Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Joffrey entered the small wooden house at a brisk pace. The muffled yelling increased in volume until he reached the second door, the floorboard cracking as he opened it to the sight of a dozen Maesters and double the acolytes locked in vigorous discussion; one of them was even halfway across the table, trying to rip a book from his colleague's hands.

"I have about twenty minutes, so let's make this one quick," said Joffrey, taking a discarded chair and righting it with its back towards the table. Should have enough time to get this over with and get a bit more presentable. The room descended into silence immediately, chains jingling awkwardly as the Maesters looked at each other on the down low.

Joffrey snorted as he sat on the chair, arms over its back. He'd forgotten how lively academic discussion could get behind the placid façade the Citadel liked showing to rest of the west. "Let's hear it then," he said.

They all erupted at once; the wall of questions, assertions, and plain old yelling slammed into him like an enraged raven. "Alright, that was a bad idea!" Joffrey shouted over them, signaling to one of the younger Maesters that seemed about to piss himself. "Let's take it one at a time. Maester Galwyn, your thoughts?"

Blessed silence returned as the brown bearded Maester clenched his teeth. "This… this…" Galwyn seemed out of breath, grasping the piece of parchment like a lifeline. "This- it'll change everything!" he gasped, two of the other Maesters crowding him with their heads as they struggled for another look, whispering furiously to each other.

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Liked it?! Prince Joffrey, this will revolutionize scribing! Seven Above, why even have scribes when you can 'print' a thousand books in the time it takes to copy one!" he said, slamming a palm against the table in his enthusiasm.

"Pardon my Prince, but the acolytes will be out for your blood. You've just rendered half their source of income obsolete," rumbled Maester Lanfred, leaning back on his chair by the other side of the table while the two dozen acolytes standing behind and around the table tried very hard not look at Joffrey.

"No need to worry about that, they'll have their hands full by the time we really get going," he said. "I need a prototype built within the month, can you do it?"

Maester Galwyn gulped. "Ugh, well. I suppose it's possible-"

Joffrey interrupted him, patting the table with a gauntleted hand. "What did I say about treating Prince Joffrey?"

Galwyn stuttered to a halt before smiling sheepishly. "Truthful and to the point, my Prince?"

"Aye," said Joffrey, nodding deeply at the man like a proud parent. There was enough work to do without having his own cabal of Maesters beating around the bush for fear of royal retribution. "How soon can you have a proof-of-concept?"

"Hrm. Well, that's the thing. These rotary wheels, they're far too complex," he said, pointing at the diagram on his hand.

"I feared that would be the case. What if we replace it with wooden rails?" Joffrey said.

"That could work... but the wood itself would need to be quite resistant, else the rails would be liable to snap-"

"Build them out of Ironwood, they'll be so thin it wouldn't cost much," said Maester Yardyn. The heavy set northerner could have impersonated Jon Umber's son, if he'd exchanged his chain for a battleaxe and the clean chin for a fully grown beard.

Galwyn narrowed his eyes, "The cost of the materials themselves wouldn't be prohibitive, but getting ahold of a master carver who's an expert in Ironwood-"

"I'll speak with Lord Stark. I'm sure something can be arranged with Lord Forrester; Ironrath has the finest carvers in Westeros," said Joffrey. The benefits of an enthusiastically cooperative Ned Stark keep popping up left and right...

"Yes, yes- and the blocks can be made out of oak, we'll have to carve hundreds but they'll be easy to make anyway," said Galwyn.

Joffrey hid a smile. Most of the Maesters here were middle aged, learned but not set in their ways. Livelier too, he thought.

"So, a month?" he asked.

"Hrm. I don't think so, maybe three. After that we should be able to quicken the pace. How many were you thinking for the second run?"

"A hundred."

The entire table reared back in shock, but Joffrey leaned over and placed a hand on Galwyn's shoulder before the poor man fainted. "Don't worry, that's for the long term. Three months is okay, you'll need as much to find a suitable artisan for the picture blocks. And the Ironwood will take that much to reach King's Landing anyway."

And don't even get me started on the headache that's paper. I wish I could abduct the entire complement of Bronze Scribes back at the Dawn Fort.

"M-me?" asked Galwyn.

"Yes, you," said Joffrey, patting him in the back. "I'm naming you leader for this project. That means you'll be in charge of it, but don't go bossing around your fellow Maesters for nothing; you may find yourself under their lead in another project."

Galwyn jerked his head up and down, returning his gaze to the diagram with such intensity that Joffrey feared it would burst into flames.

He held back a snort, drawing that 'old fragment of Yi-Tish wisdom' out of memory again would be a pain. He'd even gotten the northern dialect right on the calligraphy, for added authenticity… not that it'd needed it.

And it only took me sixteen tries, he thought happily. "Maesters Yardyn and Doleos," he said, nodding at each. "You'll be under Maester Galwyn on this. Any requests you have, make them through him. If it's too expensive for the ink chest, he'll have to come to me." The Maesters nodded, descending into whispers as they stood up and reached Galwyn, pointing fingers at the diagram.

The ink chest was their war chest of sorts, the amount of golden dragons Joffrey gave them on a monthly basis. In typical Westerosi fashion, the smallfolk working around here had soon started calling them his 'Ink Group'.

Delegate, Delegate, Delegate. All he could was set them on the path, there was simply too much to do for anything else to work. Which leads us too…

"Maester Lanfred, thoughts?"

Thick black curls covered half the man's face like a curtain as he leaned forward, setting his chin over his hands. "An elegant design, my Prince. Did you think of it yourself?" he asked. His voice had a deep, cavernous quality to it.

A different sort of curiosity as well. He decided to be truthful, though he had to be careful. Too many sudden inventions and people would start asking… well, more questions. The Tourney of the Hand had already raised enough eyebrows for this year.

"In part. The idea has been making the rounds around my head ever since I saw Riverrun's wheels, though it wasn't until I spoke of it to a blacksmith in the Twins that it really blossomed."

"I see. And did this blacksmith accompany you south? It would be quite helpful to have him in hand for the construction itself."

Joffrey frowned, "I'm afraid he couldn't quite up and leave, due to various circumstances."

Maester Lanfred nodded slowly, eyes returning to the diagram he'd been quietly examining moments ago. "The Water Hammer will triple the efficiency of the forging process, at the very least. Apprentices will be able to help out in other tasks instead of spending half their hours hammering metal; that will be another increase in man-hours. The first Waterwork will be ready in less than three months, provided ample use of manpower. With by-then experienced building crews I'll get one up every two months, more if I split the veterans after the fourth."

Lanfred looked up from the sketch, "You do want a great quantity of these new smithys, I assume?"

Joffrey tapped his chin. Maester Lanfred was exercising some initiative already... and thinking ahead. "Indeed I do. In fact, if you can get me three of these by the end of the year I'll be quite impressed. Lets see if you can surprise me.

The man's hum was like a struck tuning fork. He looked to his side and down the length of the table. "It's possible, but I'll need Maesters Hart, Kryston, and Felden."

The alluded Maesters sat up from their discussion. "Why them?" asked Joffrey.

"Hart for his red gold, Kryston for the yellow, and Felden because of his hard head," His lips turned into a minuscule smile –the first Joffrey had seen on him- when Maester Felden chuckled. "We both apprenticed under old Benedict. If anyone can argue stubborn Master Blacksmiths out of their old ways, it'll be him," he said.

Architecture, finance and logistics, and finally another steel link to help him out with the forging process itself. Yes, I believe I'll be keeping an eye on the esteemed Maester Lanfred.

"Done. Maester Rickahm, the spinning weavers?" said Joffrey.

"I think they'll be easier than anything else you've dropped on us, but that's not what bothers me," said the Maester, slowly twisting his great girth so he could look at Joffrey. "This new design will force us to radically rethink the workplace and even the process of weaving itself. I-"

"Pardon, m'Prince. It's Lady Sansa," said Barret as he peeked in by the door.

Time already?

"Shit," said Joffrey, standing up. "Build a team and come up with a list of possible issues and solutions. Find me in the Red Keep tomorrow morning."

"Not tonight?" he asked.

"No work at the feast, Maester Rickham. We've talked about this," he said with a smile. The acolytes seemed relieved, bless their souls. "I'll expect to see you there."

"We will, Your Highness," he said as he stood up. They all stood up, their chains jingling once more as they bowed. Joffrey suppressed a sigh as he nodded, Barret holding open the door as he left them to it.

The more informal he tried to be with them, the more respect they shoved back. He wondered what his past self would have thought of that fact, and of his mild irritation with it. Men idolized leaders, and the more he led the more they would idolize him… kingship would only make it worse.

Barret strode quickly to the next door, but Joffrey picked up the pace and opened it himself. He shielded his eyes as against the afternoon sun hitting him directly in the face, and from the midst of its orange sheen walked Sansa, enveloped in silver and white. The wrap dress flattered her form, accenting the neckline with generous cuts that focused the eye on the black pearl necklace that doubled around her neck. The hemline was short, cutting above the knee, but the piece boasted long legs instead of the traditional gown, lending the attire a hardy, rustic air that made the subtle luxuries like the silver hair pin or the thin golden bracelet all the more alluring.

"My love, you look absolutely stunning," said Joffrey as he embraced her.

"Yes, quite," she said, hands by her side. Joffrey frowned as he let go. He blinked the orange spots out of his sight, and realized Eddard Stark was standing right beside his betrothed; a long suffering ice statue with troubled eyes.

"Ah, my Lord Hand," he said, nodding in his direction with an awkward grin.

"Prince Joffrey," rumbled the ice statue. Seven Hells, this is the strangest relationship I've had with Ned Stark since… since I cut off his head.

The Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and abrupt confidant of the Last Heroes of Dawn, did not look amused. "I realize it may seem… strange after decades of marriage, but I urge you to remember that you are still merely betrothed to my daughter in this… life." He ground out the words like spitting gravel, and Joffrey hid a wince as he nodded and grabbed Sansa's elbow with his own, taking care to keep the distance to 'respectable'.

They walked away from the house commandeered by the Ink Group, taking off at a sedate pace along the banks of the Blackwater. Construction crews were still working on both sides of the river, building bridges, housing, and sawmills. The first stage of the plan that would see the Crownlands turn into an economic powerhouse, and then into the heart of the war effort against the Others.

They walked along the newly constructed Street of Wood; a large wooden walkway that ran between the eastern side of the Blackwater and a cobbled two-lane road still under construction. The last was proving to be a painful expense, but it'd be worth it in the long run. The original Blackworks had trouble with the sheer amount of wagon traffic: thrown dust and muddy trails had been a constant headache.

He could feel Ned Stark's presence like stormy skies, walking at a pace with them by Sansa's other side. Sansa's abrupt confession had completely blindsided Joffrey…

Ned Stark knows of the Cycle. Ned Stark knows about the Purple. It still shocked him every time he thought about it. Sansa's improvisation had begun to reap benefits when she'd defused a slow burning plot laid by Lysa Arryn of all people, one that had sped by unnoticed by Joffrey all this time: A letter carefully worded to cast suspicion on the Lannisters for the death of Jon Arryn, delivered secretly to Winterfell by the means of a hollowed out far-eye. Suffice it to say, Sansa had laid out Lysa Arryn's current state of mind very clearly, nipping that seed of suspicion before it could grow.

It had probably been a supporting attack of one of Littlefinger's schemes from before Joffrey had killed him, but it had showed how valuable it was to have Ned Stark onboard the plan. Having an informed Hand of the King had sped up a whole lot of ventures which Joffrey hadn't been expecting to lay fruits before he was crowned.

They'd talked for a whole night back in Winterfell, and Joffrey had stuck to the broad outlines of his experiences and what was to come. Keeping it simple and avoiding difficult subjects… like Robert's likely fate, or the truth of his own birth for that matter. It still hadn't made things any less awkward between the two of them.

He shuffled uncomfortably, a sigh escaping his lips.

Hammers and handsaws spoke to each other as they walked past one of the half constructed worker accommodations, the smell of sawdust hanging in the air as men hauled handcarts filled with discarded wood. The worker's strength had deserted them along with the sun, and there was a lethargic quality to the foreman's orders as he directed the new pillars to be laid out.

"Pack it up for today, men! Get to the feast and put some food in those bellies!" Joffrey called out as they passed.

The foreman started, a big grin growing on him as he dusted off his leather gloves. The simple safety measure had already improved overall efficiency through decreased accidents.

"Thank you m'Prince! Let's give it a cheer for Prince Joffrey!" he shouted. The work crew cheered with surprising fervor, lifting up their tools before they began to close things.

"So, Lord Stark," said Joffrey, "You're going to the feast?"

"Not quite. My daughter may have taken the South's sense of fashion by storm, but I'll be damned if I let her walk out of the city dressed like this…" Ned hesitated, "Even if she couldn't… dispose of any assailants with barely a look," he added.

And back to awkward. Well done Joffrey. Still, Ned could have sent Jory or any other Stark guardsman to serve as escort…

Sansa shook her head, "I see that your sense of fashion hasn't changed at all. Really Joffrey, plate armor again?"

Joffrey looked down at his half-plate, "I knew you'd say that. But look! Barret!"

Barret walked up from behind, taking the folded black cape off his shoulder and clipping it to Joffrey's pauldrons. "There it is, sire. Just as you like it."

"See?" he said.

Sansa moaned.

"What?! I'm not a depressed Bravo!"

"Your words darling, not mine."

"Look, many of our guests are fighting men. What manner of impression would I give if I strolled inside wearing fine silks?"

"That of a human, Joff. I don't know anyone who goes about in plate all day every day."

"What about the Hound?"

"He's a special case."

"And I'm not?"

"No," said Sansa, tearing off his cape and wrapping it into a bundle. She tossed it to Barret, who caught it with an oomph. "That helmet, take it off."

Joffrey looked at Ned. He tried speaking directly into his mind. Help me.

Ned just crossed his arms, watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow.

Gods. He took off the helmet.

"Good," said Sansa, taking a step towards him and grabbing the neck of the leathers he wore under the plate. "Fortunately, I suspected something like this would happen. I've an idea or two."

"Always a bad precedent- Uff-" She yanked up, the coarse leather pressed unfortunately tight against his chest due to the plate. She yanked twice more, and Joffrey swore she must have scrapped the skin right off his chest.

"It's something," she said as she folded the neck over the plate. "Now it looks like a conscious choice and not like you forgot about the feast and ran late. Barret, dunk that cape on the river and bring it back."

"Aye, my Lady," said his aide.

"I liked that cape. It made me look dashing."

"Dashing to a funeral maybe. Give me that," she said as she took the helmet off his hands.

"Thank you Barret, you're a charm," she said, exchanging the helmet for the soaked cape.

"A pleasure, my Lady," said the damnable traitor, a pleased smile on his lips. How fast they turn for a pretty smile. Jaehaerys the first had it right; kindness is a terrifying weapon.

"Now stay still," she said, passing the wet rag over his face. Joffrey withstood her ministrations stoically, sneaking a kiss on her cheek as she leaned sideways trying to clean the sweat by the nape of his neck.

She slapped him with the soaked cape, turning and cleaning his hair. "That ought to do it," she said, hands on her hips.

"I feel like a new man already."

"You better be. There's still water in here. Enough for you to get quite dashing," she said, hefting the cape.

"I yield," he said as he raised his hands, chuckling. They resumed their walk through the steadily darkening Street of Wood, squads of Goldcloaks already on patrol. Joffrey suppressed a snort. How had he put it to their erstwhile Captain? An obedient Slynt was a living Slynt.

Ned seemed oddly wistful, gazing at the occasional ship loaded with ore or lumber drifting down the Blackwater.

"What?" Sansa asked her Father.

Ned just shook his head, his smile turning wan. "You two bicker like an old couple. If the blatant show of magic hadn't convinced me, this would have been enough."

Joffrey smiled sheepishly. "It's… weird, being open with this."

"I would hardly call it open. Not even Catelyn knows what you told me," said Ned.

And even then you just know the broad strokes… There was still a part of him that felt a sort of childish betrayal at Sansa's actions, but in truth he had no right. By now it was her secret to tell as much as his, and they were partners in this as in all things. The return trip from Winterfell had left him thoughtful, unsettling truths he'd long held as absolute.

"I know you didn't want to reveal the truth so soon, but I'm glad you did," said Ned. "This is your fight, your war; I'll help as I can, but that much is clear to me now."

Joffrey nodded, biting his lip as they made their way besides the low growl of the Blackwater. Knowing of the end of the world but only half the plan to stop it must have been difficult. Though… there was one more thing that he'd wanted to talk about, but it had somehow felt out of place in a discussion of fates and war, death and dawn.

He shook his head, placing his hands behind his back. A couple of finches crossed their path, flying close to the ground as Lady erupted from a small patch of bush nearby, following them back the way they came. Eddard had actually killed Lady during his first life; for some reason he could remember that whole day with crystal clear clarity. Ned had stormed out of Robert's tent with such quiet determination it had actually scared him.

"Lord Stark, I-" he took a deep breath -"Ned."

Sansa shot him a knowing look, and he nodded reluctantly. She picked up the pace, signaling Barret as the two left them behind. Ned looked at him curiously, silent as was his wont.

Joffrey flexed his hand, settling it on the pommel of his sword. He smiled for a second before banishing it away, letting out a breath of air. It was difficult to put into words.

He remembered walking like this along a copse of birches, staring down at the snow. Robert had left to hunt but Eddard had declined the invitation. Instead he'd taken him on a walk on the opposite side of the Wolfswood, their path taking them on an upward slope, just the two of them and a few Stark guards following far behind.

He remembered staring mulishly at the ground, sick and tired of seeing white everywhere. White snows, white tree trunks, white rocks… The white made the emptiness worse. Hollow.

'Joffrey, look up,' Ned had said. The top of the birch forest had been crowned in such a splendor of yellow it had taken his breath away for a second. The vast ceiling of spindly yellow leaves had played with the sunlight, blinding him intermittently as he walked and kept staring upwards, his eyes slow to blink as he processed the sight.

It was curious. Never again did he see a yellow quite like it, not even in the same place and the same time a hundred lives later.

"I suppose I wanted to thank you," he said after a long moment.

Ned tilted his head, "After everything you told me, supporting your plans in the Small Council was the least I could do."

"It's not that," Joffrey growled, "I mean, your help has been invaluable in that sense, but-" he trailed off as he shook his head. He stopped walking, hands on his hips as he gazed at the Blackwater.

"Joffrey, what's wrong?" said Ned, stopping by his side as his voice turned incredulous. It must have been strange for him; Joffrey had felt more composed talking about the extinction of their species and the glare of celestial bodies…

Just keep it simple.

"When I started the long journey, I was not the man you know."

"You told me you were spoiled and unprepared for the trials ahead," said Ned, looking at the Blackwater with him. The sun was hiding, drawing long shadows out of the trees that dotted the opposite bank.

"It was more than that. I was cruel. Vindictive. A simpering fool. An idiot with no clue about the harm he caused others," he said, the words rushing out of his mouth, "An ignorant boy-child proud of his-"

"Then you've come a long way," said Ned, turning to look at him with a fatherly smile, "You're an accomplished warrior and commander, an expert administrator and a veritable Maester without a chain," he said as if it were obvious, "Robert is proud of you, did you know that? He can scarcely spend an evening without talking about you."

Robert. The one they call my Father. Joffrey cleared the little knot in his throat, "You think that because this," he said, pointing at himself, "Is the only version of me you remember."

"Indeed," he said. "A man possessed of a keen sense of justice, living in honor without speaking a word of it." He smiled as he shrugged ever so slightly.

And of course, to Ned Stark it really was that simple. So simple it was complicated.

Pure Ned Stark, he thought with a fond smile. His chest ached lightly, and he loosened the plate's neck clasp.

"There's a lot I don't know," said Ned, "More than I would wish to know, I think." He crossed his arms, the yellow sunlight bathing him as the sun kept hiding to the west. "Yet I hold into this truth like a beacon in winter," he said as he looked at Joffrey, grey eyes still and serene. "You are a just man, Joffrey. You'll be a King I'll serve gladly if I live to see it. And if not, I'll die knowing my daughter could not have asked for a better man."

He looked away from Ned's eyes as bittersweet coils squeezed his throat. I have to say this. But what exactly? How to explain an abyss of pain and anguish. How to explain the emptiness? Ned's voice the only thing tethering him to sanity in a world gone mad under its own weight, the glare of the Purple an ever present sun? Just make it quick. Just get it over with.

"If that's true, it's because of the seeds you planted," he said slowly, eyes staring dead ahead as the weight of the breastplate turned unbearable. "You lifted me up Ned. You took care of me when nothing made sense anymore. You guided me out of that abyss I built for myself- you made me look up-" he choked off, seized by an inner pressure. It came out of nowhere, gripping him taut like a strained rope. Gods, what's happening to me? He tried to keep it down, but it kept rising like water flooding a stricken ship, reaching for his eyes. He was no boy to wear his emotions on a sleeve. He was the Bloody Lion. He was Dawn Commander. Stormking. Herald and Last Hero.

He knew he shouldn't have looked at Ned. He knew it was a mistake the second he did. Hundreds of years and yet there it was. That same expression. Ned placed a hand on his arm, lowering his head just a bit so it was level with his, confused but all too ready to help. It was too much. For a moment Joffrey found himself in front of the Heart Tree in Winterfell, alone and broken except for those eyes that promised care.

He sighed, hiding the tears falling down his cheeks, "I'm sorry. It's hard to explain," he said as he shielded his face with one hand. This had been a mistake.

"I understand enough," said Ned, bringing him into a hug. It felt the same even after all this time. A thousand deaths and rebirths separated that moment from now, worlds upon worlds rewound and made again, and yet it still felt the same. The morning when Ned Stark saved him.

He didn't know how, but somehow, Ned somehow understood. His body lost tension as he hugged him back, trying to keep control over himself. He gripped Ned tight as the painfully slow sobs wrecked him, his weight an oak tree in the midst of a storm. "I don't care what they say," he whispered fiercely, "You're my Father." It was all he could manage and still retain his dignity, and so he closed his eyes and rode out the whirlwind of emotions. This lay beyond Houses and true bloodlines, beyond secrets and dusty books and blonde hair. If he was what he was today because of Eddard Stark, then how could this man be anything but his Father?

"And I would be proud to call you my son," Ned whispered back, his grip tight and safe, the tether that lifted him up from the abyss.

They separated slowly, almost sheepishly. Ned passed him a handkerchief as he patted his back, and Joffrey received it with a smile. It had been a long time since he'd felt this vulnerable, and even longer since he hadn't minded it.

It felt good.

"Thank you," he said. For everything.

Ned smiled as well, his eyes a bit red despite the strong façade he wore like a second sleeve. There were no more words to say, and so they resumed his walk, following the Blackwater upstream.

He felt lightheaded as they rejoined Sansa. She didn't say a word as they walked the rest of the way, the rustling of the Blackwater soon threaded by the sound of drums and flutes. A small sea of tents emerged into view with the last drips of the sun; knights and smallfolk laborers, maidens and maesters, guardsmen and more all mingling under the free flow of good ale and hearty food. The feast had just started, though in Braavos it would have been called a festival.

The scent of change hanged in the air, the Song taut like a drawn bowstring. Here laid the seeds of a new era, a great pile of tinder waiting for the spark.

Tonight, that tinder would spark, and the eventual bonfire would be a thing fit to stand against the might of the Red Comet.

-: PD :-