Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

"What about Stokeworth?" Cercei asked Bernadette. The handmaiden looked troubled as they walked down the stairs, grimacing at the bad news to come.

"Lady Tanda was thoroughly unreceptive Your Grace. She gracefully implied that Castle Stokeworth would not be up to Prince Tommen's needs… "

"That idiotic sow of a woman is already thinking about jumping ship." She scowled, rounding the last set of stairs and reaching the small tower's doors. "Rosby could be another option. We have to get my son out of the capital before Stannis reaches the walls, do you understand?" she asked the Lannister handmaiden.

"Yes Your Grace, I shall coordinate with the Grandmaester and send a letter for Rosby this very evening," she said quickly.

Cercei nodded, pressing her lips and hiding another scowl. Between the unruly mob and the approaching specter of Stannis the city could no longer be considered truly safe for her children. If the capital were to fall then at least they would be safe and out of the hands of the traitor, perhaps able to link up with her father further north…

The couple walked through the outer courtyard at a sedate pace, as Cercei knew that the essence of rule was to project control at all times... and she needed every ounce of it. Her imp of a brother had been steadily chipping away at her power within the Red Keep ever since he'd arrived from the Riverlands, reassigning guards and servants and changing the days Joffrey held court.

Lysa Arryn had him right in front of her, surrounded by a hundred loyal swords ready to do anything for her … and she botched it. The depths of the woman's ineptitude never ceased to amaze her.

She was distracted by the sound of constant drill, an accelerating cadence of steel on steel.

Strange, Tyrion rescheduled yard drills yet again the other day. It should be empty right now. She altered her walk slightly so she could see what was going on, and almost had a heart attack when she saw Joffrey standing in the middle of the yard, no armor at all and barefoot, only breeches and an arming sword on his person.

Surrounding him were men of the Red Cloak garrison and, while they seemed rightfully afraid of her boy, that didn't take away from the fact that they were wielding swords against him.

She strode like bottled fury, dress fluttering behind her as Bernadette struggled to catch up and she took in a breath of air-

She didn't get to make a sound though. From one moment to the next Joffrey had leapt into one of the circling, terrified Redcloaks. He didn't say anything as he feinted two times, the third a real strike that sneaked past the man's desperate parry and caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled back, and Joffrey turned and deflected the blow to his back from another Redcloak, his palm flat as he slammed it against the man's face. He pivoted as the Redcloak fell to the ground, his sword a blur of grey as he tapped another half a dozen times in a single second, the last strike right in the sternum and depriving him of air. On and on her son danced, squeezing in between combatants and using them to block each other, his sword always in motion as his other hand slammed into arms and faces, disarming or bloodying mouths and noses. Soon, all six Redcloaks were on the ground, moaning or struggling to get up.

"… Joffrey?" she asked, hesitant. Sweat was evaporating from his bare back, his eyes closed as he breathed slowly.

He seemed disappointed. "Again," he said, and this time he threw his sword aside. The Redcloaks didn't want to, some looking away as others tried to crawl out of the yard.

"Your Grace… the men… perhaps some could use a replacement?" said Ser Collyn, the Red Keep's current Master at Arms and a loyal Lannister man. They hadn't even looked at her…

"See to it," said his son as he turned, his face inscrutable as he saw her. "Mother."

"Joffrey…" she said, uneasy. Ever since a month ago, something had happened to her boy. He hardly spoke to her, and he seemed to brood more and more often instead of holding court. He'd suddenly turned thick as thieves with the doe eyed Sansa Stark, and everything had been subtly different since then. The unseemly beatings had stopped, but every look between the two seemed to carry meanings she could not understand. There was a tension between them altogether different than the usual torment her son had inflicted upon the Stark girl, and she couldn't understand it.

That was not to be tolerated.

"Soon you'll be a swordsman as great as your uncle," she said in the meanwhile, and every bit of her admiration was genuine for all that it was mired in confusion.

"I'd like to fight him, one day," he said absentmindedly, hand tapping impatiently against his thigh as he waited for a few of the watching armsmen to replace their falling comrades. There was silence around the yard, most of the watch staring from the battlements and the walls where they thought no one could see them.

"That's a fight I'd like to see," whispered Tyrion, and Cercei belatedly realized the Imp had been watching all this time, his small stature hiding him from first sight as he gripped the wooden fence with white knuckles.

She ignored the little pest. Acting Hand of the King or not the people inside the Red Keep knew who they answered to.

Perhaps the first man to know of Joffrey's sudden change of mind held the key of the matter? "Joffrey… why did you hit Ser Mandon?" she asked after a moment.

"He struck Lady Sansa," he said.

Oddly enough, that simple sentence left very little room to move the conversation forward. Instead, she chose a different track.

"Who taught you how to fight like that?"

"Hounds and whalers," he said as he stretched his right wrist, "Wise men from the east whose white beards reached the floor. Hardy sailors and venture captains. Brave soldiers and generals who painted the grey sand with their own blood," he said as he craned his neck, ignoring the thick drops of sweat that crossed his face down from the hairline.

Cercei blinked, looking at the Imp. He was staring at his son though, not saying a word.

"Again," he said as he turned to the new batch of Redcloaks.

"But Joffrey, you're unnarmed-" Cercei started, but her son was already a blur. He grunted as he bent his knees lightly, one arm completely stretched as the other curled over his chest and stayed still over his heart. He advanced quickly, long sideways strides as the armed Redcloaks spread out and charged him. He bent right and left in quick succession, avoiding sword and spear thrusts, his left arm still straightened as if it were a sword. He scuttled forward like a spider, his hip lowered as his arm delivered two precise strikes on a man's throat and he fell on his knees clutching it. He roared as he rolled under a spear thrust, unbending his left arm and locking the spear in place while the other palm slammed into his attacker's nose.

"Reyk, Golland, take his flanks and move as one!" shouted one of the Redcloaks as he feinted back and forwards with his sword, but Joffrey didn't give the others time to get in place. He slammed into the man to his left, his forearms jerking both of Golland's arms aside and leaving his chest open. His fists were like whirlwinds as he delivered a flurry of punches unto it, the man convulsing backwards and going over the fence to land on the other side of it, splattering mud all around.

The two remaining Redcloaks seemed unwilling to initiate the next clash, keeping the distance as Joffrey struggled to control his breath, pacing around them like a caged tiger. He blinked slowly when he passed by her, looking down at the mud. "Do you remember that conversation we had a long while ago, about the nature of truth and thrones?" he asked her.

Cercei looked at the trembling Redcloaks, keeping their distance and using their swords as shields against her son. He'd stopped pacing, still staring at the mud by her side. "I remember," she said with a small smile.

"'One day, you'll sit on the throne and the truth will be what you make it'," Joffrey said slowly, considering every word. "What do you think of that, uncle?" he asked.

Tyrion just looked at him, not saying a word. He'd shared little of what he'd discussed with her son, but it was clear the little pest was just as confused as her with his sudden change in demeanor…

Cercei shook her head, "I remember what I told you sweetie, what of it?"

"You were wrong. Some truths can't change," he said, eyes faraway. "All of our actions have consequences, cause and effect." He scowled, his eyes returning to hers, "You forgot that, or else never knew it…. You…" he took a deep breath, holding the railing with one hand as if to steady himself. He opened his mouth two times, each time closing it shortly thereafter. When he finally found his voice, it came in a rush, "You act as if you're the only person in the world, mother. The only valid experience is yours. The only true feelings are your own."

Cercei reared back, stunned, "Joffrey, I don't know what-"

"That's why you failed!" he shouted at her, "That's why you caused all of this! That's why you made me," he spat, his breathing working up as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

She felt her face twisting into an inexplicable scowl as her son's words made her chest burn. "Joffrey-!"

"You are a world into itself Cercei! Whatever you feel for me or Tommen or Myrcella is because the only thing you truly love is you-"

She slapped him. From one moment to the next she slammed his face with everything she had, her palm tingling numb as Joffrey's head recoiled to the side. The entire Red Keep seemed to hold its breath at once, absolute silence descending upon the yard like a choking mist.

She held the trembling palm against her mouth, watching as her son took a long breath before he slowly brought his head back to bear on her. The entire right side of his face was turning red, three tiny pinpricks of blood marking where her nails had gotten him.

He grimaced, staring at her eyes. He felt his face with a hand, putting it where she'd struck him.

"You should've done that years ago," he said. With a single powerful roar he was upon one of the Redcloaks, already a step away from him before the man could react. He slashed horizontally with a two hander but Joffrey caught both his arms before it could connect, twisting them on their own axis and making him scream. One hit from his forehead and the scream cut off, the man collapsing like a torn puppet. Bernadette gave a startled scream at the force of the blow, but his son didn't seem to hear it.

"COME ON!!!" Joffrey roared at the last man, making him shout his own battlecry as he went for a lunge with a bastard sword. Joffrey pivoted out of the way sword's way three times and slammed the side of his palm against the man's arm, making him drop his weapon and grunt in pain. Two strikes to the head and another three to the chest saw him stumbling back, Joffrey adding his weight as he tackled him to the ground. He roared as his fists descended on the man's face, one after the other as his son let go with all his strength, her hand stopping a scream as blood splattered from the Redcloak's face.

"JOFF!" shouted a voice which should have sounded familiar, but had nothing of the skittish fear and curdled regret Cercei had learnt to expect.

His fist stopped in midair as his head whipped to the side, watching Sansa Stark as she leaned on the railing.

Joffrey was breathing harshly, the Redcloak moaning lowly beneath him. He stood up as if from a trance, shaking off blood and mud from his chest as he made to walk one way, then the other.

"Here," said Sansa, holding out his cloak.

He took it, using it to wipe his face.

Far from the scared doe, the Stark girl had changed as abruptly as her son, and all manner of silly rumors had started flying around the castle once Joffrey had foolishly removed the guards and handmaidens that served as Sansa's jailors in all but name.

"Deep breaths Joff," said the Stark girl.

He looked around, eyes settling on Cercei… which made her realize she'd forgotten to breathe too.

"… Thank you for listening," he told her.

He vaulted over the fence and had a quiet word with Sansa. Before she could reach them though the two of them walked away, towards the Southeastern Tower.

"Tyrion, you had something to do with this, I'm sure of it," said Cercei, still feeling as if her heart was about to burst.

"I know as much as you, dear sister," the Imp said after a long while, "Except for perhaps one thing… I know enough to tell he really needed to get that off his chest." He had taken to wearing armor these past few weeks as the preparations for Stannis' reception accelerated. According to her spies it gave him a martial air which aided in getting the smallfolk to do what they were supposed to be doing, though Cercei herself found the sight almost comical.

"It's just the strain of his rule," she said immediately, her jaw feeling heavy.

Tyrion merely hummed, tapping his fingers against the railing.

"What did Ser Meryn tell you?" she asked him. She'd interrogated the Kingsguard herself, but it was only prudent to check. The man seemed a shadow of his former self, shuffling around the Red Keep like a particularly clumsy catspaw and avoiding her son like a beaten dog.

"He said that Joffrey had been holding court after the news of Oxcross reached him, directing him to strike Sansa as 'punishment'… He was saying something about traitors and the need for just punishments when a tiny breath of air escaped his lips and he blinked in confusion."

"Had he been drinking something? Was he near Sansa?" she asked him.

"No. The next thing Ser Meryn remembers is Joffrey's face and blinding pain as he tried to stand up…"

"I don't like this one bit. We need to keep an eye on her," she told him, and she'd been doing just that.

"Somehow I don't think Sansa Stark is responsible for this." He looked almost haunted as he frowned, tapping his fingers against the training yard's fence yet again. "Wise men and whalers…" he muttered before shaking his head, "I believe something altogether… different may be at play…"

"Your fondness for the girl will be the doom of our House." She lowered her voice so only he could hear it, "We need to keep looking for Varys too, he must know about everyone linked to the Aegon Conspiracy..."

"You think Sansa Stark was embroiled in that?" said the Imp, looking at her like a simpleton.

"… I have people looking into it."

"I must say I have my doubts about their finding anything at all…"

Cercei smirked, "It was them who found the link to Littlefinger, not any of yours." To think the little bastard had been syphoning coin off the treasury for years, financing a Targeryen restoration of all things… it made her blood boil. Petyr Baelish would likely find a very different reception than he was expecting, when he completed his mission and returned to the capital. A pike would suit him quite well.

Assuming Renly didn't cut off his head first.

"That was pure luck," said Tyrion, as always trying to deny her triumphs. He smirked as he looked away from her and at the bruise covered sellsword that followed him everywhere. The man bit off a scowl as he emerged from the inner gatehouse, rubbing his arm. "Bronn! I see you've trained hard today," he said as the sellsword all but limped to his side.

The man grunted what could be charitably called assent. The Imp patted him in the back as they walked away, "Sister," he said with a nod as they passed her by. "Now, I want you to tell me everything," she heard him say as they walked towards the gatehouse, to see to the defenses of the city again… or most likely, the nearest brothel.

She turned to Bernadette, "Double the men on Sansa… and make sure that letter reaches Rosby," Cercei told her, all but storming off towards Maegor's Holdfast. She'll have to make a list of everyone who'd been there in the courtyard to witness her son's inane ramblings… her own handmaiden included.

-: PD :-

They'd been meditating together almost daily, sinking their awareness deep into their souls to survey the damaged left in the wake of the Red Comet. Sansa didn't know if it had been the Purple itself or their constant attention and will to make it so, but after their extensive sessions feeling and breathing the fabric of their souls in unison, she could feel it just a tiny bit sturdier than before. The fractals felt a bit more complex, whole. The pillars solid, grounded. It was almost impossible to put the feeling into a coherent explanation, but Joffrey had. Predictably enough, he'd gone on to build an elaborate analogy of a sailor shaking off his hangover after a night of heavy carousing. Sansa felt it was more like getting her bearings after a particularly hard hit with a spear butt to the head, but in the end the point was moot.

Mangled but not dead, that had been their diagnosis. What that meant for the coming lives though was not as easy to guess.

Sansa had been living an uncanny few weeks inside the Red Keep, seeing strange, dark versions of people she'd grown to care for. Sandor had a sort of shadow over his face every time she looked at him, something slowly eating him from within. He seemed lonelier than she knew him, broodier somehow. Lancel -Joffrey's fierce legate and brave commander- was but a mewling sycophant orbiting around her husband like a half starved fly. His frequent grandstanding and his bold demeanor did nothing to hide the hollowness behind his eyes though… Sansa could see the boy was absolutely lost within himself, desperately clinging to the court as his soul ached in apathy and emptiness… it was disconcerting how nobody else could see it.

Cercei had been by far the worst. She seemed to have been unleashed by Robert's death, and without the true Joffrey to hold her back she'd been ruling the Red Keep's staff like a tyrannical petty kingdom, her schemes extending beyond it and grasping the happenings within the capital in all the wrong ways. She'd not taken her own change very well, but Joffrey's had kept her off balance… for the moment.

Tyrion on the other hand had merely been… strange. He seemed to treat her as a delicate glass doll, and she couldn't feel anything but horror if that was the way everyone in the south and… perhaps even her own family truly regarded her as. Perhaps that had been changing as of late though… Tyrion had loaned his sellsword to her, and she'd been catching up on her spear drill as a way to focus and give some much needed hardness to this soft body. No doubt the man reported everything to him, but that didn't concern her much…

It had been a few long years in the East, and the change from being treated like a feared Shadowcaller to a helpless and ignorant little girl was eerie. Did her family treat her to a lesser but similar degree? Had they truly seen her as a sort of helpless invalid?"

Perhaps the more important question was if she'd ever see them again.

She let the thoughts fade away, concentrating on the task at hand as her eyes clouded white.

-: PD :-

Joffrey took a long drink from the wineskin, swallowing the thick vintage like a horse on water before tilting his head back down and taking in a big breath. He sat atop a small crate, looking around the small storage room indistinguishable from the scores of others which permeated the Red Keep. The trio of hummingbirds inside the room fluttered thro and fro, circling the room and landing to look through nooks and crannies. They chirped almost in unison before circling the room one more time and flying out the window in a hurry.

Sansa let out a sigh as her eyes returned to their usual blue, the white still clinging to the edges of her pupils as she tried to blink it away.

"Room's clear," she said.

"Tunnels?"

"Them too, though I doubt any metaphorical 'little birds' remain after you knifed Varys."

"Never can be too careful," he said.

"… If only you'd thought that sooner," muttered Sansa.

The words were like a stiletto past his ribs. "Yeah. If only."

She sighed again, looking at his face. "You've got…" Her hand hesitated.

He raised his own, touching his forehead. He felt the droplet of blood and scowled before wiping it clean with a sleeve.

"… I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," she said after a long moment.

"But not untruthful. Save the apologies," he muttered.

Sansa sat on another crate, looking as one of the hummingbirds came back and gently pried open a small crack in the wall. "It's been wearing on us, both of us…"

He grunted, "Bronn seemed like he could hardly walk. Been going too hard on him?"

"I remember I could hardly walk after our sessions too… You've always said it's the mark of a good spar." She blinked away the memories of Braavos, "Anyway, Bronn's pretty good; even taught me a few things. You could use him for the Raiders."

He grunted assent. They'd been distant, this life. The weight of their mistakes, the uncertainty, the atmosphere of the Red Keep…

"It's like a nightmare…" he said after a while.

"It'll pass Joffrey."

He gave her a whimsical smile before taking another swig of wine.

"Wanna know something funny?" he said after a while, leaning back on the crates stacked behind him.

Sansa leaned back as well, the hummingbird retrieving a small scroll and leaving it in her hand as she looked at Joffrey.

"This room. There's scores of em' peppered throughout the Red Keep… and they all look the same to me. Do you know what's the first thing I remember whenever we walk into one?"

Sansa tilted her head slightly, still looking at him.

"Even after all this time… It's still that fucking cat," he said after a while, lips pressed together as he shook his head slowly. "One of Tommen's… I was so curious, so entranced by it as I wielded the knife…" His voice started to peter out, his throat locked. "The kittens… they were born dead. Nature gave them that mercy at least."

"And then?" Sansa asked, her voice light to the ear.

Joffrey grunted, "I was so confused. Everyone in the Red Keep kept giving me these stares, from charcoal hauler to Kingsguard, even my own bloody father… both of them… but no one said anything. It was always a miasma of whispers and reproachful looks, but never did anyone bloody say anything. Not a single word of praise or condemnation. Robert drank, my mother scowled, Jaime redoubled his fake smiles, Tommen cried…" he trailed off, staring at his palms.

"But that's ancient history… it grew along with me throughout the long journey, maturing in its own twisted ways," he said, and Sansa didn't need to ask what he was talking about. "My… rage… I've spent decades thinking about it. Wondering," he said. "Sometimes, I was convinced it was part of my 'curse'. An incomprehensible component of the Purple. The Red."

Sansa folded her hands over her lap, the scroll by her side as she listened.

"Other times I was sure it was something rotten deep within me. An all too natural vine growing from the compost pit that was my true self beyond all the experiences I've had over the long journey… and you know what, Sansa? I know which one it is now," he said with a wan smile.

"I'd call it more of a flower than a vine. Granted, a carnivorous flower, like the one who took your pinky in Sothoryos," she said, mirroring his smile.

Joffrey snorted, looking away. "I saw the Comet's Red first hand, and it had nothing to do with me. It was pure purpose, law given ultimate form… my red is nothing but a petty lust for violence."

"I thought you'd given your red purpose as well."

"I have. It's shackled and only plays on the battlefield these days… or the training yard," he muttered.

Sansa looked at her hands, fiddling with them. "I think you're looking at it the wrong way… what you call the Red… it's you Joff," she said. "I think that as long as you keep it buried and 'chained' you'll never be able to truly understand it. Understand you."

"Now you're sounding like Master Gaharz," he grumbled.

"As little as I may think about the merits of meditating over the stumps of long dead trees, the man did have his ways," she said, unable to keep a small smile from her lips.

"It's been ages since I started seeing it as something other than… How to say it… separate but inextricably linked to me…" he said, voice trailing off. "A curse… Do you think I've been deceiving myself all this time, Sansa?"

"Have you?"

Joffrey was quiet, his eyes on her but seeing far, far past her, the wall, and the Keep. They spent a while like that, Sansa lost in thought as well as she fiddled with her fingers again. Joffrey let out a long breath as he leaned forward, elbows over his knees as he held his head.

"Joffrey," he said after a long, long silence. "That's what Gaharz always wanted me to say. That's the name of it..."

He lifted his head to look at her, stone faced as he nodded slowly. "Its true name is Joffrey…" he whispered, pondering that thought.

"It's not a curse. It's part of what makes you. One of the parts that make the man I love," she said, the corner of her mouth tilting up as she leaned back on the crates.

"I'm sorry about Carcosa, Sansa."

"We've all made mistakes. It's hard not to with never ending lives," she said after a moment. "Promise you'll listen to me next time Joffrey… or there may as well be no next life."

"I swear it," he said, his eyes hard as he nodded slowly.

He took another gulp from the wineskin before quickly bringing it down.

"Sorry, I forgot. There's still a tiny bit left though…" he said, offering the wineskin to Sansa. He trailed off when she shook her head lightly, a polite smile on her lips.

"Shit, the courtier's smile? This must really be serious…" he said half-jokingly, though he frowning when Sansa started on a shrug and then froze like a startled deer, slowly bring her shoulder down.

"Sansa… what's the matter?"

It was almost funny in a way, watching her cycle through a whole repertoire of polite, nonchalant dismissals. They were like her version of his battle instinct… shrugs, dismissing smiles, dignified eye flutters… she started on some variation of all of them in a second, she really couldn't help it, only to abort them all as she knew he'd never be deflected by the likes of it.

"Sansa what's… it's just wine," he said, chewing on the last word as he frowned.

She seemed to give up with a mighty sigh, blinking repeatedly. "You're annoying sometimes," she said.

"I haven't done anything," he said, amused.

She stayed mum as he looked at her, "Really hit a nerve huh?" he said after a moment.

"It's just..." She shook her head, letting out another big breath before speaking quickly, "I don't like wine any more. Can't stand it," she said, voice clipped.

Joffrey kept looking at her.

"… it… reminds me of… the taste." She pressed her lips.

"The… taste?" he said. He frowned, looking at the wineskin in his hand. "Of blood… it reminds you of the taste of blood," he finished for her.

"Yes," she said, pursing her lips as she looked away. "Power to be had if I merely reach for it…"

"It taunts you, doesn't it?"

"I taunts me every time I see Ser Meryn Trant. A bloodless husk would make a better Kingsguard," she said with a wry smile.

Joffrey snorted, "It sure did make a better Master of Whispers though."

Sansa snorted explosively, coughing bits of saliva as she wheezed. She patted herself on the chest as she covered her mouth with the other, looking at Joffrey with an accusing expression as she tried to stop laughing. "Gods Joff… I suppose I rather agree with that assessment," she said in between coughs.

Joffrey chuckled lowly, "The heroes we make, eh?"

"The couple-that-was-promised indeed," she said, grabbing the scroll and waving it about like a proclamation. Joffrey kept chuckling, and delighted in the way a silly smile seemed to overtake Sansa's face.

They spent a little while savoring the levity, making time before they had to get back to finalizing the plan and then getting back into a broken world.

"Going to open that?" he asked as he gestured at the scroll. "I don't even know why you write it all down. We've got the plan all memorized anyway."

"It helps me think," she grumbled before she hid it behind her back.

Joffrey raised an eyebrow.

"Not yet, I want a kiss first," she said matter-of-factly.

"That's mighty forward of you," he said, smiling fully. Sansa said it was like night and day compared to his usual grimace; it felt different for him too, his whole face engaged and tingly. He hadn't known how much he'd needed it as of late…

"There's been too much negativity all around. I refuse to do anything until my demands are met," she said, leaning forward and letting her legs dangle petulantly from the crate.

"Your wish is my command, Your Grace," he said as he stood up and Sansa tilted her head away.

"Men," she scoffed as Joffrey gently grabbed the back of her head and as she turned to face him.

"Wife," he said, stressing the 'W'.

They kissed slowly, taking their time to taste each other's lips for a moment before joining again, their noses tickling each other's as they jostled for position ever so gently. They didn't make love then, but stayed in each other's embrace over Joffrey's discarded coat, kissing and caressing as the scroll lay by the side.

The plan could wait another day.

-: PD :-

"It's hard not to pay it any mind," Sansa said out loud. They were both lying on Joffrey's discarded coat, side by side. They should have been out and about around two hours ago, but Sansa just hadn't had it in her; to jump back into the fray of a broken world, a broken time. Joffrey hadn't said anything about it, and so they had lain in the storage room, uncaring of the outside.

"I know," whispered Joffrey. The Red Comet stared down at the earth with its gimlet eye, periodically pulsing in purpose at irregular intervals. He could feel it even from here; it lay far above, making for the north, its approach slowing down by the day. He shivered when he concentrated on that distant presence, a second sun dark on the horizon of his mind, an eerie absence of the Song. Its mute tendrils reached down, deep into the Lands of Always Winter…

Joffrey thought he'd always been able to see it, feel it. When he'd ridden Fallen Valyria's guardian far past the tallest mountain peak, far past the cloud line that sometimes messed with the Maester's far eyes; then he'd felt it, the pure purpose of the Red Comet and it's patient arms enveloping the world from north to south. Sansa had felt it too, when they approached Carcosa and the Matriarchs whispered about the strange dissonance high in the sky. For Sansa the experience had been far worse, for she'd felt it as keenly as him.

Now though, after so close a brush with their ancient enemy, it was impossible to ignore. Like a catchy limerick it stuck to their minds, a pattern seen that could not be forgotten for all that the link had been severed. It had not been a matter of infection or taint, but of simply knowing the face and presence of it. It was knowledge of the mind, impossible to forget.

"The key must be somewhere beyond the North, somewhere in the Land of Always Winter. It's where all the tendrils meet before spreading outwards…" Sansa whispered.

"Where the scouts were created in the first place. Where they retreated after the First War for Dawn… Gods, our plan is so insane…"

It was a topic they often talked about. They had been made to interact with the Red Comet somehow, getting in the way of the transfer of power between it and the Cycle's platforms, as the Deep Ones had put it. The problem was how to do so on their terms, and without getting swarmed by Walkers in the attempt.

"I know it is, but we need to get all those Walkers and wights away from the Far North Joff, get the Cycle's attention further south or else we'll never have a chance of actually reaching the place."

He breathed out. "It'll be a hell of a balancing act. Losing slowly enough that the Cycle won't escalate even as we thin their ranks, but not so quickly as to make Westeros collapse… and that's assuming Vajul can tie down a portion of the Walkers in the Grey Wastes."

Sansa turned to look at him, twisting within his arms. "It seems like such a long shot, doesn't it? So many things have to go right. The War of the Five Kings, Aegon, Daenerys, the Wildling Host, the East holding… and then the real war. Getting the lords behind us, managing the retreat south…"

"We need to be absolutely sure before we stake everything on it… all the more so given that we don't know how much more the Purple can hold," he said. It felt somewhat sturdier now, for the lack of a better word… though still a far cry from the cathedral of purple pillars it had once been. More a patched up Dragonpit than the Sept of Baelor.

Could it handle the strain of a new world a few more times? Could it two? One?

"We have to go at it with everything we've got Sansa. We have to get back to that late summer morning by all means possible. We have to do it at least one more time... And then we have to play every trick, every move, every magic at our disposal so we can get the Kingdoms ready…"

She stirred, "I've been practicing, following Vajul's advice. If I can follow the flow of power from the Comet to the ground, we'd know where to go. I still need a Glass Candle to get my bearings though; else it's like trying to find a needle in a continent…"

"We'll steal it from the Maesters, the green one. I know my way around the Citadel... and getting ahold of Archmaester Vaellyn's Key shouldn't be too difficult."

"Good." Sansa sighed, leaning on her back and staring at the ceiling. "I don't want to be here when Stannis arrives. The whole struggle will be pointless… all the more so if you get killed for the sake of a doomed world."

Joffrey nodded, "We could use somewhere quiet to study. You need to master far sight and I'm still searching around my soul for the module we learnt of in Carcosa. Giving the Purple more time would also be wise…"

"Somewhere quiet Joff. No intrigues, no Walkers, no battles…" Her smile turned wan as they felt the Red Comet blink in the distance like a gently flaring sun. "Somewhere peaceful," she whispered.

"Somewhere peaceful…" mused Joffrey.

-: PD :-

The morning was beautiful, the sun warming the onlookers as flocks of seagulls circled above, crying down for fish at the fishing boats moored around the docks and the sailors atop them.

"She's braver than she thinks," said Sansa.

"I know," said Joffrey, crossing his arms as he gazed at his crying sister, the barge taking her away from the harbor and towards the anchored cog past the breakwater. "I still have the urge to bellow at them to stop and come back."

"That would only give Doran more material to sway the Dornish lords… I may not agree with how Tyrion's been playing the Game, but he's already set the course."

"Doomed world or not, I hate seeing her go to that viper's nest," he whispered. He tried to shake off the guilt as he leaned on Sansa, "Our own ship should be ready the day after tomorrow."

She nodded grimly, "Oldtown… and then away. I'll be glad to leave this all behind," she said, looking down below where Tyrion and Cercei were quietly exchanging barbs, and the general state of the run downed harbor and the unemployed dockhands. Only the bravest or fastest merchant cogs still reached King's Landing, even though Stannis' fleet still had a ways to go before completely closing off the city by the sea.

By the time they'd realized about Tyrion's scheme to make Myrcella a ward of Prince Doran, it had been too late to stop it without serious repercussions. Still, Joffrey remembered she'd been okay at least up to his first death, and she'd be too valuable for someone as canny as Doran to simply dispose of…

He wondered why he cared so much about her fate, given that he'd all but condemned this world to die already. Was he a hypocrite? Was the specter of Myrcella freezing to death in less than ten years' time somehow better than letting her die to Melissandre's pyre? To Dornish poison?

He thought so, though he didn't know why. He'd been fighting against the inertia of fate for so long that to stop now, even in the privacy of his thoughts, seemed anathema. Even if their overall strategy spelled doom for everyone, he couldn't simply close himself off to the suffering in the here and now.

He snorted, adjusting one of the straps of his half plate. Wearing a little extra weight was a good way of rebuilding strength without devoting time specifically for it.

"What?" asked his wife.

"Brooding again," he told her with a wan smile, knowing she'd understand. He turned and walked up a few steps past the Great Septon still spouting off benedictions, and the gaggle of Redcloaks, Goldcloaks, and handmaidens waiting for the royals to get moving. "Let's round 'em up and get going Clegane," he said as he passed near the Hound.

He stopped when he reached his little brother though, and grabbed his shoulder. The sobbing boy started, looking at him in what could only be called fear.

"Goodbyes are always painful," he said, grabbing his chin and redirecting the boy's skittish eyes back to his. "It's like a raw wound somewhere you can't quite point to… do you feel it?"

He nodded jerkily.

"In time it'll feel lesser. It'll scab. Sometimes you'll pick at it and it'll bring forth pain and bitter tears…. But in time it'll heal and only a small scar will remain. Of that you can be certain, little brother."

Tommen stared at him, very still. "… Will I see her again?" he managed after a moment, swallowing snot and tears.

Joffrey grimaced, taking a handkerchief from the small pouch affixed to his half plate and using it to clean his cheeks. "You have to be strong during these next few days, whatever happens. Be strong for Myrcella," he said, shaking his shoulder lightly, "Can you do it?"

He nodded again, using the handkerchief to blow his nose. Joffrey smiled, "Good," he said before he walked up the long, open aired stairway, the Glodcloaks and Redcloaks quickly forming up around the group.

The procession walked through the streets of King's Landing, up through winding streets as they left the harbor and made for Baelor's Sept. The harbor district was an old acquaintance to Joffrey, and he knew its layout as well as he knew the Red Keep itself. He'd skulked in the shadows, shoving Littlefinger's patsies down rooftops. He'd bellowed and carried long pieces of timber, overseeing the reconstruction of the Royal Fleet after the War of the Three Stags. Here he'd often lost himself between the stalls so many years ago, just exploring the alleyways clogged with the scent of fresh fish and seasalt.

Most of all, he remembered how it burned. The Docks had been amongst the first parts of the city to feel the wrath of Daenerys Targeryen. He still remembered the image very vividly; the soaring grace of Drogon as it tilted its wings, the white-haired and carefree woman splaying her arms upwards as the dragon flew away. The pure orange-red emerging from the beast's mouth as it incinerated thatched roofs. The figures set ablaze as they fell to the ground, spinning.

"Joff, Joff," Sansa whispered urgently as she shook his arm. "Hm?" he grunted as he felt his hand reach for his pommel.

"Seven blessings upon ye Your Grace!" shouted someone from the roof of one of the houses.

"And to you, Goodman!" Joffrey shouted back, eyeing Sansa sideways. "Trouble?"

"Maybe. Look at their faces," she told him, and Joffrey realized the Goldcloaks leading the way had unwittingly led them through a crowded avenue, filled with the starving and the unemployed. He'd seen faces like that a thousand times. Hungry, angry, desperate. Some amongst the leering crowd were laughing, others just sat over low walls or abandoned merchant stalls, stone faced.

"Please Your Grace we're hungry!" shouted one.

Joffrey grimaced, "Let's pick up the pace," he said as he looked back, the Hound nodding as he relayed the order backwards. Tyrion was giving commands to Tommen's guards when the noise seemed to intensify, shouts of 'Stannis!' and 'Bastard!' coming to the fore.

"It'll blow before we reach the Sept. We should hole up in that townhouse up ahead," Sansa whispered quickly.

"Let's do it, and-" Joffrey was cut off when something brown and sticky impacted his cheek, dazing him for a second before he recovered his balance. The shouts and even a few screams increased in fervor as Redcloaks took out their swords in a chorus of singing steel.

"Sheath those swords!" Joffrey roared, turning back on the guards, "Sheath those swords!!!" he roared again, his voice cutting through the ambient noise and bringing down the overall racket.

"But Your Grace-" started one of the Redcloaks before Joffrey was upon him in an instant, his face a hair's breath away from his.

"Now soldier!" he said as he stared into his eyes and willed him to comply.

He did, and Joffrey nodded as he stood back, right wrist resting between the pommel of his hammer and his hip, the other ready to draw his arming sword. He surveyed the area as he scowled and forced his hands away from the weapons, looking at the crowd pressing against the Goldcloaks of the outer guard. If they made a run for it then today could end up a bloodbath.

"Stay with Tommen," he whispered to Sansa as he walked past her, his calm stride getting him past the Red Cloaks and up to the Goldlcoaks and the edges of the crowd. The smallfolk shuffled back as he kept walking, the Goldloaks too stunned to intervene as he entered the crowd.

Whatever the crowd had been expecting of their King, it wasn't this. His calm stride gave the people plenty of time to shuffle aside, though it was fast enough that he didn't become bogged down.

They looked gaunt, angry, even terrified. The foodstuffs from the Reach and the Riverlands had ground to a halt because of the war, and his past self's petty cruelty had deprived these men and woman of their only form of redress. Was it truly that surprising that the 'mob' of King's Landing was considered fickle and unreliable by the kings of the past?

The noise had died down considerably as Joffrey gazed at each of his subject's faces during his walk, the crowd parting from his path, unnerved by his steady walk. He committed their faces to memory; dirtied and sagging, sunken, holding that universal expression of pent up anguish. Joffrey reckoned that even half smeared with cow shit, his own face must have seemed like night and day compared to this sad gathering.

If he could remember even a single face of those present here and suffering, even if only for another life, then he'd count it time well spent. A few were slower to move aside than the rest, hard looking men with cudgels or rakes, bits of wood with a nail or two tacked on one end.

There must have been something in his stare, in the way he walked, for these men knew Joffrey felt no danger. One of them didn't budge, a big brute with a cobbler's hammer in his hands. He was leering when Joffrey came to a stop in front of him but a hand span away from his face, staring up at him.

Joffrey had waded through battlefields and wastelands, slaughtered his way past terrified levies and hardened armsmen, pummeled aside shrieking wights and chanting Brindled Men. He breathed deeply as he gazed at the man's eyes, not bottling the red whispers that begged him to smash the cobbler in two. He breathed them in, accepting them as he still did nothing.

Its name is Joffrey. I am Joffrey, he thought, breathing it out. Now was not the time.

The man stumbled away from him, white faced as he shoved people aside with trembling hands.

Joffrey sniffed slowly, cocking his head lightly before he kept walking at a different angle. The shit and grime smeared on the left side of his face was already crusting, but he didn't mind the feeling, nor the familiar smell… it seemed a rather small price to pay. These people were the first to die whenever ambitions clashed. Starved to death when the lords battened down the hatches and stopped the grain shipments; slain in battle when pressed into the Goldcloaks to defend the city; taxed to poverty to fuel the latest vision of the latest king.

The crowd kept parting as he reached a small half broken stall. Behind it hid a young man no older than perhaps fourteen namedays, pale faced and sweating like a pig as he frantically tried to clean his hands. He seemed petrified as Joffrey came to a stop in front of him, gazing at the dung by the ground before his eyes settled on him.

"Why did you do it?" he asked him, and the question seemed extremely loud to his ears. The crowd seemed all but silent, barely a hushed whisper floating atop the eerie silence.

"I-I- I'm sorry M'Gr-"

"I didn't ask you for an apology. I asked you why you did it."

"…. I… I was angry M'Grace," he finally stuttered, cringing.

"Why were you angry?" Joffrey asked him.

"I… my belly, M'Grace. It aches somethin' bad…" As Joffrey kept looking at him, he kept talking, "Lord expelled all the extra mouths from the keep, no work to be had in the country side with the war and all…"

"And so you came here…" Joffrey muttered. With their focus on the Red Keep and their lack of a spy network within the city itself, getting information from the capital had been hard… The situation seemed worse than they'd thought.

Joffrey leaned into the cringing man, pressing a copper star into his palm as he whispered, "It's not much given the soaring prices, but it'll get you through the week."

He seemed disbelieving as he stared at him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. "Thank you M'Grace, thank you!!!" he cried, standing up and all but running away. The bewildered onlookers stood aside as he ran by, then looked back at Joffrey.

He turned around as he gazed at the crowd, looking up at the people perched on the rooftops. "I know you're all hungry, and I know how you all feel," he said.

Disbelieving cries immediately flew over the gathering, but Joffrey's voice cut through it like a blade. "I know of the painful, empty aches. The way you drink water so you can feel something inside your belly. The way your skin burns when it peels off. The way your flesh shrinks and your bones stick up like torn tent-poles."

There was deathly silence as Joffrey turned again, his armor jingling as his eyes swept up the people looking at him from low walls or alleyways, side ramps and market streets.

"I know of your suffering, and every time I see your faces it fills me with grief. You didn't start this war, but you bear the price of its creation…" The crowd rumbled agreement, still somewhat confused as they talked amongst themselves. Joffrey pitched his voice to carry further, cutting off the buildup yet again. "And yet, even the smallest child knows the old adage, 'words are wind'. Let it be known that redoubled effort shall be placed on the building of fishing ships, and that new work camps shall be created along the Kingswood to acquire the required timber. Good coin shall be given for honest work and such work will soon turn into sources of food. The Kingswood itself shall be temporarily opened to royal hunters that will spread their bounty every week from the Dragonpit for free, and…" He trailed off as he saw a skeletal-looking urchin picking through discarded, rotten fruit on the ground, not caring or perhaps not even aware of Joffrey's presence.

He shook his head, "Let it be known the Red Keep shall share part of its food stores tomorrow morning with those who need it the most. We highborn got you into this war, we should share its burden as well," he said.

The noise picked back up with a will; the previous vicious edge to it fading into the background. The mob seemed abuzz with budding excitement and disbelief, people arguing with themselves as those closest to Joffrey kept staring at him. He walked back to the group, the crowd making way for him until he reached the procession.

Sansa nodded at him from the middle of the group. She'd been distracting Tommen, but he didn't miss the way her back was braced against a nearby wall, a score or so seagulls eerily silent as they lay perched atop windowsills and roof beams around her, awaiting but the silent command of their new mistress to strike and confuse the crowd should it all had taken a turn for the worse…

"The Father's own light shines within you, Your Grace," said the High Septon, wide eyed.

Joffrey stopped and scanned from head to toes the man popularly known as 'the Fat One', opulently dressed and living every letter of that name. "Perhaps Baelor's Sept could also join in the Mother's charity then, Your Holyness," he said.

"I- ah-"

"For truly are the Seven compassion itself, and so are their earthly voices. Are they not, Your Holyness?" he said as he tilted his head lightly.

"Yes! O-of course!" he blabbered.

Joffrey nodded, but before he called out for Sandor to make them all move again, his uncle grabbed his hand.

Tyrion was looking strangely at him, ignoring the both the crowd and the dignified shrieks of Cercei as she dashed towards him. He passed Joffrey a handkerchief, staring as he cleaned his face.

"Who are you?" he asked.

He smiled wanly. "Joffrey. Just Joffrey," he said.

-: PD :-