Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The small yacht tumbled through the stormy seas, one incoming wave almost capsizing the small ship as it broke against its hull. The clash unleashed a mighty spray of saltwater that seemed to obscure the ship almost entirely, the lone man at the tiller wiping his pale green eyes as the yacht's jib was inflated to its maximum extension by the powerful winds. The small ship rode the back of the wave in seconds, quickly gaining speed before the next great wave was upon it and it struggled against the high slope, barely making it to the top before it went downwards again, the man holding the tiller with all his strength as he eyed the fixed compass next to him.

Joffrey could see the outline of the Valyrian Peninsula steadily becoming larger and larger, the wretched sea around it in perpetual anger as if the Doom still echoed down the ages, large plumes of smoke blotting out the horizon and becoming larger the closer Joffrey got to the mainland.

He maneuvered the small boat steadily, reading the currents and the force of the waves to judge his approach to the peninsula. Every bit of his skill as a sailor and a navigator was put to the test as he skirted the edges of strange whirlpools and unnatural currents, roaring as he shoved his body weight against the tiller and barely missed a great vortex of water, as if some god had unplugged the bottom of a gigantic Braavosi tub.

He wondered how many bigger ships had been unable to skirt the strange currents and hazards undamaged, how many ships had been lost to the abyss that was the southern approaches of Valyria. The Eastern and Western approaches were safer for ships, for a given value of the word anyway, but the noxious fumes that seemed to flood the peninsula were at their strongest there…

The waters calmed as Joffrey cleared the worst of the currents, the winds growing less and less pronounced as he neared the jagged, black cliffs of the doomed peninsula. There was barely a wisp of wind as he neared the great black horizon that seemed to stretch high into the air as the city walls of Volantis itself, as if some great giant had cleaved a mountain in half and submerged one piece even as he raised the other higher into the air.

Joffrey gazed up the black, jagged cliff with a considering look as he threw the yacht's small anchor down, the ship coming to a stop right beside the great unnatural wall. He took a hold of his climbing rakes and got to work on it, a length of rope tied to his belt as he left his big backpack behind, climbing the near vertical slope of what had once been the middle of the peninsula. The black stone was difficult to work with, and only experience ensured he didn't tumble down to his death when the rakes slipped.

He made his way up, grunting with effort every time a rake loosed and he dangled from the cliff. Eventually, he reached the crumbling summit and managed to stand up, gazing at the desolated wasteland beyond.

He hadn't known what to expect when he set his mind to the task that had doomed so many other would be explorers, the task that had seen the loss of King Tommen Lannister and Brightroar, the task that had even claimed the life of his great-uncle Gerion. Sometimes he'd imagined Valyria as a sea of ruins and monuments to long forgotten gods, other times he'd envisioned the lost peninsula as a land reclaimed by some sort of twisted nature, like a dark, ashen Sothoryos…

What he saw when he cleared the last boulder on his way was a sight that took his breath away, both lesser and greater than he had imagined. From his feet to the horizon, what had once been the heartland of the Valyrian Empire beckoned.

It was a terrible wasteland of black, jagged rock and dull grey pumice, an ashen desert of unending grounded dust that seemed to whisper with but the slightest breeze. Instead of gently rolling hills, Joffrey found faceted, chiseled outcrops of ancient bedrock jutting up at seemingly random intervals, where he'd expected horrible monsters and stuff of nightmares, he found only unending ash that continued onwards to the horizon, where it formed a great curtain of grey that reached the heavens themselves.

Joffrey took in the sight for a moment, caught in between horror and awe, stunned by the scorched, mangled wasteland where not even worms could hope to survive. He shook his head after a moment, taking a deep breath before he started walking, one foot at a time, same as he always had.

-.PD.-

The climate was oddly still as Joffrey munched on some hardtack, the salty, meaty meal a feast to his ash filled mouth. He was inside a small tent, trying to fight the otherworldly chill that had seemed to invade the blasted wasteland that was Valyria by night. He rubbed his hands against his arms as he thought about his objective… because as unnerving as his surrounding were proving out to be, he had not come to gaze at Old Valyria… he had come to retrieve a family heirloom lost to time and ambition.

Brightroar, the Valyrian Steel family sword of House Lannister, had been lost when the current head of House, Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock, had taken it along with a great fleet of galleys straight towards ruined Valyria in search of wealth and glory. Neither King nor ship nor sword were ever seen again… and it was that sword that the Purple needed to… do something. It was a missing component in the eldritch thing's plan, and Joffrey's most clear lead in a long time, one he'd grabbed with both hands. One thing was certain though, Brightroar might have been created as a weapon, but the shadow within his soul whispered other things… a tool of life and death, a key to slot into the great hole that reached to the core of his soul, a connection…

He was shaken out of his introspection when he noticed the ominous rumbling of the ground, his tent shivering slightly as a distant roaring increased in intensity. Joffrey peeked out of the tent and saw an all-consuming curtain of grey ash and black smoke blanketing the horizon, blanketing the earth itself as the previously stilted winds suddenly increased in intensity to the force of an autumn storm, stronger and stronger until the terribly jagged sand was scalding his face and his eyes, the winds somehow still gaining power and shrieking like a great beast of old myth. The grey curtain advanced steadily across the horizon, straight towards the shore and against Joffrey's tent.

He retreated back inside, trying to open his backpack and grabbing a finely woven handkerchief which he promptly soaked in water. He tied it around his mouth and noise as the wind shrieked like a demon, the tent shifting to one side as fabrics strained and Joffrey covered himself in his blanket. The tent finally couldn't take it anymore as great gashes ruptured it, almost disintegrating once the first gash gave way and unleashed a chain reaction. Soon there was no tent anymore, only Joffrey hugging the scorched earth as everything turned ashen grey, Joffrey barely seeing his hands as the wind deafened him and he coughed, holding both hands close to his mouth and the wet handkerchief. He coughed again and again, each time more strongly as the smoke turned overwhelming, a sickly, warm thing which flooded his lungs, his eyes, everything turning black and grey as he coughed and coughed and coughed until the handkerchief was swept with the wind and Joffrey tumbled lightly against the ground, the wind dragging him even as he grabbed his throat and tried to breath, only for a strangled, whining sound to come out instead.

No, he thought as he managed to grab a hold of the ground, dragging himself upright and stumbling towards his backpack. It felt as if he were pushing against a Leviathan, but he was soon on his knees again, not a smidgen of air entering his lungs as he gaped and shook, dragging himself forward even as streaks of purple flooded him and he was consumed.

-.PD.-

Everyone but the purple prince takes a step to the right… does that mean everyone moves on but I remain here, trapped, unable to truly die? He mused, looking at the constellations.

No, he'd discarded double meanings from his musings a while ago, they seemed too complex, too easy for the true meaning to be misinterpreted. If Joffrey knew one thing from the mysterious beings behind it all, was that they wanted him to understand, wanted it fervently… The constellations held the real message, and the riddle was merely the key they'd left so someone else who knew the westerosi tongue couldn't crack it completely. It was a message for him only, and he felt the answer should be so bloody obvious… try as he might though, he couldn't crack it. There was not enough information to align a simple substitution code, and it was too short to try Maester Klin's comparative equations… he'd been reduced to the most obscure of cyphers and decryption methods known to the Citadel, with no luck so far. He couldn't shake off the feeling he was overthinking it however… the constellations held the answer somehow…

He took a deep breath as he stood back up, his resting time over as he climbed the small room's great closet, placing his legs securely on its top before leaning backwards in a hanging position. He started repeating the same repetitive movement, quickly raising before falling down again. After so many lives of getting back to shape, Joffrey knew his body like a Maester knew his chain. He knew exactly what to do and when, how to turn the body of the weakling, idiotic man child Prince Joffrey into something that was vaguely respectable without killing himself in the process.

He was focused, his entire being aligned on a single goal, his stubbornness on finding his answers serving as an adequate bulwark against the despondent, black pit that did its level best on ensuring he didn't leave his bed every morning. He had the sinking suspicion that once those answers were found all would come tumbling down… even now he could feel his motivation on finding his answers being slowly, oh so slowly chipped away every time he woke up and stared at the veiled disdain in Sandor's eyes, at the simpering flattery of the courtiers, at the dull repetition of the Red Keep's day to day routine as everyone kept dancing to the strings of fate. His burning curiosity, his all-consuming desire to know what he was, the thing that had carried him so far…

To see it being slowly grounded down seemed almost heretical to Joffrey, as if he were starting to become less and less of a person and more a… some kind of machine, a mill spinning endlessly against the rivers or the air, a cog that did nothing but spin and spin and spin…

He reached a hundred repetitions as he suddenly shouted, giving voice to his amorphous frustration as he stayed still, hanging down from the closet and looking upside down at the small, abandoned room he'd commandeered as his lair in the Red Keep.

He stayed there for a moment before the door opened to the sight of Uncle Tyrion, goblet in hand.

Hmm, his quarters are not too far away from here, must have been on his way to Chatayas', thought Joffrey as he left his arms to hang, looking at the upside down form of his favorite uncle.

Tyrion looked nonplussed as he eyed the shirtless Joffrey, debating inside his head whether or not he should keep walking. "Didn't know you fancied a new room nephew," he finally called out, looking at the heap of opened books and wall sized drawings of constellations, the old plate armor stashed by the corner and even a few colorful pieces of canvass tossed around the room.

"Needed a place with peace and quiet Uncle. You off to Chatayas'?," he asked him as he grabbed the mace he'd left at the closet's top, now repeating his exercise again but this time holding the mace with both hands and giving a quick jab in a random direction every time he returned to the stretched position.

"… maybe. Yes," Tyrion said distractedly, looking at his nephew. "…What are you doing?" he asked him.

"Getting my body back in shape as fast as I can, it's a chore but always well worth it," he said as he kept repeating the exercise, changing hands and now jabbing at imaginary, upside down enemies to his left.

"Getting back in shape for what exactly?" asked Tyrion as he decided on finally entering the room, his curiosity already piqued as he closed the door behind him. He'd never seen his nephew quite this concentrated… and quite as uncannily alien as he felt right now, hanging from atop a closet and moving every part of his body as he twirled with a one handed mace, an open book below him almost as if he could read a bit of it after each repetition, if such a thing were of course possible.

"For Valyria. I'm going to go fetch Brightroar, if I can dig it from the mountain of ash its most likely buried under that is…" he said with the resigned air of a man contemplating a time absorbing chore to come.

Tyrion stood still for a moment before a small chuckle emerged from his lips, the little bastard had played him well. Tyrion was not too disappointed with himself, after all, elaborate jokes had never been Joffrey's focus, so he was forgiven for not anticipating that one. "Right, and the hammer is for heroically fighting the sphinxes guarding the palaces, I suppose?" he said with an amused smirk.

"What palaces? Damn thing's a barren wasteland, can't believe it's been a magnet for power and wealth hungry fools for hundreds of years now… I'll be sure to write you if I find any though," Joffrey said as he kept pumping up and down.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows as took a sip from his goblet, "Not charging out to glory just yet then?" he said, following his game.

"Nah, I'm going to the Citadel two days from now to try and shake Archmaester Benedict's head until some sort of breathing apparatus comes out his ear… basic Westerlands miner's gear is not going to cut it," he said as he stopped for a moment, turning to gaze at Tyrion for a moment. He tossed the mace at the pile of sheets and blankets before he raised himself one more time, grabbing the top of the closet before letting his legs lose their grip, the falling inertia making him spin in midair before landing on the floor. "I have some sketches already, but I could use your head for this, Uncle. Ash and dust can be stopped by compressed feathers, but the noxious, volcanic fumes are more complicated. What do you say, fancy a tour to the Citadel?" he asked him as he dried the sweat with a towel.

"… You're serious…" Tyrion realized in mild shock as Joffrey put on a simple white shirt before strapping a dagger to his hip. He gazed at the intricate sketches of full face masks and air tight tubes that lay sprawled around the room, the carbon drawn lines smooth and purposeful as an Archmaester's sketch of the human body.

"Dead serious Uncle," said Joffrey as he popped his neck from side to side.

-.PD.-

And so Tyrion was somehow swept in a wild, strange adventure that brought him, Joffrey and the Hound to ancient Oldtown itself, home to the Citadel and the legendary Hightower. What had at first begun as a way to keep his nephew from killing himself and avoiding the stresses of the Capital, had turned into a dizzying race of horses and dirt roads and fevered discussions of ideas and materials.

When they had finally reached the city, Joffrey had gone straight to the Citadel and Archmaester Benedict, whose rod and mask were pure steel. Joffrey had known exactly how to communicate with the at first reticent Archmaester of forging and smithing, and soon Tyrion had found himself in a dense discussion of such and such material's strength and the crazed diagrams of two experts with too much to do and not enough time to talk about it. He'd been way out of his depth, contributing what sane, common sense advice he could to the Archmaester and the spirit that had possessed Joffrey.

At first he'd been humoring him, and then he'd been making use of the opportunity to get out of the capital and the intrigues that had been thrown in wild disarray after Petyr Baelish had been found in his bed with his throat slit. By now though, Tyrion was just trying to make sense of the whole thing, watching as Joffrey crafted himself a set of climbing rakes and otherwise equipped himself with a sundry array of tools and ropes and equipment.

"Why are you doing this, Joffrey? It's not fame nor wealth… but what?" he'd suddenly asked him one day in incomprehension.

"I've got to get Brightroar Uncle, I just have to," he'd told him with bone deep certainty.

"Uncle Gerion said the same before sailing to Valyria as well... He preferred to speak of the prestige and honor it would bring back to House Lannister though…" Tyrion had mused out loud as his eyes were suddenly lost in recollection.

"You two were close," Joffrey had said, more of a statement than a question.

"Yes, Gerion was… different from Tywin and Kevan. He took a more… relaxed I suppose, approach to life than either of his brothers," he'd said.

"Wise man," had said Joffrey, "The pair of them must have been rather jealous, having a brother without a stick up his ass," he'd delivered with aplomb.

Tyrion had cracked up, tears almost leaping out his eyes in mirth, "I suppose so, the nanny must have run out of sticks by the time Gerion traipsed out of grandmother's womb, that's for certain," he'd said in between laughs.

Perhaps his biggest discovery had been the fact that this new Joffrey was a delight to have around. Witty, smart, charismatic when he was arsed to try, a great conversationalist and genuine, good person. The last had been somewhat of a rarity back in King's Landing… and the world in general really. Despite it all though, the force that had transformed his nephew had left him somewhat melancholic, prone to heavy silences and an almost hollow brooding. Occasionally, Joffrey would not come down from his room at the inn until lunch time. He'd claim he'd been oversleeping, though the bags under his eyes and the occasional harrowing screams in the middle of the night seemed to kill that little white lie before it was even born. When questioned, Joffrey had simply looked at him over his cup of exotic, distastefully strong tea, blinking before a small, wan smile peeked out.

"It's complicated," he'd said before taking a big gulp of the strong tea.

The afternoons were the time when Joffrey really came alive though, his seemingly suicidal quest taking him and not letting go. He'd tinker with the Archmaesters, consult books, lore and more besides… strangest of all perhaps, despite the mysticism and the smithing, was the trading. He'd sometimes spot a 'good' deal in the harbor, and the day later the small bag of coins he'd carry around would double in size.

"Time… it all boils down to time, Tyrion," He'd said with surprising passion when asked, over a late night dinner with Sandor and himself, the fine Arbor Gold going down like apple juice down their throats.

"One would think gold is what it's all about, being merchants and all," the Hound had said with a disbelieving snort.

"You'd think that!" Joffrey had jumped, his eyes wide and his smile smug. "I thought that too at first. Gods, it took me a while to get that… so complicated and yet so simple… It doesn't matter if you could get a deal twice the better if it takes thrice as long. Harbor fees have to be paid, watchmen bribed, ships maintained… but it goes even further than that. The time you spend selling that cargo for the perfect price is time you could have spent bringing forth another batch, or doing anything else to your benefit… this applies to everything, not just ships and ports, but the grain trade, the smallfolk's labor, even war… Time is the universal currency, shared by all who follow its stricture; time is gold, pure and simple," He'd said with his by now usual clarity… when devoid of mysticism that is.

Tyrion was not completely lost, after all he was an avid reader himself and the concept was not revolutionary. He suspected though that never before had a prince of the realm known such a truth so intrinsically, so instinctively.

"I suppose that makes me the wealthiest man in the planet," he'd bitterly whispered almost too low for Tyrion to hear, as if it were a curse. The mystery deepened.

"So you sell them time?" had asked Sandor with the face of a man humoring an imbecile.

"Eh… yeah, kind of. Though I suppose it would be better to say that I buy their uncertainty," Joffrey had told him.

Sandor had just stared at Joffrey.

"I think you broke him," Tyrion had told him as he poked Sandor's non burnt cheek.

"Get your hands off me!" He'd barked as he shoved it away, the slight smile betraying the gruff exterior.

Joffrey had looked almost teary eyed, before he quickly recomposed himself. The Hound hadn't seemed to notice though, taking a big bite out of the pork chop they had been served. "Give me good solid steel and I'll show you what the universal currency is," he'd said sagely.

"No argument there," Tyrion had agreed.

"Copper," Joffrey had muttered, so low Tyrion didn't think he had meant to be heard.

"Hm?" Sandor had asked as was his wont.

"It should be Copper," Joffrey had said, taking a deep gulp from his cup of Arbor Gold before taking his leave.

"… you think he's really going to do it?" Sandor had suddenly asked, intense.

"I think he will," Tyrion had told him.

There was silence as they thought about that, the gentle light of the Hightower flickering in the distance through the inn's small windows.

-.PD.-

Tyrion woke up to the sight of the Hound's burnt face screaming in his ear.

He could already tell this was going to be an interesting day.

"What did he do?" Tyrion mumbled as he got up.

"Going to get himself killed, left us a letter though!" The Hound thundered, saying the last as if it were a curse.

Sandor was already rushing down the stairs as Tyrion waddled after him, trying to tie the last of his clothes before he spotted him sprinting out of the tavern, straight towards the harbor.

Instead of running after him and loosing what little was left of his dignity, Tyrion instead turned around and left through the backdoor, getting a bucket and using it as a step to mount his horse. He sped for the harbor quickly, to the sight of Sandor blocking the Prince from a cog's boarding ramp.

"This has gone long enough Joffrey, I'm not going to let you kill yourself," he declared, brooking no disagreement.

Joffrey smiled at the mention of his name, "Sandor, if I wanted to kill myself there's nothing you could do to stop it… please just take the gold I left you, live a good life somewhere south, Lys or Tyrosh maybe, Tywin won't-"

"To hell with your fucking bribe! And to hell with fucking Tywin! I'm not going to let you die over a fucking sword!" he'd spat, red faced as he advanced on Joffrey with both hands.

Joffrey somehow twisted away, sweeping Sandor's legs from him. The Hound lay there in the ground, nonplussed as a crowd formed around them, the cog's crewmen grabbing clubs as they made towards the plank.

"Keep working," Joffrey commanded as he walked towards the plank. He was about to say something else when the Hound, already up and moving, grabbed him from behind. Joffrey gave him a face full of elbow, swiftly followed by a blow right at the Hound's left hand, making Sandor release him. He was not going to let him go so easily though, as he grabbed him again and threw Joffrey against the hard cobblestones. Joffrey recovered as he tumbled, and Tyrion could only look on horrified as who he suddenly realized where his best friends charged each other in pure anger. The Hound slammed a fist against Joffrey's face, making him tumble back before he jabbed Sandor two times in the chest and a third in the jaw, making him fall back down.

"Sandor, stop, please," he said staring him down.

Clegane looked at him for a moment before standing up, looking defeated.

"Thank you-" started Joffrey before a fistful of sand crashed against his face, swiftly followed by a sucker punch that left him spluttering on the ground as Sandor bodily grabbed him like a sack of potatoes and tried to carry him off. Joffrey twisted his legs in midair, working the inertia to make them both tumble to the ground in a heap. They started hitting each other as Tyrion finally had enough and reared his horse right at their sides.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" He roared, his small frame incongruous with the power behind the shout. Both of them looked at him as he dismounted and waddled towards the ship, "I'm going with you, my crazy nephew," he declared as he strode up the plank as if he owned it, the sailors shuffling away as they stared at him warily.

"You too, stupid Imp?! That sword worth your life too-" started the Hound only to be interrupted by Tyrion.

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE GODSDAMNED SWORD!" he roared back from the ship, "I'll go make certain Tommen and Myrcella grow up with a loving brother!" he spat, something shining in his eyes, "And maybe find Nuncle Gerion's body, bury him below Casterly Rock… Gods know he deserves it, truer Lannister than both his brothers combined," he said as he shook his head, walking towards the cabin.

Joffrey and Sandor stayed still, still looking at the ship as they lay there, vaguely knotted together.

"… I can't just tell him no I suppose…"Joffrey muttered.

"Why not, hypocrites are nothing new in Westeros," said Sandor.

They stayed still for a few more seconds before there was a silent agreement to mutually disentangle themselves.

"Wine?" asked Joffrey.

"Please," the Hound said, thinking. If he couldn't stop the crazy idiot then by the Gods he was going to see this whole thing through.

Joffrey dusted himself off before handing him the wineskin.

"Who taught you to fight like that?" he asked before taking a gulp. Incredible as it sounded, the damn kid was good, and not above dirty tricks. He approved.

"You," said Joffrey, taking a step to the side as Sandor spat and a shower of precious Arbor Gold rained over the cobblestones.

-.PD.-

Joffrey smiled lightly as he lowered his far eye, the green coast of Sothoryos coming steadily closer as he shouted at the helmsman, correcting their approach. He stood at the cog's bow, the ship at his back a hive of activity.

"Sothoryos… Why visit only one place of certain death when you can visit two!" Tyrion exclaimed from beside him.

"Sorry uncle, but it's the only place one can get Sothori Cotton… it's kind of there in the name, I'm sure you'll get it," Joffrey said cheekily.

"We should visit the Thousand Islands after Valyria, sing a song with the fucking cannibal frogmen, why not?" mused Sandor, taking it all in stride with a vague 'why the fuck not' attitude.

He'd gotten like that past Naath.

"Feathers, pre heated charcoal, now Sothori Cotton… I'll be surprised if you can breathe anything at all after all those layers," said Tyrion with a raised eyebrow.

"That's the idea," Joffrey said before turning back, "HELMSMAN! FIVE DEGREES PORT!" he roared.

Tyrion watched the display of expert seamanship in silence, watching Sothoryos steadily consume the horizon in deep green before he spoke once more. "What will you be needing next Nephew? Some Levaiathan's from Ibb mayhaps?" he asked him.

Joffrey actually looked considering as he tilted his head, "Leviathans..? Nah, too big… I'll need some pigs though, or rather their bladders," he said.

"Do I even want to ask?" said Tyrion.

"Air containers for emergencies… only problem is they keep popping after a vaguely useful amount of air is pumped in," he said as he shook his head.

"Valves giving you trouble?" asked Tyrion. He remembered seeing him and the Archmaester pouring over that particular diagram for days… it had looked durable to him though, and a rather ingenious device.

"No, it's the material itself. I need some kind of reinforcing agent that's able to stretch along with it and not break apart in the process… No luck so far though," he said as he raised the far eye again.

They spent a while in silence, the southern, warm waters of the Summer Sea making Tyrion yawn.

"… I could help with that," Sandor said all of a sudden.

Both of them stared at Sandor in mild surprise, waiting for him to spit it out.

"… It's a poultice… smells disgusting…" he said as he stared at them, "Should do the trick after a bit of work though…" he trailed off.

Joffrey was possessed by burning curiosity, but didn't ask… showing respect to his friends made him feel a little more whole these days.

"Mighty' Warrior!!! It's fucking huge!" bellowed the man atop the spotter's nest.

Joffrey scanned the coast with his far eye and quickly found the cause of the sailor's distress, a huge monstrosity of green scales and claws, moving on four legs. Joffrey lowered the far eye and blinked, still able to see it.

"That's it for the cotton then?" Tyrion asked, feeling faint.

"What?!" Joffrey spluttered, then laughed, "Uncle, don't be ridiculous, it's harmless!" he said in exasperation and not a smidgen of sarcasm as he turned around and ordered the crew to lower the cutter.

"Well, so slow as to be harmless anyway, clumsy, bumbling buildings that they are," he amended with a wistful smile, "Stupid too, can't understand the difference between a staked pit and a leafy tree… makes a mighty stew though," he said almost to himself, licking his lips. "You know uncle? Maybe we could eat one tonight, supplies are low anyway," he said in sudden realization as he turned back.

He blinked owlishly at the ogling crew of the Yellow Streak, the frenzy of activity gone.

"… What the fuck are you waiting for!? Klens, lower that boat! Helmsman, steady does it! And somebody rig that foresail!" he roared, the crew startling back into action.

The stew was delicious, Tyrion gave his crazy nephew that at least.

-.PD.-

Joffrey had thought about visiting Lys, Tyrion learned, but in the end decided it was too much of a hassle for the unlikely prospect of a better ship and crew. Tyrion didn't know who the hells Nakaro Faenys was, but his ship and crew had long sailed by now and could be as far away as Braavos right now, according to Joffrey's… prophecies, for the lack of a better name.

"So you were not thinking about bedding a fair woman one last time?" Tyrion had asked him, rather disappointed with the final decision. The prospect of one or two dozen Lyseni beauties waving tearful goodbyes as he sailed towards certain oblivion appealed to Tyrion.

"Hah! Not a bad idea Tyrion…" He'd trailed off, looking at the floor in mild disgust all of a sudden.

"Hey, it's not the floor's fault!" Tyrion had told him. "Good, solid wood, don't heap this on it," he'd said seriously.

That had served to crack him up, though the same melancholic air hanged about him as he hugged Tyrion.

"Thank you uncle," he'd said with a heartfelt smile.

Confused as he was, Tyrion did not hear any screams from Joffrey's bed that night at least.

-.PD.-

The passage through the Valyrian peninsula's southern approaches had almost cost them their crew and their life. Joffrey had practically nailed himself to the ship's bow, calling out corrections and maneuvers with supreme attention. The water churned and raged, an eddy of wild currents that sought to rip their ship apart as Joffrey navigated his way around a million hazards that turned the southern approaches into a veritable maze of death. The Western approaches were easier to sail, but carried one directly to the Smoking Sea and a slightly more certain death…

They knew it could be done, after all, that had been King Tommen's original route before no one saw him and his fleet again. Joffrey had been almost prescient, as if he'd already scouted the route, guiding him through the currents and the waters. His instructions had to be obeyed without hesitation by the Helmsman, instantly and with no doubt, for even a second's delay could mean their doom. Such had been Joffrey's insistence on this that he'd placed the Hound with an unsheathed dagger right behind the poor man, with instructions to cut him slightly if he delayed.

Tyrion had to fast talk his way out of no less than three distinct mutiny attempts, only the promises of hideous torture, mountains of gold and even lordships managed to halt them, along with the Hound's full plate and longsword staring menacingly from beside the Helmsman.

Tyrion supposed the snug cloak Joffrey had fashioned out of that Sothori thing had also played a part in his intimidation tactics. Talk of mutiny made their captain irritated.

He had not been irritated when he brought down a monster the size of the Red Keep's gatehouse with a saber, a bow and a shallow ditch. No. He'd been having fun.

And so they sailed past the corridor of death, and soon the winds mysteriously gave way to unnatural stillness. Joffrey had been, unsurprisingly, prepared for this too. He ordered out the oars he'd commissioned in Oldtown, and the crew made haste to fit them in the loops specially made for this occasion… and so they sailed. Awkwardly and gracelessly, like any cog sporting oars, but sail they did.

It was only here that Joffrey seemed to pick up more interest in their surroundings, the huge, fractured wall of black rock and pumice that seemed to emerge directly from the sea and up towards the sky seemingly not enough to get his attention at first.

Tyrion personally thought he was taking all this rather well, for a man all but doomed to die… in fact, he was beginning to feel quite the adventurer, and the jolt of excitement that travelled through his being was redoubled when they started seeing shipwrecks around them.

Joffrey's careful eyes steered them clear of sunken, jagged rocks of incredible hardness, the tallest of them crowned by cogs and galleys of ancient times, graves to those who sought Valyria and failed. Some of them seemed older than others, and it was not long since they started seeing old fashioned galleys with distinctly Westerosi styles, some of them sporting roaring lions that seemed all but rotten, or fading twirls of gold along their masts.

Soon, as days gave to nights and rowers ate and rested, they began to appear everywhere. As the seabed below grew more and more uneven and jagged, so did more and more ships appear from the thin mists around them. It seemed they had found Tommen's treasure fleet… or rather its graveyard. Great war galleys lay split apart or torn asunder, rotten and blackened by the passage of the ages, with nothing inside but dust and bones.

The Yellow Streak hugged the coast as much as it could, trying to find any sort of beach where Tommen's flagship could have landed, but all they could see was more and more of the eternal black wall. Tyrion thought there was a good chance Brightroar was in the bottom of the ocean right now, because for every ship they saw now there must have been a dozen more in the depths… and King Tommen's flagship's bigger size must have made it unwieldy… a death sentence in these waters.

Joffrey thought seemed sure the sword was somewhere accessible, not even bothering to sleep as they neared what the old, pre Doom maps of the peninsula labeled as 'Vhagar's Valley'… a valley not too far away from Old Valyria proper filled with agricultural estates, and by Joffrey's reckoning a likely candidate for a post Doom sunny beach… a descent enough harbor given their surroundings and perhaps smooth enough to climb without gear, and near enough the City that Tommen must have been drawn there like a moth to a flame.

Joffrey had apparently earned his Geology link at the Citadel too, because why not?

I any case, his nephew's guesswork paid off immensely when they sailed into the newly renamed 'Vhagar's Bay', a great harbor filled with a mishmash of jagged black rock as well as smoother, grey hills. And just where the water ended and gave way to a steadily rising slope lay The Goldray, the ruined, rotten hulk that used to be King Tommen Lannister's flagship.

-.PD.-

"Nothing but dust and… shit, there's not even maggots here… even the flies are smart enough to stay the hell away," said Sandor as he ripped a hatch apart with a small hand axe, peering at the dank hold with a torch.

Joffrey was busy searching the Captain's cabin, and only finding rot and filth. "Keep looking Sandor! Valyrian Steel doesn't just rust!" he called out.

Tyrion was walking around the beached hull's exterior, feeling it with a gloved hand as he lost himself in reverie.

"Tyrion! Found something?!" Joffrey shouted as he cleared a hallway, peering at the imp below from a hole in the rotten hull.

"Nothing but two dozen cairns a bit upslope, each next to the other in groups of seven," he said as he shook himself off.

"Graves… any one fancier than the rest?" called out the Hound as he jumped from another hole, his hard boots sinking a bit in the wet, gravelly pumice before he managed to walk away from the waterline.

"They all looked the same to me," said Tyrion as he sat down.

"This thing must have sported more than two hundred crewmembers… no way in hells they all fit in two dozen cairns… plus, who buried them?" Joffrey said as he appeared over the top deck.

"The survivors could have boarded one of the escorts and tried to sail back," Tyrion mused.

"After the hell they just went through? And come back empty handed assuming they survived the way back? Come on uncle, you know us Lannisters, what would you have done in Tommen's place," Joffrey asked him before sliding down the length of rope they had tied to the hull.

"Press onwards, see something before I die or we're forced back," he mused out loud.

"I think so too, and from here to Old Valyria shouldn't take too long, maybe two weeks on foot assuming the slopes level out a bit… and Volantene records show the Goldray alone was carrying three months' worth of supplies for its entire crew… crates and urns that are nowhere to be found right now…" said Joffrey.

"Because they took em with them," said Sandor, taking a small gulp from his wineskin.

"Only one way to be sure," said Joffrey as he sat next to them.

They spent a while in silence, eating their midday meal as Tyrion gazed at the anchored Yellow Streak in the middle of the bay.

"How long do you reckon they'll last?" he suddenly asked.

"Two days," huffed the Hound.

"More like none," said Joffrey with an amused smile as he pointed at the rising anchor with his finger, gazing at the ship as it lowered oars and started to leave the harbor.

"… Can't say that was unexpected," Tyrion said as he watched them go.

"I told them to leave," Joffrey confessed, unashamed as he sat down and got a bit of hard tack from his backpack.

"You told them?!" Tyrion said in disbelief.

"Never give an order you know won't be obeyed. Besides, if they stayed too long they might have gotten greedy and looted our only chance of survival," he said as aimed at the small, one masted sailing yacht that had carried them ashore, filled to the brim with supplies.

The Hound grunted approval, and Joffrey smiled.

"You have it all figured out huh…" Tyrion mused.

"Well, up to this point anyway," he said with an innocent shrug.

"Oh," Tyrion said as he looked at the great slope. "Should be interesting," he added.

"That's the spirit! The Broken Knight spirit!" Joffrey suddenly said with an admiring smile.

"The what now?" asked Sandor.

-.PD.-

They traversed through what remained of the valley, clearing outcrops and jagged boulders that blocked their way through the slope. Soon, Joffrey was once again in sight of the vast, ashen horizon with nothing but blackened ground to tread upon, a flat plain of black, brittle rocks that snapped loudly when stepped upon. They walked for hours, days with no other sound but the brittle cracks under their feet. Joffrey imagined the Seven Hells, if such a small minded and human centric concept had ever existed, may have looked like this… for it was not horror that drove the soul to despair, it was the absence of it and everything else.

He knew.

Still, no hells could have had such fine a company, and although the Broken Knights were missing a bastard and a wolf, Joffrey still found immense pleasure in simply talking the nights away, their meager campfires of scavenged wood giving a bit of solace and color to the blighted landscape. The imp's wit was a constant salve on his frayed nerves, and a useful resource when confronted by the unexpected. Sandor's rare, approving nods were a delightful dessert to his soul, and his incredible strength helped both in emergencies and in speeding up the moving of their base camp. His backpack was the biggest by far.

Joffrey had been whistling a sailor's tune, scouting ahead a bit before suddenly stopping.

He gazed intently at the dark grey horizon and realized it was moving.

"TYRION! SANDOR! MASKS NOW!!!" he roared as he raced back down the small hill of aged black rock.

They didn't need further prompting as they started to get the unwieldy masks out of their backpacks, Joffrey already securing his as he braced against the rock. "Over here! Brace damn you!" he screamed as he fitted the filter and his vision was reduced to two small glass windows the size of his thumb.

His breathing sounded heavy as Sandor bodily carried Tyrion through the last steps, reaching the small overhang Joffrey had taken refuge under. "Hang tight and hold on!" Joffrey shouted as the wind screamed and the sun slowly began to dim, his voice sounding strange under the mask.

The horizon slammed into them with the fury of a hundred storms, bits of rock chipping away as the sheer backdraft of the speeding winds made small whirlwinds along their side, picking up smaller rocks and unsecured gear. Darkness descended upon them as the sun was completely blotted out by the dark clouds, the air tasting warm to Joffrey's mouth as each time he had to breathe harder for air to reach him. The wind almost seemed to pick him up, but the Hound held him steady with one hand, the wind shrieking like the screams of the damned... After everything Joffrey had seen, they might as well be just that.

The three of them braced closely, the black smoke reducing visibility to nothing and staining his glass, and the only way he had of knowing he was still alive was the Hound's bulk, holding him tightly.

They passed what seemed like hours there, only for the wind to suddenly reverse directions, the black wind going back the way it came from.

When it was over, Joffrey took off the mask and breathed in hard, coughing before doing it again. He slapped the Hound's back in heartfelt gratitude, the gruff dog shaking it off with a snort.

Tyrion however, lay still.

"…Uncle? Tyrion?!" shouted Joffrey as he turned him around, ripping his bent mask off and freezing for a second at the pale hue of his face.

"Hang on!" he shouted before he breathed air into his uncle's lungs, followed by a frantic heart massage the Maester's of the Citadel called the Sustained Breath, learned from the priests of the Drowned God many centuries before Aegon's Conquest.

He kept breathing and pumping his uncle's smallish chest, leaning his ear close to his mouth and trying to shush his frantic heart.

He heard him breathe, slowly but surely. He collapsed on his back, wiping the sweat of his forehead as Sandor tossed him the wineskin.

"He's alive," he said as he leaned over and heard him breathe, vaguely surprised.

"So… it … seems…" mouthed Tyrion as he struggled to get up, coughing wildly and holding his head as Sandor helped him the rest of the way.

"Must be the luckiest imp in the blasted world," Sandor said with a relieved smirk.

"Well… I've always wanted… to glimpse what's on the other side…" he said in between breaths, trying to smile as Joffrey passed him the now half empty wineskin.

"Saw anything Purple?" he suddenly asked, looking at Tyrion intensely in mixed dread and hope.

"Purple? No, only fading blackness I'm afraid…" Tyrion said as he shook his head. "Should be purple though, much prettier color," he ended with a half-smile.

"I suppose…" Joffrey trailed off, peeking to look at the steadily receding grey-black horizon.

"Right, that's enough whimpering! Need to find a good place before its night again," said Sandor as he stood up, shaking them off their respective musings.

Sometimes, that was all one needed.

-.PD.-

Joffrey was laughing at the antics of his Broken Knights, Jon and Tyrion playing a silly little game with Ghost, seeing who could make the direwolf sprint faster as they threw a bone down the small study they had taken for themselves, almost at the top of the Dawn Fort's Bastion District. Joffrey shook his head fondly as he returned to the constellation he was studying, that of a simple man, standing alone. He didn't know what bothered him so much about it, and as he tried to find out the figure slowly began to disappear from the book, slowly turning immaterial before Joffrey's own eyes.

"Guys, look at this!" He shouted as he gazed up, but Sandor, Tyrion and Jon were looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. Tyrion looked at him in deep disappointment as Sandor stared in silent disgust, while Jon looked at him as if he were some unknown beast that had just neared the campfire.

"Sandor? Jon, Tyrion, Wha- What's going on?" he asked them in mounting despair as they turned their backs on him.

"Wait!" Joffrey pleaded in desperation as he grabbed Jon's shoulder and turned him around.

"Kill him," Jon commanded as he looked at him, blood flowing down his mouth.

Joffrey turned around to the sight of a monstrous Ghost turned wight, jumping at his throat with a snarl in a blur of cold blue eyes.

Joffrey opened his eyes, a silent scream dying inside his throat as he gazed at the half hidden stars beyond the ceiling of black smoke that blanketed the sky. He slowly sat up, looking around the small outcrop they'd taken refuge amongst the black wastes of Valyria. Sandor was sleeping at his side, while Tyrion kept watch over the horizon. When his uncle turned back to look at him, Joffrey was half confused to find no wary distance nor disappointed disgust. He was so disoriented for a moment that he thought the Purple had gotten dizzy as well and had started to fragment his reality.

"It's a bit early for the shift yet. You should try to get a bit more sleep nephew," he said as he stretched and yawned, looking a bit concerned.

"It's okay Tyrion," He rasped, touched by the concern evident in his voice. He coughed a bit so he could speak better, looking at the black horizon. "What do you think await us there?" he asked him.

"At first, monsters out of my worst nightmares… but I'm sure you'll have a word with those if they dare show around," he finished with a fond smile as he gazed at Joffrey's bow. He hadn't even realized he was holding it already, and dropped it with a sheepish smile. The small composite bow had turned into another nightly companion as far as Joffrey was concerned.

"Then I thought more riches and wonders than I could dream of, until… well, this," he said, gesturing at the black wasteland.

"It does rather put a damper on the whole 'glorious adventure' part implicit to raiding Valyria…" Joffrey mused.

"Think how King Tommen must have felt, wasting the brightest and boldest of the Westerlands for this… plus his whole fleet," said Tyrion, still looking at the horizon.

They stayed quiet for a while, before Joffrey spoke, "Do you think we'll find Gerion out there?" he asked him.

"Sometimes I find myself hoping not to," the Imp surprised him as he turned to face him.

"Why?" Joffrey asked.

"Can't imagine him living a happy life away from Tywin and the rest if I find his body," he said with a sad smile.

"I suppose so," Joffrey said, thinking. "What was he like?" he suddenly asked, hungry to further get to know another decent Lannister. Tyrion liked to talk about him sometimes, though never for too long.

"Foolish," Tyrion said simply, as if it were a complement.

"…How so?" Joffrey asked.

"He was quite impulsive and didn't have a smidgen of self-preservation," he said fondly.

"I suppose that's quite obvious, what with Valyria and all," Joffrey said.

"Indeed, he lived his life as he saw fit, and didn't mind losing if it was well lived," Tyrion said, somewhat admiringly. "He was always quick with a joke or a jape, a story or a song. He had a penchant to make others laugh…" he trailed off.

"Well, now I know where it comes from," Joffrey said with a smile, looking at his uncle.

"What? Me? Please, I am but a simple novice in front of a Grandmaester, compared to him," said Tyrion, completely serious.

"Oh? Well, he must have been good then. Make Sandor laugh good," Joffrey teased.

Tyrion chuckled slightly, before shaking his head, "He could have made The Mountain laugh," he said with a snort.

"I'm going to take a nap, if you don't mind," he said after a while, laying down on the small blankets.

"Don't mind at all," Joffrey said with a slight smile, looking at the horizon. His friends didn't remember him, but now they knew him again. He was not alone.

He kept repeating himself that as he grasped the bow again, eyes steady on the horizon, aware of monsters and smokestorms that may be prowling nearby, intent on snatching everything he held dear.

-.PD.-

The rest of the week was devoid of further smokestorms, their pace uninterrupted over the long, desert like plains of charred stone and pumice, the horizon and Joffrey's compass the only things that ensured they didn't lose their way. The sun blasted them with heat every day, and the cursed ground released more of it by night… they knew they were in the correct direction, as every day they spotted a couple of manmade stone cairns, unmistakable in the distance. Likely victims of exhaustion or starvation along the march to Old Valyria, perhaps. Joffrey doubted the smokestorms had killed them, because in that case they'd just find a whole lot of skeletons and no cairns at all.

Joffrey guessed they were four days away from Old Valyria proper when they found the actual remains of something. A small village, or likely a wealthy estate, being this close to the capital. The great houses were made of black stone typical of Valyrian fortifications, chief amongst them the central manor, still somewhat standing after Doom and centuries of neglect.

"They might have taken refuge there," Sandor said as he examined the houses from the small hill they had stopped upon.

"I don't know about Tommen, but we should! Right now!" Tyrion said as he turned back from the horizon and sprinted for the manor.

Joffrey saw the curtain of black, horrible smoke coming closer yet again, giving it barely a moment's thought before running after the Imp with Sandor close behind him.

They reached him halfway to the manor and passed him by quickly, crashing against the heavy, purple tinted door which seemed made out of sheer iron for all that it failed to move.

"Fuck! Door's heavy!" muttered the Hound as he slammed it again with his shoulder at the same time as Joffrey.

"hhhmmMMMRRAAAAAAAHH!!!" roared Joffrey as he strained against the door with all his might, not even budging as Tyrion caught up to them.

"It's no use! We'll have to weather it here!" shouted Joffrey.

"Push damn you!" bellowed the imp as he crashed behind them just as they shoved, the door moving a hair's breath as something within snapped in half. They roared as they pushed again, this time moving it halfway open before they scurried inside, the steadily darkening horizon leeching the light out of the skies as the constantly buzzing sound of crazed sand, dust and ash increased in intensity.

"Close it!" roared Joffrey as they all pushed and the door closed grudgingly. The Hound spat as he saw the broken, rusted iron braces lying on the floor. He took out his longsword, sheath and all and rammed it through the brace, securing the door just in time as the horizon slammed against the house and everything rattled.

"Fuck, I think I lost my flint… Tyrion?" called out Joffrey.

"Here," he called out as something snapped and the torch in the imp's hand flickered to life. He already had his mask on, and Sandor and Joffrey followed through quickly enough.

The dark interior of the house seemed like a cavern, the screeching wind vaguely muffled and only their torches bringing in any light. Joffrey turned around and saw two strangers hugging each other, mouths wild agape in terror and fear. He screamed as he took out his arming sword, followed by a cursing Hound with his hand axe.

The two strangers didn't move, still holding themselves tightly, bracing against the back wall and looking at the door.

"What the…" Tyrion murmured as he walked closer, the tip of his dagger touching the frozen figures. Soon as he did though they crumbled, turned to so much ash in the floor.

Joffrey looked around and realized the whole floor was filled with ash, one trembling hand lighting up his torch as he stared around the countless figures frozen in groups or alone. "Bloody hells…" whispered the Hound, his voice muffled through the mask, staring at the final moments of over twenty people in the lobby alone.

They walked slowly down a set of wide stairs, torches illuminating the macabre gallery of ash statues frozen in various positions. Joffrey spotted a group of seven or so childlike figures hugging each other under a ruined metal table, a bigger shape trying to grasp them all and failing.

"Gods…" muttered Tyrion, adjusting his mask as he breathed uneasily.

"Death must have been near instantaneous… though they must have seen the Doom coming in the distance," Joffrey hypothesized, trying to analyze the scene rationally.

"How much time?" the Hound asked as he peered at a side room, gazing at the crumbled remains of a couple holding each other tightly atop a broken bed.

"Minutes…" Joffrey whispered, imagining the agonizingly slow passage of time as a whole village or family despaired with nothing to do but await death.

"There's more here," called out Tyrion. Joffrey followed the glare of the imp's torch, down another set of wide stairs and finding a curious sight. Groups of figures sat or stood upright around the small room, looking for the entire world like dignified magisters convening for an afternoon of leisure, though some of the ashen sculptures still retained enough definition Joffrey could sometimes see the expressions of subdued terror. The figures tended to converge nearby, and many of them crumbled to ashes as the Hound cleared the way for the rest of them, the three of them traversing the silent statues that made the air at the nape of Joffrey's neck stand upright.

They reached a rotten, crumpled door guarded by two stern faced soldiers by the look of it, even their armor turned to ash as they kept at their vigil for more than four hundred years, still holding their ashen spears. The other figures gave them a respectful distance, though they were all in some way gazing at the doors.

Joffrey pushed his way past them, their watch ending for this life as they crumbled to dust. His breathing sounded harsh, almost drowning all other sound as he wiped the mask's glass with a handkerchief.

He looked at nine kneeling figures, their forms incredibly preserved as he gazed at their expressions of stern, supreme concentration, their hands folded across their chests. At the center of the circular room was a tenth figure, standing tall with both arms opened grandiosely.

"What the fuck…" Sandor's mask managed.

"Spellwork," Said Joffrey as he walked around the central figure, looking at the sheer hope and terror lovingly edged and preserved by the ash. "Didn't work," he added.

Tyrion swallowed inside his mask before peering at one of the kneeling figures, "I suppose the failure is rather obvious… Trying to stop the Doom?" he voiced out loud.

"Unlikely," Joffrey mused as he examined the etched remains of the ritual circle. "I don't think anything could have stopped something the sheer size, the sheer magnitude of the Doom..." he said as he kneeled and peered closely at the lines etched into the rock itself. "They were most likely trying to shield the villa or the house… maybe it did work, in a way," he continued, his breathing amplified by the mask.

"Time," mused Tyrion out loud.

"Whatever the Doom was, I don't think these poor bastards had a chance even if they'd had hours to prepare…" Joffrey said as he walked to the black wall and knocked it with his hand. "Whatever it was, it scythed right through solid Valyrian blackstone… the shield, if that's what it was, may have blocked the blast and the searing heat, but we all know the Doom was much more than that. The metaphysical component must have punched right through…" he said as he hit the wall twice with his hand.

"Metaphysical component?" asked Sandor as he pointed with his torch at two figures not in the ritual circle proper, bent over a metal table at the other side of the room.

Joffrey walked towards the figures as he kept talking, "Magic, Sandor. The magic must have…" he trailed off as he looked at the figures, both of them peering at something in the table.

"Metaphorically speaking, I suppose it might have been as if a child had shored up his sand castle's walls before a flaming shot from a trebuchet reached it…" Joffrey said as he waved away the figures, turning them to disassembled ash so he could see clearly. Atop the table and in the floor under it he found the telltale shimmer of Valyrian Steel, still glossy under the ash.

They look like instruments, Joffrey thought as he lifted what looked to be some kind of Valyrian Steel astrolabe, numerals and arcane symbols still etched along its intricate surface. Another instrument looked like a compass, though with multiple arrows and arcane, bizarre symbols. He found a few others, all having the look of precision instruments but he utterly lost on their purpose. It had likely been lost along with the rest of Valyrian knowledge.

"Found something?" Tyrion asked as he neared.

"Our first batch of loot I suppose, rings any bells?" Joffrey asked him as he handed him the astrolabe.

Tyrion stared at it under the torchlight and the small glasses, tilted his head and gave it back to Joffrey. "While I can barely see my own hands and this damned mask keeps fogging my vision, I can confidently say I have no clue what this is… except for a very expensive finger cutter," he said.

"Storm's ending," Sandor called out from the entrance.

"Good, we've got to change filters soon," Joffrey said before turning back to the instruments, tossing them all inside a bag and into his backpack.

"I'll say this for the Valyrians, they died with their boots on," Sandor said as they walked up the stairs.

"All one can hope for in the end," Joffrey muttered.

-.PD.-