Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Joffrey walked through the Street of Steel, listening to the beat of the hammers. They were a powerful melody, a constant percussion of metal on metal, a rhythm arising from the simple beats which crawled over each other and built something greater than the sum of its parts.

The street was full to bursting. Crowds of people walked in and out of buildings, carrying raw ore to the furnaces that loomed high over the skyline, painting the horizon with black smoke. It warred against stormy clouds, black against grey, coal-fire against bone-chilling cold.

To his side Joffrey could see a warehouse filled with weavers, spinning wheels cackling like starved beavers on tender wood. The women were trawling away stack after stack of uniforms, all of them dyed Purple. Hundreds of crates had been stacked, uniforms upon uniforms for the Legions of Westeros. The spinning wheels added a buzzing quality to the beat of the hammers, building atop it and adding to the Song.

Joffrey thought the color was wrong. They should be dark, with orange accents; the cheapest and easiest dye to produce en mass. The Mopongo Slime was native to the Summer Islands, but it was suited to many climates… and when processed by a triple press of Yi-Tish design, the amount of dye extracted should exceed the output of even Tyroshi manufactories by far...

Down by the harbor he could see a vast flotilla of ships; Yi-Tish traders with sails crossed by reeds, Swanships and purpled Braavosi galleys, cogs and galleons from the Reach and the Vale and the Narrow Sea. They filled the bay, carrying supplies and men, thousands of dockworkers moving like ants as they shouted and hollered. The sound brought a strange sort of peace to Joffrey. It was a far cry from the quiet contemplativeness of the Heart Trees, but a soothing one nonetheless.

There was something substantial, immaterial to the laboring of men. Lazy grunts and hollered orders, quick conversations and moving wagons. The huff and puff of lifted crates and grabbed tools. The sound of men working for something they were part of and yet couldn't see. Something they couldn't smell and couldn't touch, though they could feel it all the same. That long unceasing buzz of sound set him at ease, adding another layer to the Song and granting it richness; a sort of vivid quality he could feel in his gut.

Joffrey spent a while listening to the beat of the hammers on steel, the melody a constant companion as he entered one of the smithies. He found a lit forge, the hammer waiting for him over the anvil as he grabbed a pair of tongs which already held a length of metal. The warmth of the forge bathed him; a core of scalding heat which energized him, filled him.

He started hammering, his clanging adding to the beat all around him; a lowly bass that framed the melody to a steady beat. He ordered the Song thus, reinforcing the vividness with every blow of his hammer.

"It'll be a potent transformation, what you'll bring to your land," said Captain Shah as he sat by the side of the forge. The serene Scout wore his old Long Patrol armor; long sand-grey leathers under scaled armor, a long overcoat swaying around him with the wind. The grey sands of the Beyond still clung to him, crusted in between the joints of his outfit.

"A necessary one, old friend," said Joffrey as he accelerated the rhythm, the melody gaining speed as he hammered the piece of metal with mighty swings. "I've been thinking lately, of what you told me back in the Grey Wastes."

"Always dangerous, that. We wouldn't want your brain to turn to mush, would we?" said Shah, grinning like the fool he was.

Joffrey grunted, smiling as he stopped hammering and raised the length of metal to his face. It was hot, his face heating up as he slowly turned the length of it around, examining it.

"I believe there's something… intrinsic, to man," he said, putting the metal against the anvil once more and lifting the hammer again. "To all men. Brindled. Winged. Hairy. Westerosi and Essosi," he said as he hammered it according to his will. Archmaester Benedict had often told him of the strange duality of the forge. Calm evaluation and passionate creation. Fury and patience. Art and science.

"The little flames," said Shah, smiling, "Small and yet burning so brightly."

Joffrey smiled as well, "I've been chased by a feeling, an intuition. It's almost an old friend by now… a certainty that we're something akin to unrefined ore, if you will," he said, concentrated on the beat of his heavy hammer. The smoke of the forge was intoxicating to the senses, filling his nostrils with the scent of oil and metal, coal and leather. "We were buried deep within the earth, alone and undiscovered, but now we've been dug up," he said, the melody growing in depth as the ghostly smiths around the city woke up and took hammer and tong, joining him.

Clang. The hammered in unison with him.

"Now the gaze of the sun blinds us. The winds of the world chip at us. We've woken to the truth outside the mine, the cavern; we've seen the stars and the truth of the world," said Shah.

Clang.

"A terrifying truth. An all-consuming beat," said Joffrey, a bead of sweat descending down his forehead as he changed his grip on the tongs. "But we can no longer be ore, not under the gaze of the stars," he said, looking up at Aegon's High Hill as he quenched the length of metal in a bucket of water. The Dawn Fort dominated the hill, tall towers of black stone shadowing the city. Beyond it stood its sisters; five forts on five hills.

"You'll mold them in your image," said Shah, gazing at the scores of legionaries donning black armor below the Dawn Fort. They were the smallfolk of King's Landing, grim faced and stern handed as they moved like knights before battle. The sound of a lumbermill's saw on ebonwood screeched in the distance, adding a low and constant buzz to the beat of the Song as the people grabbed weapons and armor.

Clang. Clang.

"Not my image," said Joffrey, "I'll turn my people into what they were meant to be, Shah. The old ways will not do against the coming Night." The hammering grew frantic as Joffrey slammed the length of metal back against the anvil and he hefted his hammer time after time. He'd almost forgotten how it felt to wield such a powerful tool, not to kill but to create.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The symphony of steel on steel grew, the rhythm filling him from the inside like an overflowing wine cup.

"No. If humanity is to survive, if the light of consciousness is to endure beyond this era, we'll have to forge ourselves into something greater. It's there Shah, nowhere and everywhere, held within the very means we have to experience the world," he said, eyes glazing as sparks jumped like streaks of lightning with each hammer blow, illuminating the forge with each hit. "It's behind every piece of music, every work of art. You heft it with our every tool. You taste it with every bowl of food. You hear it in every cry of ecstasy. You silence it when you kill." He'd found the rhythm he'd been looking for, the beat of the Song caressing his skin like a half-forgotten lover, an all-enveloping rapture. "Existence, Shah. Existence and Experience," he said, the last hammer blow illuminating the city like a newborn sun.

"We don't see the Cosmos… We are the Cosmos," he said as he dropped the hammer and the tongs.

CLANG.

The sound of the hammer slamming against the marbled floor dominated him, the Song holding its breath like a Braavosi Maestro holding his hand up; orchestra silenced for a single moment before the main piece that was to come, the climax of the symphony itching to start. He lifted the incandescent metal with bare hands, anvil and forge forgotten as he gazed at his creation.

Appraising eyes travelled down the length of the rod; it was made of refined copper, streaks of burnished orange shimmering under the light of the newborn sun. "What they were meant to be, Shah. Not ore, but ingots of purest metal. The little flames pooled together into one great bonfire that shall be our answer to the stars above. We shall be worthy. Death or victory, we shall be worthy... "

"For Dawn," said Shah, a tender smile on his lips as blood trickled down his mouth, a splotch of red emerging from the center of his armor.

"For Dawn, old friend," said Joffrey, smiling as he closed his eyes.

-: PD :-

The dream laid him down gently, a slowly spinning awareness that deposited him on the ground. He felt his back first, muscles cramped and hard. They were still unused to sleeping over rough terrain. His arms and legs came then, lying down by his sides and below, feeling stiff. His head felt light, his eyes opening almost hesitantly against the gently glowing sunlight. It seeped through the fabric of his small campaign tent, bathing his body in understated yellow.

A distant buzz zipped within his ears; conversations nearby growing and dying. They followed the Song even if they didn't realize it, molding it as it molded them. He could hear clanging hammers in the distance, the caravan's smith probably hard at work against the Queen's Wheelhouse yet again.

A long sigh escaped his lips, the dream still behind his eyelids as he closed his eyes again. It had been a while since he'd dreamt of Shah. The events of the Dawn Fort and the war that raged there seemed so long ago, as if they'd happened to another man. A man torn and beaten, seeing the doom of all and spitting in its eye. A man choosing to die with hammer in hand rather than live in shame. A man scarred and broken, held by the love and respect of comrades in arms, oblivious still to his origins and to his purpose. A man searching for truth like a godless prophet.

Joffrey was no longer that man. He was no Dawn Commander. Neither sailor nor captain. No reckless explorer and adventurer lost in distant jungles. No learned man of the Citadel and certainly no artist. He'd lived so long, held to so many identities, so many different hopes and struggles and dreams and nightmares... Sometimes, he wondered which one of them he actually was.

Which identity was the truth and which was the lie.

Truth was, he was both none and all of them at the same time. King and general. Lover and adventurer. Scholar and dreamer. He was Joffrey, and today he'd show another group of men what they were meant to be. Today, he'd be Commander. He listened to the Song for a while longer, letting his mind bask in it for a moment before it was time.

His eyes drifted to the tent flap a second before Barret opened it. The former Red Cloak gulped, staring at him for a second before regaining his composure. "They're ready," he said.

"I know," said Joffrey.

-: PD :-

"STAND!" roared Barret. Olyvar immediately straightened; halberd held by his right side, shoulders squared and chin up. It had been a bit more than a week since the King's Party had passed the Twins on its way North.

To Olyvar Frey, that might as well have been years ago.

His squad of ten straightened as well, the sound of shuffling armor and butting halberds dominating the small clearing by the road for a second. Ten smallfolk laborers clad in the same half-plate as him, the scion of a powerful Riverlander House. Days ago, the thought would have left him bewildered… now, he just prayed they'd polished their armor well.

Because if not, the Mother's own mercy would not save them from Olyvar's wrath.

"Recruits!" Bellowed the Crown Prince. He emerged from the right, striding at a sedate pace in half-plate identical to theirs save for the blackened sheen and the tabard over it. The tabard's design was far away indeed from the heraldry of the Baratheons of King's Landing; it depicted the Hand of the King locked in fist, silver against white.

Olyvar suppressed a scowl as he followed the Prince's stride, cursing his helmet's field of vision when the Prince momentarily disappeared from it. "I know you've been training hard, but what you've been through has not yet prepared you for the trials ahead. You are not yet Guardsmen, for you do not yet know what it means to be a Guardsmen," he said as he reappeared into Olyvar's view. He walked thoughtfully, halberd held over the shoulder and one hand resting between his plate and the pommel of the hammer by his waist.

Olyvar knew what being a Guardsmen meant. It meant endless drills, followed by more endless drills, followed by pointless running and pointless marching from side to side.

"You do not yet know what being a Guardsmen is, because it is something you can't know. It is something one understands. A bone deep certainty within you. A belonging one can't articulate into words. A certainty I believe you're finally ready to understand."

"Recruits, today will be a hard day," he said, planting his halberd on the floor. Joffrey was fond of pointless ramblings which made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but Olyvar found himself abruptly wondering what his cursed liege would consider hard.

Hard was repeating simple drills with 'his' men from dawn to dusk with a single half hour break in between. Hard was being woken up that very same night for a round of marching around the quietly laughing Red Cloaks of the Party's night guard. Hard was oiling and cleaning his halberd and armor every time a speck of dust settled on it. Hard was practicing polearm thrusts until his arms refused to move any longer.

He heard Lancel stifle something by his side. So, worst yet, he thought, trying to prepare himself for whatever was to come. By now wise to the ways of the Prince, he intuited the answer was torture.

"Today you'll be confronted by your own limits. Today you'll convince yourself you'll be a step away from dying. Today you'll wish you were dying," said the Prince. He walked with his back straight, hands behind it as he surveyed the troops. He carried a sort of silent dignity, a quiet presence that demanded everyone's attention no matter what you'd been doing a second ago.

Each Serjeant was standing in front of their squad by the side of the King's Road, and the noise of the King's Party had already overpowered that of the forest nearby. The King is probably waking up right now, thought Olyvar, ruthlessly suppressing a stab of envy. The days were he'd been allowed to sleep till after dawn, of waking up to a warm meal and not bloody warming exercises… it now all seemed but a child's dream.

"Today you'll be confronted by your own limits… and if you truly want to be Guardsmen, today you'll surpass them," he said as he settled into a wide legged stance, "Today the Royal Party is expected to make moderate progress before stopping for lunch, Wheelhouse willing," he said, leaning forward with a slightly maniacal grin that was swiftly smothered. "And today, we are going to beat it."

"Shit."

"What was that, Serjeant Rykker?" called out the Prince.

"Nothing, Commander!" he replied crisply.

"Sounded like grunt of expectation to me. Since you're so eager, your squad will take point," he said as he paced again, Renfred's squad stifling groans behind their superior.

"Aye, Commander!" shouted Renfred, undaunted.

Why are all the Serjeants such lickspittles? After everything this son of a whore has done to us? Was it because he was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms? It couldn't be that, Willard Mooton would hit the King if he'd felt disrespected by him, consequences be damned. He tried to fight off the devil whispering for him to throttle Renfred Rykker and his stupidly stern expression, as if waiting for the Prince's next command. Their self-styled 'Commander' wouldn't approve of it, but by now Olyvar felt just about to blow up.

He stayed as stiff as a statue, and hating himself for it. "This'll be a non-stop fast march in full armor and camp gear through rugged terrain. You'll be following stakes tied with colored ribbons which the Hound has generously laid ahead of you," he said, eyes suddenly turning serious. You could tell by the way the sharpened slightly, the presence becoming taut like a string about to snap.

The smell from the caravan's mobile kitchens was hard to ignore. The scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon wafted through the assembled men, carried south by a small breeze. It was enough to water Olyvar's mouth. A far cry from the hardtack and jerky they'd been fed this morning… and last morning, and the one before that.

"If any member of your squad is beaten by the Queen's bloody Wheelhouse, your whole squad will be doing strength exercises till dusk, and the honor of the Guard will be beyond you for the foreseeable future. I don't care if you fell down a bottomless pit, there will be no excuses!" he bellowed. "And if any piece of armor, kit, or –Father forbid- your halberd is missing on arrival, then the entire century will run back to get it. Am I understood?!"

"Aye, Commander!" bellowed Olyvar, more than fifty men and their Serjeants shouting with him.

"Then get to it! Go!" he said, and Olyvar felt as if a ghost had possessed him. He turned by instinct, bellowing at his squad of smallfolk to get in order. One of the ten –Klint- was a second slower than the rest as they turned for the march. Olyvar was upon him in an instant.

"Eyes ahead and halberd by your side! Look alive!" he shouted at the bastard. Klint looked back in something akin to loathing before giving out a muffled 'Aye, Ser.'

Slovenly wretch, thought Olyvar. His cousins had thought him kind hearted. This past week, Olyvar had discovered that he harbored an all-consuming hatred of mankind deep in his heart.

"At a quick jog!" he bellowed, and soon he was jogging with 'his' men, the block of smallfolk biting off curses and low looks as they marched by his side. Renfred's squad had taken point, marching crisply ahead of Willard's and Tyrek's squads.

Full kit over rough terrain, thought Olyvar, calculating the weight the men would be carrying. It didn't look good, depending on how long the run would last.

Wheelhouse willing.

Lancel's squad was right in front of Olyvar's, and the Frey scion picked up the pace a bit so he could catch up to him. Each Serjeant marched by side of their squad as the column of soldiers extended completely like a metal snake, with Joffrey at the head. They marched past the outer rearguard of the King's Party, and the Red Cloaks and Stormlanders lounging there didn't bother hiding their guffaws once the Prince had marched by, not even looking at them.

Self-righteous imbeciles, thought Olyvar. He'd bet even these ten wretches against the lounging fools one for one any time. Bet they haven't worked hard in years, he thought. They probably didn't even understand the concept of hard work. Gods, in what sorry state would he be left after four years of this? His legs would fall off.

And it's only been a week and half!

He shook his head harshly, now was not the time to despair. "Ho there, Lancel!" he grunted, taking care not to drop his halberd. Never drop your weapon had been one of the first lessons the Prince had taught him and his newborn squad.

"Pleasant morning for a walk, eh Olyvar?" said Lancel as Olyvar matched his pace to the other Serjeant's. The damned fool seemed chipper about all this.

The squads started jogging as they entered the forest nearby, leaving the slowly waking King's Party and the dreaded Wheelhouse behind. Lancel and all the other squads carried red ribbons tied to their forearms, the significance of which the other Serjeants had been unusually reticent in sharing. It made him feel excluded, him and 'his' squad.

"We spent the entire day yesterday marching in circles around the King's Party! And now the Pri- Commander decides to pull this? He wants to kill us?!" said Olyvar, jogging at a quick tempo with his halberd held against his shoulder with both hands. The terms of the agreement had seemed so bloody generous back in the Twins. Joining this 'Royal Guard' had seemed the obvious choice with so big a payout in the end. Besides, living and learning to lead and fight around the heir to the Seven Kingdoms for four years should have been an easy way to knighthood…

Knighthood.

The thought threatened to make him scream.

"Easy there, Olyvar," said the King's nephew, eyeing him sideways. "You and your men feeling okay for today? Ate light?"

"Yeah, they're all bloody accounted for. Just like the good little Serjeant that I am," he said. Gods, he needed more sleep.

Lancel smiled knowingly, shaking his head, "It'll be tough at first, Serjeant. But then…" Lancel trailed off, staring at nothing for a moment before he took a deep breath, "Then it'll all somehow fit. I promise."

Olyvar frowned, skipping a boulder as the trail kept growing smaller, the ribbon-tied stakes taking them further into the forest, "You sound as if you've done this before," he said.

"We've all done it. The Commander repeats it every time a new squad joins the century. Willard's did it a couple of days before we passed the Twins."

"Merciful Mother… that explains why they looked half dead back then. Why didn't any of you say anything back at the mess-hall?" he asked. They didn't even dine with the rest of the nobility, because of course their crazy liege preferred to make them all dine together with the smallfolk. He honestly shouldn't have cared about that, he'd dined many times with the Twin's servantry for one reason or the other, but nowadays everything Joffrey did felt like pulling at a rotten tooth.

"Commander always asks us to keep it quiet. Mine and Tyrek's was actually the first; only a few days off King's Landing… Gods, seems like an eternity ago. I think it was four days before Renfred's squad joined us," said Lancel.

Each Serjeant had a squad of ten men they were responsible for in every way. They'd train together, they'd eat together, and they'd sleep together. 'And if one of you dies, you'll all dig the tomb together,' the Prince had added in the end, sending chills down Olyvar's spine. He'd known the Prince possessed a certain… intensity about him the first time he saw him in old Walder's solar. If only he'd known.

"Best you get back to your squad. First time's always the hardest," said Lancel, eyes oddly solemn.

Olyvar nodded, dropping speed to match 'his' squad. They must be nearing the Neck, for the ground looked unusually moist, filled with reeds and leaves. The forests were turning more ragged as well, drooping trees and snaring vines which fit Olyvar's mood just about perfectly.

The ten members of his squad jogged silently by his side, like reticent donkeys clumsily plowing ahead. "Watch those steps, you could twist an ankle if you're not careful," he said. They huffed in acknowledgment, and Olyvar felt an irrational spike of anger. They reacted just as he did in front of the Commander. "And pick it up! I'll be damned if any of you slacks off. We'll not end up working till dusk while the other squads sleep like babies in a crib!" he snarled with quiet intensity. The men seemed to share his feeling, picking up just a bit more speed as the trail ahead grew rugged, tiny ledges and fallen trees starting to dot the way. It just served to make Olyvar angrier.

If the bloody 'Commander' thinks he can break me, he's got another thing coming…

-: Step – Step – Step – Step :-

A small creek passed his sight, his boots churning puddles and caking up with foul mud that smelled of Old Walder's chamber pot.

Olyvar didn't care.

Every breath was like a dagger shoved between his ribs and into his lungs, and yet he lusted after those stabs of pain unlike anything else he'd ever wanted; for behind every stab of pain was a blessed, holy intake of air. Precious air more intoxicating than strongwine, more intoxicating than even the foul concoction cousin Wendel had mixed for him once, when he took him carousing around the northern villages in what felt like a lifetime ago.

His boots climbed another fallen tree, and his eyes glazed over a stake with a piece of green ribbon tied over it. Each color had been supposed to mean something about their progress during the run… now they were just that, stupid colored ribbons littering the way.

How could something so precious be so abundant? How had he been so blind as to dismiss the very air around him as unworthy of his consideration? How, when every delay in its intake threatened to make Olyvar's lungs burn from within? If he'd snorted Wildfire, would it have felt similar to this?

Olyvar realized he was jogging alone.

He started, almost tripping and impaling himself on an upturned root. The squads had extended themselves like a piece of string; he could make out Lancel's last recruit about twenty paces ahead, turning a bend around a large willow. That meant…

He looked back, and realized he'd overtaken 'his' own squad by quite a distance. They seemed half-dead, barely moving their arms as they jogged with heads down, their halberds swaying above them like the antlers of some drunken stag.

We're not going to make it.

The thought of being subjected to Joffrey's fake disappointment was enough to jolt him out of his stupor.

"Keep up the pace! Come on!" he shouted as he slowed down, reaching the first man in the long tail. His voice sounded raw, and his throat felt parched. Water was a painful memory better off forgotten.

"Yes, Serjeant!" he said.

"Good man!" Olyvar said, letting the huffing recruits pass him. "Come on come on!!! Every step you take is a step closer to the end!" he said as another three men passed him, their stride just a tiny bit faster than before. He didn't know from where he'd gotten the strength to speak again, but once he started Olyvar found he couldn't stop.

"Come on recruits! You want to make the fucking Commander pity you?!" he bellowed as he reached the tail end of his squad and thus the entire century.

One of the three men at the end scowled, spitting a tiny sliver of glob, "Fuck that!" he said, gaining speed. Here, with these men, no one was afraid of insulting the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms; a rare quality in a group of men be they noble or smallfolk. In fact, insulting the Commander inside the relative privacy of the squad tent was a guilty pleasure of them all.

"Then pick it up, Robben!" Olyvar said, falling in beside them, "What about you, Galv? Fancy carrying weighted armor once we finish?!"

"No, Serjeant!" said Galv. He'd been a baker's apprentice near Darry, before he'd signed away his freedom in exchange for the Seventh Hell.

"Fancy there'll be any bread left if we keep running at this pace?!" shouted Olyvar, something red and hot simmering in his chest. What was going on with him? His mood had swung from almost drunken stupor to murderous rage in less than a minute.

Gods, I'm just so fucking tired of this.

"No, Serjeant!" said Galv.

"Then how much food do you think we'll get if we're beaten by the fucking Wheelhouse!" he shouted.

"None, Serjeant!" said Galv. He'd been a little fat around the edges, the day Olyvar met him and they'd assembled a squad for him out of the hopefuls the Prince had been trailing behind. Now he looked like another man.

"Do you want that, recruit?!"

"No, Serjeant!"

"Then why are you slowing the squad down?!"

Galv picked up the pace, huffing loudly and holding the side of his chest. Olyvar was about to lay unto Klint when he realized the man was actually keeping pace with Galv and Robben.

He scowled, biting off the words before Klint turned his head to look at him.

"Say it anyway, you were going to do it without even looking," he spat.

Olyvar shook his head, "What's your fucking problem, Klint," he said, jogging next to him and wrenching the halberd from the tree branch it had snagged unto.

"Really? Here… of all… places…" huffed Galv, holding his sides.

They half crouched, half ran through a thicket of broken willow branches, slapping long tails of green that clung to their by-now dirty breastplates. Cleaning those would be hell.

Klint was red faced, slapping aside willow branches with wide swings of his halberd, "Maybe I'm just tired of your sneering, Serjeant," said the man. He took another big breath as they emerged from the veritable forest of hanging branches. "Maybe I'm just tired of you strutting about like you own us," he rasped.

Olyvar reared back, his face flushing red as he growled, "You and the rest of fifth squad are under my responsibility. One of you shits where you're not supposed to, it's my hide that gets tanned by the Commander!"

"And yet here you are-" said Klint, pausing for another breath, -"running ragged just like the rest of us. You're not our better, so you should stop strutting around like you expect us to be your manservants. You're just the spare Walder Frey decided to gift to the Commander. One less mouth to feed in exchange for the Crown's favor," he spat.

Galv and Rollen gasped, and not from the exertion.

Olyvar felt as if he'd been slapped- no, right now he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, complete with the lack of air. This time the bastard had gone too far.

"You willing to back that up with more than just words?" Olyvar said, dangerously low.

"Tonight, after the Commander retires for the evening. There's bound to be a nook around here somewhere where I can smack your teeth in," said Klint.

Brawls were strictly forbidden. Olyvar didn't care. What was the Commander going to do? Make him work harder? "We'll see who gets his teeth smashed in, bastard," he said with relish. Klint Rivers scowled, balling his fists.

They kept running, taking care not to fall into the little ledges along the way; they were descending now. By now intimately familiar with the local geography, Olyvar thought that meant another climb would beckon soon. The churning anger deep inside his chest kept him running though, the anticipation of the fight sustaining him.

-: Step – Step – Step – Step :-

Each step carried them closer to the end of this madness.

This Agony.

They'd started collecting members of their squad for a while now; lagging recruits who could no longer slack off under Olyvar's gaze. None of them had seen the tail end of Lancel's squad for a while now… and that meant they were getting left behind. The thought carried a strange emptiness that made Olyvar frown and his steps quicken.

"Keep running! Hold those halberds tight!" he bellowed, gripping the side of his belly in pain. Each breath was shallower than the last, but they had to be getting closer, they couldn't be too far away. How much time had they been running anyway?

Olyvar's muscles didn't burn any longer, they just ached with a sort of empty hollowness even worse than mere pain. His breaths were short and shallow, each one sending ribbons of pain down his throat, as if bits of flesh were streaming inside it like the fucking ribbons they kept passing. He felt he was going to faint.

And then the climb started.

-: Step – Step – Step – Step :-

Olyvar's head buzzed strangely, and he forced himself to take a just a bit more air with each breath, withstanding the long stabs into his sides.

However penny-pinching, he'd been raised in a wealthy household. Well-fed since childhood and not unfamiliar with the rigors of what he'd –hysterically enough- had used to think of as a rather strict Master-At-Arms. His squad had not enjoyed the same.

Just ahead of him, Galv clutched his belly as he slowed down. "Keep going!" rasped Olyvar, throat dry.

Galv shook for a moment before puking his breakfast; grabbing unto a chestnut tree for support as his other hand stabbing the halberd into the ground. He swayed dangerously as the rest of the squad passed him by, shouting ragged encouragements.

"Come on Galv! We're not leaving anyone behind!" Olyvar rasped, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward. Galv swayed, aiming at the other side before vomiting again. He shook his head, dazed as Olyvar kept him from falling. "We need to keep up, we need to keep up!" he roared in his face, trying to make him understand.

Galv nodded, grabbing his halberd firmly with both hands and scrounging his face as he ran faster, uncaring of the bits of regurgitated jerky that had stuck to his breastplate.

The climb turned steeper, knees burning as more and more recruits started vomiting their breakfast. "Let's go! Let's go! Keep it up! We'll raid the cooks for more!" Olyvar bellowed, though he didn't know how he could, his chest ached so hard he could barely get out the words. He shoved and pulled the lagging members of his squad, pressing them for just a bit more effort. They were close to the finish line. That was what the yellow ribbons meant, he was sure of it.

His men's huffing and puffing muted the sounds of the forest, birds flying away as when they heard the groans and the cries of pain. Their backpacks jingled with every step, and Olyvar realized Klint of all people was falling behind, his feet shuffling as his halberd drooped.

"Come on Klint," said Olyvar as loud as he could. It came out as a ragged whisper.

"I can't," Klint whispered back, drooling bile over his plate as he kept slowing down, "Tell him I couldn't, tell him a quit," he said.

"You can't quit, not any longer," said Olyvar, keeping pace with him and trying to think of anything but his burning legs.

"I… I can't… I'll be an outlaw. I'll take the noose… please…" said Klint, stumbling and almost falling face first into the rocky ground. The climb was relentless in its hatred of all that breathed, and it wasn't- it couldn't let up.

Olyvar grabbed him by the other arm, almost tripping himself as he avoided a boulder. "Fuck that. Nobody's going to hang a member of my squad damnit! Least of all that golden-haired fucker!" he shouted, or at least that's what he tried to say. It came out as a sort of primal growl instead, though Klint seemed to get its meaning all the same. The bastard sounded out what could be charitably called a chuckle, holding tight to Olyvar's arm as they returned to their previous pace.

A couple of hares dashed below them, almost making them trip. They managed to keep going though, the sun cooking them inside their plate.

Olyvar half dragged Klint with his right hand, side by side with the man as he took another breath of air. "Robben! Jost! Don't stop now! Keep those feet moving!" he said from behind them; the pair picked up speed again as Klint and him reached them. His men seemed like corpses. They were all corpses picking their way through the Seventh Hell, wondering where they'd died.

He'd only wanted to serve someone important, anyone really. Be made a squire, get a knighthood eventually. Hells, he would have settled for pagehood. All he'd wanted was to leave the Twins, be someone, do something beyond the stifling life under his head of house. The laughingstock of the Riverlands. All he'd wanted was to be away from that toxic mire and excel at something. Anything.

Had that been too much to ask? A part of some higher Lord's retinue? A place by his table, earned through skill and effort and loyalty? Was it really too much to ask?

Olyvar felt a deep source of unwellness within him; a nauseating twirl within his belly, his chest, everywhere. He was dying, the wrongness climbing his throat like slowly seeping lava, an agony that made him wish it was done and he were dead already.

His pace was cut in half, and he almost fell to the ground as his chest spasmed inwards as if he'd been rammed with his own halberd. He puked the light breakfast he'd eaten in what felt like years ago, the torrent of food dirtying his plate and his breeches, though he couldn't care less about that.

"Another step… come on," whispered Klint. Olyvar turned his head to look at him, dizzy as his feet refused to keep moving. He barely managed to look down as another blow hit him and he puked again. He splattered bile all over the other man's breastplate, dirtying the heraldless tabard with his own innards.

"Another… step... Or do you… wanna'… forfeit… the fight…" Klint whispered in his ear.

Olyvar growled, taking in a shuddering breath of air as he tried to walk faster. He spasmed again, bile dripping from his dried, cut lips.

"Don't be… a coward…" rattled Klint, "I don't… hit… so hard…" Every word was followed by a desperate gasp, as if he were two spent words away from choking to death.

Olyvar growled again, the walk turning into a small jog. They rejoined the rest of the squad, still holding unto each other as Olyvar realized they'd reached the peak of the climb. The sun was shining bright overhead, and he could make out the Queen's Wheelhouse rolling slowly over the King's Road, not yet reaching the ribbons farther ahead still.

There was still time.

The sight seemed to embolden his men, and they picked up speed during the descent. Olyvar was not feeling quite human any longer, instead he was this thing.

He didn't know what the thing was. He felt strange, a multitude of sensations clamoring for his attention even as his mind was content to ignore them all. He felt sore in places he hadn't even known existed. He felt as if he'd been pressed under Riverrun's waterwheels, ground to paste and spat on the other side.

He felt bile on his chin, reeking something fierce, though curiously enough he didn't mind the smell much. He was all upside down, inside out. One of the men –Jost- had peed his leather breeches. Olyvar thought he might as well do that himself.

The aches, the pain, they were all kind of melding with each other, forming a strange whole that breathed. In and out. The agonized huffing of the men seemed everywhere; it enveloped Olyvar, made him one with them. He realized they were all this thing; a singular, dying behemoth.

Olyvar turned to his right, vomiting more bile before returning his sight forward. There was only the run. There was only his men.

"No man left behind," he growled, passing a hand over the back of Jost's neck as he and Klint reached him, making sure he didn't fall behind.

"Stop… please…" ragged the smallfolk.

"No man… left behind…" whispered Olyvar.

The three of them supported each other; when one insisted he couldn't possibly keep going, the other two pulled and whispered encouragements.

The behemoth was still dying though, and all things came to an end in this life. Olyvar's men soon jogged in pairs, even trios, holding each other. Though Jost had moved forward, Olyvar and Klint remained in the rear guard, pushing and shouting at any that came close. By now Olyvar was weeping silently, sluggish tears sliding down his cheek in an infrequent tempo dictated by the rise and fall of some deep, inner agony. They were all crying, for they would soon be dead and know the blessed joy of oblivion. Slowly, the aching emptiness consumed them.

The squad had almost stopped, the behemoth breathing its last when suddenly he was there, like a streak of black and white lighting; loud and demanding and all-encompassing. "KEEP GOING!" roared Joffrey Baratheon as he barged into the middle of the squad, halberd still in hand. "KEEP MOVING THOSE LEGS!" he roared in Robben's ear, the man shuddering and somehow running faster. He pulled and harangued, propelling men forward as he kept roaring.

Joffrey's face was covered in a sheen of sweat, halberd held in one hand like an oversized arming sword. In a second, he was beside Olyvar and Klint. "You want to be a soldier?! You want to shake Westeros to the core!?"

Klint growled with unexpected ferocity, pulling Olyvar forward. How could he?! How could a man hold so much breath after this?

"What of you Olyvar?! Will you fade into obscurity?! Will you be another Frey spare, used and forgotten?!" roared Joffrey, his face suddenly looming over him, steel-green eyes staring into his soul.

Olyvar gave a wordless cry; a mixture of bellow and grunt and sob. He pulled his weight, still holding on to Klint as the two ran with all they had, all they were.

"This is war! This is what death and battle will feel like! Agony and sorrow all encompassing! Only you and your brother-soldiers against the End!" roared Joffrey, the men giving out a wordless bellow like a wounded animal.

"If you win this, if you dare win this, you'll be My Decree! My Guard!" roared the Commander.

They all broke out of the forest, the sun suddenly blinding like an exploding mill. They ran into trodden wheat fields swept sideways by the wind, wispy tails brushing Olyvar's legs.

"You'll be knights of will and grit! Soldiers that will change a continent! My Will! My Fists!!!" roared the Commander, and Olyvar wanted to be that will, that terrible fist, unknowable and unstoppable.

"The Wheelhouse is still away! You can still win this! You can still be worthy!" said Joffrey, and Olyvar took a shuddering breath as he lifted his head and looked to his right. He could see the King's Road, he could see the dreaded Wheelhouse slowly making its way towards the field of red ribbons, towards…

Olyvar realized the entire century was waiting for them, two ranks; one kneeling and the other standing, arms over each other's shoulder, interlocked. Smallfolk and nobles. Serjeants and recruits. A wall of steel awaiting its brethren.

"Come oooon!!!" roared Olyvar, his roar shrill. His men took it up, somehow, somehow screaming through snot and tears, somehow finding within themselves the will to go on. The strength to join that dream, that promise. He dared believe, and in that instant Galv fell.

He'd been turning to look at Olyvar, turning to better pay attention to what his Serjeant was screaming. He stepped into a hole in the field, his foot twisting painfully as he groaned in pain.

No.

He fell like a statue, the look of sheer surprise and sudden dread searing into Olyvar's memory before he slammed against the wheat field in a sprawl of limbs and steel, halberd tumbling down by his side.

No…

He reached his side in a heartbeat. "Come on Galv, come on," whispered Olyvar, trying to help him stand up as he extended an arm to his prone form. Galv tried, he tried with everything he had, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to stand up and he leaned on his bad leg. It jolted him like a lightning strike, making him fall to the ground again with a scream.

Failure.

"Come on Galv, come on," begged Olyvar as him and Klint tried to lift the man between them; but their strength had deserted them, and they almost fell beside him. He looked to the Wheelhouse, and realized it would reach the flying red ribbons in moments.

They had failed.

"Hold on, soldier," said a voice by Olyvar's side, and with a low growl Joffrey Baratheon grabbed the fallen recruit. The growl kept rising in volume until it was the roar of a giant unchained, muscles bulging under tanned leather around the places where the plate didn't cover them. Joffrey Baratheon lifted up Galv in one single motion; his steel plate screeching against Galv's as he put him across his back and shoulders in what Olyvar distantly remembered him calling 'the Guardsman's carry'; sideways against his back and gripping one leg and one foot.

He accommodated his grip on Galv, the recruit's backpack snagging awkwardly with Joffrey's own. He didn't complain, didn't say a thing as he put man, plate, and kit atop himself.

"Pass me that halberd, Serjeant," he said as he looked at Galv's fallen weapon.

"… Commander…" Olyvar whispered.

"Guardsmen don't drop their weapons," he said by way of answer.

Olyvar held it out to him, but Galv grabbed it first. The sobbing recruit grabbed both his and Joffrey's halberds, pressing them sideways against Joffrey's chest and using them to reinforce his grip on the Commander. The Wheelhouse was almost to the flags, the servants and the party's outriders looking at them with snorts and shaking heads as they broke out stools and cooking utensils.

"Onwards!!!" roared the Commander.

They jogged, no, they ran across the fields, his squad around him. Olyvar ran next to Galv and his Commander, Klint taking up the other side; halberds against their shoulders like an honor guard. Joffrey grunted every second step, golden hair stuck against his helmet as rivulets of sweat descended down his face, legs pumping like some sort of unstoppable clockwork mechanism.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry Commander-" sobbed Galv, holding tight to the Commander and the halberds as their chestplates clashed with each other after each step, a rhythmical beat of steel on steel.

"You're to be a Guardsman. It's important you know our guiding principle," said Joffrey.

"Blood… Blood and Mud?" he said.

"Those are our Words, recruit."

"T-then..?"

"For the Living, Galv. For the Living," he said, oddly serene.

"For the Living," whispered Galv, as if the words held the secret to the universe.

The men, the soldiers by the finish line were silent, but their gaze screamed encouragement; their grips tense, their knuckles white. They tilted forward as the squad tried to reach the line before the Wheelhouse, looking like a grey riverwall about to give out under the weight of the earth behind.

More than his Commander's speed, Olyvar was stunned by the sheer intensity of the man. He'd never seen the Crown Prince like this; never imagined a man could be so focused. His eyes never deviated from the flags, and his face might as well been made of marble for all the exertion he showed at carrying a man in plate and kit besides everything else. He was an irresistible force propelling them all forward, their ails dissipating as they ran for the stakes, as they ran for the little forest of red ribbons that promised to defy a continent.

"We're not going to make it. You'll have to be faster than this, Olyvar," said the Commander, still gazing forward as he ran.

Olyvar eyed the carriage, and then the line of waiting soldiers. He gazed at the line of swaying red ribbons, streaming under the wind, defiant. He snarled as he felt bile rising within his throat, and he spat it quickly to the side. Behind it though another thing rose from his belly; a burning sensation a hundred times more potent. A hundred times more intoxicating.

"ffffFFFFIFTH SQUAAAD! CHAAARGE!!!" roared Olyvar, and his men roared with him. It was as if Olyvar had bewitched them. Instinct took over, thousands of drills condescend into a simple set of movements. They sprinted across the golden fields like men possessed, halberds forward and lowered, carrying the roar like a battlecry; hopes and dreams and glimpses of a strange unity propelling them forth. Joffrey ran by their side, carrying Galv at a full sprint, face slowly reddening as he sprayed drops of sweat over the field.

They reached the stakes in a sudden rush, and the Red Cloaks sitting nearby stumbled up or scrambled back, retreating from the ferocity writ clear on the faces of Olyvar's men.

His legs wanted to keep moving, but Olyvar forced them still. He came to a stop with the rest of his squad, standing uneasily as he blinked at the befuddled servants and startled guards. A strange silence descended upon this little patch of the King's Road, his body and mind bizarrely attuned as he felt every speck of air entering his lungs, the colors of the wheat field somehow sharper, as if he'd realized he was in a dream; wide swaths of gold and amber swaying under the northerly gusts. He breathed in the scent of oil and sweat and smoke, the weight of his armor indistinguishable from that of his body. It lasted less than a thought and more than a war.

Was it really over? He turned to look at the stakes and realized the Wheelhouse was just now passing them. He swore he'd barely been a few steps ahead of it. How long had he been standing here?

He took a moment to gaze at his men, feeling a surge of pride. Joffrey gently lowered Galv next to his squad mates, the men still gripping each other so they wouldn't fall, and Olyvar felt the surge of pride grow and grow and grow. He felt it was going to burst out of his chest, a golden glow he couldn't control, a glow that would kill him at last.

The line of awaiting Guardsmen slammed into them; a wave of sound and metal cheering and hollering as if they'd just won the Rebellion. Men slapped palms against his back, other shouting as they held his shoulders. "Congratulations, Olyvar. You made it," said Lancel, smiling as held up a piece of red ribbon, the recruits making space for him.

Olyvar eyed it dumbly before collapsing forward, but Lancel caught him in a firm yet gentle grip. He couldn't control the tears that wracked him then, slowly coming out of his eyes like puss fleeing an infection.

"It's okay, we've got you. It's okay," whispered Lancel, grabbing him firmly by the back of the neck.

"Make room! Open the circle!" he heard Serjeant Willard shout, and Olyvar suddenly found himself held up by two men, his squad and all the others making a circle of interlocked arms. Joffrey stood in the middle, holding up a big waterskin in one hand. Someone had passed one to Olyvar as well.

"Fifth squad! Serjeant Olyvar!" he roared, holding up the waterskin. The entire century held theirs up to the air.

"Blood and Mud!" he said, and drank.

Olyvar gulped the water down. Its taste was to Arbor Gold like Arbor Gold was to cheap swill. He felt as if he were drinking from a holy spring straight out of the stories, a cold wide rush descending down his torso and revitalizing him. He reveled in it, holding the waterskin up and letting the water fall over his head, wiping out the traces of bile and sweat as the water traversed him completely, seeping under his armor and cleansing him.

The wineskin empty, Olyvar looked around the circle. Klint was holding one of his shoulders, Robben the other. They looked different. Could simple water change a man's face so completely? They looked around like newborns, blinking slowly under the noon sun, the rest of fifth squad by their sides and the rest of the century as well; one great circle of steel. One newborn beast.

The Commander planted the butt of his halberd on the mud, and the movement felt oddly ritualistic. One foot slightly forward, head bowed down lightly, the halberd's butt brutally against the ground like spearing a hog. He stepped back from it with a satisfied nod, as if at ease with the world.

Olyvar realized he was still holding his. Of course. A Guardsman never left his weapon.

"Blood and Mud," said Olyvar as he planted it on the ground with surprising strength, the rest of the men doing likewise in a short cacophony of thumps and grunts.

"Now you see… Now you see what we'll become," said Lancel, grabbing him by the shoulder like a brother would.

A Behemoth, thought Olyvar, singular and terrible and not at all dying.

No, far from it. It would be alive.

-: PD :-