Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Lord Eldon Estermont sighed, this was clearly leading nowhere…

The grand pavilion looked as fine as ever, beautifully decorated and supplied with mastercrafted chairs and tables… it was the current occupants that were rather souring the already rotten mood.

"This is chaos," said Lord Arstan Selmy as he shook his head. Many of the younger Stormlords had taken a liking to the Lord of Harvest Hall these past few weeks, being a man of calm demeanor who did not hide his anger if the affront was warranted. The Stormlords had needed such a figure after the string of defeats suffered by the whole host increased the scrutiny upon them… and Lord Estermont was sadly too old to fulfill that need.

"Queen Maergery was a stabilizing influence on the men, the King shouldn't have sent her away," Estermont told him as he wiped a bit of water off his doublet. It was raining lightly outside, and it seemed even Renly's luxurious, reserve pavilion has started to feel the strain of the past few weeks. It really was a shame the last one had been burnt…

"War is no place for women, less so a fight as hard as this one," Selmy said with a shrug.

"Hm, tell that to good Lady Brienne," said Estermont, hiding a smile as he gazed at the armored blue figure always standing near her liege, a hand always hovering over her sword's pommel.

"Ha!" Lord Selmy huffed, "Old Selwyn without a proper heir? Seven damn them all, he'll make his daughter into one!" he said with a chuckle.

"And one fit enough to pummel all our boys unconscious," Estermont chuckled as he gazed at Alrick, arguing about something with a couple of Reacher knights. No doubt trying to salve his wounded pride after the combined cavalry force spent the entire day chasing shadows. Alrick counted no more than nineteen namedays despite being his second son, an unexpected gift long after he'd thought his wife no longer capable of bearing children. His first born, Ser Aemon, had drawn the wrong lot and was now on guard duty along the camp's western side.

"What a fucking waste of time," grumbled Lord Lester Morrigen, who sat on Estermont's right.

"You talking about today's merry chase or this madness in particular," asked the young Lord Lonmouth who sat by Morrigen's side, pointing at the general chaos of arguing lords all over the pavilion.

"This, that, everything," grumbled Morrigen, "Whole fucking waste of time, bleeding men and food and for what? So a fucking Tyrell can be Queen," he said in disdain.

"Careful Lester, those words could be dangerous," Lord Selmy admonished him gently.

"But it's the truth ain't it?" he grumbled again as he shook his head, "All this marching and dying and eating all so we can replace a Stark Queen with a Tyrell one," he said.

"The Stormlands have always rallied to the Stag," reasoned Lord Estermont, "No reason to-"

"A Stag is already sitting on the Iron Throne so don't even try!" Lord Lonmouth mumbled angrily, "More than a Stag, fucking Robert Baratheon reborn. He may look Lannister alright, but if his blood were any more Baratheon he'd be growing' antlers," he said before shaking his head, "You've all seen him. Only reason he doesn't use a warhammer is so he can use both hands to kill twice as fast," he said in restrained frustration.

"I don't like the course of this conversation," Estermont told him flatly.

"Then I shall recuse myself," said Lonmouth as he downed his tankard and slammed it on the table. He stood up and left the tent, grumbling all the way.

"A Stag's a Stag," Lord Selmy said over the ensuing pause in the conversation, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself. They all tried not to look at their King over by the main table, trying and failing to make his voice heard over the shouting and the arguing of over a hundred lords and knights.

"Any other transcendental wisdoms for us, Arstan?" asked Lord Morrigen with a tired grin.

"Not for you," Selmy quipped.

"Damned Selmy's, been all full of themselves ever since Ser Barristan," he said with a snort, "Right Eldon?" he elbowed Lord Estermont as he served himself a bit more of the depressingly scarce sweet wine.

"Shush now, seems the King's just about fed up with the spectacle," said Eldon before stealing Morrigen's cup.

"Make quiet! Silence for the King!!!" shouted Ser Loras, turning the indistinct shouting into merely indignant grumbling.

"Thank you Ser Loras," said the King as he placed a hand on his shoulder and stood up, the lords and knights quieting down as their King regaled them with a wayward look.

"My lords, please, falling into this kind of disarray is exactly what my cut throat of a nephew wants of us. Let us remain calm and remind ourselves of our dignity and standing," he told them with a vaguely disappointed tone of voice. The men grumbled lightly at that, seeing reason in the King's voice even as they looked at each other with scowls or frowns.

"Now, I believe Lord Caswell was speaking just now?" he said as he sat down once more.

"Thank you, Your Grace," said the stocky lord, looking around the great pavilion in restrained anger. "Last night's so called battle was the last straw. The men could chin up after getting pounded by the Prince's pet bandits, even if it meant shitting themselves at every godsdamned owl or deer creaking in the night, but getting assaulted again and again by fucking regulars without a chance to react simply cannot stand-" he ranted apoplectically.

"Prince Joffrey and his so called Royal Guard"- Lord Crane sneered at the name as he picked up Lord Caswell's anger -"Know neither honor nor basic decency! They strike at the dead of night and force battle only to march away before the whole host can turn on them! And his crossbows shoot the horses out of our knights whenever they try to force an engagement between all those damned halberds! We're trading a knight for a fucking halberdier one to one! And that's on a good day!" he roared.

"The cavalry can hardly charge at a wall of halberds and crossbows if it's not supported by the infantry Lord Crane… something which was Lord Caswell's responsibility!" shouted Lord Mullendore as he stood up.

"Don't you dare pour your failures on the infantry! The foot can't keep up with the fucking Prince, they march away any time we try to force an unfavorable engagement on him!" said Lord Caswell, red faced. "A marching speed, I might add, that would be considerably reduced if the cavalry did its job and threatened the bastard's flanks instead of dancing around with the fucking Crownlanders!" he shouted as he stood up.

"My lords! For the love of the Seven, get ahold of yourselves!" shouted Eldon as he could no longer bear it. "This is clearly leading us nowhere, except further sullying our King's presence as we argue like frightened children," he shouted over the din, forcing some degree of sheepishness as the various lords sat down, mulling down their anger with their harrowingly scarce liquor reserves. Eldon didn't even want to think about what would happen when those finally ran dry.

"Your Grace, instead of further playing the blame game, I propose we review the general situation of the host, to further prepare a coherent response to the Prince's… unusual style of warfare," he asked his liege lord.

"Thank you Lord Estermont, please do so," said the King with a benevolent nod. He looked as fine and unworried as ever in his green enameled armor, but the deep pits under his eyes gave away the lie.

"Very well," said Eldon, squaring his shoulders. "While some stayed here discussing matters of blame, myself and Lord Tarly took the liberty to survey the entirety of the camp, the men, and the stocks," he said as he looked at the stern Lord of Horn Hill across the pavilion, who nodded slightly.

"What we found did not fill us with confidence. The situation has turned critical," said Lord Tarly, a curt statement that seemed to leave a chill in many a lord's spine.

Lord Mullendore looked disbelieving, "But, my lord, surely five thousand foot, a gaggle of Crownlander knights, and some pet bandits would never be enough to meaningfully endanger over a hundred thousand-"

"It can and it has… And we've far less than a hundred thousand men right now. If we don't react in an organized manner this army will fall to pieces, and our cause with it," said Lord Tarly without an ounce of emotion.

The silence was deafening.

Lord Estermont cleared his throat, "The crux of the matter seems to be Prince Joffrey's unheard of speed and mobility," he said. "Having him at the head of his so called 'Raiders' was bad enough, but when the Royal Guard joined up with him was when the situation started to truly unravel. He kills our scouts and strikes precisely and with no warning, sometimes during dawn, dusk, or even midnight. His men have been drilled superbly, and they are able to quickly withdraw in formation without losing cohesion, keeping the cavalry at arm's length while marching faster than footmen have any the right to be," he delivered the grim summary with aplomb. "He baits us with it, keeping enough distance so the host overextends itself like a snake during the chase. Then he performs a dog's leg, turning around in a circle and ripping through the section he appears to consider the weakest, inflicting disproportionate casualties. With that in mind, Lord Tarly and I are of the opinion that letting the massed cavalry remain under centralized control was a mistake; for all its admitted might, it makes our knights too unwieldy as a field formation to corner Joffrey's foot."

"What about the Star Camps?" called out a knight from beyond his sight, over by the section of the tent mostly occupied by Reachmen. The question sounded innocent, but Lord Estermont suspected it served as a needle to lower the esteem the King had in him. The King had been relying more and more on the Reachlords as of late, and Estermont himself was one of the few senior Stormlanders still in the King's full confidence, for all that he made a showing of taking the council of all his Bannermen. The Reachlords were playing the influence game even as the host creaked with the strain… Seven damn them, they couldn't stop scheming even if their lives depended on it.

"Regrettably, the King's strategy does not seem to have delivered the… expected results," he said carefully.

"Do not mince words Lord Estermont, my plan was a complete failure and I alone bear that blame," said King Renly over the ensuing silence.

Lord Estermont bowed politely in sincere thanks, "That it was, Your Grace. Far from supporting each other, all the Seven Pointed Camps did was provide men for Joffrey to defeat in detail. His drill puts a heavy emphasis on shock. That combined with the Royal Guard's superb mobility meant that by the time news of the battle had reached the nearby camps, the Crownlander cavalry was already slaughtering the routed infantry while Joffrey marched away," he said in a vaguely apologetic manner, "Far from supporting each other to pin Joffrey down, the men have started to regard the Camps as a death sentence."

The scores of lords remained quiet, only the cold, somewhat disappointed voice of Lord Randyll Tarly interrupting the delicate silence.

"Steps will have to be taken," he said curtly as he gazed at the King. "With Lord Estermont's assent, I've taken the liberty of drawing up a preliminary plan to rebuild our combat readiness. As a start, if the King is amenable"- he said the last as if it were a foregone conclusion -"command of the host's van, flanks, and rearguard will no longer be appointed each morning by the Crown, but granted indefinitely to commanders who have prior experience in the field of combat," he said, and it seemed even Lord Tarly's stern demeanor would not be enough to hold the lords any longer as they stood up and shouted, speaking over each other and gesticulating wildly. Those positions were highly coveted prizes for every lord in the host, driving them to greater heights in their search for recognition. Doing away with them would rip out what had become almost a ritual each morning, as King Renly presided over the clamors of lords and knights. The King was frowning right now, Ser Loras whispering quickly in his ear as a dozen lords around him tried to speak to him at the same time.

"Morale is hitting the bottom of the barrel," Lord Tarly struggled to make himself heard, frowning coldly at the undignified chaos. "Most of the foot was ill prepared for the rhythm the Prince has inflicted upon us," he said bluntly and with the tiniest smidgen of admiration, regaining the attention of most of the lords, "Desertions are at an all-time high and not even floggings seem to be slowing them down. Food shortages are now prevalent even amongst the Men at Arms, and we can't get enough arrows to supply all of our archers," he declared. "The levies are fainting under the constant marching and maneuvering, and are totally unprepared to stand their ground when Joffrey charges in for a melee. They do not have the constitution for this style of warfare, less so with our supply problems," he said cuttingly, trying to make them see reason.

"Can hardly expect the men to fight properly with an empty belly. Perhaps the situation would be different if the Stormlords backed their King with more than just words," said Lord Fossoway after downing a full tankard of mead.

Lord Arstan Selmy stood up to the thrown gauntlet, giving voice to many of the proud Stormlords who felt themselves the subject of repeated disrespect by the Reachlords, "And perhaps if the vaunted might of the Reach kept our rear clear of bandits then perhaps this host would not be drying every single field and barn dry from Harvest Hall to Storm's End!" he said.

"Food?! You worry about empty barns while a host a tenth our size thrashes us like unruly children?!" shouted a knight in House Ashford livery.

King Renly stood up as he often did when his lords quarreled, seeking to calm them down with the tone of a disappointed father, "My lords, our victory will be all the greater when-"

"Of course we worry about bloody food! At this rate the Stormlands will starve come winter!" Lord Morrigen roared over the words of his liege, standing up as well and throwing hands up in the air, "My lady wife wrote to me yesterday, the larders of Crow's Nest are nearly empty! And we aren't even in sight of Bronze Gate!" he said, furious.

"Brave words to the men that have been doing all the dying for you!" shouted one of the Green Apple Fossoways as Beesburys and Florents banged their tankards on the table, the insult cutting deep in all the assembled Stormlords.

"Perhaps things would be different-" Lord Selmy shouted the words mockingly over the din –"If Lord Fossoway had sent more of his witt-addled knights back to the rear instead of having them gallop uselessly over empty fields chasing Crownlanders!" said the red faced, normally soft spoken lord of Harvest Hall.

"My lords-" started the King again, but Lord Fossoway stood up before he could speak, his face disfigured with rage.

"And perhaps things would be different if more of you traitorous dogs supported your liege instead of hiding in your rain begotten hovels!" he roared as he tossed the tankard to the ground. Lord Fossoway's son and heir had perished last night during the fighting around Broad Arch. House Staedmon had refused to sally from their keep, just a few minutes away from the battle site, claiming that as long as one of Baratheon blood sat on the throne they would remain neutral. The number of Stormlords claiming something of the sort had risen exponentially as of late, further sullying the comparatively poor showing of the region in support of their supposed Lord Paramount.

Lord Selmy's face turned beet red as he drew his sword and the Stormlander section of the table stood up in outrage, calling for satisfaction right then and there as hands went to pommels. "The enemy would see us unworthy of the glory of a proper battlefield, surely we won't give them the pleasure?!" said the King, his face turning disbelieving when nobody heeded him as Lord Fossoway drew his own sword as well and shoved his way to Lord Selmy.

"You want bared steel?! I can give you fucking steel!" roared Lord Fossoway, completely out of his mind with rage, sorrow, and drink as the big Ashford knight hurried after him, hollering about being his second.

This is spinning out of control, Eldon thought in a hurry as he moved towards the two Reachmen.

"My lord of Cider Hall! Think about what you're doing!" shouted Lord Estermont as he tried to grab the Fossoway lord, only for the Ashford knight to forcefully shove him aside. He crashed against a table, cutting his hand on the cutlery as his son shoved Ashford back.

"Keep your hands off him you Reacher filth!" roared Alrick, only to be shoved in turn by Dickon Tarly.

"Everyone QUIET! Dickon! Get back here!" shouted Lord Tarly as he tried to restore order and get his son out of the scuffle at the same time.

"My lords! Stop this unseemly spectacle at once!" Renly shouted in growing despair, "My lords! Stop this! I- I command it!" he said as if he couldn't believe it, but his words were swallowed whole by the noise. The voices had grown too large, the lords and knights from the two Kingdoms pushing into each other as they roared the pent up aggression of sleepless nights, relentless marching, and scarce food. A sort of circle had formed around Lord Selmy and Lord Fossoway, both of them shouting at the other.

"Take back your words and honor shall be upheld!" hollered Lord Selmy as he looked to his sides, trying to think of a way to salvage the honor of the Stormlands and defuse the whole situation before it kept deteriorating.

"Piss on Stormlander honor! My son died waiting for it!!!" roared Fossoway as went for an over arm swing. Lord Selmy parried and twisted sideways, his heart hammering as he automatically followed the motions his great-uncle had taught him. One moment, Lord Fossoway's leering face was spitting insults as he tried to retrieve his sword for another swipe. The next he was stumbling back, five inches of steel boring out of his eye socket.

"Gewyn!" shouted Ser Tanton Fossoway as he emerged into the circle past the vaguely scuffling lords, just in time for Lord Selmy to retrieve his sword in a shower of blood.

"Gewyn! Gewyn!!!" shouted Ser Tanton as his brother collapsed backwards, bleeding out in the middle of the pavilion.

I've got to stop this madness, thought the Lord of Greenstone as he put himself between Lord Selmy and Ser Tanton, the shouting growing indistinct as he held his bleeding hand close. He could see King Renly climbing down from his table and trying to make way to the circle, his Rainbow Guard pummeling aside Lords and knights alike as they desperately tried to catch up.

"Let it go Ser Tanton!" Eldon said preemptively as the Fossoway knight breathed harshly, almost hysterically as he kept shaking the corpse of his brother. "The duel is over, let it-"

"You son of a whore!!!" Roared Ser Tanton as he dashed up with his brother's sword, right towards Lord Selmy.

"Ser Tantogh--" Lord Estermont spluttered as he moved to stop him, gazing down at the bastard sword now in his belly. Awareness flooded Ser Tanton's eyes as he realized what he had done, staring at the bloody sword in his hands.

"Eldon!!!" shouted Lord Morrigen in stunned outrage.

"Father!? Father no!" shouted his son, the harrowing despair in his voice almost making Eldon weep. His son's face was bruised and swollen after the scuffle with the Ashord knight, who was still struggling with him as the boy gazed at his gutted father.

"TREACHERY!!!" roared Lord Lester Morrigen as he split Ser Tanton's head with a brutal cut of his two hander. Lord Estermont fell to his knees as the sword in his belly tilted downwards with Ser Tanton's body, blood filling his mouth as a wordless roar emerged from the Stormlords around him, like a huge wave bearing against the jagged coast of Shipbreaker Bay.

"FATHER!!! Get off me!!!" screamed his son as he finally managed to shake off the Ashford knight by jamming an arming sword through his armpit. "GREENSTONE!!!" he roared shrilly as he took it out and finished him off with a clean thrust through the knight's throat.

"HORN HILL!!!" shouted Dickon Tarly as he jumped at his son with a bastard sword, both of them now fighting for their lives as Lord Estermont tried to make himself heard throughout the sudden roar of battle, lords and knights taking out their weapons as blood flowed through the ground and his mouth. Lester was trying to move him, and Lord Selmy was battling with a Green apple Fossoway right beside them when the King manage to make his way through.

"Lord Arstan! Ser Jon!" he shouted hysterically, but Estermont could barely hear him over the song of steel on steel. Lord Selmy drew a long cut from the King's forearm by accident as the young Baratheon tried to stand between the two combatants at the center of the budding battle.

"RENLY!" roared Ser Loras as he batted away Lord Selmy's sword and jammed his own through the man's armpit, past his plate.

"LORD SELMY!" shouted someone from the back as a tower of the Stormlands in these turbulent times stumbled. He took a step back in a daze, gazing at his liege with a stunned, perplexed expression that seared itself on Eldon's and every other Stormlord's eyes. Lester was dragging him away from where the fighting was the thickest when Lord Selmy fell, blood bubbling out of his mouth as he collapsed on his knees, the armored greaves jingling as Arstan used his sword as a momentary cane, swaying lightly and with the same expression of shocked betrayal that seemed to stare right into Renly's soul. Selmys had a strange, easy grace in everything they did, and even dying was one of them.

The Lord of Harvest Hall toppled forwards gently. He spun lightly, falling on his back and gazing up as the light faded from his eyes… Eldon thought the din of battle grew lesser then, if only for a single second.

And then Eldon despaired, for he could not speak and the second was then lost to time.

"Lord Selmy! Lord Selmy!!! We need to cut through to Lord Selmy! HARVEST HALL! HARVEST HALL TO ME!!!" roared a voice in the distance, and the din of battle slammed into the pavilion once again with the fury of a thousand storms, harsher than the thunders that could be heard in the distance, stronger by far than what it had been before. There had lacked a certainty in the skirmish up till now, the whole pavilion wrapped in a thick miasma of strange unreality.

Now that unreality had curdled into pure, mad violence.

"Call Ser Gollys! Bring the levies!!!" he heard a painfully familiar voice say. "FOR THE STORMLANDS!" he could hear over the steadily darkening room, "Treachery! Ware the Reachlords!!!" he thought he could hear as he blinked slowly, iron tearing through flesh somewhere near. "HIGHGARDEN! HIGHGARDEN!!! TO ME!!!" the battlecry sounded strange, twisted, mushy.

Lord Estermont realized he was lying on the ground now, the ceiling of the masterfully weaved, gold and silvered pavilion spinning above him. He tilted his head sideways, and the last he saw was his son standing over Dickon Tarly's corpse, desperately trying to fend off Lord Tarly's rage and the Valyrian flash of light that was Heartsbane.

-: PD :-