Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

"Where the fuck is Lord Langward?!" Joffrey shouted at the man besides him as he pummeled a wight to the ground with his hammer.

"They're still trying to break through your gr-" his report was suddenly cut in half by the arrow that planted itself on his neck.

Joffrey turned back to the gaggle of shrykes and westerosi leavies holding the tiny hill against the onslaught, seeing they were about to be overwhelmed. "Stand tall! Stand tall!" he shouted.

He turned back and came face to face with Jon Snow, his eyes blue as he opened his mouth to speak. "Joffrey," he said, blood bubbling from his mouth like a fountain and flooding the battlefield in death.

Joffrey opened his eyes to the sight of the Red Keep's ceiling, bathed in the light of the morning sun. He could hear the last minute preparations for the incoming tournament as the armory was emptied and horses were led through the Red Keep's portcullis.

He knew was already late, at least half an hour late for donning his armor at his own pavilion… but a strange force was conspiring to keep him in bed, his limbs slow to move. Joffrey thought he'd been running a lot lately, it made sense he was a bit tired.

Come on, got to get moving, I'll miss the archery competition if I don't, he thought.

He'd been planning this for months, surely he was not going to let the chance slip by because he was a bit tired in the morning?!

…

Joffrey took in a deep breath as he thought about all the lives his legion would paradoxically save, all the good he could do with that money, all the incredibly important preparations for the apocalypse, all the lives living in squalor right now.

He rose from his bed with a grunt of effort, rubbing his face for a while before taking in a deep gulp of water from the goblet on the nightstand.

He stretched for a bit, shaking off the strange feeling. He yawned as he dropped to the floor, doing a few quick scout exercises to loosen the wrists and strengthen the arms.

He was already feeling a bit better as he left his room, cursing when he realized he was even later than he'd imagined.

-.PD.-

Ser Balon Swann had a good chance of winning the competition, at least in his opinion. Most other archers had already shot their arrows, the chaff inherent to any competition swiftly falling away as a bit less than half of them couldn't even hit the first mark. He was keeping an eye on Jalabhar Xho, King Robert's pet prince from the Summer Islands and a worthy opponent with his goldenwood bow. For all that they called him a beggar prince the man was good with a bow, he'd give him that. There was also a smallfolk that showed promise, though he couldn't remember his name. There was always one in these competitions, hardy hunters and trackers who tried their luck when in town. He'd buy the man a drink if he made it to the finals, such talent was well worth cultivating.

He'd have to disappoint them all though, because there was no way he was going to let ten thousand gold dragons escape his fingers. Enough to build a keep of his own if he could get the land for it somehow… or the finest destrier and armor this side of the Narrow Sea.

Everyone had already taken their shot, and the servants stood ready to move the wicker roundel twenty paces back for the second phase.

Well, everyone but one.

"Next up, his Royal Highness Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said the crier again besides the wooden board filled with heraldry, unleashing whispers and even a few barely heard scoffs.

Ser Balon didn't know the prince practiced archery, in fact from what rumors he'd heard the boy was barely capable with a crossbow, and he didn't have the most sterling of reputations. Ser Balon rarely paid heed to such rumors, but he had to admit that great or terrible with a bow, the crown prince's absence spoke badly of him. If this had been a joke then it had been ill played.

"His Royal Highness, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said the crier yet again, looking around at the crowd of participant. They were nearby the Melee grounds, the gaggle of participants looking at each other and muttering in irritation. In front of them and besides the crier with the competition board lay the chalk line, and beyond it a barren stretch of field with a wicker roundel right in the middle of it.

The crier shook his head as he made to remove the shield of House Baratheon of King's Landing, only for a few startled cries to shift his attention back to the crowd. Said crowd was busy parting way for a knight in red and gold plate atop a black warhorse, the great beast stopping with barely a command from its rider some fifteen paces from the chalk line.

"My apologies for the delay, my lords and ladies, it's been a rather busy day," said the rider with a heartfelt sigh as Balon realized it was just a boy. "Have I been struck from the list already?" he asked the crier.

"Not yet your highness," said a nearby knight in a vaguely disrespectful tone. Ser Balon looked at the man with thinly veiled contempt, such was no way to treat royalty! Most of the competitors merely looked on in boredom or amusement though, waiting for the prince to get out of the way already.

"Right, give me a moment," the Prince said somewhat apologetically as he stood over the stirrups, looked at the target for a half a breath and then nodded nonchalantly, sitting back down and spurring his horse into a gallop.

He must have confused this with a tilt! Balon thought in slight shock as the horse cleared the space in mere seconds, a bow suddenly materializing on the Prince's right hand as his horse reared just a few paces from the chalk line and whirled in a half circle, an arrow leaping from the boy's bow before he was galloping back the way he came from, not even looking at the target.

"Be right back, keep going without me!" he called out, his mind clearly intent on something else as he sped away.

The crowd was stunned into silence, same as Ser Balon as he looked at the target down range with an arrow placed right in its center.

Getting those dragons was going to be harder than he thought.

-.PD.-

Taking his time with the bloody armor had almost cost him the competition… and then he'd forgotten his helmet. He really needed a squire… and he needed to talk to whoever had arranged the time table. Who put the first phase of the tilts just after the archery competition?!

Be that as it may, he'd arrived just in time for the second shot, a modest one he'd been able to take from Moonlight's back again, but after that things had gotten interesting. Jalabhar Xho had bit the dust during the last round, and now only him, Ser Balon Swan and a hunter from the Dornish Marches named Anguy.

I used to have so much fun with archery… he mused as he looked at the target downrange.

He took in a slow breath as he steadily drew his bow, the arrow's tip glinting in the midday sun as he aimed higher and higher, the string reaching his cheek. He spent a timeless moment in that position, feeling the whistling of the wind and the slow thrum of his heart.

Suddenly, the arrow leapt as if with a will of its own. It flew high and true, before descending and planting itself on the wicker roundel.

"There goes the Keep," said Ser Balon Swann with a slight shake of his head, not too bothered by that fact as he turned to Joffrey. "A magnificent shot Your Highness," he said, the compliment sounding truthful and simple to Joffrey's ears.

"You did great as well Ser Balon, few indeed are those that can reliably place an arrow at such distance," said Joffrey, honestly impressed with the man. He seemed dependable as well as not very prone to schemes… Hadn't he served as Kingsguard sometime during his first reign..? If so, he must had been one of the few good choices for the order since Robert acceded to the throne.

The servants made haste to move the target back another ten paces, the roundel shrinking once more in the distance… now it was up to him and Anguy.

"Anguy of the Dornish Marches!" called the crier, peeking at the range and trying not to miss the shot. The rest of the defeated participants, plus the small crowd that had gathered around it, watched in baited anticipation as the doughty looking smallfolk hefted a well-worn bow to the skies, nocking a simple hunter's arrow.

The hardy, smallish hunter let the arrow go, and Joffrey followed its arc through the sky until it reached the roundel's edge, almost missing.

The crowd's halfhearted clapping redoubled in intensity when Joffrey joined in.

Bloody hells he's really good, he thought as the crowd muttered in interest and slight awe, exchanging gold on bets missed and bets to come.

Joffrey was troubled, the man had a lot of recent practice, and he seemed superbly competent with the bow. He'd taken shots like that during his time with the Scouts… but that had been a long time ago…

There was no way he was botching this though, he needed that gold. The thought of a properly trained legion under his command made his mouth salivate.

By the gods give me five thousand men, no more, five thousand men and I could dance rings around any levy five times the size.

He took a deep breath as the crier called his name, taking an arrow from his quiver and stepping up to the chalk line. He nocked and drew with long practiced ease, feeling the call of the wind as he heard the delighted laughter of children and the merry feasting of lords and even commons in the distance.

He loosed, watching the arrow fly for a second before turning back to Anguy and nodding respectful at him, "Your skill is superb, the gold's well deserved," he said with a slight, wistful smile as the arrow almost reached the target, burying itself on the dirt a meter to its left.

The crowd erupted in shouts and hesitant cheers, cheers which redoubled when Joffrey raised Anguy's hand up in the air, proclaiming him the victor.

"Thank you ya'grace," said Anguy, his voice coarse as he looked at the crowd and the crown prince of the realm in vague shock.

"I don't suppose you'd take a job offer right about now?" Joffrey asked, taking the edge off the question with a smirk as a squad of Redcloaks carried forth a chest filled with gold.

"Ah, no, thank you ya'grace," the man blabbered as he looked at the chest, no doubt thinking about the ten thousand gold dragons stashed within.

"Thought so," said Joffrey with a shrug of his shoulders.

Oh well… nothing to it.

He made his way past the crowd, his armor clanking with each step as he readied himself for the first phase of the jousts. The crowd parted around him, showering him with compliments and small talk that would no doubt lead to some favor or another.

He resolutely ignored them as he made his way to his horse, squashing the small tendrils of longing at the sudden companionship and popularity. It would only bring pain.

He stumbled in surprise when he saw Sansa, Septa Mordane and Lady nearby Moonlight, Sansa twitching her hands nervously as she avoided his eyes.

"Lady Sansa! I thought you were watching the first tilts?" he asked, confused as he walked up to her.

Lady tilted her head and regarded him carefully as he neared her master, the lean and vaguely regal looking direwolf seemingly judging him for a moment before deciding he was not a threat.

Foolish, blind dog, thought Joffrey all of a sudden.

"I was going to, but then I heard you had entered the archery competition… that was, was, incredible Joff!" she suddenly blurted, sounding much too similar to Arya for her comfort, he suspected.

Both of them reddened as Joffrey politely nodded at Septa Mordane. The old crone partly responsible for Sansa's future plights nodded back, constantly weary for any sign of impropriety.

Stupid crone, I'd never… never intentionally… he fumbled with his thoughts as his face creased and the budding butterflies in his stomach were replaced with a slowly rising black bile.

Sansa snapped him out of it as he grabbed his hand, carrying him forwards almost hesitantly towards the jousting grounds. "Come on, aren't you going to participate in the tilts as well?!" she asked him, her voice cheery with the spice of summer and the wonder of a little girl whose dream had come true.

"Come on Moonlight," he said over his shoulder, distracted as the horse cantered behind them.

Joffrey let himself be carried forwards, deciding to let himself go of the worry and apprehension. Letting himself enjoy the simple moment.

Even after all those years, Ned Stark's council still held sway over him.

There was something about Sansa that simply made him feel happy. The banners swirling atop the hundreds of pavilions seemed more colorful somehow, and the flower petals that flew around the grounds from the hands of laughing maidens seemed fresher, hypnotizing. So far, so far away from the horror of war and death and betrayal that they seemed like a bad nightmare, instead of his past and soon to be future.

"It's not that impressive really, Anguy beat me there in the end after all," he told her as he savored the feeling like a fine wine, gorging himself on it.

"Not that impressive?" she asked as they walked hand in hand, looking around the plentiful open aired feasts around the great tents, lords and knights toasting to King Robert as they ate their way through the treasury.

"Well, such accuracy is seldom used in the battlefield, as it's hard to take long shots when there's a man in front of you trying to chop your head off," he said as he raised his eyebrows.

Sansa genuinely pouted as she looked at him, "Now now, Septa Mordane says false modesty is almost as bad as pride," she reprimanded him, loud enough for the Septa to hear her, chaperoning them as she was a few meters behind them.

Did she just bad mouth the Septa and myself at the same time? Maybe not all his lost! He thought with a chuckle.

"What's so funny?" she asked, slightly defiant as they waited for a wagon to pass through a quickly forming road in between the tents.

"You. You're cute," Joffrey told her simply, smiling.

Her face turned so red Joffrey was afraid she'd explode, and that only made his grin grow and grow as he laughed yet again.

"Stop that! You're doing it again!" Sansa wailed as she turned even redder and her hands flew to her mouth, an unwilling chuckle emerging from her lips. This time though instead of holding it in, she let it go wild, reveling in the feeling as she dropped her hands and embraced his arm, still chuckling as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

Joffrey let the air leave his lungs as he closed his eyes and let his head lean on hers, feeling a strangely timeless sensation of wellbeing, the hopelessness fading like a bad dream in the morning's light.

A grumpy 'Ahem!' shook him off the trance, but he didn't want to go back. He really didn't.

He realized what he was doing quickly though, startling himself and letting go off Sansa as if she were on fire.

Septa Mordane was looking at them with a thunderous expression, but what took his attention was Sansa. She seemed bewildered as she blinked heavily, almost shaking her head when she saw him looking at her. She offered him a tentative, apologetic smile, the fear of rejection plainly drawn upon her face as if by a skilled sculptor. "I'm sorry my prince," she said as some rigidity returned to her pose, curtsying lightly, "I- I got carried away," she said, sounding a bit confused.

Joffrey stood still as a statue, feeling vulnerable and unsteady. What he really wanted to do though was hug her like a drowning sailor hugs a piece of flotsam. Instead, he turned his back on her, staring at the ground and breathing hard, screams of agony and memories of blood passing through his mind's eye almost too fast to process.

By the Old Gods and the New, get it together you imbecile! He screamed at himself in the privacy of his own mind, the promise he'd swore under moonlight and black stones a guiding beacon for his battered mind to rally around.

The rest of the walk was devoid of that magical feeling, their talk strained as Sansa took his reaction as some sort of disgust aimed at her.

Better this way, Joffrey told himself as they reached his private pavilion, each step almost painful.

"You should go, Lady Sansa. You'll miss the other jousts," Joffrey told her, feeling vaguely ill.

She looked like she wanted to say something for a moment, but instead she curtseyed yet again, Septa Mordane guiding her back to the stands.

Joffrey entered the tent and swiftly closed the flap behind him, taking a few deep breaths as conflicted feelings left something sour deep in his being.

He gave a might bellow as he tore into the wooden, armored mockup of a knight he'd placed inside the tent a few nights ago, chips of wood flying everywhere as he reduced the thing to splinters under the savage pounding of his hammer and the brutal, barely aimed cuts from his arming sword. Just as fast as the incoherent fury had taken him, it was gone, leaving him breathing hard as he stared down the shredded remains.

At least it wasn't a person, he thought as he made a mental note of getting the servants to secure him another one of these.

At least he felt a little bit better.

He frowned for half a second before he gave a step to the side, raising his arming sword and placing the tip of it just below a boy's throat.

"What are you doing here!?" Joffrey all but roared.

"M-M-M-MMMore w-wine?!" sputtered Lancel as the tray in his hands fell to the ground and the precious liquid started spilling from the bottle.

"Please!" Joffrey said as he sheathed his sword and kneeled for the bottle, taking a long swig before looking back strangely at him, "Mother sent you with wine?" he asked dubiously. Cercei had almost forbidden him from participating, so that sounded unlikely to say the least.

"Ah, no my prince, that was the King," he said, before sputtering again, "King Robert I mean," he amended, still shaking slightly.

Joffrey tilted his head slightly, "You don't say? It could have been King Mudd freshly raised from the grave!" he said as he raised his eyebrows.

"Wha- I, maybe-" Lancel tried to answer as Joffrey shook his head.

"It was a joke, relax. Gods…" he trailed off as he heard a horn in the distance. His turn was coming up soon.

He waited a few seconds for his erstwhile cousin to recompose himself, securing his own helmet and grabbing a lance from the rack. "Why did Robert send you?" he asked him.

"Ah, he, ah, wanted to make sure you were ready for the joust my prince," he said, stiff lipped.

"I'm sure, and the wine?" said Joffrey as he left his sword and hammer in the rack.

"To, ah, that is-"

"Spit it out Lancel!" he shouted as he turned back to him.

"So you don't unman yourself! I'm sorry my prince!" he let out, almost cowering.

Joffrey's expression turned thunderous as he stared at Lancel. "Unman myself…" he muttered.

The prince in red and gold armor shook slightly, and the chuckle that came forth from him sounded very different to the one he had enjoyed mere minutes ago.

"Unman myself!" repeated Joffrey as he laughed, as if he'd heard the best joke in the world. "Guess there's only one way to find out eh Lancel?" he said as he closed his visor, still chuckling lowly as he strode out, "Bring my lances! I need a squire!" he commanded as the big, black war horse outside the tent snarled.

Lancel did not unman himself.

-.PD.-

The banners roiled with the wind, shifting this way and that with each gust, the crowd cheering as the latest knight was defeated and the other returned to the front of the royal box, bowing at the King, the Queen and the various high born nobles around them. Even little Tommen and Myrcella were watching, taken in by the splendor of the colors and the cheering crowds of smallfolk by the enormous stands that had been erected around the jousting grounds.

"Come forth, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, and, Jory Cassel of Winterfell," proclaimed the crier.

Jory Cassel's plate armor shined in the afternoon sun, the smooth polish speaking of the care the man had dedicated to it, making sure Winterfell was well represented in the Tourney. He met Joffrey right in front of the royal box, looking at him wearily as the prince's horse reared to a standstill seemingly by its own will.

Joffrey nodded at the Captain of Winterfell's guard, before turning his sight to the assembled nobles. Cercei looked extremely nervous, quite the contrast to Robert who looked at him with thinly veiled resignation.

Have I fallen this low in his esteem? He thought darkly, his jaw working all on its own.

Ned, Bran and Arya all looked at him in varying degrees of fascination or excitement, same as little Tommen and Myrcella. Sansa however didn't look at him, she was busy gazing at the stands behind him.

They bowed in unison, as Robert waved away negligently with his hand, "Yes, yes! Get on with it!" he said, his eyes stopping for a second on Joffrey's, and then moving on.

Joffrey closed his helmet and ordered Moonlight back to his area, the shield of House Baratheon of King's Landing securely strapped to a wooden pillar. He found Lancel with a lance and shield waiting for him, and he shook his head as his cousin passed him the implements of war.

He looked at the stance and saw Sansa, who he realized was seated right in front of Baelish. He could see the weasel faced man now, tilting his head forward and filling Sansa's ear with poison.

Joffrey snarled as he closed his helmet, hefted the lance forwards and kicked Moonlight into a gallop, just as the horns thundered. Moonlight quickly gained speed, the thundering of his hooves overwhelming as Jory Cassel neared, his lance angling for his chest.

Joffrey snarled as he tilted his body forward and slammed the lance into Jory, absorbing his with his shield. Jory was sent flying back to the ground, tumbling wildly as Moonlight kept going, finally stopping at the other side of the jousting ground.

He turned back and saw Jory bleeding on the ground, clutching his leg with a pained expression, his helmet laying a few meters behind him. Two other Stark men helped him off the ground as his face squeezed itself in pain, biting off a scream.

Joffrey returned to the center of the royal box as he dropped his wrecked lance, stopping in front of a vaguely speechless Robert.

"My breeches appear to be unsoiled, Father. Must be the wine," he said with a sardonic smile as he took off his helmet. He didn't deign look back on Robert's startled expression as he rode past a somber looking Ned Stark and a horrified looking Sansa, Baelish still whispering sweet poison as Joffrey reigned in a monumental instinct that kept insisting his dagger should be up in the bastard's throat.

"I wouldn't listen to him Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish seems scared of even shadows these days," Joffrey twisted the metaphorical knife gleefully, startling littlefinger into silence and making him swallow something sour.

Come on Baelish, tie the dots, you're a smart fellow, he thought as he gave him a smirk.

He kept riding out of the field, straight for the Red Keep. He hoped the Heart Tree would be able to soothe his frayed mind once more.

-.PD.-

Joffrey was submerged in the depths of his soul again, his awareness a fleeting balloon floating over the contours of his self as he searched for the piece of the puzzle the tablet had given him, an empty anchor meant to hold something. He scoured sideways along the glossy surface of his self, the ominous Purple strength of the pillars above almost calling him, like a siren's call. The intricate depictions on the bone tablet were but a fleeting caricature of the depth and breadth of the confusing meanings carved into his self, a jagged landscape of soulstuff that stretched on until it reached a purple tinged horizon beyond sight and sound and self.

Joffrey kept searching, remembering the shape and form of the edge he was supposed to find. The task seemed titanic, and yet Joffrey felt strangely on point as he searched. As if knowing what he was supposed to find already gave him a sense of direction in the almost infinite expanse of meaning.

Here, whispered an instinct older than him, older than time.

Here, thought Joffrey as he felt himself near his edge.

As a child's scribble resembles a Tyroshi masterpiece, so did the tablet resemble the anchor. Joffrey neared the strange, empty space, so similar yet different from the tablet. It seemed somehow deeper, stronger, more robust than the contours that surrounded the tablet's essence. It reached deep into the core of himself like a deep water well, the bone crushing depths of his being which not even his awareness could traverse. From there it reached to the edge of his self, the jagged landscape of his soul below the baleful glare of the Purple.

His awareness reached to the contours themselves, the metaphorical flower that peeked out of the earth instead of the roots themselves. He did not know the purpose of such a gigantic tear that reached so deep into his very self, but as he reached the outer edges of it he could feel something. The perfectly molded edge was like a shadow to the thing it yearned to embrace, to anchor. Joffrey breathed in the edges, his quest for answers unrelenting as he tasted something old. It smelt of purpose. A tool. A bridge. And sharp… so sharp.

Something shifted his concentration and Joffrey peeked up for a second and saw the gloryoftHEETERNALPILLARS-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

JoFfReY gave a startled scream as he opened his eyes. He shivered wildly as he scratched at the ground with his nails, trying to feel something real with his hands as he folded his knees close to his chest, a silent scream locked inside his throat as he swayed lightly, trying to feel anything as he swayed and swayedandswayed-

"Joffrey I'm sorry! Please! Joffrey!!!" wailed Nalia right on his ear, and Joffrey froze in horror.

But it wasn't Nalia's voice, not really. He realized it was Sansa's as a pair of hands kept shaking him wildly, something small and wet landing on his face. He dared to open his eyes again and saw her frantic face, desperately calling for a maester as tears fell down her cheek to land on his face.

"Sh… Sansa?" Joffrey asked, dazed.

"Joffrey?! I'm so sorry, please I didn't know-" she blabbered before Joffrey placed a hand on her thigh, trying to calm her down.

"It's okay Sansa, I'm… I'm okay," he tried, realizing he lay sprawled on the ground. Sansa managed to hold in a shuddering breath as he managed to sit up, blinking slowly at the too bright sun.

"Wh- What happened?" he asked her, rubbing his own face compulsively.

Sansa almost burst out in tears again as she opened her mouth and closed it again. She took a deep breath before she swallowed, talking quickly but coherently, "I don't know! You were sitting below the Heart Tree in a weird position, so still I thought you'd fallen asleep! You were so pale… your forehead was drenched in sweat too… I, I thought you had fallen asleep and were having a nightmare so… so--" she stammered the last part, Joffrey holding her arm gently both to steady her and to anchor himself back to reality.

Sansa Stark. His bones knew she was real.

"So I tried to wake you up but then you- you fell to the ground shaking and your face looked as if, as if you were coursing through this terrible agony and I thought you were- were-were dying," she managed, barely holding in the tears as Joffrey hugged her, breathing deeply.

"It's okay Sansa, you did nothing wrong, you did nothing wrong," Joffrey said as she slowly stopped shaking, their breathing slowly evening out as Joffrey smelled the scent of her hair.

He let her go jerkily, swaying a bit as he stood up, shaking his head.

"Joffrey… what… what happened?" she finally asked him as he leaned back on the Heart Tree's trunk.

Joffrey looked at her for a long while, the falling leaves of the oak tree distracting him, "I looked at something… I shouldn't…" he said, shaking his head.

Sansa looked at him with questing eyes, she seemed ready to ask him something else entirely when they heard the shouts of several guards, the Hound loudest of them all as they searched the Godswood.

"It seems they heard your scream," Joffrey told her, smiling sheepishly.

She didn't look ashamed though, instead taking a step closer and looking straight at his eyes, "Joffrey… What were you looking for?" she asked with uncanny insight, confused.

"I…" Joffrey mouthed before the Hound broke into the clearing with a few Redcloaks, looking from him to Sansa and shaking his head. "Alright, who was screaming for a Maester just a minute ago?!" he huffed, annoyed at the apparent waste of time.

Joffrey just shook his head again, taking another deep breath as he tried to clear his head.

-.PD.-

The Tower of the Hand seemed almost deserted, many of its guards joining the festivities below as they took part of the incredibly extravagant feasts Robert had arranged (or rather the grudging Hand himself). Joffrey carefully scaled the last stretch of bricks between himself and the window, hugging the wall even more tightly as a sentry peered down from above the crenellations. He stayed still until the man went away, leaving the way clear for him as he carefully but quickly climbed the last few red bricks before peering at the Hand's solar through the window.

The sheer drop would surely mean his death if he lost his grip, but Joffrey persevered, making sure no one was present before jumping up and over the sill in a burst of strength.

His encounter with Sansa had left him rattled. Did she think him a bloody butcher for laying on to Jory in such a way? He hadn't intended to leave such a grievous wound on the Captain of Ned's guard, but when he'd seen Littlefinger whispering in her ear something within him had snapped. And the Godswood… he'd seen her before, peeking at him from beyond the clearing sometimes, when he meditated.

In the Godswood… He'd been a second from babbling everything and being consigned to Pycelle's milk of the poppy and possibly Tywin-ordered foxglove to make way for a saner heir… thankfully, blessed Sandor had showed up and broken him from his reverie before all the progress he had achieved in this life evaporated.

Must have a weakness for beautiful women, he thought with a light snort, mirth and painful loneliness playing with each other before he dispelled those thoughts and cleared his mind.

He prowled through Ned Stark's solar, and he didn't take much time at all to find what he was looking for. Right there on the bookshelf as if the fate of thousands of lives didn't depend on it, lay Ned's copy of 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms', Baelish's very own perfectly aimed stroke that had, arguably, already sent Ned to his doom.

The scripture was very similar to the copies held in the late Jennet Water's burnt out manse. Both this copy and the other odd score ones that had been held there in a cellar clearly came from the same copyist… a maester in Littlefinger's pocket, no doubt.

He stared at the book for a while, already intricately familiar with its content. To call the evidence contained therein 'satisfactory' was a stretch, but combined by the great distrust and hostility between houses Stark and Lannister, along with Jon Arryn's suspiciously badly timed death… Joffrey could see how this book would and had propelled Ned through the labyrinth designed for him, a mere rung to be stepped on in Baelish's rise to power.

He returned the book with a sigh, shaking his head. Taking it now would only arouse further suspicion from Ned… and Baelish was stoking the hostility and suspicion already. He'd found out Summer's recent ails came from poisoned food, delivered on Baelish's orders. A brawl in a tavern near the Street of Silk had left a Lannister guardsman dead and two Stark ones injured, and Joffrey was looking at troubling activity from one of Littlefinger's surviving Master of Keys, sniffing around Flea Bottom for something more difficult to find than mere spies…

Knowing what he did now, it was obvious that Bran's various assassinations throughout his past lives (carried out from within the Red Keep no less!) had been Baelish's attempt at stoking the fire when the stakes between both Houses were not as high as he wished.

He returned to the window, looking up at the dark, cloudy night as he thought. He'd already mapped a substantial portion of Baelish's assets in King's Landing, and spied a few in Gulltown as well thanks to intercepted correspondence. The Master of Coin himself was nearing the end of his usefulness, but Joffrey still wanted to milk him for all he was worth, to make his revenge absolute even as he used everything he stole for worthier endeavors.

He was already exchanging letters with the Citadel, inquiring about Maesters and Archmaesters by name. If he was going to rule, then by the gods he was going to rule. Halfhearted musings of trading companies and infrastructure projects from dreams many lives ago were troubling his mind once again, and they were thirsty for coin… though the prospect didn't make him as giddy as before. In his mind, his vision of a prosperous King's Landing now seemed fake, its denizens uncaring, false.

There was nothing to it though, he had work to do.

I'll need more than an army to stop the Walkers, after all, he thought as he jumped through the window.

-.PD.-

The second day of the tourney opened up with the Melee, twenty thousand gold dragons in a chest atop a high table, as if daring the participants to stretch up and grab them.

Of course, the combatants would never admit something so crass. No, the greatest price in the melee was honor and glory, and the different Houses seemed to be united in the sentiment. The great ring was chock full of banners and shields depicting all manner of fantastical and mundane beasts, quartered in varying shades of vermillion, blue, green, yellow and all the colors imaginable as the knights and lords readied themselves.

A small gaggle of courtiers and bootlickers had neatly assembled for Joffrey, praising him for his surprising showing in the archery contest yesterday and showering him with compliments and worthless nothings. Joffrey had just silently stared at them for a while, until they realized their hasty torrent of words was not being returned at all. There was an awkward silence as he kept staring at them, his eerie gaze finally too much to bear as they slowly dissipated from his surroundings.

It seemed lifetimes ago since he'd had a good night's sleep, so long in fact he had gotten used to it. What he was not used to were the strange difficulties he was having to get out of his bed. Sure, he'd been having them for lives now but he didn't remember the temptation to just lay there after waking up being so strong…

Joffrey snorted as he readied his hammer and sword. His choice of weapons was frowned upon by some knights, and gazed in consideration by others. After the prowess he'd shown in both archery and his first joust, Joffrey had shown the realm he was no weakling prince. A green boy playing at war? Probably, but it seemed his efforts had been noted by some of the nobility, and a crown prince with at least a minor knack for warfare was something a vassal could approve, he supposed.

He stopped his ruminations when he spotted a familiar face amongst the prospective combatants.

"Lord Buckwell!" shouted Joffrey, pleasantly surprised as he walked towards the doughty man in plate.

"Prince Joffrey? I don't think we've been formally introduced, an honor," he said with a respectful nod.

Joffrey had almost slapped his breastplate in camaraderie before he remembered himself. "Thank you my lord. Looking for a share of the honor? I'm afraid you won't find it here," he confided with a flippant smile as he looked at the banners everywhere. Lord Buckwell chuckled lowly, shaking his head, "And yourself, your highness? I heard you made a strong showing at the archery contest, perhaps you'll reap a share of the nonexistent glory yourself?" he asked him.

"Perhaps my lord, perhaps… If I fall today, then I hope it's beneath your blade, I'd be honored," Joffrey told him truthfully.

He raised his eyebrows as he considered something, "I note you said 'if', not when," knowingly remarked the lord of the Antlers as he put on his helmet and nodded.

Joffrey snorted as he nodded back and returned to his position. The participants were all around the ring, almost hugging its circumference, looking at their neighbors thoughtfully and planning their stratagems.

Joffrey put on his helmet and looked around, seeing if anyone he knew was watching. He didn't find anyone he recognized, so he shrugged and wielded his hammer and sword, popping his neck. He didn't feel any excitement, any purpose as he readied himself.

I need that gold, he told himself as the horn thundered and he moved.

-.PD.-

Thoros of Myr circled around Joffrey carefully, his flaming sword swaying in circles as if probing ghostly defenses. Joffrey kept up with the man, his feet moving with a will of their own as he readied for the final clash. All around them lay knights and lords in differing conditions, from barely conscious to barely bruised. All of them, however, had been defeated.

"If you think a bit of fire is going to unman me Thoros, then you're sadly mistaken," he called out playfully, feinting left and then right, the damnable washed out fire priest not falling for it.

His head was drenched in sweat, from the heat of the fire or that of the confrontation Joffrey couldn't say, but the man was already parrying when Joffrey leapt. He pivoted after he dodged Thoros' riposte, feeling a searing heat sail above his head as he rose up again, his sword slamming into the man's arm and making him stumble back, the follow up hammer blow wrenching his flaming sword from his hands. He finished it with a slightly flashy water whirl, his arming sword's tip ending just a centimeter beyond Thoros' throat.

"I yield your highness, and well fought," said Thoros, wide eyed.

Joffrey smiled as he lowered his sword, "And well fought to you too Thoros," he said, out of breath as the exhaustion caught up to him. The crowd around the ring seemed vaguely speechless as the crier beckoned him to take his winnings, declaring him the winner of the Melee.

Joffrey was startled by the sudden cheering, smallfolk and lords alike clapping and even whistling as he walked to the great stand where the gold lay. He hazarded a smile to the wild public, and to his surprise, found it almost genuine.

Ironically enough, his old self loved the cheering of crowds, and in a way he still did. The fake, simpering kind only made him mad though… He didn't know if that made him better or worse. In any case, the sweet sight of the gold was enough to soothe his aches as he beheld the golden glint of the dragons. His mood worsened when he remembered seeing that very same gold in the sad excuse for a 'treasury' the Red Keep had.

He saluted and nodded respectfully to lords, knights and even smallfolk in his way, but was briefly startled when he saw none other than Petyr Baelish staring at him, mouth wide open. The Master of Coin was startled as well when he realized Joffrey was looking back. He swiftly disappeared from the crowd, leaving Joffrey with a cruel smirk all to himself.

Ah, the dots connect! He thought. Messing with the Littlefucker was one of the few things he seemed to take joy in nowadays.

-.PD.-

With what he'd won so far he'd be able to equip the greatest force of scouts ever seen in the continent, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to train and arm one legion at the very least. Westerosi knights had no equal in mounted warfare throughout the known world as far as Joffrey was concerned, and they'd butcher Dothraki horsemen in a melee.

No, it was the infantry that needed work. Peasant levies stiffened by the odd men at arms was not going to cut it against the string of apocalypses he was sure to hit before the White Walkers, much less the White Walkers themselves. Joffrey doubted his infantry as is would even make it to the melee against the ice demons, they'd melt before even getting to bow range, he was sure.

For his first legion, he needed to win this bloody joust and take home the forty thousand gold Robert had all too freely tossed down the potty. It would be hard, he could tell already, to try and push through noble interference and inertia and poor recruits… a mind-numbing slog it was going to be…

But duty kept carrying him forwards, and in a brief but furious burst of violence, he unseated Ser Arwood Frey, Ser Andar Royce, and Lord Beric Dondarrion. By then the crowd was going wild every time the 'Golden Prince', as the damnable improvising singers and mummers skirting the edges of the grounds had called him, unseated one knight after the other. He had to admit, Robert's steadily disbelieving expression was a sight to behold, not so the horrified expression in Mother's face. Tyrion was very confused, while Bran didn't know whether to clap or to cry, a study in contrast to joyous Myrcella. Sansa regarded him curiously, the grand joy of losing herself in the magic of her dreams come true, the reveling in the spectacle and the banners and the knights had… been tempered, somewhat. She still looked wide eyed and joyous at the tilts, the fancy armors and the well-dressed ladies, but her rare, thoughtful frown was appearing more and more often.

But now came his biggest challenge yet: Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Joffrey had made an extremely good showing by almost anyone's reckoning, considering previous standards at least, but if he wanted to pass the round of sixteen and enter the round of eight, he'd have to defeat one of the most skilled riders in Westeros.

Loras cantered atop his horse as he soaked in the cheering crowds, giving winks to blushing maidens and leaving young knights and squires green with envy. Ser Loras came to a stop in front of Sansa, his bright silver armor enameled with green flowers and vines shining in the afternoon sun. He gave her a smile as he handed her a rose, Sansa blushing at the attention.

Joffrey felt a brief stab of something before it was ruthlessly squashed, Ser Loras giving him a leer as he cantered back to the front of the royal box, right next to him. "Beautiful flowers do naught but attract a lot of bees I'm afraid," he said, twisting the knife.

The fact he knew it was obvious ploy to shake him didn't do anything to placate the part of him that wanted nothing but to jump and strangle the flowery bastard.

"Tis' fortune then that the bee searches for a different kind of flower entirely, eh Ser Loras?" Joffrey said with a suggestive smirk.

He left the nonplussed Knight of Flowers to think about that as he bowed to the fat king on the big chair. "My breeches remain unsoiled thus far Father, though I fear the end might be nigh for them this time," he said in worry.

Robert raised his eyebrows before he let out a loud guffaw, chuckling in good mirth for the first time in ages. "Just show that flowery ponce how Baratheons do war!" he waved away in good cheer.

Joffrey bowed rigidly as he closed his visor swiftly, before anyone could see his suddenly red eyes. Moonlight guided himself to the end of the jousting ground before Lancel handed him a lance. Against all odds, Joffrey had taken a liking to his not-squire. His fumbling ways seemed awfully familiar, and Joffrey felt his cousin was somewhat lost in life… maybe that's what the boy needed, a firm hand and a worthy duty… there was potential behind those perpetually self-doubting green eyes, he could feel it.

Moonlight sped as the horn sounded, his lance coming down as Loras did the same atop his brown stallion, the distance shrinking until there was a sudden crash of sound and pain. Joffrey took a painful lungful of air as Moonlight kept going, slowing down as he circled the tilt barrier for the next tilt.

Joffrey tossed his broken lance away, shaking his head. Ser Loras was good, he'd barely gotten him on the shoulder while the Knight of Flower's own blow had almost unhorsed him. The pain from the blow made him feel vaguely useless… as if he was not himself. What was he doing here, playing at war? Why do any of this? Why was he denied the sweet embrace of oblivion?

The last few thoughts startled him as he shook his head like a terrier with a rat, almost painfully bringing himself back to the present. He checked his body for wounds or nicks, maybe for some trace of poison, but found nothing. Perhaps he'd been pushing himself too much lately…

He shook his head once more as the horn sounded and Moonlight sped up, his lance lowering again and seeking his opponent's chest. He remembered the wars to come and his need for an army worth the name, to save everyone and stop an apocalypse… The Knight of Flowers barely managed to intercept the blow with his shield, his own lance striking Joffrey right in the center of his breastplate. He flew backwards from the blow, slamming into the ground painfully and tumbling through the mud.

Joffrey laid there in the mud, breathing slowly as he gazed up at the blue sky, framed by flying leaves and birds startled by the sudden noise of the clash.

He felt so tired suddenly, an all pervasive bleakness somehow bypassing the holdfast that was his will. Joffrey realized he didn't want to stand up… he wanted to be left alone here, looking at the sky. The unexplained and abrupt desertion of his will should have left him panicked and afraid, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He tried to stand up, barely lifting his head before letting it fall back to the mud.

More war, more death, more plots, no escape.

He could hear the cheering crowd, fickle as the wind as they acclaimed Loras, no doubt already bowing to his fat oaf of a supposed father…

We should all just sleep… we should all close our eyes… thought Joffrey as he kept looking up, feeling drained until Lancel was suddenly at his side, helping him stand up and taking off his helmet.

The crowd was cheering again for Ser Loras as he cantered around the tilt barrier, saluting and soaking in the glory of the lords and the smallfolk. Moonlight was right next to Joffrey, ready for him to jump atop and ride back into battle as he had been trained, but Joffrey just shook his head as he patted his dutiful companion's head. Moonlight neighed, impatient.

"Not today you beast," he told him with a halfhearted smile before turning back to Lancel. "Thank you cousin, take him back to the stable please," he said. Lancel had looked worried for a moment, perhaps thinking about all the manner of hells Cercei would deliver on him if something untoward had happened, but he settled for a relieved nod as he took Moonlight's reigns and guided him out of the field. Joffrey himself walked to the front of the royal box, where Ser Loras was bowing to Robert, though Sansa was looking at Joffrey with a frown. Fortunately, Baelish was not in attendance or the bastard might have received a throwing dagger to the face.

"Unmanned yourself yet?!" shouted Robert in good spirits.

Joffrey just looked at him, feeling hollow.

Robert looked nonplussed for a second before speaking again, the words rushing out of his mouth as if he could not bear the silence, "A good showing son, a good showing, don't you agree Ned?" he asked his best friend almost desperately. Ned looked startled for a moment, before nodding, "It was, Your Grace," Ned said simply, as was his want.

He's made up his mind already, Joffrey realized as he looked at Ned. Whether he knows it or not…

He reconstructed the holdfast of his will as he could, though he could tell it was cracked… no, it had been hollow for a while now…

He'd been pushing himself too hard lately, that must be it… that had to be it…

He shook his head as he bowed to the royal box. He walked out of the grounds, the crier already calling the next tilt.

-.PD.-

Petyr Baelish could scarcely believe it. He'd thought himself mad for even contemplating the possibility… but after exhausting every other thread, and after seeing him in action… there was no doubt.

Prince Joffrey, the simpering man child, was the fucking Shadow. The living, breathing killing machine that had burnt most of his work in King's Landing to ash.

Years of practicing his cool, collected demeanor had ensured he didn't panic, but it had been a close thing. He'd barely been getting enough sleep when he started to find black handkerchiefs in his solar inside the Red Keep… after that, he'd been sleeping maybe one or two hours every night, his dagger under the pillow as he nervously watched the barred door.

He took a deep breath as he collected his wits, the not so gentle swaying of his cog enough to steady his nerves. He'd never given up before, not even when Brandon Stark had gutted him like a fish for daring to protect Cat from a life of misery and barbarism… and he wasn't going to give up now. With Prince Joffrey of all people revealed as the Shadow, he had no choice but to tuck tail and run. His plan had been set back by months, or most likely years, but he'd adapt with the new circumstances, hatch new plans, ride the ever changing currents of chaos like he'd always done.

Yes, he thought, it was merely a slight setback. He still had Lysa and through her, the might of the Vale. He had a few hidden nest eggs in Gulltown too, that would provide some much needed cash for the wars and plots to come.

Baelish smiled as leaned back on his chair. The first thing he was going to do after disembarking at Gulltown was going to give him great satisfaction: Hire a dozen good killers to jump at the bastard the moment he dared step outside the Red Keep again, and signal his contact amongst the Prince's own servants to poison his wine. He didn't care which one got to him first, as long as he was dead.

He looked at the empty goblet on the small table before he called out, his voice smooth to his ears, "Jerryk, wine," he said.

He frowned when nothing happen, his superbly trained servant nowhere in evidence.

"Jerryk," he called out again.

Unacceptable, he thought, shaking his head. He thought Jerryk knew better than this… a shame really, a shame.

He got up from his chair and opened the door to his personal cabin, only to find Jerryk slumped against the wooden bulkhead, a thin trail of blood sluggishly running down his neck and pooling at his pants.

Baelish took in a startled breath of horror, fumbling for his dagger as he looked down the corridor, his heart beating wildly as he found nothing.

No, he thought in dread.

He gave an unsteady step forwards, his dagger shaking like a leaf in his hand. I've got to get out of here, he thought as he kept walking, gaining speed as he turned a corner. He found two of the cog's crewmembers on the floor, one with his throat slit and another with his face locked in panic, a sea of blood around him that had probably erupted from his now empty socket.

Baelish felt as if he were in a nightmare as he kept climbing ladders and walking down corridors, finding every single member of his crew slain one way or the other. The hallways of horror were almost too much to bear as he finally reached the deck, vaguely hyperventilating as a cold gust of nightly wind froze him to the bone.

He was still as a statue when he saw the Prince, his head and face bare for all to see as he splashed a bit of lantern oil on a pile of kindling near the main mast.

"Oh, Baelish. I was wondering when you'd come up," he said as he looked at him, before returning to his task with all the nonchalance and boredom of a sailor with long hours of work ahead of him.

Baelish swallowed as he grabbed the door's frame, looking around the deck and spotting a dozen crewmembers plus the half dozen mercenaries he'd contracted for this very journey, all dead. The waves jumbled the ship from side to side, the lack of helmsman making it sway dangerously after each wave.

"You really thought you'd be safe here huh?" Joffrey said as he shook his head, placing a bit of pitch around a batch of folded canvass. "The double bluff was interesting, I'll give you that. It takes guts to arrange the departure of your official vessel in so obvious a manner and actually board it, instead of taking that little carriage of yours up the Kingsroad," Joffrey said as examined the pitch with a frown.

Baelish ran to the edge of the ship, looking down to the grumpy sea and noting the lack of his small cutter… though he could see the coast not that far away.

"I wouldn't bother if I were you, I'll just fish you out and then I'll be wet and irritated. Trust me, you don't want to do that," said the crazed Prince as he pulled a rope, the ship's last sail folding on itself.

"Wh…" Baelish swallowed, trying to gather his wits once more as he turned to improvisation, the one tool that had never failed him. "Of course my Prince," he called out with his smooth voice, not a hint of worry present in it, "You have won our little game decisively and proven yourself the better player by far, and I commend you for it. You have seen for yourself my skills at building what most other nobles would never even dream of…" He let the silence build up for a moment before continuing, "I can be a powerful ally to have at your side, all for the price of a few minor concessions, certainly less than what you have already destroyed… Whatever you want, I can get it for you," he told him with confidence. His model for Prince Joffrey was still off kilter and slightly shattered, but he was busy reconstructing it as he spoke, already gleaning useful tidbits of information. The spirit that had somehow possessed the crown prince was ruthless, incredibly skilled and likely valued competence. He had no care for honor or pageantry but was incredibly centered on the task or goal at hand. He could work with this.

Joffrey looked at him with a sad, vaguely amused smirk. "What I want is not in your power to give, Master of Coin. I want a happy people and a Kingdom worth governing, I want my friends to remember me, I want to beat the Night King to a pulp with my bare hands… I want to feel wonder at the world again, even a little would do…" he trailed off in longing, looking at the night sky. "Most of all, I think I'd like to sleep… yes… a dreamless, eternal sleep… Feels like I haven't gotten a good night's rest in decades…" he continued as he returned his gaze to Baelish, "You know, as of late the only thing that is sure to motivate me out of that damned sinking bed is the prospect of your suffering. Ironic I know," he gave a mirthless chuckle as he cleaned his hands with a rag, "After tonight I don't know if I'll have the willpower to get up again…" he said as he walked closer to him, stopping a few meters away and leaning on the rear mast as he gazed at him. He seemed eager to talk.

He's melancholic, severely melancholic… suicidal even, Baelish thought in a hurry, keeping his body nonthreatening and rigidly still after sheathing his dagger carefully. He'd always been a good reader and had read Maester Gwylliam's 'On the Moods of the Mind' quite a few times, finding some very interesting tidbits amongst the useless drivel, tidbits that had served him well even if he'd forgotten half of it. Perhaps he could-

"I admire that, you know? Your mind is always moving, always planning the next step, always ready to jump, always improvising… You could have been such a boon to the realm…" Joffrey trailed off, looking disappointed.

"I can still be that, Joffrey, our ambitions need not be opposed, we can talk-"

"Stop," commanded Joffrey, shutting up Baelish with a single word. He shook his head in exasperation, "What am I even doing? Fucking Baelish… fucking Baelish," he repeated, the shift in his tone of voice sending shivers down his spine as Joffrey's face turned angry, perhaps even furious.

"Your body will never be found. Your ship will burn to the waterline and sink to the depths of Blackwater Bay. All will wonder about the fate of Lord Petyr Baelish, scoundrel thief who was never seen again in this life…" he said with a cruel smirk.

Petyr swallowed something dry, trying to find his voice again as he inched slightly to his left, "You intend to burn me?" he asked, buying time.

Joffrey looked at him strangely before his face suddenly disfigured itself, a horrible, runaway laugh emerging from his throat. Joffrey laughed loud and hard, as if he'd been told the funniest joke in history.

The hair at the nape of his neck was on edge as Joffrey looked at him once more, still trying to restrain a few errant chuckles. "Oh Baelish… you poor, ignorant bastard… I should feel pity for you, but all of this is making me feel rather good! Burn you? Faster than you deserve I'm afraid. No, I'm going to torture you until I extract every single tidbit of information I've missed so far, and then I'm going to keep going until your emaciated husk stops breathing. That's what I'll do," he said with a wink.

Baelish couldn't restrain the anguished cry that escaped his lips as his heart battered against his chest, his hands almost fumbling with the loaded crossbow on the deck before he gripped it steady and turned around back towards Joffrey.

Joffrey was right in front of him, his hand moving the tip of the crossbow an inch to his right before Petyr pressed the trigger, the bolt flying harmlessly away into the cold dark night.

"Let's begin, shall we?" Joffrey said as a dagger flashed and he lost control of his limbs, falling to the ground in a heap. He screamed for someone, anyone to help him as the Shadow dragged him by the legs back inside the ship, whistling the Rains of Castamere in a terrible, off kilter tone.

-.PD.-

The depths of his soul stretched up the purple horizon in the distance, his awareness again returning to the place he'd sough before. He held the empty place with his awareness, bringing it closer to him, trying to understand the missing thing through the shadow the contours formed around it. It was something meant to channel, to kill, to bridge, and sharp, so very sharp he could almost cut himself as he beheld its shadow, his concentration supreme as he tried to understand what they wanted, what he'd been forcefully shaped to receive…

But it was not enough… he needed to get even closer, he needed to forget about his body entirely, transcend it and flood himself with the empty anchor… and there was only one way Joffrey even suspected could work…

He opened his eyes and gazed at the vial of poison in his hand, tilting it so the moonlight flooding the Red Keep's Godswood illuminated the little vial perfectly.

Ned already suspected and would likely not be dissuaded… Stannis plotted from Dragonstone as Renly gathered swords from the knights and lords of the tourney… The players readied for war as winter came and the dead shambled and Sansa likely thought him a monster… he didn't know why the last one bothered him so much…

He gazed at the poison thoughtfully. The tourney was over, he had not been able to get out of bed today until the late afternoon. He had grown tired of the sneers and the intrigue, of the war and the death, of the plans and the hopes… Did that make him a bad person? Did he even care?

The depressingly hollow miasma that clouded his sight was different from the harrowing despair he'd felt before. There was no angst, no throat squeezing ghost that would sometimes attempt to choke him, no terrible flashbacks of agony. He just felt… empty. As empty as the anchor within him.

What did he truly have to look forward to? The intrigues of the capital. And after that, the war and Robb and Tywin and Renly and Stannis and Balon and Daenerys and the Walkers… so much to do, so much to do die for. If he ran? He left everyone to die, and the end of the world would catch him once again and throw his soul back into the fray… forever more.

What happened at the jousting grounds? He wondered. He was starting to crumble into pieces but nothing bad had really happened. Baelish was gone, he wouldn't bother him any longer. He could build his scouts, he could try to ride out the war, he could confine Ned to the cells and keep him healthy, he could, he could… he could…

He could. But he didn't want to.

When did I get so tired? He thought as he leaned back on the Heart Tree, an invisible force begging him to close his eyes.

Maybe the answers will make me care again… he mused as he gazed back at the vial.

Maybe the answers will finally kill me… he mused again, tilting it so it was obscured once more.

He opened the cork and took it in one fell swoop, swallowing every single drop of the liquid and leaning back on the Heart Tree. He closed his eyes and let himself sink through himself, his awareness delving deep within his soul and reaching for the empty anchor. He studied it for a while, an ominous rumbling rising in intensity as the Purple above seemed to glow more strongly, a rumbling of his very being as pain assaulted him, pain and agony that sought to crush his limbs and his throat, to torture him beyond sense or reason.

But for the first time, Joffrey didn't care. It was not the empty denial of madness, nor the courage of defiance. He greeted the pain with a metaphorical grimace, his mind narrowing as he kept gazing at the empty anchor and his soul was flayed by the Purple, intent on making him loose himself in the agony and the pain… but he would not be denied, he would not be blinded. He could feel the Purple's incomprehensible strength carrying him up and up and up, the Pillars absorbing him and propelling him through an incomprehensible array of twisting structures bigger than anything he had ever felt, bigger than the Hightower, than the Mountains of the Moon. He was carried through something bigger than the eternal horizon of the Grey Beyond, bigger than the night sky and the stars beyond and Joffrey knew that if he dared look he'd be no more, but would it truly be oblivion? Or would it be mere madness?

He let the temptation slip by with the agony, the assault on his senses so harrowing as to paradoxically clear his mind, no sweet numbness hiding the atrocity being committed to his soul as the natural order of the cosmos was broken in a terrible discordant tune of unreality. Still he gazed at the anchor through soul rending agony, his being pure thought, pure awareness as he felt the contours of the empty space and savored sharpness, as he smelt oldness, as he sensed purpose wrought in magic and blood for petty power and glory, now waiting to be reused, now soon to be scavenged by something far, far greater in breadth and intent than its original creators, to serve as a makeshift, desperate bridge, a tool of death, a tool of creation, a weapon of war, a legacy of his blood, so sharp, sharper than steel, sharp as Valyrian Steel, old and forgotten, a tool to complete his purpose. To complete Joffrey's purpose. To complete the Purple's purpose.

There was no break in his awareness, no dizziness to hide the memories, no hidden transition as the eternal Pillars thrummed and the fractals glowed, no disorientation as the pain screamed and he opened his eyes to the sight of his room in the Red Keep, no vomit as he stood up from his bed and fell to his knees on the cold floor, no doubt as he gazed at his steady hands.

"Brightroar," he said as he kept looking at both anchors even as he gazed at his hands, illuminated by the morning sun rising from the east and peeking through the window, the tablet materializing over his left hand in a brief twirl of silent fractals as he gazed at it thoughtfully with both sights.

"They want me to get Brightroar," he mused in soul deep certainty as he looked at the crude caricature inscribed in the tablet.

-.PD.-