Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Joffrey was laying on his belly as he surveyed the burning center of the great camp, the fires already spreading as indistinct shadows fought each other in a spreading conflagration of madness, fire, and death.

He moved the far eye towards the west. He estimated at least a thousand men making a run for it in the middle of the night, away from the safety of the camp and lugging all they could, mainly coffers and bales of wheat. Organization amongst the group seemed sparse, and Joffrey didn't know if there was some sort of leadership guiding it or if they were all just fleeing in the same direction.

Back to the east, he could see a bunch of men at arms cutting off stakes and dropping a burning tent over three score or so peasant levies, slaughtering them with maces and two handers as the screaming farmers struggled against the burning tarp. A few of the men at arms were falling to badly aimed crossbow bolts from somewhere further within the camp though…

"What the fuck is going on in there?" he muttered as he gazed at the madness. He blinked slowly as he lowered the far eye, scowling when a big drop of water fell on his head. It seemed the weather was once again being kind to Renly: the rumbling, coming storm would keep any spreading fires in check…

Of course, rainstorms were the rule rather than the exception in these lands. Westerosi were self-explanatory like that.

"You sure the Raiders are where they're supposed to be?" he asked Pocket after a moment of silence.

"Swear on my Great Grandmother my'grace. They're all quiet as hens waiting for the signal," he said quickly.

"Pocket, I swear, if you had something to do with this and you didn't tell me-" Joffrey warned him.

"Swear it on the blessed Mother m'grace! We-wer'-only-goin'-steal-a-bunch-o'-horses-from'-them-but-two-days-from-now-at-the-very-least!" he jabbered so quickly Joffrey had to pause to understand the words.

"Those are… Nightsong men at arms," said Jon as he surveyed the area with his own far eye, slowly focusing the device.

Joffrey shook his head slowly before returning to his own instrument, "And they're slaughtering the Ashford peasants because… they really needed the practice?" he asked out loud as he watched. They were really into it too, making sure they were dead as maces split skulls open and two handers cut men in half. "Those bolts are coming out of that makeshift barricade to the south, the one with the Fossoway banners draped over it," he pointed out after a moment.

"Maybe they tired of the nightly raids and decided to just do it themselves?" Lancel mused as he tried to climb over the prone form of Olyvar, "Come on man, let me see," he said impatiently.

"Lay off, not my fault you decided to gamble away yours," said the Frey as he shook him off, "Knights incoming, from the south. About… a dozen," he added.

"Bees bees bees… what house was that?" Joffrey asked out loud as he shifted minutely, leaning the far eye on his elbow.

"House Beesbury," said Lancel as he frowned and raised his head slightly, "Think they're going to finish the peasants off?" he asked out loud, though Olyvar was probably the one who felt addressed, given that Lancel was practically shoving his head away with his own.

"I don't know, maybe," mused Olyvar as he shuffled left and cradled the far eye from Lancel's thieving hands, "The Nightsong men don't look like they need any help though, they're really-" he interrupted himself as he drew in a breath of cringed pain. Jon and Joffrey did the same, Jon going so far as to bite his lips slowly and mechanically.

"What?! What happened!?" Lancel asked desperately as Jon took pity and gave him his own far eye.

"Beesbury knights tore the Nightsong men a new one. Gods be damned, wear some bloody chestplates!" Joffrey muttered in sympathetic pain.

"More knights, House Lonmouth I think," said Olyvar.

"Looks more like scouts to me, they seem to be scaring off the Beesbury knights though," Lancel noted. "More cavalry behind the Lonmouths, at least three different banners…" he said after a moment as he shifted his grip on the loaned far eye. He'd never bet against Glyra, never again... "Hm… they're splitting off, about a third going for the barricade at a gallop. The rest are scattering into the night," he said, slightly nonplussed. "Hey Jon, look at the reload speed of the Fossoway crossbows," he said as he handed the far eye to the other legate.

"Pathetic," Jon muttered as he peered through it, the scouting cavalry jumping the barricade and slaying the front rank of the now scattering crossbowmen… only to jump back out again as if something were chasing them. "Reach Houses seem to be fighting together against the Stormlords…" he said after a moment.

"It's been a long time since-… I've never seen anything like this," Joffrey muttered lowly in disbelief, "The whole host simply went mad," he said as he lowered the far eye, gazing at the destruction and the slaughter with the naked eye. "There's always something surreal with Renly's host…" he muttered lowly after a moment.

"Lack of Arbor Gold does funny' things te' Reacherfolk," Pocket said in his infinite wisdom.

The abrupt silence was almost as hilarious as the quip.

"Alright," said Joffrey with a restrained, nonplussed smile, "Sightseeing is over. We're ending this whole folly right now before someone manages to restore order… as improbable as that looks right now. Lancel, Olyvar, get back to the Regiment and strike from the Northeast, move the fighting away from the camp. Wall of Steel, regular marching pace… And get the men to shout 'Stormlanders for King Joffrey' or some drivel like that as they fight inside the camp, see if we can find a few sudden allies," he told them.

"Aye Commander," said Lancel as he leapt up from the ground quickly and ran back to his horse, quickly followed by Olyvar.

"Tyrek, go rouse the Crownlanders and take command. I want knights running down all Reachmen in sight of the camp who still have weapons in their hands," he said as he returned to the far eye.

"Yes Commander!" said his little cousin before jumping to it, who'd been quietly observing the battle with his own far eye until that moment.

"Pocket, we're moving up your horse stealing scheme. Get me as many stallions as you can from that madness. If it looks like the host will survive the night, butcher all those you can't steal," he told the willy thief.

"Right'away m'grace," he said as he shuffled backwards. Joffrey doubted he could have looked more untrustworthy if he'd tried.

He grunted in satisfaction as he moved the far eye horizontally, the pieces of the puzzle inside his mind already moving as he smiled slightly.

"What about me?" asked Jon.

"You'll take command of your cohort when the men get here. We're punching straight through to that bonfire," Joffrey told him, aiming a hand at Renly's flaming pavilion. They were surprisingly flammable, all things told.

"Blood and Mud?" asked his legate, a feral smile on his lips which would not have been out of place on his direwolf.

"Blood and Mud Jon," he muttered as he lowered the far eye and unconsciously placed his right forearm over the pommel of his sword. He'd have to trade it for another hammer tonight, he'd be seeing a lot more armor soon…

"Blood and Mud…" he mused.

-: PD :-

"First Cohort! By centuries-Advance!" roared Jon, and the men responded with a grunt of their own, lowering halberds and splitting off under the directions of the centurions. They swept their way towards Renly's pavilion, halberds red with the blood of men who did not surrender on sight, the banners of the King's Fist and the Baratheons of King's Landing flying proudly over the forest of halberds, whipped this way and that by the winds of the Stormlands, the distant thunders growing closer by the hour as the rain intensified and quenched part of the raging fires.

Joffrey nodded approvingly at Jon. His legates had performed admirably, each leading a cohort of a thousand or so men. Nominally that would be the job of the Tribune, as the Ghiscary called them. Legates were supposed to command legions of their own.

But because there was only a single legion for now, or regiment as Sansa had forced him to change the name to something more 'harmless', his legates had been learning the art of command on the field with their individual cohorts. After dozens of skirmishes all along the northern Stormlands and a quarter as many battles, the First Regiment of the Royal Guard had been thoroughly bloodied. Lesser through its sustained casualties, but greater by the glint in the men's eyes and the iron tight grasp on their weapons.

"King Joffrey and the Stormlands!" they roared as they marched, the rain that so often assaulted the region already pouring again, distant thunders on the horizon. Joffrey had taken a single century with him though, marching quickly past the multiple foci of furious if disorganized combat.

He led them at a quick pace, past burning tents and groups of neighing, riderless horses. The century came to an abrupt stop as they emerged into a budding battle right in front of them, illuminated by burning tents which were barely contained by the free falling rain.

A mixed group of Morrigen and Fell men at arms were battling it out with their Tyrell counterparts. Right in the middle of the furious skirmish was a fully plated man with a huge Tyrell rose painted over his shield, his sword a whirlwind of movement as he fought two Morrigen men at Arms plus their lord at the same time. He pivoted and extended, his sword clean through a soldier's throat as his shield bashed the battered figure who Joffrey presumed to be Lord Morrigen himself. The fighting was not going well for the Stormlanders, but the battling soldiers quickly gained a breather as both forces saw Joffrey's men and they disengaged abruptly.

"Guardsmen here?!" shouted the armored Tyrell, incredulous, "Morrigen! Fell! We can sort this out later when-"

"That won't be necessary… Ser Garlan Tyrell, I assume?" Joffrey called out with a strong voice, stepping beyond the line of uniform halberds held at the ready. He was not dressed like a Raider.

He was decked for battle, clad in full plate battered with a hundred cuts and dents, wearing a red and yellow tabard with the sigil of the Baratheons of King's Landing sewn on it. Two great antlers emerged from his helmet, angled forward and glinting sharply in the night, playing off the understated green of the raw copper enameled pauldrons. Two hammers were strapped to his waist, ready to be taken out at a moment's notice.

"Joffrey Baratheon!" Garlan spat the name as if it were a curse, taking off his helmet to gaze at the King of the Seven Kingdoms, "You. You did this. All of this," he roared as he swept the area with his sword, the roiling thunderstorm in the distance punctuating his words.

"Your so called King did this, Ser," Joffrey told him neutrally as he lifted his visor, projecting his voice to carry, "Is that you Lord Morrigen!?" he shouted as he proceeded to ignore Ser Garlan.

"It is!" came the reply from the huddling cluster of Stormlanders.

"I've come looking for traitors, have you seen any lately?" shouted Joffrey.

A look of dawning comprehension settled on Ser Garland as he whipped back, "Lester, don't you dare-"

"No traitors here but these Tyrell fucks, Your Grace!" came Morrigen's reply.

"A traitor by word as well as deed now Lester?! So easy you betray King Renly?!" shouted Ser Garland, enraged.

Lord Morrigen spat on the ground, "Renly had Lord Selmy killed! Renly brought the Stormlands to war against the son of Robert Baratheon! Piss on the usurping fuck!" he shouted back.

Ser Garlan looked stunned, looking at the Morrigen men and back to Joffrey's troops. He put his helmet back on, cursing as he shook his head and realized his escape route had been blocked by the guardsmen.

"Highgarden!" he roared quickly as he charged towards Joffrey, "Highgarden!!! Through to King Renly! Through to King Renly!!!" he roared at his men as they followed him. "Meet me you coward! Meet me!!!" he roared in despair as he ran, realizing that only slaying Joffrey right then and there would break the formation in front of him.

"Centurion," Joffrey called out calmly as he lowered his visor, standing alone as he looked at the charging Tyrell and the brave souls with him.

"Crossbows! Quick bolts!" roared Jelk of Fleabottom, now centurion of the Royal Guard. "LOOSE!" he commanded after crossbows emerged from the rank of halberds, unleashing a storm of bolts which whistled past Joffrey, cutting down the charging Tyrells brutally. "Second rank! Loose!" roared the Centurion but seconds later, new crossbows emerging from the formation and unleashing another storm of steel. Bolts pierced gambeson, plate, and flesh at point blank range, the flurry of clicks foretelling the dull thuds as the charging Tyrells fell down like threshed wheat, their battlecry turned into a collective gasp. Garlan's charge turned into a jog as a dozen bolts materialized over his chest, legs, and arms. He walked a few more meters before he dropped sword and shield, putting a knee on the ground before collapsing face up on the mud. Those who had followed him were a few steps behind, laid over mud and bleeding out under the rain.

Joffrey marched towards Garlan's fallen form, the man breathing painfully as Joffrey reached him, blood flowing from under his breastplate.

Joffrey sighed as he looked at him, "What a fucking waste," he muttered before taking out his hammer and putting him out of his misery. The Mother's Mercy was, like all things westerosi, a harsh and brutal thing.

"Your Grace," said Lord Morrigen as he walked towards him, subdued by what he'd just seen.

"Lord Morrigen," Joffrey acknowledged him as he turned, sheathing his bloodied hammer and looming over him as the rain pattered off his antlers. He'd gotten used to their weight by now, though sometimes he still had this dread certainty that everyone around him were about to burst into outright laughter at the things.

"My sword is yours to command," said the Lord, a bit of blood trickling from his plate as he planted his sword on the ground and knelt. The outrage directed at Renly -or at least at the thing he had presided over- had been all too real. Of course, part of Lord Morrigen's change of heart came from the prospect of saving his own skin.

"Rise, my lord of Crow's Nest," he said with a nod, doing something similar when Lord Fell emerged from the group as well. "I'll be returning this camp to the King's Peace now, rally as many Stormlanders as you can and follow me," he ordered him curtly.

Lord Morrigen quickly informed him of what he knew, and Joffrey nodded decisively as he returned to his century. He now had a rough idea where Renly could be…

-: PD :-

The once mighty host of a hundred thousand swords was dying. Deserters and looters were streaming out of the camp in every direction, and many others were tossing down their weapons and offering ransom, if they had one to give. Right in the center was Renly and what was left of his Rainbow Guard, struggling to rally the men as a small core of Stormlanders and Reachmen surrounded him, a few of them fighting each other as the rest moved with Renly away from the camp. It was uncertain if they were really following him or just escaping in the same direction, but the point was moot in the end.

The Royal Guard slammed into them like the Fist of the Warrior, a double barrage of crossbow bolts followed by two charging line of halberds. Barely coherent levies and wavering men at arms screamed as they fell and died, blood mixing with rain and mud as they broke and ran.

Joffrey was at the forefront, carving a path almost singlehandedly with two one handed hammers. He was the tip of the spear puncturing Renly's force, opening up knights almost surgically, as if the hammers were steel pliers in the hands of a master smith. He teared and rent their armor apart, smashing aside flesh and metal as he lost patience and went deeper and deeper into the formation. He roared as he slammed both hammers against a knight's helmet from either side, crumpling it and leaving the man to fall backwards like a puppet with its strings cut. He stepped over the dead man and parried an axe blow, slamming the other hammer on the attacker's arm and then promptly twisting both his hammers in opposite directions. The man screamed as his arm crunched, quickly falling silent when Joffrey struck his helmet with both weapons one after the other in a rain of furious strikes that lasted less than two seconds but left a dozen jagged tears on it, blood pouring out of every hole. He slipped and tripped a man at arms that tried to jam a two hander through his middle, slamming a hammer into the man's chest and another on his neck as he fell on the ground. Levies tried to run away and ended up jumping him when they realized there was nowhere to go, the press of bodies too great. They were the ones that lasted the least, their motions slow and panicked and lacking the strength to pierce his armor.

Joffrey's rate of advance turned faster and faster as an ever growing proportion of his enemies turned out to be levies, his unstoppable search for Renly carrying him right through a whole cluster of Beesbury peasants; terrified farmers armed with fire hardened spears or even pitchforks, wearing nothing but leather or the odd chainmail. He waded through them as if they were nothing but part of the furious rain buffeting the battle site, butting aside spears and ripping jaws and hands, the wickedly sharp flanges cutting fingers and even hands sometimes, his breathing regular and steady. He was almost in a trance, his mind focused and quiet as he searched for Renly and an end to this all.

So much death, so much death… he thought distantly, the ebb of guilt caressing his mind. For had he not wanted this? Needed this? A strong showing to deter future rebellion, a way to show Westeros that they'd inherited a warrior king even stronger than Robert?

He realized he'd lost Jon along the way, his trusty halberd disappearing within the melee. Jaime and Sandor had even showed up one moment, but they too had been lost amongst the press of bodies.

He didn't care.

"RENLY!!!" He roared, knights and peasants stumbling back from him even as he didn't let them, striding quickly and forcing shields away only to rain blow after blow on exposed faces and plate joints. He turned in a semi-circle every two seconds, covering his own back and slaying any who dared approach from a blind spot. "REEEENLYYYY!!!" He roared as he went deeper into the enemy mob, jamming the hammer's tips through visors and striking like a whirlwind at any who dared to close.

He had to be around here somewhere!

"CIDER HALL!!!" roared a knight clad in Green Apple Fossoway livery, and Joffrey barely parried the perfect sword thrust, the blade biting the side of his helmet instead of going through his visor.

"DIE!" Joffrey roared in return, slamming aside the sword and almost planting a hammer on his head. The knight intercepted it with his shield though, trying to bash him away. Joffrey let the shield-encrusted hammer go as he pivoted like the lightning flashing above them all, spinning around the shield and planting his other hammer in the nape of the man's neck. He extracted it with a grunt, the fighting around him dying down as men kept stumbling backwards and other jumped at him.

He stepped sideways and let a farmer sprint by with his pitchfork, striking the back of his helmetless head before redirecting a spear thrust into a soldier that had been about to attack from his left, slamming the hammer on the next attacker's chest. There were so many enemies everywhere, as if they surrounded him from every side, every second a man dying even as his arm could not keep up with the press of bodies all around him. Someone managed to pry the hammer off his hand as the mob of people constricted him; two peasants holding down his left arm as another one tried to grab his right, one hand fumbling for the hand axe on his belt. A knight in full red livery roared, hefting a mighty battleaxe above to finish him off, but Joffrey pulled his right arm and let the battleaxe cut one of the levy's arms instead. He used his now free hand to slam an armored cuff on one of the peasants to his left, shaking him off before using the other as a meat shield for the sideways slash he knew would come. The peasant screamed as the Red Knight's battleaxe tore through him, Joffrey using the cover to close in with the Knight as he bellowed in fury. He belatedly realized he had no weapon in hand as he tore off the man's helmet, his hands already starting to choke the Red Knight of the Rainbow Guard when he concluded that it would take far too long to kill him.

"WHERE'S RENLY!?" He roared at Ser Robar Royce's purple face. He must have been near, the Rainbow Guard was never far from its liege. The thought gave him renewed strength as he kept squeezing, breathing harshly as the din of battle grew strangely muted around him.

A spear thrust left him breathless after he slammed a fist into the young knight's teeth, and he turned to wrench the spear out of the brave peasant that had attacked him. He roared as the peasant didn't let go and instead was carried right into Joffrey's other gauntleted fist. He left him breathing blood on the floor as the now unattended Royce tried to unsheathe an arming sword. Joffrey parried the predictable blow with a vambrace and pummeled him again with the other hand, bellowing wordlessly each time his fist struck the knight's face. Almost everyone was stumbling away now, and Joffrey let the knight have it with both hands, twin gauntlets striking one after the other in a quick flurry of relentless strikes that kept following the knight as he stumbled backwards. The individual roars turned into a singular one as the cadence of his strikes accelerated and he suddenly lifted the dazed, wrecked knight upwards, adrenaline and pure berserker fury fueling his strength as he roaring with all his might and jammed one his wickedly sharp antlers through the man's neck. Ser Robar gurgled as Joffrey wrenched the bloodied antler out of him, giving another bellow as he tossed him to the ground at his side. The armored knight bounced once on the mud, squirming lightly before laying still.

The rain was washing the blood off his armor, for once, but he still felt the sickly, sticky thing pouring down his plate as he gazed all around him, terrified lords and knights brandishing weapons as he finally found his prey.

"Renly!" he shouted good naturedly, pleasantly surprised at the sight of his supposed uncle, a slightly bleeding Brienne of Tarth and a helmetless Ser Loras Tyrell standing protectively by his sides. As it was all too common in Westerosi warfare, combatants from all sides were more looking than fighting, smelling a duel of champions near them.

They wanted theater? Joffrey could bloody well give them theater.

Bloody theater, whispered a red voice in his ear, drinking in the attention and the blood and the way his body seemed to move with a mind of its own, every single step calculated and harmonized with the whole.

"Well nephew, it seems you have found me," Renly called out with his suave voice, made for easing lordly worries and to make ladies blush, to lead the feasting hall and to persuade through soft words. It did not sound the least bit intimidated, but his face gave away the lie. "Lannister get seems all too common around the Kingdoms these days, would-"

"STORMLORDS!" roared Joffrey as he ignored him, turning to gaze at the staring lords and knights. "This is your vaunted King?! This is the man you chose to lead the Seven Kingdoms?!" he challenged them as he strode towards them, the damned weight of the antlers making him feel like a giant, "Clad in polish and chivalry?! Well dressed and well spoken?!" he roared at them as Brienne gave an outraged bellow and charged, half handing her bastard sword precisely and trying to gut him. Joffrey grunted as he moved aside, the sword scratching his plate as he moved to slam a fist on her visor. She ducked though, shouldering him aside.

Joffrey wrenched a halberd from a paralyzed man at arm's grip, twirling it into a low guard as Brienne charged again, not giving him a moment to breath. She screamed as she tried to split him in half from above, the halberd's head barely stopping the blow before she closed him from below and slammed an armored knee into his protected stomach.

"Kill him Brienne!" shouted Renly, moving backwards and forwards slightly as he repositioned the grip on his longsword again and again, Loras wanting to get in on the action but unwilling to leave Renly unprotected. She moved to comply, half swording a stab that almost punctured Joffrey's chestplate, leaving him huffing as he stumbled back. She was a natural…

But inexperienced. Incredibly inexperienced.

Joffrey feinted a perfect low thrust, and when she moved to stop it he jumped instead, trying to slam the halberd through her visor. She barely moved her head out of the way, but then Joffrey pulled with all his strength, jamming the halberd's hook into the nape of her neck and pulling her into the ground. He jumped atop her back and delivered the clean killing blow in a blur, slamming the halberd through the same place, the tip emerging from her throat.

Renly looked green, blinking rapidly as Loras breathed serenely by his side, sword and shield at the ready. "That is enough nephew! We yiel-"

He roared over it, drowning Renly's voice harsher than the screaming rain, "This is your King?! Who quips and japes as a circle of steel closes on his throat?!" he shouted at the face of a peasant levy, the man stumbling back and blinking rapidly. He strode around the two, gazing at his spectators. He had once done something similar, near the wheat fields of the Riverlands many years ago. Tonight there was a greater purpose to this spectacle though, a purpose to the theater for all that his rage was real.

"You who fought and bled with my father at the Trident, you who betrayed his memory while his body was still warm… this was the man you chose to replace his son with?!" he roared as he traversed along the line of soldiers but a hair's breath away from them, not a single one extending their weapon and ending his life then and there. Guilt, Sansa had whispered. Guilt and shame would choke the Stormlords into compliance, after they've been dutifully cowed. The fighting had died down by now, guardsmen emerging amongst the tired and dirty lords of the Reach and the Stormlands.

"Stand your ground!" he roared as he charged at Ser Loras all of a sudden, the halberd light in his hand as he sidestepped left and right in his charge towards him. He slammed the tip into his shoulder, the knight hollering in pain before his sword licked Joffrey's vambrace painfully. Guardsmen had already fought their way through it seemed, joining the sudden lull in the fighting as they clustered to one side of the circle. They had started to slam the butts of their halberds on the ground a few seconds ago, a crescendo of sound that made Joffrey's blood sing even as the relentless rain soaked him to the bone.

Loras retreated as he wrenched the halberd out of his shoulder, and Joffrey let him go as he took his helmet off. He tore the bronze-iron antlers off it, turning the mechanism that held them in place before tossing the helmet away.

"Stormlanders!" he called out, the spittle mixing with the rain as he attacked with an antler in each hand, both a blur of movement and he pounded the huffing Ser Loras one, two, three times with the antler's blunt sections, using them as hammers. He was unprepared for what Joffrey did next though, kicking him back before jumping at Renly with a high guard. His surprised uncle stumbled back under the rain of blows, parrying desperately.

For all his skill as an orator though, Renly had not been born a warrior. Two punctures now showed bleeding flesh past the armor, in his arm and chest.

"Renly! Stand back!!!" screamed Ser Loras as he discarded his shield and wielded his sword with both hands. He had a reputation as a skilled fighter, but that was nowhere in evidence as Joffrey's assault on Renly made him go berserk. The Knight of Flowers screamed as he charged like a madman, and Joffrey turned just in time to lock the sword with one of the antlers, redirecting it harmlessly.

He jammed the other antler's tip through Loras' eye socket, using the man's own momentum to jam it deep. The Tyrell knight stumbling past him and clipped Renly in the shoulder before collapsing on the ground, shaking wildly as another thunder crashed above the heavens.

Renly gave out a wordless moan as he dropped his sword and kneeled by his side, his trembling hands ripping the fine silks that peeked from under his green armor as he hopelessly tried to stem the bleeding. "Loras! Loras!!!" he screamed, the sound all but drowned by the thunderous rumble of the halberds slamming rhythmically against the earth. Joffrey felt surreal as he strode towards Renly, letting the other antler fall to the ground.

"STORMLANDERS!!! Sons of thunder and fury!" he roared as he grabbed Renly's shaking form, dragging him away from Loras' body as tears started to stream down his face, mixing with the rain. He dragged him by the nape of his neck, turning to stare at the ashen faced lords and knights clustered on one side of the abrupt clearing, their hands white as they gripped their weapons.

"This man! Who could not prevent his own army from falling into fratricide, will lead the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men!?" he asked them as he tossed Renly at their feet, splattering mud everywhere.

They were speechless. Pale as they avoided his gaze...

Their silence said all Joffrey needed to know.

"Blood and Mud Renly," he breathed, "That's what the songs never tell you," he said lowly, his voice echoing strangely within the clearing.

He stared at the lords and knights, breathing slowly as he felt the wind on his face, the storm blowing the rain sideways, the pounding of thousands of halberds against the mud almost drowning the sound of thunder itself, flashes of light in the distance. He was unarmed and within spitting distance of lords who days ago had been trying their level best to kill him.

He kept breathing deeply as he stared, his back as straight as steel as his armor creaked with every inhalation. He challenged them with his eyes, dared them to come at him, pleading them to do so.

He felt mighty as he gazed at their eyes. A strange sensation he hadn't felt since he'd tossed a wight down the Dawn Fort's battlements. Old Gods forgive him, he felt like he could murder every single one of them with his bare hands in this very moment, if he so chose to.

"STORMKING!" suddenly roared one of the Stormlords, voice clear over the din of halberds and the streaking lighting.

"Stormking!" shouted another, half a second later. "Ours is the Fury!" bellowed yet another one. "Fury!" they screamed. "FURY!!!" they roared.

"Stormking! Stormking! Stormking! STORMKING! STORMKING!!! STORMKING!!!!!" they chanted, not in joy or glory, but in acknowledgment. It was an admission of guilt, a plea for mercy… but also an acknowledgement. Something primal seemed to be screaming with them, a call to times long gone by. Assent to the legacy of Orys Baratheon and the Durrandons, which had ruled them for so long, ages ago.

"STORMKING!" they roared, hefting their sword and maces above them in an oath which hadn't been heard since the Conquest, the Reachlords kneeling as they tried to avoid his gaze.

"STORMKING!!!" they proclaimed him as spider webs of lighting crawled above the heavens and thunder deafened the cry.

-: PD :-