Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Her little shadow war with Varys had been an incredible learning -and humbling- experience; which was one of the reasons the man was still alive. Other than serving as a sort of training dummy for Sansa though, the Master of Whispers was a very useful font of knowledge about their adversaries and even neutrals of the budding civil war. Though always taking his word with a hefty shipload of salt, Sansa had learned more about the Iron Islands in a month than what she would have known after a year of study and dedicated effort towards them… and that was only one example of the ways Varys helped the running of the realm as a whole.

Of course, the longer he lived the more dangerous he would become to her and Joffrey's efforts, but conversely, the more he would reveal about his secretive Essosi contacts in Pentos and other Free Cities. It was a waiting game to see who decided to end the mutually beneficial relationship first, and perhaps that was why Sansa was so stunned when the first serious fatality of the Game of Thrones seemed to be carried out by neither of them.

Sansa sighed, pushing away a well-meaning Ser Barristan as she kept looking at Tyrion's horrified expression of pain, forever frozen in place. The dwarf was still in his bed, the body of the wench that had poisoned him conveniently slumped over in the corner, white bubbles still foaming out of her mouth even if her body had expired hours ago by the Grandmaester's reckoning. Sansa had found an empty vial in the wench's pocket, and the smell of Foxglove had been clear as day at least according to the Grandmaester…

"Lady," Sansa whispered as the alert direwolf trotted to her side. Sansa closed her eyes as she lowered the vial, letting the direwolf sniff the residue. Pycell had shown her a full vial as a sample and…

Ahh… they match, she thought as she opened her eyes and wrinkled her nose, Lady peering up at her curiously.

So it was actually Foxglove, Pycell's not lying… but why would Cersei make it seem like Tyrion had a heart attack, and then go to the trouble of making sure the obvious assassin died in the same room? And of a much more obvious poison at that!? She asked herself.

"Ser Barristan," she called out.

"My Queen?" asked her stern protector.

"Lock down the Red Keep, rouse the northern contingent and relieve the Red Cloaks of their arms and posts around the outer walls and the gatehouse," she commanded.

He looked rebellious at the thought of leaving her right now, before looking at Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Preston Greenfield, both of them nodding. "Aye Your Grace," he said finally.

"Centurion Holt," Sansa called as she left Tyrion's room.

"Your Grace!" the man slammed the halberd against the floor as he straightened, the eight halberdiers behind straightening as well.

"Assemble your century inside Maegor's Holdfast and stand vigilant, no one is to go in or out," she ordered him.

"Aye Your Grace!" he said before turning to his men, delivering a flurry of orders as they split into two groups going in opposite directions. Sansa walked her own way, Ser Mandon and Ser Preston following her with their hands on their pommels. She entered the Sept at a quick pace, sighing in relief when she saw the familiar silhouettes of Wylla Manderly and Butter Fingers standing by the side of the Stranger's Altar, half hidden from view.

"Wait here," she ordered her escort, the two kingsguards covering the door as she walked towards the altar, "Wylla, Butter Fingers. It's nice to see you," she said quickly.

"Sansa," Wylla smiled nervously as Butter merely nodded, his big frame making the shadows dance.

"So, Cersei?" she asked them.

"Yes," Wylla said simply, "We knew she was jockeying for influence around the Royal Court of Commerce"-

"Rather ineffectually I might add," Butter cut in with a rumble.

-"Before Tyrion absolutely wrecked the small progress she'd made amongst a minority of the judges," Wylla finished, giving Butter the stink eye.

Sansa cursed, leaning on the statue of the Crone right in front of them, "I told you both to keep an eye on her, she was bound to react badly after that little failure of a scheme," she told them forcefully.

"We never thought she'd murder her brother! Maybe strike at him politically or get him out of the Capital, not kill him!" Wylla grumbled. She'd ended up being an invaluable help as Sansa's queenly duties overwhelmed her, serving as a sort of auxiliary Mistress of Whispers who could supervise on going schemes when Sansa was strapped for time. "Least of all like this," she added, shaking her head.

"And what did you find out?" Sansa asked the big brute with the lute on his back.

"The girl was in Cersei's employ. She and five others were plants Cersei placed at Chataya's," rumbled the bard, cracking the fingers which gave him his name. People just couldn't understand how Sansa would keep such an awful bard in her retinue… to that she'd often said that the man's voice made up for any less than stellar performance with his chosen instrument. Of course, his meaty fingers were also quite useful for breaking skulls in the middle of the night.

And no one would ever suspect the fumbling court singer to be a spy and the left hand of the Queen in the murky matters of intrigue, would they? Everyone who was not the Spider at least…

"Let me guess, they all pointed to Cersei, who bought them through a Lannisport Lannister of all people," she huffed.

"Not quite," said Butter, "But the trail was almost as obvious as that, a Red Cloak serjeant whom we know Cersei owns completely."

"I'm not that surprised now that I think about it," Sansa told them, "She looked absolutely thunderous after Tyrion baited her with that bit about sending her to Casterly Rock, away from her children… he should have known better than provoking such an impulsive woman," she trailed off, the hit of losing Tyrion pummeling her hard just now. The thought of all his help with the Trading Company and the Courts and the Blackworks and more no longer being available… the lack of his easy smile or the friendly jape after a horrible morning at court-

She shook it off, blinking away the budding tears before returning to the matter at hand. "Means, motive, and opportunity all stack up, but there's still something rotten inside it all. Why make sure the killer died in the same room? If she had just slit the wench's throat and tossed her down the blackwater she could have had plausible deniability," she reasoned.

"I'm afraid that will take more time than we have right now," said Wylla as she shook her head.

"Right, you two keep digging into this; I want answers," she told them before walking quickly out of the Sept.

Damnit, I miss Joffrey, she thought morosely as the knights followed her again, swiftly joined by Lyra, who had been waiting by the doors. "Skulls to crack?" she asked excitedly.

"Not every problem requires a hammer," Sansa told her with a fond half smile, swiftly arriving at Maegor's Holdfast and the assembled Guardsmen who had taken the draw bridge without a fight.

"Says the woman about to storm the palace," she said glibly, hammer and shield already in her hands.

"Shush you," said Sansa before nodding at the Centurion.

"Holt, the Red Cloaks are to be disarmed and the Royal Family to be placed under custody. The Queen Mother is to be placed under arrest," she said quickly, leaving the details up to him. "And please, minimum bloodshed," she told him.

"Aye your Grace," said the Centurion before turning to his three score or so of men. "Listen up men! We're marching in and disarming the Red Cloaks. The Queen Mother is to be arrested and the children placed under protective guard. Fin, Gawald, get your sections in order! Halberds at the front!" he bellowed.

Soon they were marching through Maegor's Holdfast, and though a few Red Cloaks tried to resist here and there, most were intimidated by the surprise of the situation and the veritable tide of steel taking over the heart of the Red Keep.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Cersei screeched as she retreated into a corner of her room, grasping Tommen and Myrcella tightly as the former cried and the latter put on a brave face.

"Auntie Sansa?! Wh-what's going on?!" she cried out from Cersei's grip as halberdiers fanned out along the room.

Sansa took a step forward, holding her hands aloft, "It's okay Myrcella, it'll all be over soon," she tried to calm her down.

Cersei looked outraged, "Over?! I should have known you would try something like this the moment my son was gone, you traitorous bitch!" she screeched, stumbling back again, dangerously close to the window.

Sansa closed her eyes, Lady sniffing the air and unerringly pointing her muzzle to Cersei. Her hands reeked of Foxglove.

She didn't even trust Pycell to carry this out, how thoughtful of her…

"Cersei Lannister, you are accused of poisoning and murder Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms," She told her, frowning as the woman stumbled closer to the window, an iron grasp on her children. She looked momentarily startled, but quickly smoothed her face back into all outrage.

"Lies and slander! A transparent excuse so the Starks can seize power!" she shouted before a net slipped through the window, tangling her and the children on the floor.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as the Guardsmen quickly charged in and untangled the Lannisters, smiling as Meera slipped in from the window.

"Must be the strangest catch of your life, huh?" she asked the Reed the girl, who seemed to be sporting a grin fit to make a guilty cat proud.

"Not even close, my queen. Not even close," she said ruefully, the smiles on both of them disappearing rapidly as the gravity of the situation returned.

-: PD :-

Father had returned swiftly after the news reached him; galloping across the Kingswood back to King's Landing. He'd been reviewing the Riverlander forces there, securing Bronze Gate like a cork and making sure Renly's Host could not cross into the Crownlands if they somehow shook off Joffrey. A decisive engagement of a sort would no doubt happen soon enough, but communications were patchy around the devastated Stormlands, so Sansa was still in the dark about that. She did know that Joffrey had been hitting their supply train hard, refusing to engage unless he had local superiority and making the great host bleed for every step they took… aid would have to be given to the Stormlands once it was all over, lest they starve after the war.

Father had been overseeing the investigation surrounding Tyrion's death, and while the case seemed clear enough, Sansa still couldn't find the missing link in it. The cook that had fed the assassin and thus poisoned her ahead of time was dead, his throats slit in his very house. It was almost a certainty that Cersei had poisoned Tyrion, given their history and the way tensions between the both of them had escalated around the Royal Court of Commerce, but her catspaw's death had been planned by a third party… the obvious candidate for that was -of course- Varys… but her agents had not been able to prove it one way or the other. As the days passed, she had a slow creeping certainty that her game with the Spider would soon be over, one way or the other…

Cersei had been jailed within one of the Red Keep's towers, kept in a room befitting the station of the King's mother, for all that her bouts of screaming could sometimes be heard throughout the whole keep.

Tyrion's death had hit her schemes hard, flooding her already stretched days and delaying a dozen different projects. Father had been a huge help of course, shouldering many of the typical legal and courtly matters that were expected to be delegated to a Hand, but she still felt the strain…

Even with the strain her training with Meera had continued at an accelerated pace, and Sansa thought the girl was honestly surprised at her progress. Joffrey had often talked about his experiences exploring his 'inner self' and the infinite conduits he saw the Purple as, all leading to the center of his soul. Having meditated with him many times before, she had soon realized that her training as a… warg, had been halfway complete before she'd even started it. The mere possibility of it had been enough for her to consciously deepen the connection she'd always knew had been there… with immediate results. The possibilities of magic had her dizzy, and she felt there was so much more she could do if she had but the time and the knowledge…

She was enjoying the early morning sun in a rare moment of relaxation when she heard the bells. It was only one at first, but as more and more of its brethren joined in the mad tolling, Sansa knew something was amiss.

She left the painfully empty room she and Joffrey had made theirs, walking down from Maegor's holdfast until she reached the lower bailey and then the outer courtyard. The sight of a frantic messenger still atop his horse and her Father's face as he talked with him sent shivers down her spine.

Father was walking back when she reached him, her heart hammering wildly as she grabbed his arms. "Father, what is it?! Has something h-happened to Joffrey?" she asked him with a tight voice.

Father looked pale as he regarded her, shaking his head slowly. "No, no," he said, lifting the leaden weight in Sansa's belly before placing another one in its stead. "It's Stannis… he's sailing for the capital with a whole fleet at his back… and I don't think he's coming to kneel," he told her before shaking his head once more and striding towards a couple of Stark men nearby, hollering at them to mount up and ride for the Riverlander host by Bronze Gate as fast as they could.

"How much time do we have?" she asked urgently as she caught up to him.

"A fisherman spotted the ships past Driftmark, so we should have until dusk or maybe next morning if we're lucky," he said quickly, Stark and other armsmen from the northern contingent already pouring out of the towers around the courtyard.

Not enough time for the Riverlords and their levies to get here, not even close, Sansa thought as she turned and started hollering at servants of her own.

There was a war council to attend to.

-: PD :-

The small council chambers seemed to be permeated by an aura of dread, fidgeting hands and creased foreheads almost a requirement for every current occupant. The creaking of armor was the most prevalent sound, knights and commanders conferring with each other before Father called for order. What few preparations that could be carried out had already been done so, and all that was left was the battle to come… the vanguard of Stannis' fleet had already been sighted nearing the mouth of the Blackwater, the sun hiding from the ships of the Royal Fleet and the lords of the Narrow Sea. Sansa turned from the balcony as Father spoke, her attempts at trying to spot the fleet failing miserably.

"Ser Jacelyn, is the City Watch ready?" asked her Father, his figure stern and imposing when fully clad in northern plate, Ice resting in its sheath and against the side of the table.

"As much we can hope for with so little time, my lord Hand," said the tall, lantern jawed Commander of the City Watch. Sansa had sent Slynt to the Wall for both his corruption and incompetence, and the subsequent purge of corrupt goldcloak soldiers and officers had left scars which were still healing… just in time for Stannis to hit them like a warhammer. "They're already manning the walls and the gatehouses, though the north western sections will be undermanned…" he said before trailing off, "Lord Stark I… many of the better soldiers already joined the Royal Guard, and after the post-Slynt reforms… I can't guarantee they'll hold if disaster strikes," he finally said it, cringing as if they were about to demand his head right then and there.

Honesty, that was one of the reasons Tyrion recommended him… Sansa thought idly, the small pain at his death stinging her belly before she put it away in its box. She'd been doing that more and more often as of late.

"No one can doubt either the strength or the conviction behind your work, Ser Jacelyn. We can only ask the men to hold to their ground as long as they are able to, nothing more," she soothed him, placing a hand on his armored shoulder.

"I- thank you, Your Grace," he said, slightly relieved. Father had immediately taken control of the city's defense, but that didn't mean Sansa couldn't do what she could to help.

Father nodded slowly, gazing at Patrek Mallister. He was the most prominent of the young heirs and knights that had volunteered to escort Father back to the capital after word of the troubles in the Red Keep had reached Bronze Gate, a few days ago. "That brings us to around fifteen hundred spears, as well as your forces Master Patrek," he said.

"Indeed my lord. We've a hundred Riverlander knights and squires ready to put a sword through the traitor's belly as soon as he shows his face," he said bravely, the young boy standing tall and proud in his polished breastplate. Sansa could smell his fear as if it were a cloudy day, windy and flighty and scared. She shook her head slightly, scratching Lady's head almost compulsively.

"The honor and courage of the Riverlands shall not be forgotten tonight. Tribune Vince?" he asked the grim faced man, or rather boy at the other side of the table. Centurion Holt sat by his side, and they stopped whispering when Father addressed him.

Tribune Vince was, like most of Joffrey's officers, almost painfully young. He'd been one of Joffrey's first recruits though, and he looked both exhausted and confident. "Men are still arriving through the Gate of the Gods, a bit more than one thousand men all told between trainers and recruits. They're all but half trained though my lord," he said, grim faced, "And tired after the forced march from the Camp and Reston. I wouldn't rely on them to do anything but hold their ground in a basic box formation," he said almost apologetically.

Father nodded at that, leaning his chin on one hand as the other tapped the table. "That leaves us with about three thousand men, most of them unsuited for nothing else but standing still and holding their ground…" he mused as he gazed at the map of King's Landing by the table's center.

"That's all they need to do my lord, stand their ground. The walls will do the rest," Ser Barristan murmured with an air of long held experience.

"Between my retinue and the Red Cloaks who have been deemed reliable you can add another two hundred swords on that, Father," Sansa told him.

Eddard nodded once more before he looked at Varys, his brow furrowed in confusion, "How did we not know this?" he asked coldly.

"Lord Stannis has kept careful watch around his keep and island, my lord. Not even my little birds can reliably communicate with me… all signs seemed to point to the King's prediction; a quick expedition to the Stormlands as a way to garner further support amongst the Stormlords," he said innocently.

"What about Lord Stannis' strength?" asked Father.

"Anywhere between four and seven thousand men my lord hand, depending on how many more mercenaries he's managed to buy," Varys murmured.

"No amount of mercenaries will take over the capital, on that you can count on us Lord Stark!" said Patrek.

"Decent odds… as long as the men don't break. If they burst through the gates or the wall the odds will flip and our forces could be surrounded and destroyed…" Father murmured. Sansa had never seen him like this, clad as a warrior and commander, a true veteran of Robert's Rebellion.

"Why would he try this? The Riverlords are too close for him to flip enough Crownlander houses to make a difference after he takes the city…" Sansa asked herself, frowning.

"He must have thought the Riverlords busy in the Stormlands, fighting with King Joffrey against his younger brother. I doubt he foresaw the King's… unique plan," mused Varys.

"The legitimacy of holding the capital is not to be underestimated," Grand Master Pycell counseled, who was looking rather green at the rapid pace of events, "If he were to hold it, he could gain substantial support from the Crownlords and those further afield who dislike both Good King Joffrey and the usurper Renly," he said slowly.

"He'd still be in a bad position afterwards," said Sansa.

"It would be better than where he is right now," Father said in turn, "I still can't understand him. How could Stannis fall for such a blatant lie. He must believe it, there's no way he'd jump the chain of succession like this if he were not certain of his outlandish accusations," Father said as he shook his head.

The silence was broken by Ser Barristan after a moment, "I've seen my fair share of good men die for the wrong cause, my lord," he said before squaring his shoulders, "Lord Stannis won't be the first, and he certainly won't be the last," he said grimly.

"Well said Ser Barristan," Father told him before he stood up, holding Ice against his shoulder as the various men around the table did likewise.

They all streamed out of the keep, the outer courtyard filled with messengers and grim faced goldcloaks, as well as Stark guardsmen awaiting their liege. People were still sharpening arrows and desperately moving ballistas from the Red Keep to the Mud Gate as the sun hid almost completely beyond the horizon, the different commanders mounting up or quick walking towards their forces. The Riverlanders were making a brave showing as the young men boasted and slapped each other's shoulders, trying to hide their fear.

"Please… be careful Father," Sansa pleaded as they walked across the courtyard, his helmet already on as he turned to look at her.

"If Stannis does breach the wall, you'll have to hold the Red Keep until Edmund and your great uncle Brynden get here," he said, ignoring her words.

"Eddard please," Sansa insisted as she grabbed his arm and he stopped walking, an eerie shiver startling her before she shook her head.

"War is the most terrible scourge on this land Sansa," he said with uncharacteristic passion, the icy façade that had dominated his face during the meeting all but melting for a few seconds, "I'd hoped you'd never see it, but I was blind to that as I've been to many things in my life. If anything were to happen to me, you must take care of your brother and sister. Can you do that Sansa?" he asked urgently.

"I- I will Father," she whispered, swallowing something bitter. She wanted nothing but to charge after him, not even let him off her sight… but she knew better than to get in his way.

"Good," he said with a proud smile before the icy façade returned, the men forming up in the courtyard nearby as they finished putting on their arms and armor.

Sansa took a deep breath as Father walked to his horse, and she walked back to the Red Keep. There'd be the wounded to supervise, and surviving lords to turn to her side when it was over…

She stopped abruptly as the hair at the back of her neck tingled, and she frowned.

"AAAAAAAWHUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuu….." warned Lady from the Godswood, Nymeria and Summer joining in quickly.

"Something's wrong!" she half shouted as she turned back to the courtyard, startling Ser Mandon by her side and the various goldcloaks still lifting crates and supplies.

The shivering tingle intensified as she looked all around her, before turning to Father. "Father! I, there's something wrong!!!" she shouted at him.

He turned to look at her, startled, when she saw a shadow flying just above the crenellations like a crossbow bolt, a formless black thing that went straight for Father's back.

"BEHIND YOU!" she screamed at him, and Father turned quickly as he unsheathed Ice, parrying a swift stab from the shadow by reflex before he stopped, frozen in place by the visage of Stannis Baratheon silently screaming in horror and fury; a twisted, coiling shadow that merged with the darkening evening.

"Stannis-?" Father asked in shock, his voice sounding abnormally loud for a second as if the rest of the courtyard had grown muted. The name had barely left his lips when the shadow tore through his heart with a dark coil, a tiny squirt of blood emerging from his back as he grunted in surprise.

Sansa screamed before the Shadow dissipated, everyone in the courtyard shouting or bellowing as weapons came out and Ser Barristan charged bravely forwards, but it was late, far too late as Father fell on his knees, blood bubbling from his chest before he collapsed on the ground, listless.

"No. Please. Please don't," Sansa sobbed as she ran to him, kneeling by his side seconds after Ser Barristan, "Father please," she begged as she shook him, his face still bearing the same surprised look, frozen in place and searing itself on Sansa's mind.

Jory Cassel gave a shrilly scream as he unsheathed his sword and ran to his fallen lord, "Alyn! Harwyn!!! Get the maester here!!!" he roared with broken desperation as his dash ended with him on his knees, holding Father by the shoulders and trying to hopelessly stem the bleeding even as the last of the light left Father's eyes completely.

Sansa moaned wordlessly as chaos reigned the courtyard, people panicking and fleeing through the gatehouse, others aiming weapons all around them as if expecting a flood of murdering shadows to engulf them any second now. "The Hand is dead!" screamed a goldcloak in the distance as Ser Jacelyn struggled to maintain order. "The shadows rise up for Stannis!!!" another screamed hysterically as the volume of noise in the courtyard rose exponentially, horses neighing in fear as goldcloaks dropped their spears and Ser Barristan turned in circles around her, as if trying to dispel the night itself with bared steel, his expression one of confusion and stunned disbelief.

"My queen, we must get you out of here!" he said forcefully, shaking her lightly as Sansa rocked her father's body, Stark guardsmen surrounding them and forming a calm bubble of bared steel amidst the chaos of the courtyard .

"Where's that maester!!! Alyn!!!" Jory screamed as Father's blood seeped through his palms sluggishly. He turned back to the men, as if he could not believe what his eyes were seeing; the abrupt murder a full bodied shock to his mind and soul.

"Your Grace, we need to get away from whatever… that thing was!" Ser Barristan said again, Ser Mandon and Ser Boros at last reaching his side and surrounding her with white within the circle of arms and steel.

"No," Sansa whispered, still looking at the endless lack of life beyond her Father's pupils.

Ser Barristan shook her again, "Your Grace, we need to-"

"NO!" she said forcefully, turning to glare at him. "He did this. Him and his pet sorceress," she whispered harshly, fury boiling in her blood like she'd never felt before.

She slipped past Ser Barristan and the rest before he could say anything, lifting her muddied dress so she could walk faster towards the gatehouse and the sheer panic that had turned the men into scared animals, only Holt's century and the Stark armsmen seemingly withstanding the insidious power of the chained rout.

"Silence!" she screamed, but she was not her husband, to command the attention of men with but a word, be it in the field of battle or over a dinner conversation. She snarled when nobody heeded her, one goldcloak even running past her and almost smashed her. "Stand your ground!" she screamed, but another five goldcloaks ran past her, one of them even shouldering her aside. It was chaos, the men in the Red Keep were routing and so would the city once news reached the other garrisons.

I have to stop this, she despaired.

NOW! She screamed within her own mind.

"Stand your ground!" she bellowed after she'd picked up a discarded spear, her heart hammering as Lady finally reached her side and snarled.

The next goldcloak running for the gatehouse didn't stop. She rammed the spear into his throat with a perfect thrust, twisting before wrenching it out and splattering her dress with blood. The man gurgled as he collapsed on the ground and Sansa stepped over his chest, stabbing him through the mouth. The red, gleaming spear tip emerged from the back of his head as she bit down a gut wrenching scream.

Sansa bottled the nausea and the horror deep inside her as she widened her connection to Lady, letting the horror at what she'd done dissipate within the storm of fury her direwolf felt for the cowardly murder of the leader of the pack. It was an affront without name -for direwolves knew no language- but they understood the gravity of the atrocity all the same.

Sansa narrowed her eyes as she lifted her gaze to the rest of the courtyard, Lady springing by her side and howling at the steadily brightening moon around the gentle arrival of the stars above. She'd grown throughout the months since this life started, and her howl was neither mournful nor quiet. It was rage, it was violence, it was the call of the hunt that had led the packs of bloodthirsty, horse sized canines through the screaming blizzards of the northern winters since time immemorial, hunting man and stag and giant and mammoth and even what that which was Other.

Summer and Nymeria joined in almost immediately as they congregated around Father, Bran and Arya having just arrived at the courtyard, their wooden practice swords discarded. The other direwolves gave Lady's shivering howl a sort of background hum, a full bodied reverb that thrummed off bellies and chests, cutting through the chaos like Valyran Steel and drowning all sound but Bran and Arya's sobs. The hair rising howl turned eerie, on and on as its pitch rose and men were paralyzed in place, looking at her.

"MEN OF WESTEROS!" Sansa shouted in the midst of the ensuing silence, extracting the spear with a grunt. "You call yourselves men!? Warriors and Soldiers!?" she asked of them as she gazed at their eyes, stalking towards the middle of the courtyard. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she berated them harshly, the snarl almost fixed in her mouth as she looked at them, "All the chivalry, the boasting, the proud arms and the steel have come to this?!" she screamed, outraged.

She poured out her outrage as she looked at them, stunned goldcloaks frozen in place and young riverlanders fidgeting with their horses as she strode with the spear, feeling the weight in her hand before planting it firmly on the ground, Lady snarling lightly by her side. "Fine! I'll go there myself! Magic or not, I'm going to kill Stannis for what's he done!" she declared, meaning every word even if she had to try and defend the entire wall herself.

"I'll go get your armor my queen! Seems the men all but dropped off their balls to run faster!" hollered the lightly armored form of Meera Reed as she hefted her trident, her words setting out disgruntled murmurs of budding anger that started to replace the panic amongst the men.

"Bring it to me!" she ordered as she turned to the ashen faced Stark guardsmen and the dribs and drabs of her handmaiden's retinues. "And what of you men of the North?!" she challenged them as she walked towards them, bloodied spear in hand, "Will you drop your swords too, after your liege lord was murdered!?" she demanded of them, "Before your very eyes?!" she screamed at them, Lady's snarl feeding off her rage and almost drowning her voice as the direwolf eyed the northeners as well, saliva dripping from her dagger-sharp fangs.

"Magnar!" bellowed Lyra Mormont as she emerged from the men at arms, banging her mace against her shield wildly.

"WINTER IS COMING!!!" roared a red faced Jory Cassel as he somehow came out of the shock, standing up and hefting Ice up to the skies, budding moonlight reflecting milky white over the gloss of the Valyrian Steel. The men roared with a delayed fury that seemed perhaps even greater than Sansas', the Queen managing to turn fear into rage of a matching intensity. The men of the north picked up the cry, bellowing 'Winter!!!' and 'Magnar!!!' so loudly Sansa thought Stannis would hear them.

She turned to the guardsmen to rally them as well, but they were already banging the butt of their halberds against the ground, a crescendo of sound that made the earth rumble, no voice joining the choir of voices but the deep rumble of steel on dust.

"Check those bolts!" Centurion Holt roared as he strode behind the back line, shaking his crossbowmen's quivers and making sure not a bolt flew out because of the sudden movement. "Prepare for quick march!" He shouted as the halberdiers faces' turned from stunned to disciplined.

They need courage. They need anger, she thought wildly as she moved on, a snarling Lady by her side. She didn't have her husband's voice nor his skill at war, but she did have the words to exalt her people, the poor souls who would face the might of the Long Night one day.

"And what of you, scions of the Riverlands!?" she bellowed as she turned and strode to the knights and the squires, many of them shaking with fear, "What of you Patrek Mallister?! What will you do?!" she screamed as she addressed him directly, his eyes cycling wildly between Father's corpse and the gatehouse as she barreled unto him. "What will the bards sing of?! What will the songs say was the due of the Riverlords?!" she asked of him.

He seemed to fill out his armor as she approached him, breathing harshly as she stared defiantly into his eyes. "DEATH!!!" he bellowed as Sansa tapped into something drilled into every son of nobility from an early age, a legacy, a dream and a folly all into one. "DEAAAAAATH!!!" he roared again as he gained more confidence, the smoky battlehaze that Joffrey had so often spoke about taking root in his eyes, gratitude filling his form before that too was taken over by the bloodlust. The Riverlanders took up the cry, taking out their swords and lifting them up in a chorus of drawn steel that seemed without stop.

Sansa turned to her hardest task yet, the terrified goldcloaks even now eyeing the gatehouse and stumbling in near panic, one surprise away from routing again as they looked at her in mixed shock and wariness. She immediately knew no usual sentiment would move them, for who sang for the peasants dying for the ambitions of Kings and Queens? Revenge for treachery and murder… what did they care for restitution? Hands came and went, but the smallfolk remained and toiled.

"And what of you?" she said almost quietly, startling them. It was a trick she'd learned from Joffrey, forcing them to strain to hear her words. "Why should you care?" she almost whispered. Whatever they were expecting, it hadn't been this. Sansa walked right up to them, focusing in no one in particular as she shoved past the first rank of the unorganized mob. "You won't fight for glory, for no one will sing for you. You won't fight for revenge, for you will toil under the weight of whoever sits on the throne," she told them as they stumbled away from her, a circle forming around her as they gave her and Lady a wide berth.

"So why should we fight?!" someone called out from the mob, panicked and resentful, and Sansa blinked a second more slowly than usual than usual as she strode unerringly to the man that had said that, Lady's ears guiding her. "Because Stannis will take EVERYTHNG FROM YOU!" she roared in his face. The goldcloak spearman stumbled back, but Sansa took a step forward and didn't let go. "Your wives and daughters working with the new looms, your uncles and nephews logging and turning the Kingswood into industry, the courts expanding and meeting your pleas for justice! He'll take ALL OF IT!" she snarled before turning and gazing at them all. "He'll return things to the old order, to the stern fatherly justice of a single man with no time, to the proper order of things where no work and no food is the birthright of the smallfolk!" she bellowed. "For three hundred years have the citizens of this city moldered in slums and neglect, and for another three hundred years they shall remain so if Stannis and his Essosi bitch take this city!" she told them, and a wordless grumbling underscored her words, indistinct growling eroding away the fear if only for a few seconds.

"Will you let him?!" she asked of them as she turned in a circle, and the men grumbled louder.

"Will you worship his Red God of chains?!" she asked of them, louder.

Cries of 'No!' came from here and there, some of the goldcloaks holding their spears more tightly as others spat in disgust.

"Will you be his slaves?!" she asked of them, and they bellowed harder.

"Will you go back to the begging bowl?!" she asked of them, touching a tender nerve of the smallfolk as they roared suddenly, faces twisting in anger and spear butts stabbing the ground in real defiance.

"Will you let him rape your wives?! Sack your homes?!" she snarled as the bells of King's Landing started tolling again, signaling the arrival of Stannis' vanguard, red and black sails on the horizon.

"No!!!" they snarled, and Sansa raised her spear.

"MEN OF KING'S LANDING! WILL YOU SCURRY BACK TO THE SLUMS?!" she roared, and the goldcloaks roared with her. They roared harder than the knights and the armsmen, harder than the squires and men at arms. They screamed their denial as the great bells of Baelor's Sept added their sound to the cacophony, the rhythmical crash of the great monuments of bronze echoing throughout the city as the men gave voice to a deeply buried injustice they wouldn't let anyone drag them back to, not now that they'd tasted it so clearly for the first time.

-: PD :-

When the deserting soldiers and the first looters ran head first into the descending column from the Red Keep, they were shocked into silence. The goldcloaks and the armsmen, the knights and the royal guardsmen, they all marched at a quick step, barreling down the streets with sudden, bloodthirsty battlecries that seemed to be set off at the slightest prodding. They marched straight for the Mud Gate, led by a glimmering figure atop a white horse, a white-grey direwolf howling retribution through the night sky.

"DEATH!!!" they screamed, and Sansa raised her spear with them as her horse cantered at the head of the column. She wore the armor she and Joffrey had commissioned from Master Tobho Mott; steel plate with a serene looking direwolf carved into its chest piece, twin sapphires for eyes. Sansa rode helmetless, her crown her only headwear as she rallied the flagging defenders, catching those fleeing and carrying them with her towards the fury that sailed for their homes.

The lackluster return fire from the walls of King's Landing suddenly intensified; meek volleys of arrows turning into crossbow and ballista bolts that rained from above. Ships were set ablaze; burning figures jumping from the hellish decks as vessels drifted and crashed even as more and more galleys flooded the Blackwater and bombarded the city, bows and catapults singing as arrow and boulder slammed against bastions and houses. Stannis' men seemed fearless as their rowboats reached the shore, the great boats turning upside down as the men carried them forwards from the shore to the walls, giant turtles of wood that hid archers and javelins.

Sansa delegated command to Ser Barristan, the old veteran spreading his troops where they would be of most use during the frantic defense. The halberdiers of the Royal Guard stood their ground and paid in blood for it, converted knights of the Red God crashing a battering ram through the Mud Gate and bringing fire and steel for their King and their Red God. Essosi sellsails from Lys and the Stepstones disembarked and dashed through holes in the defense with climbing ropes, trying to scale through undermanned sections. Siege ladders slammed against the walls, grim faced armsmen from Dragonstone hacking into the fray with axes and shields, the levies of the Lords of the Narrow Sea behind them. The river was soon set ablaze as unmanned fishing boats filled with dry hay were set adrift, their fires licking the hulls of sellsail and lordly galleys alike, ship crews trading arrows with the walls as the night darkened and the fires leapt higher.

Sansa let the far more experienced Lord Commander of the King's Guard command the troops in truth, using herself as a figurehead and trying to rally the men into standing their ground. She slammed her spear into soldier after soldier as they tried to scale the walls, making them fall to their death or piercing their heads and hands until they did. She led a counter charge past the decimated, wavering recruits of the Royal Guard as knights and zealots tore through the wall of halberds and crossbows like a storm. She bottled the horror and the fear and the sights she would never forget deep within, her armor running red with blood and gore.

She was nowhere near the skill of Joffrey in personal combat, but her presence seemed to lift the fighting spirit of her men as she neared them and bellowed encouragement, stories and snippets of her speech having already reached them long before the first siege ladder had touched the walls. They would not, could not be shown up by a woman, and so the men died proving themselves.

They cut her. Axes bit deep into the plate and drew blood, spears pierced her shallowly, arrows pelted her full of bruises. She thought she could understand a glimmer of Joffrey's harrowing stories then, as her body was torn and she watched her friends die. Jory Cassel bled out from a score of holes as he charged at the distant figure of Stannis in the middle of a wall section taken by the enemy, half a dozen Dragonstone armsmen dying with him as he went berserk with Ice, chopping through plate and arms in equal measure.

Lyra was by her side during the thick of it, her hammer and her shield bashing through armor like a ship through waves, a smile on her lips at having proven herself a real Mormont before her sisters could. The Onion Knight did not boast or sneer when he gutted her through the armpit, only moving on to Sansa with grim decision and relentless drive. She jammed her spear through his eye when Meera threw a net from beyond, the man managing to cut Sansa's cheek before she ended him with a spear thrust.

There was a certain, simplifying principle to battle, Sansa thought. A narrowing of the senses, a dissolution -at least in part- of the self. Time seemed both slower and faster, life seemed somehow even more real, colorful in a way.

Ser Meryn Trant fell taking a blow for her, the same man who in a distant, now forgotten past had beat her into obedience at her beloved's orders. Ser Boros Blount and Ser Preston Greenfield died like lions when they were all cut off; northmen, goldcloaks, and a few squires led by Patrek Mallister at her side as they tried to cut their way through a relentless tide of Velaryon levies. Aurene Waters, The Bastard of Driftmark, leered with lust before her thrust sent him over the wall, impaling him through a piece of wrecked timber. Lord Velaryon himself was a far greater match, and Lady would pay the price for the man's life before they could cut through to Stannis.

The would be King had led his men himself, haranguing them as they climbed the walls, killing goldcloaks one after the other with sword and board. He seemed surprised when he found Sansa; they'd clashed but once before, when the Onion Knight made sure he'd get away.

Sansa tried. She spun her spear unpredictably, feinting wildly before delivering heavy Ibbenese blows that saw him stagger back. She parried and deflected, dodged and cut, slammed and pierced, but Stannis was as unyielding as iron and with a patience to boot, tiring her out beyond exhaustion as he blocked and riposted, wounding her for every overextension like a cruel teacher.

It was Ser Barristan who truly tilted the fight. He burst into the battle like a white hurricane, slaughtering everyone in his path and wounding Stannis once in the arm and another through his knee... But even that single burst of speed and slaughter was too much for the old veteran. Like a hurricane entering land, he quickly lost strength and speed as his age caught up to him. He was still just as skilled, but his failing endurance quickly gave way to small errors that finally ended with Stannis slamming his red sword through the man's elbow joint, and then through the mouth when his shield arm failed.

Sansa couldn't even talk as the press of bodies carried her back to Stannis again, so great was her exhaustion. If their fight before had been worthy of songs, then this one was just a violent brawl; a sluggish exchange of steel and howls of exertion. They stumbled as they fought, flaming boulders slamming around the battlements and wiping smallfolk spearmen from the face of the earth. The bells of King's Landing tolled through the night as the fires spread and King and Queen battled, a harrowing fight which ended when Sansa managed to close in and shove one of her daggers through Stannis' eye, the man scowling as he pulled her arm and grabbed her throat for a second, sudden steel choking her before the grasping royal realized he was dead, his remaining eye widening slightly as he swayed. His armored form fell to the side, leaning on a crenellation for a second as if to orient himself before sliding on his side and leaving a trail of blood on the stones, legs still trying to get him up again somehow before he blinked once and moved no more.

She spent a while thinking about how foolish she'd been once, as a maiden dreaming of gallant knights who would duel for her honor. There was nothing gallant about war, only broken dreams and dead friends.

She'd been hugging Meera when she finally lost consciousness, the ashen faced girl whispering sweet nothings as they sat together against a broken crenellation. Sansa blinked at the morning sun which now bathed the blood stained walls, a sea of corpses around her as the banner of the Starks still flew from the nearby battlements alongside that of the Baratheons of King's Landing. It seemed as if not a soul had lived through the ordeal, so deep was the silence and the lack of movement. Sansa wept when she imagined how it must have felt for Joffrey to suffer through this, a million different times, a thousand different lives. Truly was the Purple beyond mortal ken, to subject her husband to such horror.

She snuggled closer to her friend, sighing as her eyes closed against her will. Meera's tight voice kept fading as she rested for a moment, until she heard nothing and she knew peace.

-: PD :-