Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Their wedding was a rushed affair. The High Septon had barely finished the rites when two crowns had been brought forward, the wedding turning into a coronation about twenty minutes after Ned had solemnly removed the Stark cloak from Sansa's shoulders.

That whole day seemed to pass in a rush to Joffrey. Sansa's hidden anxiety had been as clear as daylight to him as the High Septon placed a crown on her head, even if no one else had been able to detect it. Her impish smile as he broke through the enthusiasm of the incoming bedding ceremony, shoving aside nobles before he picked her up with his own arms and carried her to their new bedroom himself...

Joffrey and Sansa had been of one voice and one will, commanding the dual ceremony to be carried out within the fortnight as they worked themselves ragged trying to keep the Seven Kingdoms from splintering into a greater civil war. Watching Ned's face shortly after he found his best friend sitting quietly near the training grounds had been heartbreaking, all the more so for the fact that Robert had apparently died happy, or perhaps merely content, a stark contrast to all the lives Joffrey had seen him die on.

To think that he'd somehow managed to make him happy during the last year of his life, through no conscious effort of his own, had been a humbling and wretched thing. He'd made sure Pycell had stopped the weekly doses of coagulant almost immediately after waking up in this life, but the damage done had already been too severe, the intense training bout merely accelerating the inevitable.

Ned had taken a day to mourn before returning to his duties with single minded dedication. When he'd entered the throne room the day after Robert's death he'd kneeled and called Joffrey King, smiling grimly at the sight of Sansa sitting in a secondary throne beside him. When he'd heard of Renly proclaiming himself the rightful King of Westeros, he'd called the banners of the North to fight in the south once more. When Joffrey had asked him to continue his service under the crown, he'd merely nodded and carried on.

A great many schemes and plans were in flux now. Sansa was tightening the noose of spies around Varys' neck, trying to glean more information about the way he operated Westeros' biggest spy network. Tyrion was swamped with work, given practically free reign and coin to boost the Blackworks around the Blackwater, and preparing Joffrey's plans for the founding of a maritime trading company.

A stiff breeze of wind shook Joffrey out of his head, the banners buffeting around the courtyard.

"Joffrey, is this really necessary? Ser Jaime will bring you Renly's head if you but ask," pleaded Cercei, deploying all her charm and her worry as the flags and banners swirled with the wind. "The King's place is at the Capital, ruling," she told him almost desperately.

He didn't respond, merely hugging her abruptly and interrupting any further arguments, his plate making the movement awkward. She took a deep breath, nodding halfheartedly as her last attempt to stop her son from going to war failed.

He took a step back to regard the rest of the assembled audience standing around the courtyard of the Red Keep, nodding when Ned took a step forward. "We'll make sure there's a realm to come back to, Your Grace," he said solemnly. It clearly pained him to let him go, but he understood the reasons behind it all… at least the ones Joffrey had told him about.

"I'll be sure to keep the wheel spinning, though this little rebellion will slow down your projections," Tyrion spoke next, carrying himself with an air of authority which Joffrey was glad to see.

"Thank you uncle," Joffrey smiled, his eyes turning to his Queen.

Sansa looked regal in her green and red dress, lines of gold and silver tying the whole ensemble together. Her red hair had been tamed by the crown she wore, a golden circlet with three sapphires in a triangular position, right above her blue, worried eyes.

She embraced him tightly, a hug Joffrey returned in full as he breathed deeply and closed his eyes, sealing the memory in fire.

"At least take Ser Barristan," she whispered.

"We talked about this. He stays here, with you. I want you surrounded by loyal swords at all times," Joffrey whispered back.

He opened his eyes as Sansa leaned back, the smell of roses and Dure House still in his mind as she shuffled one of his pauldrons, settling it in place. She seemed to stare at his eyes then, unwilling to let him go.

"Slay him, slay all the chivalry of the South and come back to me," she ordered him.

He answered with a deep kiss, the moment all too fleeting as they separated and she handed him a blue ribbon.

"A favor from m'lady?" he asked with a smile.

"You better return it, or you'll regret the next time you see me," she said with a smile that mirrored his own.

"Be careful with Varys, and Mother too," he whispered before Sansa shushed him.

"I'll handle them, you concentrate on the Baratheons," she said seriously, "Then, we'll get these Kingdoms to where they should be," she ended.

Joffrey walked back to his horse, a handful of bodyguards plus Sandor and Ser Jaime already waiting for him as he clambered atop Moonlight. They didn't speak a word as they rode out of the Keep and then the City, war on the horizon.

-: PD :-

Renly had declared himself the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms once again, and it seemed the Tyrells had backed him this time as well. Joffrey didn't know if that spoke of desperation at their waning influence in the realm, or a mad power grab by Mace Tyrell… but he didn't really care. Both Ned and Cercei had pleaded with him to wait for reinforcements from the North and the Westerlands, or hells even just the Riverlands.

He'd declined. That was not the message he intended to send to Westeros and beyond… He wanted the peace to last, and if that meant personally going out there with a numerically inferior force and destroying the chivalry of the south with his bare fists, then that's what he would do. If he was to rule Westeros he would have to be respected.

He would be no Aegon the fifth, ground down under the sneers of the nobility. He would have to carve himself a reputation as a warrior king and a general, a breaker of armies and a terror of the battlefield, and the sooner he did that the faster his preparations for the coming Night would go. He had already made some progress with that since he'd woken up in this life, and it showed in the lackluster showing of the Stormlords in support of their Lord Paramount's claim. Strong, but still lesser than what Renly must have expected, lesser for sure than the many times Joffrey had seen him raise the banners of rebellion all over the Stormlands.

The five thousand strong First Regiment of the Royal Guard was already marching. His legates led the army at a ludicrous pace -at least for Westerosi standards- eating mile after mile as they went their way south, towards Bronze Gate.

Sansa had not been idle, as she'd made swift work of the scions of the Crownlands, most of whose had conveniently been in the Capital when Robert died. They were already joining the Guard's march, despoiled of their useless levies and only bringing much needed cavalry.

Still, even that sort of speed left him impatient, and so his army would reach him in the Stormlands itself.

"Raiders!" thundered Joffrey as Moonlight slammed to a halt in a cloud of dust, the people around the small camp rustling out of the way.

"Bugger me', the Prince is back," shouted one of them as he stood up, a scarred man with a dead eye.

"It's the King now you arsehole!" shouted another one as he ran out of a small tent while clutching fistfuls of coppers, a gaggle of protesting gamblers following him out and starting to brandish daggers at the opportunistic bastard. They sheathed them quickly and abruptly when they saw Joffrey though, and he found their faux-innocent expressions almost endearing.

"Listen up you wretches! We're going hunting!" Joffrey shouted with a twisted smile.

"Wha' for?!" shouted one of the rapidly assembling men and even a few women.

Ser Jaime frowned as his horse came to a stop next to Joffrey's and he gazed upon the slovenly camp, filled with hundreds of all manner of thugs and other scum that wouldn't have been out of place in the deepest recesses of Fleabottom.

"Traitors, wealthy traitors," Joffrey delivered with aplomb, his twisted smile growing rakish as the men hollered. Sansa's spies had done the legwork in the beginning, trawling through the taverns and alehouses of Fleabottom looking for the sort of men Joffrey needed all those months ago.

"Bout' time we shed a little blood!" called out one, "Yeah, clubbing messengers was getting rather dull," another one remarked drily as they started to pick up the camp. Westerosi nobles thought crime was a single, monolithic drive of men, all afflicted by the same drive to rape, kill and steal. He could see the same thoughts passing by his real father's face now, his eyes already ignoring a whole world of meaning to center on one or two thoughts: Brigands, cowards, and thieves… in short: Human trash.

"We're going to go shank a few lords down south, burn a bit here and there, put a little fear in those round Reacher bellies," Joffrey told them, bloodthirsty smirks peeking out amongst them. The disdain was mutual.

Where most Westerosi nobles saw trash, he'd learned long ago to peer deeper into the men and women that were relegated to the deepest recesses of society. Not all cut throats were unrepentant rapists or crazed scum devoid of positive emotions. There were those who followed their own code of honor, those that took pride in comradeship and companionship, those that had been led down by the world and driven to act in a way for so long that it had become habit… there was still value there, another group of people that could be driven to new heights with the promise of purpose…

Albeit purpose of a different sort…

He'd gone down to Fleabottom searching for a specific brand of person, months ago. They were thieves and murderers, true, as well as reckless, disdainful of authority, and without an ounce of the respect expected out of any smallfolk when meeting a noble scion. And yet they did have their honor of sorts. Hard bitten men and women who had not fallen to the lowest of the low even under harsh circumstances; escaped poachers and shady woodsmen, hardened prostitutes with a knack for slitting the throats of those who got too violent, petty gang members who'd managed to thread the line between necessity and needless destruction. With the help of Sansa's spies, he'd found them and slowly molded them into the name that would plague the nightmares of rebellious lords even as the pounding steps of the Royal Guard grew louder and louder.

"Raiders! Move out!" he called out, and his skirmishers did so. His father looked disbelieving as the men did as told, quickly stowing the small camp and getting ready for the ride south. They mounted up, checking the new sabers and the supplies of torches.

They may not be Long Scouts, but godsdamnit it feels good to ride again, Joffrey thought as he spurred Moonlight, Sandor and Ser Jaime struggled to catch up, his Raiders forming up behind as they rode southwards.

-: PD :-

Renly's hundred thousand man host made a sight to behold. Their camp was a veritable city, so big and vast it was. It sported tourney grounds and grand pavilions in a splendor of green and gold, lavish accommodations and grand main roads. It was filled with great storage barns and tents where the plentiful foodstuffs of the reach were stored and carefully maintained, held in safekeeping for when the host lumbered its way north in the morning; centralized for ease of accesses and a safeguard against looting deserters looking for a full meal before running to the woods.

For all its great length and splendor, the tent city was haphazardly organized the further one went from Renly's center of power, right in its middle where he held court and showered his bannermen and Reacher allies with gifts and speeches. Keeping order and camp discipline close to the King's center of power was one thing, ensuring the orderly construction of over a hundred thousand men's lodgings, most of which were untrained and undisciplined farmers, was a different proposition altogether. Alleyways bottled together, mustering grounds were filled with crates and junk, tents ate over firebreaks and marching streets, fusing together into one big shanty town.

What most caught Joffrey's attention though were the banners… he didn't really know why. There were so many of them, waving and slapping each other under the heavy gusts of wind that were the scourge of the Stormlands. Proud apples and oranges and all manner of foodstuffs, proud huntsmen and bared arms. In the morning they would march once more, towards Storm's End and then Bronze Gate and ultimately, towards King's Landing. Intent on bringing glory to their liege lord and King, intent on war and the spoils of battle and intrigue.

"M'Grace?" rattled Horwik.

"It's just Joffrey, or Ser if you prefer," he reminded him absentmindedly as he kept gazing at the banners through the dark and moonless night.

"Aye M'Grace," he said with a nod, "We're ready," he added.

Joffrey nodded lightly as he kept surveying the camp. "Get to the archers, mind your targets," he said before he turned and silently slid his way down from the little overhang, returning to the forest that hid over five hundred heavily armed and lightly armored Raiders, their faces and sabers obscured of glint and chivalry by mud and dirt, only their shifting eyes betraying their positions. Their horses lay behind them, prone on the ground and breathing slowly. Joffrey crept towards the three figures hunched by the edge of the forest, their eyes following the retinue of patrolling knights as it edged further away, clad in plate and mail, their night vision destroyed by the torches they carried. Renly felt safe here, in the middle of the Stormlands and with the Reach at his back, his host so big as to make lesser men quiver in fear at its sight.

"Add another four minutes to the raid, the camp is even worse guarded than we thought," Joffrey whispered, their slow nods acknowledging his orders. "Like we discussed last night: targets of opportunity, prioritize foodstuffs and stables. Two stage withdrawal, Horwick will be waiting with the archers. Remember to keep you exit routes clear," he said.

"Anything else, your majesty?" Pocket asked sardonically.

"Yes, keep your sticky hands to yourself and don't over encumber your horse," Joffrey admonished him seriously, though he couldn't hide the tiniest speck of a smirk on his lips.

"Plenty of loot to be had once they're all dead," agreed Daryl, checking his scabbard once more in a complicated ritual of confirmations and blinking which according to him was the only way of avoiding certain doom.

"Indeed. Daryl, take the right and wreak havoc amongst the footsoldiers, burn their tents and try to get them out into the streets, blinded and confused and hopefully in the way of the Reacher knights," said Joffrey.

"Aye Boss," he said before making his way to his men.

"Pocket, pierce through the center with me and Glyra, then slash left and burn those barns and foodstocks near the mustering grounds," he commanded.

"I've been looking forward to this for a long time," he whispered without a touch of his usual whimsy, creeping backwards until shadows consumed him.

"Glyra, we'll pierce right through the center, straight for the stables. Cut down as many horses as you can, and burn their hay," he told the slip of a girl.

"You?" she whispered, the scars all over her face contracting as she frowned.

"I'll split off there, head for the main pavilion…" he trailed off as the corner of his mouth ticked upwards.

"King's should be near the fighting, the ballads say so," he said with a wolfish smile.

She slipped away without another word, and Moonlight was already cantering towards him as the rest of the men and women mounted up.

Soon they were riding slowly towards the camp, their path dry and heavy with dust, making the sound of the approaching hooves all but silent at this distance, the swirling dirt above them invisible under the moonless night.

"Go," Joffrey said loudly as Moonlight broke into a gallop, the indistinct mass of riders splitting in three without a roar or battlecry, horses speeding down on the great camp from multiple angles. There were no gates or walls surrounding the camp, only a few patrolling soldiers.

"Who goes there?!" called out a spearman who'd been watching over the 'main road' of the camp, the one that led directly to the camp's center. He raised his torch higher, trying to see what the fuss was all about and probably cursing the over excitable Reacher nobility.

He stumbled backwards as a mass of charging horses emerged from the night, sabres held point down.

"What the-?! We're under attagh-" he tried to scream before Joffrey's sabre ripped through his throat, the few other soldiers gambling or drinking nearby standing up in a daze only for them to be cut down to a man, sabres reaping a bloody harvest as the Raiders broke into the camp.

"No mercy! Show 'em the price of war!!!" roared Joffrey as he slowed down Moonlight slightly, his arm swinging back and forth and quickly settling into a familiar rhythm, almost like a lullaby from a long forgotten childhood. With each swing he reaped flesh, the panicking soldiers emerging from the tents only adding their blood to the swiftly growing river of it which now flowed through the camp. Backs and necks, throats and arms were severed as Raiders lit their torches and threw them to tents and granaries, the fires quickly growing out of control and further adding to the mayhem.

Joffrey realized they were making freakish progress, making their way to the stables almost five minutes ahead of schedule. With a start he realized Renly's army had not even a single contingency plan for this sort of situation, so content had they been in their assembled might and the blind knights they used for scouts, their postings another prize for Renly's bannermen to fight over. Men at Arms were rushing out of tents with whatever they had been sleeping with, brandishing dirks or arming swords before they were cut down. Smallfolk levies were simply panicking, screaming for mercy or running in circles as the fires spread and they spotted raiders everywhere, three men squads splitting off from the main thrusts and making their way through alleyways and spreading chaos and mayhem.

Glyra was already leading her own section towards the nearby stables. There were few horse archers within the Raiders, but lit torches would burn just as well as flaming arrows. Joffrey could already hear the horses neigh in desperation as the fires spread and he kept galloping straight ahead, the road so wide it seemed a parade ground. His arm was tireless, still cutting down confused or fleeing soldiers, no type of rapid response force trying to stop him and his personal retinue of raiders as they slashed and burned their way towards the center of Renly's folly.

Joffrey was almost nauseous, nearly in shock at the sheer incompetence, the sheer slaughter he was carrying out against such a numerically superior foe. It was clear they had achieved complete and utter surprise… Here and there he saw groups of men at arms converging, trying to sort out some kind of formation as they passed spears to each other… but it was late, far too late for the amount of damage they would get away with tonight. Joffrey had pitted his Raiders against the Royal Guard during countless exercises, imported and adapted raiding doctrine from the east, drilled small unit tactics into his Raiders until they dreamt of ambush.

And now they had been unleashed against an enemy which had been utterly unprepared for it.

Joffrey took in a gulp of air as he realized he was almost at Renly's tent, scores of banners flying from the fine pavilion, the triumphant stag the tallest of them all.

Can I end it all right here?! He asked himself in a daze as he ripped through an unarmored man's back, jumping down from his horse and taking out another torch, swiftly burning as his flint and steel rings clacked. The 'courtyard' in front of the pavilion was a mess, filled with the dead and dying as Raiders kept trickling through the lackluster defense, which was barely now stiffening, burly men at arms bellowing at their charges as soldiers mingled with Raiders and routed levies.

He dared believe he could, when he tossed a lit torch at the pavilion. It went up in flames magnificently, the finely oiled silk burning like pitch as a couple of armored knights emerged from within. He'd wanted to scare Renly, but never in a million years he'd have thought he'd get this close him.

"Renly!!!" Joffrey roared as he recognized the telltale colors of the vaunted Rainbow Guard, Renly's personal retinue and Kingsguard analogue, the Yellow and Purple ones specifically. They were surprised as they looked at him, both of them moving forward to make space behind them.

"Get him outta here! Move damn you!" shouted the Purple one at the tent flap, brandishing a longsword.

"Bandits dare attack the King himself!?" roared the Yellow one at the same time, jumping at Joffrey with a bastard sword and an outraged bellow.

Joffrey parried the blow sideways and took out his hammer, planting it on the Yellow Knight's visor. He extracted it in a shower of blood as Renly came out of the pavilion, surrounded by five knights of various sundry colors.

"Uncle! Fancy meeting you here tonight!" He smiled, striding towards him as the Purple knight brandished a two hander menacingly.

"Joffrey?" Renly mouthed, still in his night silks, the grip on his longsword lax as Ser Loras and the Blue knight dragged him sideways by the arms, away from Joffrey.

"Kill him!" Shouted Ser Loras.

The Purple and Green knights charged him at once, bellowing mighty battlecries. "Go!" shouted the Purple one as he tried to split Joffrey apart with his two hander. The Green one was ready when Joffrey dodged the blow, trying to smash his thigh with a hammer.

Joffrey retreated under the coordinated assault of the two Rainbow Guards, barely avoiding the blows on his lightly armored body. The men had clearly spent some time training together, and it showed in the coordinated rain of strikes Joffrey had to dodge or parry without stop. "Renly! Come back here and fight for your throne!!!" Joffrey roared, crouching and letting Purple's two hander sail over his head as he overextended slightly, leaving a window of opportunity. He jammed his sabre into Green's unarmored boot before the knight could coordinate his blow with Purple, making him bellow in pain before he jammed the sabre's pommel into his eye and he collapsed on the ground with a shriek.

He sprinted after Renly, ignoring Purple's warning cries as he quickly caught up with the fleeing retinue. "He's behind us! Keep going!" shouted Orange, but the heavy weight of his plate made him a millimeter too slow, Joffrey spearing him through the neck before he could turn completely within the tight confines of the 'alleyway' formed by Renly's burning Pavilion and the adjoining tent.

"Lord Bryce!" shouted Renly in shock as he gazed back over Ser Loras' unarmored shoulder, almost frozen as Joffrey took out his sabre from the limp body and parried a blow from the Blue knight, who'd jumped on him with a furious shriek.

"Didn't you want this Renly?! Come and reap your glory!" Joffrey roared as he parried another blow from the blue knight and pummeled his head with the hammer. He sensed someone behind him and turned just in time to avoid being skewered by Purple and his two hander.

Renly and his remaining knights kept fleeing, the Blue one blocking Joffrey's way as she took her dented helmet off, shaking her head before readying her bastard sword.

"Renly!!! Come back here damn you! COME BACK HERE!" Joffrey roared as he parried an overhead blow from Purple's two hander with the hammer, locking it with the arming sword and jamming it sideways and away from him. The two hander ripped through a piece of the burning pavilion as they struggled, Blue trying to skewer him from behind and barely failing.

Joffrey grunted in pain as he felt Blue's sword catching his back, a shallow cut by the feel of it. He locked his feet with Purple's own before rolling his weight sideways, making them both tumble into the burning pavilion. They rolled until Joffrey pinned had him down on the ground, slapping away Blue's stab with the hammer just as he slid his arming sword over Purple's neck, leaving him gurgling blood. Joffrey lowered his head and dodged Blue's second strike by a hair's breath, the blade making the air sing. He slammed his hammer on her arm as he tried to stand up from Purple's body, but she took the harsh blow with a nary a sound, trading it for a cut on his forearm.

Joffrey rolled away from her with a scowl, "RENLY!!! LET'S END THIS!!!" he roared, but the Blue one was good, and she kept pressuring him backwards inside the burning pavilion in a quick flurry of sweeping slashes and long stabs.

Joffrey gave a bellow of frustration as he left the tent through the same flap Renly had used, cursing as he saw the stiffening defense and the bodies of slain Raiders on the ground. He whistled as he ran away, jumping atop Moonlight as she galloped right by his side. He took his horn as he rode away between the steadily crowding streets and the fires, bellowing the signal to retreat.

"RAIDERS! WITHDRAW! WITHDRAW!!!" he roared in between the horn's call, slashing his way out as groups of Raiders converged on his position and he threw his remaining torches at whatever tent he happened to ride by. The quickly made their way outside, the last of the whole group apparently as a dozen mounted knights followed after them. They rode hard for the ambush point, the unarmored knight's fresh mounts almost catching up to them before a rain of arrows decimated them, suddenly materializing from the night as they appeared within torsos and horses, putting out eyes and piercing hands.

"Horwick! Good job! Mount your men up and ride for the staging grounds!" Joffrey ordered the man as he sped by. There was bound to be a more organized pursuit, though by that time Joffrey planned to be far away indeed.

-: PD :-

The Raider's camp looked deceptively disorganized, a mess of small tents and piled up rocks. Joffrey knew better though, eyeing the weapons and horses always within easy reach of their users. Instead of recreating the Dawn Scouts from zero, Joffrey had sought to make use of what Westeros had to offer, its strengths and advantages. Unlike the Scouts, the Raiders sported few mounted archers for example, though when dismounted the ex-poachers and woodsmen could hit a running target better than a castle trained archer. Instead of flaming arrows they used torches to spread fire and chaos, and their social backgrounds made them adept at personal initiative… as long as the Raider himself was minimally trustworthy.

After months of selection and more of training, Joffrey could confidently say they were. He joked a bit here and there, laughed and scolded in equal measure as he walked around the camp, nestled within a small outcrop shielded from the winds of the Stormlands. Bringing this disparate group of men and woman together had perhaps been his toughest endeavor this life. Striding a line between people unacceptable by Legion standards, but not so hopeless as to eventually commit something deserving of death or the Wall. They were unruly and ill disciplined by traditional standards, but they followed orders and would back him up in a fight to the death.

He found his 'bosses', for that was what the men called them, sitting around a small campfire. They were cooking quite the stew it seemed, its many ingredients no doubt looted from yesterday's raid.

"Joffman! Stew drew you in?" Pocket called out irreverently as he kept swirling the dubious brew with a long wooden spoon.

"Another family recipe I suppose?" he called back, forcefully sitting between him and Dalyn and making himself some space. With Pocket it was always a family recipe.

"Great grandma taught me, she was Reacher herself, a bastard girl from some knight with a vegetable on his banner. A cabbage I think," he mused as he kept shaking the brew with passion.

"It was a carrot the last time you said that," Dalyn remarked thoughtfully.

"I doubt he reckons the difference," the Hound said drily, munching on an apple. He'd been surly ever since Joffrey had forbidden him from partaking in the main raid on Renly's camp.

"And you do? Dogs don't eat no vegetables," Pocket defended himself, holding the big spoon out of the cooking pot and under his big nose, "Aaaahhh… smells of home," he declared. "Hey Gold, it may not be the Royal kitchens but it'll keep you alive!" he jeered when he saw Ser Jaime's face.

Jaime just shook his head, returning to his favorite pastime: sword sharpening. He'd been doing it nonstop for days now, a way to find something to do within the strange group he found himself in. Joffrey had taken him along mostly so Mother didn't have an accomplice to brew trouble in the Capital.

He was not sure whether the awkward silences on the road were worth it, to be honest.

"We're going to be splitting again," Joffrey said as he brought them back to task. They'd left Renly's host behind and gone wild on his supply train, giving Sandor and even Jaime some much needed distraction. The few caravan guards carrying the harvest of the Reach to the voracious host had been easy pickings for his Raiders. They'd practically cut off his host entirely before detachments of armored knights had started appearing around the caravans, diminishing his frontline strength for when the time came to do battle. The uncertain nature of his supplies had also delivered a few extra benefits, welcome side effects that would take just a bit more time to really start impacting his host's effectiveness.

"When?" asked Glyra, lifting her eyes from the dagger she'd been cleaning.

"After lunch. We'll be hitting the seaside roads before turning back for another go at Renly, keep him scared and slow," Joffrey told her.

"Close in work?" she asked.

"If the moon cooperates," Joffrey nodded.

Glyra gave him a twisted smile at that, before nodding and setting off to her men. The other two bosses quickly finished their meals with an air of long familiarity at gulping down meals, setting off to make their arrangements and leaving only Joffrey and his two 'bodyguards'.

"You sure like them tough," Jaime remarked idly at the uncomfortable silence, gazing at the retreating back of Glyra.

"They have to be," Joffrey said simply.

He hadn't even set out to recruit women for the Raiders at first. Unlike the Guard, he had no pressing need for literate officers who could handle logistics here… but he was not adverse to more warm bodies if they made the cut. He'd had no problems with discipline either, as the Raiders took care of that all on their own. Officially, he hadn't heard of any rapes, though he had found a few Raiders butchered in shallow ridges, missing certain body parts. Nobody had seen anything, least of all the few women in the group who all swore up and down the poor man must have tripped on a waist high knife.

"What's her story?" Jaime asked once more, returning his gaze to his sword.

"She worked in one of Fleabottom's brothels before a client got too bloodthirsty, left her those scars," Joffrey shrugged, "After she knifed him in an alleyway she found she had a knack for violent retribution, and the inn kept her on retainer to deal with any other overzealous costumers," he explained the story.

"A shame. She must have been beautiful before those scars," Jaime said drily.

Joffrey grunted as he filled his mouth with soup, drinking directly from his small bowl. The silence stretched for another painful moment before Jaime spoke again.

"I heard you almost gutted Renly," he remarked idly, "Back during the raid a week or so ago…"

"Almost ended this whole stupidity then and there, never thought I'd get that far…" Joffrey mused as he gulped down the last of the soup. The sun was directly ahead, and he let his eyes close as warmed up after the rather chilly morning.

"Ser Loras gave you trouble? I've been meaning to clash swords with him for a while," said Jaime.

Joffrey grunted, hiding a small guffaw, "You should be careful, he's been sparring with Renly quite a lot," he said innocently.

"Renly does have a lot of experience… I'll try not to cut myself when the time comes," he said with the same pensive tone.

Joffrey was surprised as he found himself chuckling along with his real father, even Sandor seeing it fit to add a grunt or two.

When it ended, the silence returned, though lesser in its awkward mist.

Joffrey could tell Jaime was warring with himself, debating whether or not to ask one of the hundreds of questions that were no doubt plaguing his head. In the end, he decided to return to the sword and the lodestone.

Chrrick.

Coward, Joffrey thought before standing up.

"See they don't leave anything, would you Sandor? This treasure burying has got to stop; if it's not going with us then we're burning it right here," he told the Hound, which had somehow ended up as a sort of company quartermaster during their little adventures throughout the Stormlands.

"I'll be sure to kick the dogs in order," he said with a weary sigh before standing up and getting to it.

Joffrey walked towards the ledge of the overhang and surveyed the rolling hills again, the brisk winds slowly chilling him as they rolled from Shipbreaker Bay.

There'll be a storm soon, he thought, breathing in the salty air… Here in the Stormlands there were more rainy days than sunny ones… They'd strike Renly's supply train a few more times before attacking his host directly once more, to further stretch his provisions and force him to forage through his own domain in force. Support for Renly's Rebellion within the Stormlands had been lukewarm the further one got from his center of power in Storm's End, in no small part due to the prestige Joffrey and Sansa had managed to drum up during the year before Robert's death. If Renly was forced to turn on his own lands to keep his humongous host fed, then more and more Stormlords would stay in their keeps with their heads down, instead of throwing his lot in with him. The more desperate his shortages became, the more weary and debilitated his soldiers would become.

Renly had no choice but to march on the Capital as fast as he could, before the North and the Westerlands could mobilize entirely. In raw numbers his host could slaughter the Crownland and Riverlander armies in a straight battle, and if he followed a great victory with the legitimacy that came from occupying King's Landing, the Crownlords would have little choice but to bend the knee. The more reluctant Stormlords would join him as well, and with those numbers the odds favored the Tyrell-Baratheons. With nothing but silence coming out of the Vale, Renly had reasonable odds of succeeding… As long as he moved fast and with a clean, uninterrupted supply chain enabling a fast marching rate… for Westerosi standards at least.

Of Stannis Joffrey had not heard a word beyond the usual proclamation, a fact that was leaving him more and more worried as the days passed. He had been supposed to show up at Storm's End to contest Renly's control of the Stormlands days ago, but it seemed fate had decreed otherwise…

He shook his head, there was nothing he could do there for now, not without a fleet of his own.

"Raiders! Move out!" he shouted as he returned to Moonlight.

-: PD :-

Hokk had been selected for his keen eyesight and no-nonsense attitude. After the King's nephew had assaulted the great camp himself, the lords had been falling over themselves attributing blame to each other without stop, all while Lord Randyll Tarly took measures into his own hands. He'd flogged the guards that had been stationed that night, and replaced them with men who'd shown initiative during the raid. Hokk was one of them, formerly a serjeant serving under House Ashford. After he'd driven a spear through one of the pet cut throats Joffrey Baratheon himself had led during that fateful night, he'd been promoted to Watch Captain, a duty he'd taken seriously through the nerve wracking week that had followed the raid.

No following attack had materialized though, and as the enemy raids struck their supply lines further south the men had begun to grow complacent. The night watch had been tripled, and clear patrol lines and sentinels had been designated, trios of men moving together with decision, awaiting an attack whose possibility grew smaller the further south the raiders went.

Hokk still did his duty though, despite the heavy rain that had been plaguing them during the past day and now during the night. He walked past four guards standing uneasily under the rain, spears and lanterns out as they peered at the moonless darkness beyond the perimeter. A line of stakes now surrounded the camp, which would buy a few moments if the mounted raiders struck again. The groups of already awake, armed and armored spearmen would then help enforce the perimeter and ensure any attack was quickly pushed back.

"Whatta you' doin?! Eyes out there or you'll beg for Lord Tarly's mercy!" he snapped as he walked past two spearmen kneeling around a small campfire, barely alight as the rain splashed all around the crude cover the men had erected around it.

"But Serjeant-! We 'still looking, just warming up as we do," one of them explained as he stood up.

"Then you can do so standing," he muttered as he turned his head back, frowning. He blinked away the rain, shaking his head. "And keep an ear out for hooves, we'll barely have any time to react before the fucking bandits are upon us," he told them.

"Nothin' out there but those soggy heaps o' wheat, stupid farmers didn't even bring it in," muttered the other guard, the one with the wide back and strong arms.

"Seven know I'd run too if I saw an army this big marching down on us. Tough luck they were in the middle of a harvest," said the first one as he threw mud at the fire, shaking his head.

"Tough luck it was all rotted before we got here; we could have used the extra bread," muttered Hokk, peering at the darkness and the occasional bulges of shadow that dotted the long fields where the King's Host had settled in for the night.

"They would have just givin' it to the lords. To keep feasting while we eat nothing but jerky," said the big one, spitting on the mud.

"Watch your tongue," Hokk scolded him absentmindedly, peering at the heaps of rotting wheat in the distance, rain soaking him to the bone, "The Queen promised extra rations for the night guard," he reminded them, to keep them from whining. He tapped his hand on the lantern for a second before speaking again, "Come here, both of you. Do you see something out there by the leftmost heap?" he ordered as he frowned. He swore he'd seen something move.

"I said, did you see anyth-" the words died in his throat as he turned back and saw both guards struggling, their hands desperately trying to stave off the garrotes that were choking them to death, black hooded figures behind them.

Hokk took in a startled breath as he jumped back, but he wasn't able to scream before a strong arm locked his throat like a steel clamp from behind. A gloved hand covered his mouth as he struggled for air, his frenzied eyes cycling between the guard's purple faces and the silent, hooded figures choking them relentlessly. He tried to kick, scream, bite, but the world grew dimmer and dimmer as his assailant slowly lowered him to the ground, his grey, green eyes boring into his as the world melded into swirling rain and black and nothing.

-: PD :-

Joffrey stayed crouched, making sure the guard was dead before clicking his tongue twice. More raiders crept up through the hole in the perimeter, crawling all the way from the piles of rotten wheat out in the fields, through the stakes and then into the camp.

Over fifteen raiders were with him when he joined both his hands, fisting them and then showing three fingers pointed at an opened palm. He followed the gesture by taping them together two times and pointing in the general direction of the tents. The raiders nodded as they dispersed, two following him as he made his way through tents and muddy trails. Raiders followed the snores of sleeping soldiers as they entered into tents and then came out with bloodied daggers, a gradual silence descending over this section of the camp as they carried out their bloody work. Supply dumps had been distributed after the first raid, perhaps in order to avoid a few enemy torches from igniting a fifth of the Host's food in one go, but that played further into Joffrey's favor as he and the men infiltrated the small supply dumps around the local area, readying slow burning wickers surrounded by tinder, a delayed tactic which would see local stores igniting suddenly and without apparent cause. The rain which had so far been a boon would work against them here though, dousing the eventual fires and preventing them from spreading beyond individual tents.

They were quick and efficient, melting away into the night as the rain kept pouring and the roving patrol guards failed to complete their circuits, their bodies dumped around campfires or tents.

It was before dawn when the screams started, as soldiers woke up next to dead comrades, and guards found their reliefs strangled in their posts. The fires began soon after.

-: PD :-