly.

"Tell Ser Ethon to keep an eye on them and report all movements," he ordered the scout.

The rider bowed awkwardly over his horse before he rode back, kicking up dirt as Joffrey turned to Lord Buckwell. "Ready the men for battle, I'll take a hundred horse and ride on, see what's this all about," he told him.

"Surely it won't come to that, your grace?" asked Lord Rykker.

"For all our sakes, I hope not," Joffrey said with a small sight, already kicking his horse into a trot.

-.PD.-

Joffrey was the first to spot the parley flag flying over the heads of a dozen riders, standing tall over four other house banners. Behind them stood or milled about a small army of men and horse, evidenced by the small tents and the ramshackle tourney grounds. It seemed some Riverlords were holding an impromptu tourney… complete with their smallfolk levies.

Joffrey sighed as he and his most 'important' lords rode towards the parley party, Ser Barristan himself carrying their own parley flag. All around it flew the banners of Houses Buckwell, Gaunt, Hayford, Rosby, Rykker, Stokeworth, Edgerton and Langward, their lords or representing knights carrying them with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"I don't like the looks of this," muttered Lord Rykker.

"Calm your tits Rykker, stay behind me and you'll be safe and sound!" boasted Lord Geyn Edgerton, his thick beard not doing enough to hide the disdainful smile he regaled his target with. Lord Rykker clamped his mouth shut, letting the insult pass unopposed as Joffrey grimaced. Getting involved there would only worsen Lord Rykker's reputation for meekness. The man was surprisingly gentle despite being built like an ox and with having a voice to match.

They made their way through the fields of the Riverlands, Harrenhall already visible in the horizon. The riverlanders had positioned their 'tourney' well, with one side anchored on a batch of rolling hills to the east and the shores of the God's Eye to the west.

Joffrey and his lords finally stopped a few meters in front of the parley party, and he had already recognized Lord Raymun Darry, his expression giving away nothing. To his left was an old, red haired man in plate with a tabard of green and brown maple leaves; the sigil of House Blanetree, his face neutral even as his eyes betrayed an unnervingly cold hatred directed straight at him. To Lord Darry's other side stood a youth of seventeen or so namedays, gazing back defiantly at Joffrey as if he were a moment away from striking him, the red salmon of House Mooton sewn over the banner he held with excessive pride, straight as steel. It seemed more bravado than real anger though, at least compared to the hole boring stare of Lord Blanetree. The group was completed by the constantly shifting man in Roote livery, the two headed horse of Lord Harroway's Town seemingly in flight given the man's constant shuffling. The gaggle of knights behind them all bore one of the four house's liveries.

"My Lords," said Joffrey with a nod.

"Your Gr-" started Lord Roote but was quickly silenced by a look from Lord Darry.

"Prince Joffrey," Darry answered for the little group. The crownlanders bristled at the disrespect, their horses shuffling nervously as hands went to pommels. "That is the King you are speaking to, you know better than this Lord Raymun!" Ser Barristan said with a grim scowl, duty and oaths compelling him to defend Joffrey's honor.

"Ser Barristan," said Lord Darry with a nod which seemed to mix both revulsion and grudging respect, "The only King I know of is King Robert, first of his name," he said, an almost sarcastic twinge deeply hidden within the tone of his voice.

It makes sense really, House Darry lost a lot defending the Targeryens during the Rebellion, Joffrey mused as he let the scene play out.

"And I'm not seeing him here," he finished.

Before Ser Barristan could say another word Lord Edgerton guffawed loudly, looking at the Riverlanders as if they were imbeciles, "I know Riverlords are a bit slow, what with all the plowing"- he said the last word staring directly at Darry with a savage smile-"You all seem to gladly receive every twenty years, but even you, Raymun, must know that when a King dies, the Prince is made the new King?" he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Say another word my lord and blood shall be spilled!" suddenly spewed the youth in Mooton livery, his hand grasping the pommel of a longsword that seemed too long by half.

Lord Edgerton seemed decidedly unimpressed, his eyebrows somehow lifting themselves up even higher, "Oh! The get of cowardly old William speaks! I thought you'd be cowering under his bed right now, father and son both!" he laughed.

The boy gave a scream of incoherent rage as he tried to draw his longsword, the two knights in Mooton livery at his back grabbing him before he could spur his horse forward. Joffrey blinked, startled at the boy's willingness to break parley even as his hand swiftly dropped to the mace strapped to his belt and the Hound's steed took a single step forward. Even Lord Edgerton looking somewhat surprised, though the Riverlords seemed more exasperated than anything, Lord Raymun fixing the boy with stare that promised retribution. Joffrey gave a stare of his own to Lord Edgerton, warning him to keep quiet.

"Forgive Master Willard, my Prince, he has been drinking rather heavily," Said Lord Darry, silencing the next outraged outburst with another look.

Joffrey waved the apology away with a negligent twist of his hand, looking at Lord Darry with an impatient scowl. They were wasting precious time here. "Lord Raymund, it seems the news have somehow not yet reached you, but my father King Robert is dead. I'll be accepting your oaths of fealty now in the name of your houses," he said simply.

None of the lords (or young Willard) looked particularly surprised, Lord Darry nodding along as if Joffrey had told him it was about to rain. "I'm afraid I can't swear my fealty to you, my prince, without receiving confirmation by raven that King Robert is indeed, dead. Signed by the small council and the Hand of course," he said.

Ser Barristan bristled, and it was clear this time the implied slight had been personal, "You would doubt the honor of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?" he asked lightly, suddenly still.

Lord Darry's face disfigured itself for a microsecond as he whipped back to Ser Barristan, "Don't speak to me of honor, traitor!" he bit off, swiftly reasserting control as he turned back to Joffrey. "Pardon, my Prince, it's been a long day… especially considering you are bringing an army through my lands. We are carrying out important work out here, and I'm afraid I can't just stop it without a direct command from King Robert or Lord Hoster," he told Joffrey.

Joffrey leaned back on his saddle, pondering who had come up with this little trick, and why. He didn't remember much of Edmure, but this had all the signs of Old Hoster's work, from what he had heard about the man at least. If he could be delayed here one way or the other for a few days the Tully's could perhaps marshal their strength at the Ruby Ford if they were moving already, bottling him south until Robb Stark reinforced them… and then it'd be over.

He examined the group slowly, an unnatural silence falling down the wheat fields only punctuated by the gentle lapping of the God's Eye to the west as Joffrey kept staring at them. Lord Roote seemed ready to bolt, while Lord Blanetree had kept staring at him throughout the whole exchange.

"Did Old Hoster promise you back the lands he took from you after the Rebellion for this little stunt?" he suddenly probed.

Complete surprise was evident as Lord Darry almost reared back in shock, giving way to an awkward silence as he mulled something inside his mouth. "Wh- again, Prince Joffrey, if you want to-"

"By the Seven, let's stop this farce before we sully our honor any longer!" Lord Blanetree finally spat, combing one hand through his grey tipped red hair in exasperation. "Tell me boy, is it true you chopped off Ned Stark's head yourself? Or did you order your dog to do it?!" he snarled at Joffrey and Sandor.

And so the masquerade comes tumbling down… not that they expected much from it, he thought as Lord Raymun let out a resigned sigh.

Joffrey took a deep breath, the words sounding dirty and gravelly as they left his mouth "Lord Stark was caught in a web of-"

"Yes, caught and slain by evil Renly's web of deception, along with his ten year old son," he sneered. He seemed to scan Joffrey from head to toes before spitting to the ground. "Lannister rot to the core, I'm not surprised. That fine armor won't make you a warrior, child," he said, turning his horse around, "I'll look for you in the battlefield," he promised before spurring his mount onwards, his knights trailing behind him.

Joffrey swallowed the anger as his hands curled, frustration and rage fighting for control over his body.

"House Mooton shall fight to the last man!" called out Master Willard as he followed Blanetree back to their camp, trying to hide his shaking hands.

Joffrey stood on his stirrups for a few seconds, gazing at the camp and the banners beyond before sitting back down. "We outnumber you more than three to one, Lord Raymun, don't make me spill the blood of innocents for your ambitions," Joffrey pleaded with him.

The mask seemed to fall completely as Lord Darry looked at Joffrey as if he were nothing but dirt beneath his feet, much like he did when he thought no one was looking at him when the King's party crossed Castle Darry on their way back from Winterfell. It was an old hate, different from Lord Blanetree's but all the more potent for it. "The Old Trout didn't promise me anything, it would take more than a few crownlander traitors for him to give my family back what is rightfully theirs," he sneered, "Heh, I could be facing the Legions of the Seven Hells and the old greedy bastard wouldn't do it," he said as he turned his horse around. "Innocent blood…" he mused as he shook his head in disgust, "Innocent blood shall be avenged alright, that which was spilled by the old lion and his pet stag," he spat before turning to Lord Roote. "Let's go Lester," he said.

Roote seemed ready to shit himself as he looked from Joffrey to Raymun and back again. "Lord Roote!" repeated Darry. That was enough to shake the lord as he bowed to Joffrey, deeper than he ought to a 'prince', before spurring his horse back to their camp along with Darry.

Joffrey sighed as he watched them go, before turning his own horse around. "So be it," he said to himself as the crownlanders started to argue amongst themselves again.

-.PD.-

The afternoon sun was already starting to hide to the west when Joffrey held his war council.

"Lord Roote seemed ready to change sides right then and there. If we take a few days I can arrange for few discrete men to give him an offer he can't refuse!" said Lord Gaunt, almost shoving Ser Lyle out of the way with his pudgy belly as he leaned on the map, a big mug of ale in his hand.

"We should strike tomorrow, at dawn! Any more time and they'll dig themselves deeper!" responded the knight as he refused to be tossed aside.

"Oh, indeed?! Straight from one of the wealthiest houses in the Crownlands, the one who came with a whopping fifteen knights and five hundred peasants! Those will be my men that will do the dying, not yours!" bellowed Lord Edgerton.

"Please my lord's, let's keep this civil," said Ser Barristan, trying to keep the peace. Joffrey grimaced as he shook his head, trying to think above the constant shouting between the crownlanders. It didn't help that Lord Edgerton was right, House Stokeworth's levies had been pitiful for one of the wealthiest houses of the Crownlands. Before this life, it had taken the prospect of Lady Tanda Stokeworth herself trapped in the Red Keep beneath a vengeful Stannis for her to authorize a contingent of men at arms to reinforce the city. The dribs and drabs she'd sent him this time were barely short of treason, and their only saving grace was their commander, Ser Lyle of Old Bridge.

"We could attempt to flank them, the God's Eye is impossible but we can sneak a few knights past the hills on our right flank without them noticing," said Lord Buckwell.

"Not enough to make a difference on their own," said one of the Rosby knights. Lord Gyles had been too sick to come himself, or so the man had said.

They all seemed to be more or less ignoring him, and who could blame them? To them he was a green boy in fine armor playing at being King.

"We could just march through, force them to attack first," mused Lord Rykker with his grave voice.

"And you will march at the van? There won't be much baggage there I can tell you that!" Japed Lord Edgerton.

"Silence!" suddenly bellowed Joffrey, angry at them, at himself, at the damned purple.

"We'll attack tonight," he said as he stood up from his chair and re arranged the wooden pieces on the map.

Ser Barristan grimaced, lowering his voice as he spoke, "Your Grace, the darkness will make horse handling difficult, it would probably be better if-"

"We won't be needing the horses for this," he interrupted as he completed his re arrangement. "If we let Robb stark link up with the whole of the Riverlands before Lord Tywin can get here then all will be lost. This ends tonight," He sentenced, his voice oddly grave as his eyes glazed over deep in thought. "Ser Lyle, you'll command the left flank with your Stokeworth's, the Langward's and half the Gaunt's, your task will be to-"

Lord Gaunt looked apoplectic, his big belly straining his fine robes as he shouted over Joffrey. "My men under some nameless landed knight with less than five hundred foot?! I won't-"

"Lord Gaunt, I will listen to your objections later," Joffrey reprimanded him with a stern look before returning to the map, "As I said, Ser Lyle-"

"I'm not some dog you can silence with a word and a stern look, boy." Shouted Lord Gaunt, planting his mug of ale on the map and splashing beer over Joffrey's hands. "I won't have my men-" Gaunt started before Joffrey's hand moved like lightning, throwing a dagger at the mug. The strength behind the blow wrenched it from Lord Gaunt's grip and sent it tumbling to the floor.

"I said, I will listen to your objections later," Joffrey said, this time devoting his full attention to the man.

Gaunt stared back defiantly, not saying anything. A minute passed, two, three before Lord Gaunt looked down. "Very well," he bit out.

Joffrey kept staring at him.

"Very well, Your Grace," he managed, red faced.

"Good, Ser Lyle, your task will be to hold our left flank at first, but soon after battle is joined you are to retreat backwards slightly. Lord Buckwell, you'll command the right flank with your men, the Rykker's and Lord Gaunt's remaining half. Your task will be to push hard, buckling their line as Ser Lyle gives ground, thereby trapping the entire host against the God's Eye," he said, showing the basic maneuver with the pieces before looking up at Lord Buckwell.

"Aye, Your Grace… It will be difficult to coordinate in the dark though…" he said dubiously.

"…it's a simple pivot, I'm sure the men will be able to handle it," Joffrey told him before turning to Geyn. "Lord Edgerton, you'll command the reserve with all of our horse, use it run down any stragglers. I'll take the center with my red cloaks and your foot, as well as the Rosby's. We'll split the remaining minor Houses evenly between the three forces" he said, the Rosby knight nodding slowly as Lord Edgerton scratched his beard thoughtfully, unsure if he should feel insulted or honored.

"Does anyone have anything else to add?" asked Joffrey, straining not to slow his gaze too much at Gaunt's face.

There was silence before Joffrey nodded again.

"Very well, ready the men, we march in half an hour," he sentenced.

-.PD.-

"Our men will be tired, while the Riverlanders will be fresh," Ser Barristan tried once more as they walked past the lines of crudely armed peasants, the moon rising over the horizon.

"Yes, but their men will be rousing themselves when we reach them, they won't have time to mount up or armor a great many men," replied Joffrey.

"I understand, Your Grace, but the dark will cause us more wounded than if-"

"Ser Barristan," said Joffrey as he halted his horse and looked at him. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, really, I do. I'm honored to have such sage advice as yours by my side when riding for war, but you must understand that the decision, once taken, lies with me… and with me alone…" he said the last with a faraway look.

Ser Barristan nodded respectfully, carefully hiding a grimace, "Indeed it does, Your Grace. I only ask of you to be careful," he told him.

"… Your Grace?" he asked.

Joffrey was staring at the horizon, hands shaking slightly as he blinked, "I'm sorry Ser Barristan, what were you saying?" he asked the old knight.

"… It's okay to be afraid, everyone is, especially in their first battle," he said instead.

Joffrey looked at him with a sad smile, "If only it were fear Ser Barristan, if only…" he muttered as he spurred his horse onwards.

-.PD.-

The crash of armies was as sudden as it was brutal. Cries from scouts and guards giving way to the sound of hastily clad armor giving way to the screams of dying men and the screeching of steel on steel. They slaughtered a dozen surprised work crews before crashing into the camp proper, it appeared Lord Darry had been betting on receiving an early morning strike, given the state of the quarter dug ditches and piles of sharpened stakes laying in mounds, still to be deployed. Resistance immediately stiffened as they cleared the outer camp, terrified peasants and grim faced men at arms assembling where they could in a jumbled mess of swords, banners, pikes and axes. They had a bit of time to assemble thanks to the words of their scouts, but they were still unprepared when Joffrey was upon them.

Joffrey was at the back of the center, surveying the maneuver. He almost panicked when Ser Lyle seemed to stall too much in the left flank, but he managed to give way eventually, later than Joffrey would have hoped for and giving the Riverlords precious time to organize themselves, but manage he did. Lord Buckwell folded his flank magnificently, his right flank batting the enemy left flank back towards its center and enveloping against the God's Eye, whose generally gentle waves sounded thunderous in the middle of the night.

Disaster struck when a panicked, bloodied runner managed to find him, if only by accident. "Lord Edgerton! Lord Edgerton!!! The right flank is shattering and Lord Buckwell is nowhere to be found! We need the reserves," he screamed.

By the old gods how lost can one get with a little darkness?! This is the godsdamned center! He thought, the confusion quickly giving way to panic as he grabbed the man. "The reserve is that way!" he roared, shoving the man towards Lord Rykker's horse.

"Kingsguard! Sandor! Let's go!" he shouted at them, running to the right flank. They'd left their horses when they fought at the camp.

He arrived at the left flank to a sea of blood, frenzied knights and men at arms from different houses trying to break the encirclement by all means possible. Men in the livery of the Antlers lay sprawled on the ground, along with a few Gaunt's. It seemed the Riverlords were throwing everything they had to break free, he could already imagine their right flank disintegrating as they shoved everything they could through here in a mad bid to escape.

These bastards have cost me enough, he thought as he hefted his arming sword aloft.

"DIE!!!" he roared as he charged them, mace held low as he relieved a thousand battles inside his head.

I didn't want to return to this place, whispered a tiny voice inside him as he let go and devoted himself completely to the skirmish at hand, as he had done so countless times before.

A terrified peasant screamed as he tried to skewer him with a spear which Joffrey batted aside with his mace, his sword severing the man's arm and the mace caving his head in a second. Next came a man at arms with Darry's plowman sewn across his tabard, a tabard that was soon coated in blood as Joffrey parried the slow thrust of his longsword, his mace breaking the man's neck and the follow up slash slitting his exposed throat. He twisted, slipping between four peasants armed with scythe's and short swords. Their cloth armor seemed like paper to Joffrey, his arming sword cutting down two of them before they could react, his mace breaking the third's hand. The man bellowed in pain before bringing his scythe down slowly, so slowly. Joffey parried it with his sword as he twisted, his mace coming down on the man's head like a whipped rope, caving it in a shower blood.

He twisted yet again, mace angled for a blow that never came. The fourth peasant had thrown his spear on the ground and was kneeling. Joffrey took two steps, mace held high as he tried to make sense of the sound coming from the man's mouth.

"Plh-pleaase m'lord! Plhease don't kil--!!!" he cried in anguish, his plea cut short as Joffrey planted his mace right between the man's eyes, a shower of blood coating his back as he turned and went deeper into the battle. He realized he'd lost Sandor and his Kingsguard, but he couldn't be bothered to find them, so he made his way through the battlefield alone. He was going to try and find Lord Darry, see if he could make him pay for this mess. For this farce…

A knight charged him with a two handed hammer, slightly faster than the rest. Joffrey twisted to the side, letting the hammer pass but a hair's breath away from his nose, the steel spike digging itself on the ground. He delivered a flurry of quick blows on the man's arm with his own one handed hammer, denting the plate and spilling blood. The knight raised a hand, managing to grab Joffrey's before the next blow came, but the King snarled as he gave a step forward, lifting the man's arm high and shoving his arming sword through his armpit. He twisted brutally before taking it out, the knight falling like a length of oak before Joffrey was engaging the three knights behind their late comrade, who seemed vaguely cowering with their shields held up, trembling hands holding unsteady swords and maces. He was absolutely surrounded by men, and he didn't recognize any crownlander banners or livery.

He battered at the three knights and their shield wall before a smallfolk spearman managed to pierce his leg with an adrenaline fuelled, highly pitched yell, jumping from his right. Joffrey barely felt the blood flowing down his sheen as he cut the spear with a grunt, his mace coming up in a brutal backswing and shattering the little boy's jaw from below. He barely had time to gurgle before Joffrey finished him with a stab to the heart. The way he constantly turned his head, keeping sight of his blind spots, was the only reason he saw the blow to his back coming. He dropped to the ground, extending a leg backwards and tripping another smallfolk, robbing him of his equilibrium. The water drop was perfect as he stood pack up, elbowing the stumbling man's nose before turning again and planting his sword on his heart. A small circle seemed to be clearing around him as some men moved away even as other jumped at him. He had to leave his sword in the gaping man's chest as he stepped back, parrying a man at arm's thrust with his hammer even as he twisted again and dodged a spear. He grabbed the man's spear before pulling him closer, using him as a shield just in time for the man at arm's spiked one handed hammer to burst his head like a watermelon. Joffrey shoved the body aside as he disarmed the man at arms, breaking his fingers before pounding his forehead with one of the mace's flanges.

Even then two lightly armored men with the look of levied hunters attacked him, one of them tearing his grip from his hammer with a woodsman's axe. He let the hammer go as he'd done in countless skirmishes against wights, surprising the man by taking a step forward instead and delivering his armored fist to his mouth. He pummeled him twice more, quickly, intent on breaking his skull when he heard a scream from his side, "Brother!!!" screamed the second hunter as Joffrey let the first woodsman go, dodging the axe that would have cleaved his shoulder. He disarmed the second woodsman, coiling his arms around the haft and slamming the butt of the axe on the man's belly. He followed up with a blow to the man's neck with the haft, leaving him spluttering and breathless, both hands holding his throat as Joffrey pivoted and slammed the axe against his skull. He whipped back to the first woodsman, who was still looking confused, dazed as Joffrey grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shattered his face with the force of his gauntleted fist again and again. The man fell back like a sack of potatoes, Joffrey taking the unusual reprieve to quickly stride two steps back and grab his fallen sword and mace. By now the circle around him was meters wide, with only him and the three knight's he had spotted before inside it.

He turned to the trio of knights, their feet shuffling back and forth as they took refuge in each other's shields, their eyes wide in fear, holding their swords as if they were crossbows, the sound of battle strangely soft. "COME ON!!!" Joffrey roared as smashed his mace against the top edge of the center shield, using his mace as a hook as he brought it back down, shield and all. In less than a second, the knight's field of view was replaced from his shield to the rapidly approaching tip of Joffrey's arming sword, and then to blackness. The knight to Joffrey's right, the one in Blanetree livery, was the first to react, bringing down his sword on Joffrey's arm and intent on severing it. Joffrey instead let his arming sword go, rotating full circle and letting his other arm extend right at the end of it, his mace striking the man's helmet so hard it got stuck there, beyond his grip as the knight fell backwards, convulsing. The third knight gave a harrowing, adrenaline filled scream as he slashed with his sword, nicking a tiny bit of Joffrey's cheek as the King leaned away precisely, bending the other way as he avoided the backswing. He ducked the horizontal slash as he grabbed a spear from the ground, sweeping the knight's feet and forcing the man to the ground. He twirled the spear two times quickly, to get a better feel for it as the knight desperately reached for his sword, a lifetime away. He gave up as he instead grabbed his shield, Joffrey completing the third twirl with an unconscious nod. "You'll do," he muttered as he grasped the spear tightly with both hands and raised it high over the knight's throat.

"Please! Wait! Ransom!" the panicked knight shouted as he managed to cover his face with the shield just in time to receive Joffrey's spear thrust. The shield splintered and buckled as Joffrey snarled, raising the spear and bringing it down again, this time piercing the shield as the panicked screaming from below turned to gurgling. Joffrey roared as he redoubled the effort behind the thrust, practically shoving his body weight against it, driving it a couple of inches deeper.

The knight's hands flopped to his sides, unmoving as blood spilled like the Trident from beneath the splintered shield. Joffrey stepped back, letting the spear stand there like some sort of bannerless pole, spitting before he ripped a piece of cloth from the dead knight, tying up his own leg wound with a grunt.

He realized the din of battle had turned almost completely quiet, and he raised his eyes to the sight of dozens of wide eyed smallfolk levies and men at arms, his mere gaze enough for them to stumble back in near panic. He was unarmed and seemingly surrounded by enemies, but they didn't seem to quite understand that fact for some strange reason. Joffrey was honestly befuddled as he turned around, gazing at all the terrified men that surrounded him.

What a farce, this is all a farce…

He placed a foot over the dead knight's chest before pulling the spear out with a grunt, blood flying up in an arc. He grimaced as a bit fell on his shoulder, then shrugged when he realized he was soaked in blood anyway, even the hair beneath his helmet felt damnably sticky. He let out a long sigh, it wouldn't be the first time he'd have to clean that much blood of his armor.

He turned his gaze back to the men surrounding him, still seemingly petrified. He realized the full moon gave a lot more illumination than he'd anticipated, the glowing orb in the sky and the reflected light that struck the God's Eye enough to let him see a goodly portion of the battlefield.

More than half the battlefield was standing still, men, knights and lords from both sides looking at him as if he were some kind of White Walker. The thought threatened to send Joffrey into an incoherent, black rage.

"IS THIS NOT WHAT YOU WANTED?!" he suddenly roared, pacing around like a caged bull, twirling the spear again and again to keep his hands from killing again. "ALL THE GLORY OF WAR?! THE SONGS AND THE SLAUGTHER?!" he bellowed, his spectators scrambling out of the way if he got too close to the edge of the ever expanding circle. "THE RED BLOOD AND THE BROKEN DREAMS!" he screamed, his voice hitching. He blinked away the tears as he kept turning around the circle, "DARRY! DARRY!!! LORD DARRY!!!" he roared, still twirling the spear.

After a few moments of deafening silence, one end of the circle parted to make way for an ashen faced Lord Raymun Darry, a crude bandage over his head as he walked up to a respectful distance, followed by a small gaggle of knights and other familiar faces. Joffrey could see Master Willard amongst them, but Lord's Blanetree and Roote were nowhere to be seen.

He looked pale as he signaled the rest to stop. He continued alone, only followed by a very similar if much younger version of himself. The youth looked haggard and ready to piss himself, while Lord Darry looked crestfallen as he handed his shield to his son. He kneeled in front of Joffrey, bowing his head and laying his sword sideways as he called out. "King Joffrey, please accept-" he trailed off as Joffrey laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Lord Darry's expression turned steadily more horrified as Joffrey's laughter acquired a slightly maniacal glint. When he finally stopped, Lord Darry was surprised to find tear trails slowly making their way down Joffrey's bloodied cheek. "You think you can just bend the knee and call it a day? YOU THINK YOU CAN MAKE THIS ALL DISSAPEAR WITH THE FLICK OF A WRIST AND A SWORD IN THE GROUND?!" he roared, the spear trembling in his hands. "No. Pick up that sword Lord Darry. Die as you lived," he spat.

Lord Darry took a deep breath as he stood up, swallowing something sour as he turned to his son, "Lyman, take care of the family, tell Minisa--"

"What are you doing?" Joffrey interrupted him.

"… can't a man give a few last words for his son to carry?" Lord Darry asked, his tone vaguely pleading.

"…Who told you your son was making it out of this field alive?" he asked in turn.

Lord Darry looked like a stunned ox, almost swaying as he blinked again and again. "Wh- What?" he muttered as Lyman's grip on his father's shield tightened, the Darry Plowman painted atop its surface shaking like a leave in the wind.

"Your Grace!" suddenly said a voice behind him, "House Darry--" Ser Barristan Selmy fell quiet as Joffrey turned and stared at him, the blood still dripping down his breastplate, his legs, everywhere. Sandor and the other Kingsguard's were standing with him, just entering the circle with Lord Edgerton. By this point all the enemy knights and levies around them had laid down their weapons, and were transfixed by the scene playing out in the middle of the circle.

Lord Raymun Darry looked as if he was going to vomit, looking at Ser Barristan and the other lords and back to Joffrey again and again. "Please, Your Grace, he's just a boy-"

"A boy?!" cut Joffrey. "Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake then!" he said as he turned back and walked away. He grabbed one of the smallfolk he'd slain. "A boy! You know who else was a boy?! HIM!" he bellowed as he tossed him the dead body of the little spearman that had managed to wound him. He couldn't have been older than fourteen namedays, his face locked in a rictus of agony, his gangly limbs hanging awkwardly as Lord Darry skittered back.

"Back there are two woodsmen I slew, brothers! And before him lays an old man, a father! Husbands! Uncles! Men!" he snarled as he walked back and forth again, just barely restraining the black urge.

"But they're just smallfolk, right? Stable hands and farmers and crofters, they don't have names, they're not like Lyman," he sneered as he gazed at the quivering youth. "Lyman Darry is a real person, with a Future and a House and a Castle!" he said, punctuating each word with his spear's butt.

"You should have thought about them before you did this my lord. Every son to war a little Lyman, every grieving widow a Minisa," he said as he walked right to his face, splattering blood over his face. "The sigil of your vaunted House is the plowman Raymun, and yet you don't know. You don't know the universal truth that those who live below your castle live and breathe," he said as he tilted his face, staring deep into his eyes.

"You reap what you sow," he whispered, the words somehow echoing along the shores of the God's Eye. Lord Darry's chin trembled as Joffrey walked back. "Now let's get this over with!" he bellowed, slowly twirling the spear in circles and closing his eyes, the constant movement soothing his frayed nerves.

Lord Darry was breathing heavily as he turned to his son. "I'll distract him, you wait for the moment and pounce for the kill," he said as he grabbed his helmet from his son's unresisting hands and put it on. Young Lyman looked ready to faint as he breathed deeply. "LYMAN!" bellowed Lord Darry.

"Yes Father," he said, startled, still somehow unable to stop looking at Joffrey.

"Lyman, look at me," said Raymun as he grabbed he's son's head with both hands. "Look at me. Remember the yard below Plowman's Keep, remember the yard?" he asked him as he shook him gently.

"I- I- Yes Father, I remember," he said, looking back at him.

"Good, just like we practiced in the yard, remember your footwork, and remember to keep your guard low," he said, willing him to remember, his grip on Lyman's head tight.

"Y-yes Father," he nodded again.

"Remember… remember…" Lord Darry trailed off, looking at the ground for a second or two before returning his gaze to his son. "When we get back you could see that Lolliston girl, show her the great hall," he said, his voice growing hollow as he hugged him.

"Wha-?! But- Father, I thought you disapproved?!" said Lyman, completely nonplussed by the sudden turn.

"Don't worry about it son, don't worry about it. Let's go home," he said, quickly turning so Lyman couldn't see the tears crawling out of his eyes. He coughed as he readied sword and shield, facing Joffrey. "Let's get this over with," he snarled as Lyman readied his own bastard sword more confidently than before, standing at his side with eyes only for Joffrey.

Joffrey was looking at the horizon, breathing heavily. "Let's," he said as he turned towards father and son, walking towards them. Lord Darry roared as he advanced, his feet moving quickly but carefully, feinting to the right before trying to bash Joffrey with his shield. Joffrey grunted as he rolled to the side, coming up with a riposte that made Raymun stumble back. Master Lyman quickly positioned himself at Joffrey's back, trying to keep up with Joffrey constant whirling and feinting. Lord Darry went for a thrust that was quickly parried by Joffrey, who followed with a quick stab that Raymun barely dodged, grazing his helmet. Joffrey ducked as Lyman struck from behind, shoving his spear's butt past the bastard sword's guard and slamming it into Lyman's stomach. He was breathless as he stumbled back, Joffrey following up with a quick cut to the man's left hand that left him open for a-

"Lyman!" bellowed Lord Darry, shoving Joffrey away with his shield. Joffrey came up in a water recovery, slashing at Raymun's leg and making him stumble back. The old lord shook his head as he tried to regain his footing, grimacing in pain.

"Father-!" said Lyman as he stepped towards Joffrey's side.

"Wait for the kill son! Wait for the kill!!!" he bellowed, quickly looking at his son's bleeding hand wound before clamping his eyes back to Joffrey. He swayed lightly as he feinted left, then right, his sword periodically drifting in circles.

"Come on!" he shouted at Joffrey.

Joffrey gazed at him for a second longer before dashing straight at him like a bolt from a crossbow, spear light in his hands. Lord Darry swept low with his sword, only barely missing Joffrey's feet as the King jumped with a shout of strained effort, falling to the ground with a roll and avoiding Darry's follow up shield bash, leaving the back of his leg exposed. He stabbed at the man's thigh between the plates with an angry roar, tearing flesh away as he placed his foot over the man's hip and sent him tumbling back, extracting his bloodied spear with a snarl.

Lord Darry bounced on the ground, biting out a bellow of pain, desperately trying to scrabble backwards and failing to stand up due to his leg wound. Joffrey twirled the spear for the finishing blow before Master Lyman crashed into him with a roar. "Father!!!" he shouted as they both tumbled to the ground, Joffrey losing the grip on his spear as he rolled back up, much quicker than Lyman.

Joffrey breathed heavily as he gazed at the young lordling, a hand wiping away blood from his busted lower lip. He looked at Lord Darry in vague regret for a second before unsheathing his dagger and holding it close to his chest, the other hand held low and flat.

"Father! He's disarmed! We can win this!" shouted Master Lyman as he eyed the spear on the ground and the dagger in Joffrey's hand.

"Lyman don't!" bellowed his Father, but Lyman was already thrusting. Joffrey bent as he stepped to the side, the bastard sword screech against the edge of his breastplate as he let the Darry scion carry himself closer to him. His eyes barely had time to widen in surprise before Joffrey slammed the dagger through his eye socket.

"NOOOOO!!!!" wailed Lord Darry as Joffrey wrenched the dagger and extracted it quickly and cleanly, Lyman Darry collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

"No…. no…." whispered Lord Darry as he tried to stand up, only to fall back to the ground.

Joffrey grabbed the spear and walked towards him, though Raymun made no effort to defend himself. "Just do it," he whispered, his voice devoid of any emotion as he kept staring at the body of his son, blood pooling around him.

Joffrey hesitated for half a second before driving the spear through his throat. He stayed there, looking at the swiftly closing eyes of the late Lord Darry as the blood kept flowing, as the muscles in his body relaxed.

"Ser Ba… Sandor," Joffrey called out, still looking at the corpse.

The moonlight seemed to give the scene a surreal property, as if the lords, soldiers and levies watching were made of pale stone instead of flesh. "Yes, Your Grace?" said Sandor, the first time he called him that. For some reason it hurt worse than a million battle wounds.

"Pass me a handkerchief, would you?" he asked softly.

The Hound looked unusually subdued as he took a white linen handkerchief from his person, probably looted from a lord or knight. "Here," he said.

"Thank you," said Joffrey, wiping the grime, blood and tears from his face. He took a deep breath before asking, "Lord Blanetree?"

"Lord Rykker caved his skull in with an axe, he won't be troubling you any longer," he said.

"… Good, Roote?" he asked.

"Surrendered once it was clear this was no skirmish," the Hound said with a disdainful snort.

"… but it was," Joffrey said, vaguely confused.

"Was?" Sandor asked.

"A skirmish, I mean," Joffrey said with a distracted shrug, looking at the ground for his mace and sword.

Sandor said nothing as he looked at the broken bodies and the shuffling soldiers, the spell starting to be broken as the looting started.

"Anyway, Blanetree. Hm. That leaves…" he trailed off, looking to the small gaggle of grim faced knights.

"I-I'm not afraid to d-die," said Master Willard Mooton as he stepped forward, unsheathing a trembling, two handed greatsword.

Joffrey looked at the heavens as he took another big breath, "Oh for the love of the Old…" he trailed off as he grabbed his forehead.

"Just bend the knee Mooton. The Darry's already paid for this whole insanity," he said with a sigh.

"I-I said I-I'm not afraid-" he trailed off as Joffrey stalked towards him like a banshee, the spear suddenly in his right hand. The men behind him scrambled as Joffrey reversed the spear and struck, Willard's late parry not doing much as the butt hit him in the belly and then in the chin. He stumbled back as Joffrey spun, delivering a heavy strike at his hands with the butt and making Willard drop his sword. He followed up with a thrust to the knee that left him on the ground, the spear tip almost touching his neck.

"YIELD!!!" roared Joffrey.

"I yield! I yield!" screamed Willard.

Joffrey kept breathing heavily as he withdrew the spear, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted at Willard, "What the fuck is wrong with this continent!?" he bellowed at no one in particular. "ALL WE HAD TO DO, WAS FOLLOW! THE DAMNED! ROAD!" he screamed, punctuating every word with a slash his hand, aimed north.

He shook his head before dropping the spear, "I don't know why I bother," he muttered as he walked to the enemy camp. "I'm going to sleep, I'll take the oaths tomorrow… today, whatever," he said as he gazed at the full moon.

"Oh, one other thing!" He said as he stopped and gazed back to the mob of men starting to loot or to properly surrender. "Anyone so much as gives me a lick of trouble, you'll wish you were Lord fucking Darry!" he spat, feeling spent.

"Lord Edgerton, please take care of this mess," he said as he passed beside him, the belated knights of the Kingsguard hurrying behind him.

"I will, Your Grace," said Lord Geyn Edgerton, for once without even a breath of boast or jape.

-.PD.-