Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The days and weeks passed quickly to Sansa; settling in the hostages from the Reach and overseeing the various effects of the war.

Things had been not as bad as she'd first thought; the horror of the battle and Father's, Jory's, Lyra's and many other's harrowing funerals had tilted her perception of the world during the first months of her recovery.

Mother and Robb came south, and she was glad the latter could serve the role of strong older brother to Bran and Arya. The tearful reunion almost ended with Mother bringing all her children back North, though Arya and even Bran would have none of it. After Father's death he'd badgered Joffrey day and night for a place in the Royal Guard, and her husband had relented in the end. Both him and Arya now bore the bulk of Meera's training time too, the Reed girl and veteran of the Howling of Wolves convinced that they were potential wargs as well.

Her own training continued as well, but differently. Lady's death had not affected the strength of her budding abilities, but it did change how easy it was to use them. She practiced with birds and hummingbirds partly as an internal joke with Joffrey, but also because they were much more mindless beasts than her fearless direwolf. Even thought they were of a much weaker will, Sansa still found it hard to even approach the strength of the connection she'd shared with Lady, and she could barely distinguish different colors when she saw through their eyes.

Meera admitted there was not much more she could teach her beyond a few tips and book copies from Greywater Watch. The lore the Reeds had saved through the ages was patched and incomplete, and beyond the surprising revelation that her brother Jojen could somehow commune with Heart Trees himself, there was not much else in mystical matters she could teach her.

Robb had looked like a caged Grey Wind when he'd reached the capital, long after the fighting had ended. He quickly perked up when Joffrey had a quiet word with him though, warning him of the Wildling Host. The full strength of the North would receive Mance Rayder this time, as well as half of the constantly expanding Royal Guard. The Riverlands would send their armies as well, their pride and honor basically demanding it after Joffrey's gifts and the way they had been powerless to defend King's Landing from Stannis.

The Blackworks and the trading companies continued their operations, expanding and employing the smallfolk left with nothing after the war, bringing some much needed coin to the nearly depleted coffers of the Kingdoms and the enormous debt beyond them. Their plans for a Royal Bank of Westeros had to be postponed indefinitely, the loss of gold and the lack of competent administrators being an obstacle which perhaps could have been delegated to Tyrion, if he had still been alive. While Lord Manderly was a capable and loyal Master of Coin, he lacked that spark of innovation and creativity that had seen Tyrion integrating so smoothly into both her and Joffrey's vision of Westeros.

Joffrey himself had been unusually quiet after she'd told him about his mother. Tywin had sent her off to Casterly Rock with nary a word, content with being reinstated as Hand of the King. Joffrey had nodded slightly at that, before closing his eyes and saying that it might be for the best if they did something of the sort after their coronation, assuming they couldn't stop the Long Night this time. Cercei was just too unpredictable, with just enough competence to muck things up but not enough to fix them or carry them through beyond her initial gains.

She's a liability, Joffrey had told her with a defeated look… and it was better to send her to Casterly Rock than to have to do something… more extreme. He'd been vulnerable during those days, thinking about the slaughter he'd unleashed upon the Narrow Sea after the anger caused by Stannis' actions faded away, as well as the way he'd lost control during Varys' interrogation. The 'cursed' side of him -as he called it- found it easier to emerge when blood and endless war surrounded his life. He used it as a weapon on the battlefield, directing it against his enemies and being praised all the higher by the lords of the realm for it. The deeper he channeled it though, the easier it was for it to go out of control… and thus he'd returned to his daily meditations under the Heart Tree, considering the corresponding time away from ruling a worthy exchange for some peace of mind and a return of the iron control he'd taken pride of before.

The world kept moving.

Ballads and songs sprung up and spread throughout the kingdoms, surprising even her with their popularity and strength. 'To Skin an Iron Turtle' had been a favorite of the Stormlands; a raunchy, picaresque tavern song about the 'proud Lord Hunter' doing his level best to hunt and skin a certain, stubborn Turtle that has 'the teme-rity to-take-a-hit and-keep-a go-in'. The song –of course- referenced Alrick Estermont and the incredible feat of stubbornness and resilience he'd undergone during the final night of Renly's Folly. The confusion of the sudden battle inside Renly's pavilion had seen the youngest Estermont fighting for his life, surrounded by hostile Reachlords as he tried to cut his way towards his gutted father. Dickon Tarly –who had been by all accounts the jewel in his father's eye- had tried to stop him… and been promptly skewered for his trouble.

If Randyll Tarly had been trying to stop the fighting before, he certainly hadn't been trying too hard after that. The death of the Lord's son and heir had seen the man explode into a berserker rage that had narrowed his sense of the world to a single target: Alrick himself. Lord Tarly had -by all accounts- been terrifying, a steady harbinger of death that saw the veteran swordsman tearthrough people and even tables apart as he sought to split Alrick in half with the monstrous two hander that was Heartsbane. The young man had prevailed though, and after a ludicrously long while -whether it had been minutes or hours nobody could agree on- Randyll had been tired enough to commit a mistake that gave Alrick the opportunity to kill him.

Joffrey had knighted the young Estermont the following day, and the 'Iron Turtle' as he had been known ever since had turned into one of her husband's most rabid supporters amongst the Stormlords, being a common focal group for the bloodied young men settling into lordships and knighthoods all over the lands. His brother Lord Aemon had been named Warden of the South, since the Tyrell's had been stripped of the title; the Estermonts would keep watch in the Stormlands, but they would not keep them. Joffrey had decreed the Stormlands themselves a possession of House Baratheon of King's Landing -in perpetuity- to be handed down to their heir in time, as Dragonstone had been to the Targaryens.

'Antlers of Bronze and Iron' was much more grim and ominous, a song to listen to while drinking peacefully to the memory of dead friends or as a reminder about why it was a bad idea to rebel against House Baratheon of King's Landing… or for playing a really bad practical joke on a Reacher. 'The King's Fist' and 'Blood and Mud' were particularly popular amongst Guardsmen; the first had become something of an unofficial marching song for the First Regiment (itself something new to Westeros), while the second was sure to pop out whenever enough drunk Guardsmen converged on any given point in time and space.

The sheer artistic creativity of her countrymen surprised her husband even more than herself. In time, he'd come to regard Westeros as nothing but a lost cause when it came to anything related to art or culture, at least when compared to the Free Cities or the Far East. Some of those notions had rubbed off on her, but she'd swiftly recanted after seeing the sheer display and artistic variety of not only bards and singers, but common smallfolk who converged on taverns during the afternoon and, finding themselves with nothing better to do, decided to create true art. The 'The Mourning She-Wolf' was melancholic, the 'Last Dance of the Stag' somehow brought forth both tears and laughter in equal measure, and 'Renly's Rope' was sad and incredibly dark, as well as having parts that were not really all that complimentary to King and Queen, or royalty in general.

Joffrey had not had the heart to ban that one, even if he'd possessed the means of doing it without the whole thing backfiring.

The songs had been all over the place, but Sansa was starting to understand that they could be directed, molded in a way not only to create fear like Tywin had done with the 'Rains of Castamere', but also to inspire loyalty, a sense of belonging, or even further enhance a soldier's prowess on the battlefield. It was an interesting development, and several ideas had been swirling her mind as of late about how to use those in the future…

Time waited for no one but the Purple though, and the world moved on. The start of their reign had been crowned in blood, but its foundation had been solid enough. They ruled side by side, together as they tried to prepare for what was to come; regiments founded and the industry of the Crownlands expanding as smallfolk picked axed and shovel, saw and loom and halberd and crossbow. Prices decreased and demand rose as more and more silver began reaching the smallfolk of the Crownlands, their lot improved slowly as shops and trades opened all over the capital. The Riverlands as well; the banks of the Trident being served by a veritable trading fleet of river galleys as town charters were handed out like knighthoods. Westeros had enormous untapped potential, sporting a variety of important resources and a great amount of population… but there was only so much time to create wealth before that very same prosperity had be used to transform the economy of the continent into a machine to fight the Others.

The treasury's balance was precarious though, and more than one time they had to go to the Iron Bank for loans… fortunately, their previous life in Braavos proved profitable, as they knew exactly what to say and what to do to generate a good impression on the bank's representative. Lord Tywin's support had been altogether more expensive… but at least the man had been near the top of their list for the Handship anyway.

They worked themselves to the bone as the storm peeked over the horizon, and the first tidings of war reached the capital…

-: PD :-

Almost three and a half years after Joffrey woke in Westeros, the Wildlings attacked. They were met by the imposing might of a plentifully manned and stocked Wall. It was said Lord Commander Thorne almost wept when he saw the supply trains making their way up the Kingsroad, northmen, guardsmen, and riverlanders arriving in force to ready the defenses. Five new castles were restored. Trebuchets and catapults were constructed and manned. Arrows fletched and armor shipped.

Both Joffrey and Sansa knew that every dead body north of the wall would be an enemy soldier come the Long Night, but the destruction brought on by the war and its myriad complications swamped their time irrevocably. Joffrey had never before ruled for such a long time, and Sansa didn't even have that experience altogether.

They were inexperienced and it showed. Dealing with a hundred plots, a thousand complications, a million little projects in need of oversight. They simply had no time for it all, no time to leave the capital at such a juncture for extended negotiations and war in the North… and so it was that Joffrey sent Lancel and Olyvar to negotiate with the Wildlings, along with the entirety of the First and Second Regiments of the Guard.

Without the King or the Queen present to negotiate in person, the outcome was predictable in hindsight. Terms were bandied back and forth, but the wildlings would have none of what Lord Robb would find acceptable, and vice versa. The wildings attacked, and the wildlings were slaughtered and subsequently routed by the knights of the Riverlands.

News from the North were far away from Joffrey and Sansa's minds though, as another development-to-be had followed neither time nor location. Ravens had come from the Vale, bearing grim news; Targeryen banners flew from Gulltown's battlements.

-: PD :-

"I can't believe this…" Sansa muttered as she flicked through the letters, almost all of them reports from their spy network or from lords around the Vale. "How could we miss this? Varys… he…" she trailed off, reading one of the letters again, "And our spies in Lys…"

Joffrey sighed deeply, pacing around the deserted small council chambers, "He must have had an uncompromised communications channel across the Narrow Sea… and with agents in the Vale itself as well," he muttered. "Leaving him alive after the coronation may have been a mistake," he grumbled.

"He must have been ready to subvert at least part of Littlefinger's assets in the Vale; there was a big window of opportunity between Baelish's 'disappearance' and our own spy network taking meaningful action," Sansa sighed.

Joffrey breathed slowly as he leaned over the table, gazing at the map of the Vale of Arryn. "They have no hope of taking Westeros," he said slowly, tracing his finger through the mountain roads. "They'll seek to take and lock down the Vale before winter; with the mountain passes frozen with snow they'll have a chance at securing it entirely, each month in rebellion adding a tiny sliver to Aegon's legitimacy," he mused.

"How many men are we looking at?" he asked her.

"Ten thousand Golden Company regulars, around three thousand other sellswords of various stripes, and at least a dozen elephants," she said grimly. "They won't be able to secure the mountain passes before our forces get there though," she said as she shook her head slightly, "Their plan has already failed."

"That makes sense with the contradictory letters we've been receiving throughout the day," Joffrey agreed, "Whatever your aunt Lysa was trying to do clearly didn't work, seeing as the Eyrie declared for us yesterday… a letter which was pointedly signed by Lord Nestor Royce and not Lady Lysa…" he thought out loud.

Sansa nodded, "Varys must have manipulated her somehow before we"- there was only a slight pause between the words -"killed him. She must have thought the whole Vale would rise up in rebellion at her word, and Varys was dead before he could turn that into anything approaching reality," she said.

Joffrey grunted in a sort of guilty satisfaction, "The whole bloodshed these past few years has served its purpose at least… the Vale lords are not stupid, despite what the songs might suggest… " he said, the satisfaction vanishing as he remembered the cost, "At least most of them aren't. That fucker Aegon must have expected the whole Vale to receive him with open arms instead of the quagmire he's trying to get himself out of… what's the latest count again?" he asked Sansa.

"The Graftons had Gulltown locked tight, and they're sure to buy mercenaries now that the deception is over. Of the major families supporting the 'restoration' there's the Melcolms and the Waynwoods, as well as most of the Houses bordering the northern end of the Bay of Crabs… though that's more likely out of fear of the ten thousand regulars marching west than any sort of loyalty for Targeryen princes…" she said.

Joffrey grunted again as his eyes followed the map, "Barely a quarter of the Vale's strength then... With Iron Oaks and Old Anchor they've got a solid lock around the bay though, especially if the news about Runestone falling by surprise are true… that would complicate any attempted landings through the south," he muttered, his eyes returning to Sansa's.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him, grim.

"We have to stop them cold. There's no time to bleed them, and the terrain around the Vale would make that tricky anyway… no," he said as he squared his shoulders, "I'll have to hack my way through, it'll be costly but there's simply no time to waste now that autumn is upon us…"

"The Guard all but drained the Crownland's manpower, and they're fighting up north anyway along with half the riverlords… and we can't move the Stormlords lest the Dornish make their move…" she mused before frowning. "So who are you going to take?" Sansa asked him, already knowing the answer as she finished the sentence… though she didn't like it.

Joffrey nodded slowly, "It'll have to be Grandfather. It's time the Westerlands fight for their King," he declared.

Sansa gazed at him for a while, biting her lip before he grabbed his head almost forcefully, staring at his eyes. "Don't let it control you," she told him.

"What, Tywin?" he asked half-jokingly, only for Sansa to shake her head slowly.

"Joffrey…" she muttered, worried.

He took one of her hands, squeezing it gently. He bit down the denial before it could leave his throat, and he scowled, "It's all this fighting, Sansa, all these wars and rebellions one after the other…" he whispered, "The fury, the madness of the battlefield…" he trailed off, but Sansa's gaze was relentless, and for all that Joffrey could fool himself, he couldn't do the same to her. "…It brings old shades back, like a sickly grasping hand…" he muttered as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"You vanquished it before, brought it under your own will. You can do it again," she said with absolute certainty.

Joffrey breathed slowly as he looked at her again, the certainty in her voice anchoring him once again. "I won't let it control me, not again," he promised her.

I've fought kings and sorcerers, dragons and monsters. I won't be defeated by this curse, not again… By the Old Gods I swear this, he promised in the privacy of his own mind.

-: PD :-

The stench of the battlefield was an old smell to Lord Tywin Lannister.

He strode with confidence around the dead bodies, quickly so but not so much as to seem hurried. Lord Marbrand nodded deeply as Tywin passed him by, the lord directing a couple of serjeants as they moved bodies out of the way for the coming wagons.

His banners had marched well enough, their entrance into the Vale uncontested. Lord Nestor Royce –the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon- had swiftly arrested Lysa Arryn's beffudled attempt at rebellion, securing the Eyrie with barely any bloodshed and with it the rest of the Vale to the north and east.

Tywin almost smiled as he gazed at the broken bodies of the Melcolm and Waynwood armsmen, sprawled over the small field where battle had been joined this morning. The lords of the Westerlands had given a strong showing, smashing right through the paltry banners of this 'Aegon' pretender. He was honestly surprised the transparent ploy had worked as well as it did for the supposed Targeryen; the deception was obvious to anyone who'd been inside the Red Keep that day, years ago…

Elia Martell wouldn't have cried like that for some tanner's boy, he mused as he kept walking.

Unlike what previous behavior would indicate, Joffrey had agreed with Tywin's own assessment. There was simply no time to brook the insolence of open rebellion in exchange for lesser casualties. If this rebellion was quashed quickly and without mercy then there was no doubt in Tywin's mind that his grandson's reign would be secured until the day he died.

Joffrey himself was sitting on a stool, still armored as he gazed at the road beyond and the distant call of the sea. He reminded Tywin of himself, when he was around that age… Decisive, brooking no squeamishness when dealing with traitors such as the Reynes and the Castameres.

These last few years had been eventful for House Lannister. One… son had died, and a daughter had been shamed and rejected from the capital. A King of Lannister blood sat on the Iron Throne, displaying the best qualities of both Baratheon and Lannister, along with the support of most of the Seven Kingdoms at this point in time.

For all the flaws his daughter had –and they were legion- she'd accomplished the most important task her house had bestowed upon her, and that had been well worth a dwarf. He'd been satisfied with the final outcome of the seed he'd planted all those years ago, the moment he knew of Lyanna Stark's death. So satisfied that he'd… almost relented on his daughter's pleas.

Almost. A widowed Lannister still capable of having children was too important an asset in the game of thrones to simply let be, after all.

"Grandfather," Joffrey said courteously, an edge of steel in his voice as he tilted his head slightly, looking at him through the corner of his eye.

An excellent outcome indeed… even if the boy was a little unsettling at times… to the lesser nobility.

"You Grace," he said gravely as he bowed in the way appropriate to someone of his station, Joffrey tilting his head to follow him with both eyes.

"The Westerlands took to the field with courage," the King commented idly.

"They were eager to demonstrate the might of the Westerlands, Your Grace… especially since they missed most of the fighting down south," Tywin said smoothly, unable to repress a slight tinge of disapproval from his voice.

He was still irritated with that. Half his strength had spent the war camping near the Ocean Road and threatening the Reach through the north, while the other half had barely reached the capital in time to take a pathetic slice of land from a few Narrow Sea lords. Their near absence from the Dance of Stags had been humiliating… fortunately though, he was here today to rectify that mistake.

He and twenty five thousand swords, the best of the Westerlands. Tywin gazed at the column of Belmore and Corbray armsmen marching by them, and noticed that they seemed just as determined as the westerlanders. The lords of the Vale had been even more eager to prove their loyalty, being the first to smash against the forces of the rebel lords last week.

Joffrey nodded easily. It was always an odd mix of courtesy and aloofness that greeted him every time he interacted with his grandson, even when discharging his duties as Hand in the capital. "The true slaughter is yet to come, my lord," said the boy, his eyes shifting back to the road that would take them out of the hills and bring them all the way to Gulltown. A secondary host had split off under the command of Lord Crakehall with orders to take all rebelling castles north of the bay, while the rest of the men marched on to Gulltown and the bulk of the enemy's forces arrayed to meet them.

Joffrey stood up, seizing Tywin once again with hardened eyes before nodding and setting off, putting on the antlered helmet the lesser lords seemed to love so much.

Perhaps offering Cersei to Oberyn Martell was too much, given the scale of her success. Maybe a marriage within the Westerlands would be in order, a reward to the vassal that proved himself the most dependable during the current campaign…

-: PD :-

"The center is buckling," Jon said urgently as he gazed through the far eye, Joffrey swinging his own as well as he focused on the line of Valemen being steadily ground back by Golden Company armsmen.

"Fuck. Archers!" Joffrey bellowed, "Concentrate on the center!" he roared, swinging his hand as serjeants picked up the orders and volleys were redirected towards the center of the battlefield. 'Aegon' or whoever the hells he actually was had decided to force a battle after learning of his disastrous loss a few days ago. His whole campaign had been partially fucked the moment less than a quarter of the Vale had actually raised their banners in rebellion, and the situation had only deteriorated after the Battle of the High Hills. The Waynwood, Wydman, Ruthermont, and Melcolm men had apparently been tasked with holding and fortifying the passes into the bay as long as they could, buying time for the Golden Company to whip the plentiful levies of Gulltown into a vaguely respectable force so they would have a better chance of defeating him… and perhaps march upon the Bloody Gate before reinforcements from the rest of Westeros could arrive.

Joffrey had just pushed through, painting the passes with the blood of friends and foes alike. He'd abused his numerical superiority until the rebel lords had broken, and then Aegon had had to choose whether to try and hold up inside Gulltown or take to the field against him. Between the prospect of being blockaded by the reconstructed Royal Fleet, and losing even more sellswords and lords to defection, the outnumbered boy-king had apparently decided to throw it all for a small chance at victory.

Joffrey had maneuvered the lumbering host as best as he could, with adequate if not impressive results…

At least I haven't smashed any fingers off my vassals yet… he thought ruefully for a second, considering the buckling line. The Golden Company was a superior fighting force to any single household formation of professional men at arms. They had taken the best of westerosi warfare and used Essos as a grindstone to sharpen it until every single soldier and officer knew their role to perfection, optimized for carnage.

He waited, assessing the lines. The right was holding magnificently under the command of Lord Banefort, and Joffrey's lips curdled in resigned disgust as he saw the Mountain tearing a gaping hole through a mixture of Golden Company armsmen and various other Essosi mercenaries. The man was using a gigantic longsword with one hand, and a wooden shield that wouldn't have been out of place protecting a Camel Ballista, wading through a sea of lesser men and splattering blood everywhere.

"Seems Lord Banefort has a tight hold there," Jon commented idly.

"I hope he reigns in the Mountain though, they're to hold, not advance," Joffrey muttered.

Jon snorted, returning his gaze at the center. The line had stabilized but the Valemen seemed ragged.

"Not yet," Joffrey answered the unspoken question, "They haven't shown their little trump card yet," he mused.

"Little? That's a funny word," Jon huffed back, making sure his helmet was locked tight.

Joffrey waited, tapping his fingers impatiently. He wanted to be there, helping to end this whole waste of time and making the enemy bleed…

"That's a nice ribbon you've got there," he said instead.

Jon turned red, shuffling like the worst liar in the world, "I like green," he clipped.

"Of course," Joffrey agreed easily. "It's a nice color… it reminds me of a certain House though… something to do with bogs and lizards," he mused with a frown.

"We haven't done anything improper," he said quickly, his voice oddly tight.

Joffrey snorted, "Relax Jon," he said after a small chuckle, amused at the veteran legate being more nervous about a maid than the battlefield in front of them… though granted, Meera could be pretty scary with a net and a trident. Joffrey tapped his leg plate as he kept gazing at the battle, breathing slowly.

Not yet, he thought.

"I've…" Jon trailed off, sighing before giving Joffrey a rueful smile, "We've already decided. I'll draft a letter to Lord Reed when we get back," he said, oddly serious now.

Joffrey smiled as he turned and slapped him on the shoulder, the plate creaking. "I'll send a letter as well, as your proud sovereign," he said with a rakish smile. "Though I doubt it'll be needed…" he trailed off, amused at Jon's expression.

"Do you know something?" he asked urgently.

"Sansa seems oddly wistful whenever I bring up the subject, so I think she's already spoken to Lord Reed… with successful results I presume," Joffrey confided.

"That's-" Jon's smile vanished as he looked at the center again. "They're not going to hold," he sentenced before turning back to Joffrey.

"It's too soon…" Joffrey muttered before squaring his shoulders. "So be it," he sentenced gravely as he put on his antlered helmet.

"Blood and Mud Joffrey. I'll signal the regiment," Jon told him as walked quickly to the side, shouting at the waiting formation of halberdiers standing some distance behind the carnage.

"Blood and Mud," Joffrey muttered, studying the battlefield for a second longer before turning.

"Lord Brax," he called out calmly.

"Your Grace," said Lord Andros Brax, who had been standing slightly behind his King, respectfully. The Westerlanders which had shown even a modicum of flexibility had risen high indeed in Joffrey's council.

"Take the horse and push through the last knights by the left flank," Joffrey said quickly as he aimed beyond the left flank of the battlefield, where the decimated remnants of the Golden Company knights were fighting a delaying action against a group of bloodied Arryn and Runestone knights. "Then smash their infantry and rout the Grafton contingent," he commanded.

"It will be done, Your Grace!" said Lord Brax as he smirked slightly and mounted up. The man had been chomping to be left off the leash…

Half of westerosi warfare was all about picking the right man for the job, Joffrey was beginning to understand. Simple in theory, but 'right man' could carry a wide variety of meanings from the economical to the political to the prestigious…

"Messenger!" barked the King as Lord Brax rallied the waiting half of the Westerlands' cavalry.

"Commander!" said the Messenger as he ran here steps and saluted by his side.

"Tell Lord Tywin to redouble the assault on the left. Once the Grafton and Gulltown men break he is to envelop the center," he said rapidly, studying the battlefield. The first few Valemen in the center were beginning to rout already, running from the golden slaughter that was the disciplined core of the Golden Company. Steel Plate, hammers, poleaxes, and longswords ran with blood as the Targeryen banners peeked over the sea of gold, and Joffrey smiled.

There he is… he thought in anticipation.

"Aye Commander!" said the messenger as he ran for the left flank. The Guard made up a tiny percent of his overall force, but Joffrey had been relentless in his use of Messengers to communicate with all his forces.

"Commander! At your word!" Jon called out loudly, closing the visor on his helmet as the single, reinforced cohort at his back roared once. They were the skeleton of what the Third Regiment was supposed to be, but the early nature of Aegon's landing during this life had caught the Guard with only a thousand men, the First and Second Regiments far away and fighting in the North.

"Go!" Joffrey bellowed as he took both hammer and arming sword, joining Jon as the Legate turned to his men.

"First Cohort! Loose formation!" he roared, "March!" he commanded, and the men responded by lumbering forward with decision, halberds held at sixty degrees as they neared the almost broken line of Valemen right in the center of the battlefield. The waves of the bay crashed in the distance as the slightly steep, wide plains of wheat were trampled into mud, valemen retreating behind the wall of steel and adding their momentum as the first rank reached the Golden Company armsmen.

"Cold Steel!" roared the soldiers as they charged the last few steps, slamming halberds and crossbow bolts against the enemy. Tolosi slingers rained lead from above just before the clash, one ball tearing the jaw out of a guardsman right next to Joffrey as men screamed and steel found flesh. The pretender's Essosi backers had ample coin for mercenaries, and it showed on the battlefield.

"Fire and Blood!" roared the armsmen as they fought back with longsword and mace, poleaxes covering their comrades as bolts pierced through eyes and chests. Guardsmen and Valemen were torn apart by the rhythmical, enduring advance of the Golden Company as javelins moved almost sluggishly through the air, coming down with deceptive force and piercing armor and flesh.

"Blood and Mud!" roared Joffrey as his men picked up the cry and he lifted his hammer, the antlers on his helmet glinting as he tore into the enemy in turn, his mace and sword disarming defenses and killing all who stood in his way. Jon was right by his side, his halberd a methodical instrument of death as he covered Joffrey from the sides, Ghost guarding Jon in turn as the wall of steel advanced, pouring bolts and steel and death.

They formed the tip of the spear puncturing into the armsmen, trying to reach the Targeryen banners. Joffrey could see through the corner of his eye as the left flank collapsed under the charge of the Westerlands, the Gulltown levies breaking at the seams as the Grafton armsmen tried to retreat to the center. Grandfather was already carrying out the envelopment, more than seven thousand men grinding the survivors against the center of the enemy army. It wouldn't be long now…

"The horn!" Jon roared as he slammed the halberd against an armsmen's chest, the tip puncturing the plate and bathing the man's golden bracers with red.

"What horn-" Joffrey trailed off as the Golden Company started to march back, leaving gaps in their defense as they formed columns.

Fuck, Joffrey thought as the horns of the Guard bellowed again, signaling for his contingencies to snap into effect. He could barely see his Raiders and skirmishers riding out from the flanks, pelting the approaching stampede of flesh going for the center. Arrows and javelins peppered the approaching elephants, but their hardy skin and their golden gambesons blunted the worst of it as only two or three collapsed.

The remaining score or so of the beats kept charging right towards Joffrey and the center.

"Brace! Prepare to receive cavalry!!!" Jon bellowed desperately as Ghost howled. More elephants trumpeted their angst as ballista bolts leapt from behind the line, piercing flesh and taking out a few more elephants as Joffrey's half assed attempt to create a field artillery formation did their best. The lack of time showed though, and over fourteen of the beats reached the columns formed by the Golden Company, funneling the long tusked killing machines as Guardsmen roared shaken defiance and crossbows sang, halberds at the ready.

The things hit them like the Smith's Hammer, long white tusks adorned with golden chains and iron tips devastating the line of halberds as the tusks swept Joffrey's men like grain, dying to bolts and halberds even as they went berserk and stampeded all over the shredded line.

Jon and Joffrey were bellowing their defiance with a score of valemen and guardsmen as the elephant due to hit them trumpeted to the heavens, its lumbering bulk pouring shadows over the shaking halberds. Ghost leapt in front of the line before the beast reached them though, snarling like a raging Devil and eliciting some sort of primal fear within the trained war machine. The elephant reared back in shock, its riders and archers tumbling to the sides as Jon took the opportunity to dash forward like a madman. He slammed the halberd through the elephant's guts like a butcher, opening its belly as the beast trumpeted again and fell sideways, smashing the charging men of the Golden Company.

Joffrey was busy bellowing orders, cursing as the valemen broke and the halberdiers seemed to do the same; stumbling back after the harrowing losses inflicted by the elephants and the devastating charge of the Golden Company's armsmen right after…

The men around Joffrey had been spared that though, its corresponding elephant screeching despair as Jon climbed upon its fallen form and planted his halberd through the thing's neck, half of the charging golden armsmen smashed under the bulk of the beast.

"My White Fists!!!" Joffrey roared as he hefted his sword, "WITH ME!" he bellowed as he charged through the gap, surprising the second line of armsmen. He deflected a poelaxe just before he reached them, planting his hammer on the man's jaw before spinning past the second poleaxe and diving into the formation, sword slicing through necks and elbows. The charging halberdiers reached them a second later, roaring with their King as a sudden mass of steel pushed through the disorganized formation of enemy soldiers.

"There they are!" Jon shouted as he pointed with one hand, the Targeryen Three Headed Dragon intermingling with both the White Fist and the Stag and Lion of Joffrey's house. The battlefield was reduced to a single fight, a single struggle as Joffrey, Ghost, Jon and over two score of halberdiers and valemen slammed against the elite of the Golden Company, banners intermingling.

"Finally we can get this over with!" Joffrey muttered in satisfaction as he sliced the back of a grizzled veteran's knee, making him fall on one leg before he planted the hammer on the side of his helmet. He leapt forward past the body, jumping right against a silver haired young boy in fine golden armor, wearing a bejeweled crown for a helmet and sporting an engraved three headed dragon on his chestplate. The boy buckled down grimly, retreating a few steps and blocking Joffrey's strikes with a shield. Joffrey saw the glint of Valyrian Steel right before he dodged, the sword sailing above and cutting off his antlers.

"Fire and Blood!" the boy-king screamed in between strikes as Joffrey feinted wildly and hammered Aegon whenever he let his guard down. With him dead the Company would break, and the whole host with them. He could hear fighting all around him, the chaos caused by the elephants and the encirclement turning the battlefield into a madhouse.

"Blackfyre eh? I think I'll put it on the Throne!" Joffrey laughed, stepping aside and letting the predictable vertical slash sail harmlessly by… though a bit closer than he'd calculated. Valyrian Steel made for fast blades. "What do you say, Waters?" he tried to rattle him as he hammered the boy's arm and Aegon retreated, his expression a mixture of outrage and fear before Jon struck low from Joffrey's side, his halberd licking the boy's leg piece.

"Connington! Protect your King damnit!" roared a young knight in understated panic, a tabard of ducks upon a field filling Joffrey's vision as the knight struck. Joffrey parried the longsword, trying to close in with his new adversary as Aegon kept retreating.

A knight wearing the tabard of the Conningtons emerged from the roiling mass of steel and death all around them, forcing Jon back. The legate reacted magnificently, jamming the tip of his halberd against Connington's sword, tearing it sideways and repeating the first disarming move Joffrey had taught him, years ago.

Connigton barely had the time to draw his dagger before Jon tore the man's head apart with the axe head, advancing unto Aegon as Guardsmen and gold clad soldiers fought and died all around them. Ghost made sure to keep Jon's back cleared, snarling and mauling any who dared to close from behind.

"Jon!!!" screeched the boy king as the Connigton knight fell, bellowing in fury before meeting Legate Snow halfway, clashing brutally.

Joffrey raised his eyebrows as the Duck knight feinted expertly, moving sideways before going for a thrust. The halfswording technique worked perfectly and punctured a hole in Joffrey's chest plate, piercing shallowly before the King hammered the knight's hand and retreated.

This one is good, he thought as he bit down the pain, reassessing his opponent. He feinted and probed, getting a feel for the man as Jon and Aegon fought by his side, Jon shuffling backwards as Blackfyre mangled his vambrace.

"Watch that blade! It's lighter and faster than it looks!" Joffrey bellowed with a tinge of apprehension as he parried the slash from the duck knight and he kicked him back.

Best to end this quickly, he thought as he closed the distance with the knight. He tried to ward him off with the longsword but Joffrey locked the blade between sword and hammer, reaching the man's face and headbutting him.

Fucking Aegon cut off my antlers, he grumbled as the bruised knight stumbled back and he parried the sloppy slice from the longsword. Ghost gave a harrowing howl as Joffrey closed in and jammed the arming sword through the stunned knight's elbow, and the hair at the back of his neck tingled as he turned to Aegon.

Jon was looking at a deep gash that ran from his shoulder to his throat, his plate mangled and twisted as he held two distinct pieces of halberd. "For Jon Connington!!!" roared Aegon as he ran him over with Blackfyre, the black-silvered blade emerging from the back of Jon's torso.

Joffrey's face twisted as the red haze slammed into him, a wordless, shrill roar crawling from his throat as he slapped aside the duck knight's longsword with a gauntlet and he planted a mace on the man's face.

"Today the Three Headed Dragon rises again!!!" Aegon roared in triumph as he realized he'd just killed an officer of the enemy force, turning to Joffrey as the ragged men of the golden company cheered him on, victory and anger warring in his face as he realized the duck knight was dead.

"The Blade of Kings!!!" roared the nearby armsmen in victory, the guardsmen snarling back and gazing at each other and their King as they fought, shaken at the loss of the legate.

"Fancy this is a song?" Joffrey asked darkly as he walked quickly towards the son of a whore, striding over the dark red haze as he discarded both hammer and sword.

Aegon snorted at that, "So this is how it ends," he said with a surprised smirk, "This one's for Duck," he said angrily, like a rightful knight from a tale, slicing down with Blackfyre and angling for a sweeping cut through Joffrey's plate.

Joffrey didn't change his stride. Instead, he brought his hands together and materialized Brightroar through a swirl of Purple fractals, the golden blade emerging into reality and stopping Blackfyre in its tracks.

The strange, dissonant clash of Valyrian Steel rang through the battlefield, knights and levies and soldiers turning to watch the cascade of distorted light that illuminated the battlefield for a brief second.

"What?!" Aegon stammered, eyes wide before Joffrey slammed a gauntleted fist on his face. The brutal blow made him stumble back, and Joffrey stalked forward with a contained snarl. Aegon kept shuffling back, returning Blackfyre to a low guard as he eyed Brightroar in incomprehension. "Kill him! Kill him now!" he bellowed in near panic.

Two grizzled veterans of the company jumped at him, but Joffrey slipped past their strikes and sliced one's leg in half, leaving him screaming on the ground before ducking below the second one's strike. He jammed the blade backwards, piercing the second man's spine cleanly through the back plate, his stride towards Aegon relentless.

"True Songs are a dark and terrible thing," Joffrey told him as he stepped left and right quickly, disorienting Aegon before slamming Brightroar sideways in a brutal cut. The parry screeched throughout the battlefield, Joffrey twisting in a circle and cutting the top part of Aegon's shield.

"Kill him! Kill him right now!" screeched Aegon, but the men of the Golden Company were breaking, running as the banners of the Westerlands flew nearby, Lannister Lions shaking wildly under the winds as lances tore through plate and flesh, an armored Tywin riding tall at the head of a wedge of knights slaughtering their way to Joffrey.

"Thought they'd just hand you the Kingdoms?" Joffrey growled, moving minutely to his left and letting the blade whisk through. "They all think the same," he said lowly, fury and resignation coloring his voice as he sliced Aegon's hand cleanly with a quick uppercut, the shield falling to the ground with a torrent of blood.

The boy king screamed as the stump kept squirting blood, his crazed slash barely phasing Joffrey as he preempted it entirely, grabbing the boy's sword hand and twisting it sideways; baring it like butcher working with a pig. He slammed Brightroar through it, the brutal cut parting plate and flesh. Blackfyre fell on the mud, Aegon's hand still grasping it tightly as his scream redoubled in intensity.

"Die," Joffrey whispered in the boy's screeching face, aiming Brightroar for a thrust through the neck before a growl stopped him. The men were fleeing all around him, some of the Golden Company armsmen dropping their blades as they looked at him, agape as their liege kept screaming and Ghost turned from the body of his fallen partner, red eyes gazing at Aegon the Sixth.

"He's all yours," Joffrey told the direwolf as he threw the crying pretender to the ground. Ghost tore through the boy's throat like scythe, ending him swiftly and brutally with a snap.

Joffrey breathed shallowly, and a tiny part within him screamed in despair as he realized he was not yet satisfied.

Jon was worth a score of them put together, he thought as he turned towards the scrambling and surrendering soldiers of the Golden Comapany, smiling darkly as he advanced upon them. Brightroar felt as light as a feather in his hands, and he struggled to breathe as he hefted the golden blade.

Don't let it control you, whispered a voice deep within, and he was paralyzed as he gazed at the shaking, surrendered armsmen. The blade trembled in his hand before he took another deep breath, war and blood and death calling to the thing he wanted nothing but to bury forever.

Jon was worth a hundred of them, he thought, his snarl growing twisted before he heard Ghost moving away from Aegon's corpse. The direwolf was now by Jon's side, licking the boy's face halfheartedly.

He breathed deeply one more time, and turned away from the trembling men, walking towards Jon and kneeling right beside him.

What would he think, to see me like this? He wondered, and it was that thought that carried him the rest of the way past the red haze.

He spent a moment staring at him, trying to understand how he could see his friend die so many times and not go mad every time he saw him again. So many times he'd seen him die… By his own hand, by those of his enemies, by his side, fighting for his life, for revenge, for his friends, for his family…

He cradled Jon's head between his arms, wondering if he'd ever see him grow old and have grandchildren, or if the sick cycle of the Purple would deny him even that. He wondered if he'd ever knight his brave friend's sons after the Cycle was vanquished and his curse over.

The men gave him a wide berth, watching him in awe or terror depending on the color of their banners. The might of the Westerlands ran down the routing infantry as guardsmen and armsmen secured the surrender of the rest.

Just another day in Westeros, Joffrey thought darkly, turning his eyes to Aegon's body. He took a few minutes to memorize the boy's features before he stood up again, the duties of kingship already calling as lords and officers came to him for orders.

Next time we meet, your end will be far less glorious, he promised, letting the mantle of the warrior king envelop him again as Messengers and Lords arrived in search of orders.

Westeros needed its King.

-: PD :-