Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The dull roar of the crowd was a constant as Joffrey descended down the steps of Baelor's Sept, Sansa's arm held tightly in his own. She looked appropriately regal in her long gown, possessed of a dignified momentum that made her glide down the long open-aired stairway to Baelor's Plaza. Her crown was a circlet of silver studded with sapphires and charcoal grey diamonds, simple but elegant.

"Eyes ahead, dear," said Sansa, blue eyes twinkling.

"I was just mesmerized by your pristine beauty," Joffrey said as he returned his gaze to the crowds below; a great teeming mass of people chanting and clamoring. They formed a sea from end to end, covering the whole plaza but for a wide road by the center, Guardsmen lining up at each side every two paces.

"Pristine?" said Sansa, smiling at the crowd as they took another set of stairs at an excruciatingly slow speed. The cloak of the Baratheons of King's Landing flowed from her back like a mantle as she flicked her eyes at him, "I'll be sure to remind you that at our bedding ceremony."

"All pure and innocent. That's Good Queen Sansa alright," said Joffrey, feeling her grip on his arm tighten as she snorted daintily.

"I've been wearing a crown for less than an hour. They can't be calling me that already."

"The smallfolk were calling you that the day after Robert died."

She hummed as they reached another landing, this time closer to the crowds. Streaks of red, violet, and pink swirled around their path as gusts of flower petals rained from above, carried by the winds as Sansa pulled his hand gently.

"Again?" he said, gazing at the laborers, fishermen, cobblers and more assembled around Balor's Plaza, blocks of Guardsmen standing at attention around the final landing and the carriage.

"Just do it," she said, not bothering with hiding her smile as she raised an arm.

Joffrey did likewise, feeling a bit ridiculous as he gave the crowds a wide armed salute. They responded immediately, the din rising to meet him as they cheered and roared.

It made it better if he just thought they were his soldiers. It was even true, in a way. During the war to come, all the living would be his soldiers. He turned lightly and as he raised his hand higher, more confortable this time. He fisted it, pumping it once as the blocks of soldiers thumped their halberds against the ground and the cries of the crowd became a bit more distinct.

"Hail the King!"

"Bless Good Queen Sansa!"

"Hail King Joffrey!!!"

"They seem to like us," she said, a pink petal getting caught in her hair.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with the great feast you've organized for today."

"It might have helped," she said, her smile impish.

"Let's go, time's a wasting."

They descended down the next set of stone stairs, the weight of the crown heavy on Joffrey's head. It was a web of antlers made out of pure castle forged steel; somehow it felt heavier than it ought to.

"Must you go?" she said quietly.

"You know I have to."

She sighed. The roar of the crowd was louder now, but Joffrey could hear her as if they were by the beach near their old house in Jhala. "Things are in motion in the east as well."

"The Emperor reached Bladhahar yet?"

"This morning," she said. "Most of the Bloodless are still mobilizing around Bol-Qobam, but he's linked up with young Ka-Mil and around five hundred of those 'Immortals' of theirs."

Joffrey grunted, "Never fought them, but they looked like good troops." Vajul must have made quite the impression if they were mobilizing this early in the war. Assuming Bladhahar was secured within the year, then they might spare a bit of manpower for operations around the Beyond.

I bet that's what Ka-Mil has in mind… It would shore up his position within the Bloodless to be seen leading the charge like that. Joffrey hadn't spoken to him, but he'd seemed a competent enough player from what he'd learned in Carcosa.

Joffrey shrugged, "I reckon it's a short flight across the Dry Deep; Mahil Suul and the Yellow Wing's vanguard are probably taking possession of Bonetown right now. What about the Dawn Scouts?"

Sansa grimaced, hiding it with a tilt of her head as she waved at the crowd again, "It's all blurry, all I know is that they've left the Greytower."

"Good," said Joffrey, "Means the Jade Scribes are taking the Emperor's offer seriously."

"Do you really think they'll reach K'Dath?"

"We can only hope, Sansa. We can only hope…" Joffrey trailed off as they reached the final landing, the Guardsmen of the First Regiment straightening even further as his small council kneeled.

"Your Grace," they intoned. Renly, Eddard, Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and Grandmaester Pycelle all looked suitably impressed by the crowd's reception, and they made a show of congratulating him and offering him their allegiance in front of King's Landing. They repeated the same words uttered inside Baelor's Sept after Ned had taken Sansa's Stark cloak and the High Septon had crowned them both.

Joffrey wondered for a moment which empty platitudes the Spider would have uttered, hands hidden inoffensively within his robes as he all but bowed in ceremony. Alas, Varys was currently being toured around the Kingswood by the Hound and a few trusted men. They needed him alive, but that didn't mean leaving him free to plot here in the capital.

"Maybe I could talk to him," said Renly as they congregated near the carriage, "Speak some sense into him."

"It's a lost cause, uncle," said Joffrey, "Besides I need you, all of you, here in the capital."

Ned looked mutinous at that, but kept his peace. They'd argued enough behind closed doors.

Renly nodded, looking at the cobbled floor of the plaza.

Does he feel guilt about almost following Stannis' steps? Whatever Renly's previous ambitions, this time he'd thrown his lot in with Joffrey. It still left the thorny matter of the Tyrells of course, and according to Sansa's spies Maergery and Ser Garlan were already on the Roseroad, making for King's Landing with an impressive escort of knights and handmaidens.

One problem at a time, Joffrey reminded himself.

"I'll guide you in," Sansa whispered as she drifted closer. They kissed, the crowd cheering all the louder as Joffrey forgot for a moment the great and terrible price in blood that was to come.

"Come back to me," she said when they broke, hugging him tightly.

"Always," he said, her warmth seeping past the cold of his own plate. The armor had been polished to a sheen, but he knew it would soon run red.

Legate Olyvar stepped forth with an antlered helmet in his hands. They looked tall, wickedly sharp to his hands as Joffrey exchanged it for the crown.

"Guardsmen!" he roared after Sansa had gotten inside the carriage, the soldiers around him slamming their halberds against the cobbles. "We march to quench rebellion!" he said, "We march to war!"

The crowd seemed to share his legion's determination, their cries rising higher as the Royal Guard slammed their halberds again and again.

"We march to restore unity!" he roared.

They bellowed their defiance as Joffrey strapped his helmet, the sun playing off the bronze of the antlers.

This time, Stannis would not take the initiative.

-: PD :-

Ser Robar Royce shuffled in his plate, craning his shoulder as he worked off the stiffness. The chainmail clinked under the plate, the sound painfully loud.

This damned mist is muffling everything. He shivered, gazing ahead at the impenetrable white wall around the galley. It was so quiet he could hear the sailors fidgeting on the rigging above, their awe long ago giving way to shocked silence.

The silence was almost haunting in its stillness, revealing vague eddies just beyond the senses. A rhythm of sorts that called to Robar. I'm just a bit nervous, he thought, closing his eyes as he concentrated on his breath as the King had so often taught them. It made it worse, the rhythm of his breath giving weight to the rhythm without, at a tempo with the muffled grunts of the rowers in the decks below.

He shook his head harshly as he walked through the lower deck, seeking distraction as the occasional wave made him stumble. Captain Colrin had called this 'unusually calm seas'… Robar wouldn't hazard a guess on how he'd fare in worse weather.

He checked the arming sword on his belt, then made sure the battleaxe strapped to his back was still there. It was, just the way it was the last time he'd checked.

Get a grip, Robar, he thought as he banished the insidious hill snake coiling in his gut. Royces had been battling since the Age of Dawn. He'd trained for this for almost his entire life. Hells, Joffrey had been training him relentlessly throughout the past few months. He was ready.

He climbed to the upper deck and reached the back of the Shortsword, the galley's oars rowing at a slow, steady beat. He examined the two big lanterns hanging from the back of the ship as he looked down. They were battered by the occasional spray of saltwater, but the flames within still shone bright. Robar nodded, lifting his head up.

Where are- there!

He saw the two other lanterns somewhere within the mist, their course secure as they followed the Shortsword. The ships behind those should be following their back lanterns in turn, and so on throughout the entire fleet of some two dozen ships big and small. All depending on the skill of one man.

King Joffrey Baratheon didn't seem fazed by the occasional swell, his legs compensating without a second thought as he peered straight ahead, hands steady on the tiller as he stood alone but for Captain Colrin, who held out the occasional map and constantly wrote down the King's observations.

There were no lights ahead of the Shortsword.

Ser Hobar and Samwell were leaning on a railing to the right, their short silver capes unmoving under the glare of the dead sky. The young Redwyne knight was gazing at the King as if in a trance, untroubled by the occasional sway of the galley. Robar suppressed the stab of envy as he walked over there and they made space for him; it was common knowledge Redwynes were more comfortable on ships than horses, though it was more often said with snickering tones than the true air of a compliment.

Ser Robar didn't feel like snickering right now.

"Ser Hobar," he said, his voice painfully loud.

Hobar nodded absently.

"Are we close?" he said after another moment.

"I… I think so. I've never seen such a skilled navigator," said Ser Hobar.

The King's seamanship had to be pretty good if it had made Hobar forget the fact that he supposedly knew 'next to nothing' about ships. Maybe he'll start waxing about the King's incredible skill in trade next…

"I can hardly see the tip of the ship in this damned mist," said Robar. It had descended upon them yesterday, and if he hadn't known better he would have said the King had been expecting it. He'd steered them through the entire night and on to the morning, his motions confident and his eyes fixed on the grey horizon.

"F-feeling good? For the battle today?" asked Samwell Tarly. His great girth had diminished somewhat under the King's exacting training, but he seemed wider still now clad as he was in chain, gambeson, and heavy plate. The chainmail jingled as he shivered, his eyes rapidly scuttling across the ship.

"I am," Robar said at once, thinning his lips.

"Oh of course!" Sam said quickly, "I did- I mean I didn't mean to imply otherwise," he said with a fleeting smile witch turned into a pout.

Get your head straight, Robar thought as he closed and opened his eyes forcefully, "No, it's- I'm sorry, Sam. Just a bit tense, is all. Perfectly natural."

"Perfectly natural," Sam agreed, obsessively checking the warhammer he'd rested between his legs, running his hands over the wooden handle. The King himself had trained Sam in the style he'd thought most suited to him, though that was true to an extent for every silver knight. Unlike the King's hammer though, Sam's was a two hander, long and slender with a single flange on one side, a small hammerhead on the other, and a spear blade on the tip.

The sight of Sam licking his dry lips, eyes wide as he looked once again to the front of the ship, was enough to banish the hill snake which had stubbornly burrowed into Robar's belly again. "Sam," he said as he took his shoulder, lowering his voice, "You know you don't have to do this."

"I can do it."

"I know you can, but you don't have to. Joffrey will understand."

He understands more than he ought to, he thought but didn't add.

"How can I call myself a silver knight if I hide at the first sign of battle?" said Sam, "The others will shun me, call me coward." He said it as if it were a fate worse than death, the air of long, bitter experience hanging around his words.

"That's just a load of horseshit," said Ser Hobar, chipping up unexpectedly as he kept staring at the King.

Robar crossing his arms, "Everyone here knows that you're half the reason the knights can do anything useful when Joffrey's not around." The other half being Ser Balon Swann, still unofficial Master-At-Arms of the equally unofficial Silver Knights. Robar supposed he himself merited a place somewhere in that analogy, as Joffrey had been delegating more and more stuff to him before Robert died and war called.

Sam deflated with a long sigh, eyes focusing on Robar's for the first time, "And then what?" he said, a bit of fire slipping into his voice, "Hide every time I feel that- that black pit in my belly grow again?" He shook his head before Robar could respond, "No. It's been chasing me my whole life, worse than one of father's hounds. It stops today, one way or the other," he said, his quivering form leaving no doubt as to which outcome he thought more likely.

"Sounds like you spoke with him."

"I did. After we embarked." They both looked at the King, who seemed as calmly focused as he'd been two hours ago, his hands gripping the tiller with a sort of instinctual ease. He seemed taller in full plate, bits of chainmail showing from his vambraces. Helmetless, his windswept blond hair shuffled under a gust of wind Robar couldn't feel.

Sam didn't tell him more; Robar didn't need him to. There were times Joffrey seemed to communicate in depth with barely a spoken word, his mere presence an open invitation to listen.

Ser Hobar shuffled, the silence growing thicker somehow. "Have any of you two… you know…" he trailed off helplessly, the sound of the oars licking the water as the ship's timbers groaned.

"Heard it?" Sam's voice was barley a whisper.

Ser Robar swallowed again, but before he could respond the King spoke up, his voice echoing within the mist and startling them.

"We're almost there. Get ready."

Even in full plate and armed to the teeth with hammers and swords, the King exuded an air of peace. A steady presence that stilled the winds themselves. It made Robar think of the night of the feast.

Can you feel it?

A sharp caw startled him, and Ser Robar shivered as he looked up. Was that a flight of ravens circling above the ship?

"She's all yours, Colrin," said Joffrey as he turned to the Captain of the Shortsword. "Keep her steady on this course. We should be there in a few minutes," he said before making his way to the main deck.

"Tell the others it's time," Robar said, cursing the way his voice broke halfway.

Sam nodded, not trusting his own voice as Ser Hobar opened a nearby hatch.

"Stay close to me, we'll make it out of this together," Robar promised him at the last second, and Sam gave him a grim nod before climbing down.

The small galley quickly turned into a hive of activity as Captain Colrin called out orders, sailors hollering at each other as ropes were picked up and Guardsmen emerged from the hold, halberds and crossbows flooding the main deck in a rustle of wood and steel. He copied the King's pose as he caught up to him, putting a hand over the pommel of his arming sword. It seemed to help with the damned shivering, though when Joffrey turned his eyes seemed to pierce Robar instantly.

"Just it let it be, Ser Robar. Battle is a great and terrible affair; it's right to be wary of it."

Robar felt his face flush. "You're as green as me, Your Grace," he said with a jerk of his head, regretting the words as soon as he said them. Insulting the King. What the hells is wrong with me?! Even in the fiercest of melee's, he'd never felt this rattled.

Far from insulted though, Joffrey just nodded. "It's bound to be a shock though. I'd guess the trick is to keep moving, keep up that momentum… let a small distance form without losing sight of yourself," he said, eyes narrowing as he peered forward from the side of the galley.

"Of course, Your Grace," he said quickly. There were certainly no records nor rumors that Joffrey had ever partaken in any battle whatsoever, not even a skirmish. He'd been too young for Balon's Rebellion…

Ser Robar frowned as he peered forward, vast silhouettes emerging from the mist.

Then why am I convinced otherwise?

"We're here," said the King.

Dozens of ships began to form ahead as they sailed right past the towers of Dragonstone harbor, so close they could hear the guards playing dice inside one of the towers. Heavy war galleass, carracks, cogs, light galleys, scores upon scores of ships all laid anchored around them. Not a single ship had been out on patrol; only a madman would have sailed in these conditions. Only a madman would have taken the fight right to Stannis' own fortress island mere days after he'd declared open rebellion. He shivered again as Joffrey smiled grimly, the grip on his weapons relaxing.

"Legate Mooton," he said.

"Aye, Commander?" The Legate came from the other side of the ship, which was already chock full of Guardsmen. They looked impressive, arrayed in straight lines of steel… though some seemed a bit sea sick despite the calm waters.

We'll see how good they really are soon enough… The tremble in his hand intensified, and Ser Robar scowled as his grip on his arming sword went white.

"Get me those ships. I want my Royal Fleet intact."

The legate nodded, "It will be done," he said as he slammed a fist against his chest plate.

"Lanterns," said Joffrey.

"Aye, Your Grace?" said one of the seamen.

"Signal Legate Snow aboard the Stormwind: Surprise achieved. Second and Third Cohorts to form the blocking force on the main road. Blood and Mud."

"At once, Your Grace!" said the sailor, running back up the upper deck.

"Ser Robar."

He straightened immediately, "Your Grace?" Most of the Silver Knights aboard the Shortsword, more than two score of them, were already on the deck and clustering near Robar as they took out their weapons.

Joffrey kept looking forward, the shoreline now visible as the first signs of alert came from small-boat fishermen, crying out as they tried to avoid the armada sailing into the harbor. "You and the rest of the Silver Knights will be with me," he said as he jabbed a hand at what had to be the Harbormaster's Office; a small keep in all but name halfway up the town. Fishermen cried out as they couldn't get away in time, their boats capsizing as the Shortsword plowed through the harbor's still waters. Their screams drifted towards him, and Robar tapped the pommel in an absent rhythm.

"Ho! Ships in the harbor! Watch out! Watch out!!!"

"We'll be punching straight through to the Harbor Office, ripping the heart out of any improvised defense. We must secure the port before Stannis rides down from the castle," he said as he turned to Robar. "We can end this whole rebellion before nightfall, if we move quickly enough."

"I'm with you, my King," said Robar, swallowing something skittish as the hair at the nape of his neck stood on edge.

A new Era. The Era of Westeros.

Stannis -the traitorous dog- was the one obvious threat standing on the road to the Era of Unity. Standing on the way to that dream, that rhythm just beyond hearing.

He had to be stopped by any means necessary.

"I know," said Joffrey.

Robar frowned as Brienne took position near the King, after Ser Vardis and Ser Hobar. She may have handled herself surprisingly well against Joffrey, but he'd keep an eye on her all the same. She returned his gaze levelly, as if daring him to say something.

"They're flying Robert's Stag! Sound the bells!" someone screamed as Dragonstone's shoreline grew completely visible and he spotted groups of armsmen running around the harbor front, bellowing and slamming fists on tavern doors.

Captain Colrin leaned on the tiller, aiming for one of the unoccupied wharfs. "Oars in! Brace for impact!" he shouted. There was no turning back now. They were committed.

The thought was strangely comforting, the shouting from the harbor growing frantic.

"Rouse the men! Stand to! Stand to!!!"

Joffrey put on his helmet, wickedly sharp antlers adding an ethereal quality to his person. He seemed taller, bigger. Stranger.

Something not quite from this world.

"Blessed Mother! It's a whole fucking fleet!"

The Shortsword slammed against the wharf, boarding ramps clamping down into the pier like steel-toothed hounds as crossbows sang from the forward upper deck.

"Westeros. With me," Joffrey called out in a clear voice.

It was time.

"With the King!!!" shouted Ser Robar.

His doubts banished in a flash of heat and tingling exaltation, a roar escaping his throat as the he followed Joffrey down the ramp and into wooden pier. The King's antlers still glinted despite the mist-hidden sun, his charge outpacing all of them and carrying him straight to a group of swaying men at arms spilling out of a seaside tavern, some still holding tankards of ale.

They recoiled seconds before impact, Joffrey's roar a physical force that made them stumble back He smashed into them with hammer and sword, reaping lives left and right as he drove into the group. Ser Robar's run turned frantic as he struggled to catch up, an eternity slipping past his eyes as he reached the end of the pier at the same time as Brienne.

They struck together, each taking one of Joffrey's sides as Ser Robar hefted his battleaxe. Blood spilled across his chest as he split one of the men at arm's helmetless skull, his heart thundering inside his chest. The first man he'd ever killed. He found himself face to face with another, eyes wide with cold fear as he struck with a sword.

The hit was jarring, cobwebs of pain spreading through his shoulder. Ser Robar let out a primal scream, slapping aside the sword with a vambrace as the King was wont to do when they sparred. He slammed the battleaxe deep into the man's shoulder, his voice turning ragged as he took another gulp of air and the man went down.

The entire group broke under their onslaught, but Robar saw more soldiers stumbling out of inns and whorehouses. They were panicked, lifting their breeches or strapping sword belts as some clutched their chests, gazing at the bolts lodged in there in incomprehension. Royal Guardsmen were rushing all along the pier, boarding ships with their hand axes as two more galleys crashed against the docks, spilling men and arrows.

The man below Robar still had the battleaxe jammed into his collarbone, gasping in tiny breaths as his eyes swiveled wildly, arms twitching. Robar froze at the sight, his hearing focusing only on the man's panicked, sharp gasps for air as everything else dissolved into white noise.

The King slammed his arming sword through the man's eye socket, ending him instantly as Robar blinked. "To the Harbor Office! With me!" he shouted in his face. Deep green eyes surrounded by steel plate, a gash of splattered blood crossing it all at an angle. A promise of something great. A promise of something terrible.

The shouting and the racket around Robar became clearer, and he breathed again as he took his battleaxe from the corpse's shoulder. "Onwards!" he said by way of response.

They cut their way through dock guards and levies as they ran for the Harbor Office, a force of chaos smashing through steadily hardening defenders. Robar became distantly aware of the smell of burning wood, and he realized a couple of burning war galleys were listing sideways in the bay as more and more of the King's Fleet reached Dragonstone, some of them engaged in boarding actions while others rammed the beach, soldiers disembarking from long ramps and tossed scaling ropes.

Dragonstone the town was a mesh of tightly clustered one and two story buildings, many of them made out of stone quarried directly from the island itself. It seemed to share the island's lugubrious appearance, grey and foreboding, not a streak of color to be found as the buildings followed the steep hill up to the volcano, eventually turning into a solitary road that led straight to Dragonstone Keep.

They reached a hastily manned barricade by the east end of the docks when a small galley crashed into the stonework by the other side, shouts of 'Blood and Mud!' and the rarer 'King and Westeros!' drifting with the wind as Guardsmen disembarked from boarding ramps, a hail of bolts spreading from the galley's foretower and impacting flesh and metal on the other side of the barricade.

"Hold 'em here! Hold 'em here damn you!!!" roared a grizzled armsman in Dragonstone livery, two of his comrades trying to stiffen the defense as they harangued a large group of panicked sailors or mercenaries, most of them unarmored and wielding boarding cutlasses or even chair legs.

Ser Robar roared as he scaled the piled furniture in a second, cutting apart one of the mercenaries as another volley of crossbow bolts from the galley threshed the defenders like wheat under a scythe. One of the mercenaries slammed a torn table leg against Robar's helmet, and he stumbled back under the force of the blow, a buzzing ring overtaking everything else.

He could only hear his own strangled breathing as he wrenched the table leg away from the man, slamming the battleaxe one handed against his bare chest. He went down without a sound, Robar's heart thundering within him as he turned and saw one of the Dragonstone armsmen swing down his sword, the blade a flash of grey light. The suddenness of his own death took him by surprise.

Samwell plowed into the armsman with all the force of a war destrier, slamming him aside with an armored shoulder and making him tumble down from the top of the barricade, a shuddering breath escaping Robar's lips as he realized he was still alive.

I'm still alive. The thought seemed alien, his mind stuttering as if he were back in Runestone inside Ysilla's room, his little sister playing with the curtains. Opened- Closed- Opened- Closed- Her carefree laughter punctuated each time sunlight flooded the room.

Sam screamed incoherently as he brought his warhammer down hook first, just how they'd practiced a half a thousand times around the Kingswood; cursing the bad weather as Hobar called out encouragement and his twin brother laughed. Robar's motions were not his own as he jumped down the barricade and covered Sam's right, battleaxe biting deep into a sailor trying to jam a cutlass through his friend's neck. The Dragonstone armsman on the ground coughed blood as he stared at his punctured half-plate, blinking when Sam smashed him again, three times before a wave of Guardsmen caught the defenders from behind in storm of halberds against flesh.

It was madness; screaming faces and bellowed war cries, splashed blood hot against numbed hands. Robar advanced with Sam, never leaving his side, bringing down one man after another. Sam's hysterical breathing kept him focused; as long as he heard it, he'd know Sam was still alive.

I'll know I'm still alive.

Joffrey was already moving on, his march uphill relentless as he brought down a couple of levies emerging from a commandeered house serving as a barracks of sorts.

He had to follow Joffrey. Nothing made sense right now, but that thought was his guiding star. As long as he followed Joffrey, he would come out of this maddened maze alive. He had to follow the King.

They fought on, the Silver Knights following Robar's directions as if he knew what he was doing, trying to keep up with the King and directing his brothers to protect the flanks, calling out hastily arranged ambushes.

Robar almost lost his life again when they were assaulted from an alleyway by a group of men at arms, but Brienne interposed her longsword right in time, cutting the man in half with a hideous hack. Robar slammed a gauntlet on her pauldron, earning a gruff grunt in return. They had to follow the King.

He had to keep going. He had to keep fighting. The terror had diminished, his mind growing more focused as they kept up the steep climb through cobbled streets and open aired stairways. Some of Dragonstone's fabled gargoyles jeered from nooks and crannies between alleyways; the fruits of enterprising smallfolk which had looted the fallen decorations straight from the keep itself after one sack or the other.

Ser Emmon Cuy died abruptly, an arrow appearing through his left eye. His friend didn't even have time to seem surprised, just slumping forward and laying still on the ground as they smashed against another barricade on the road to the Harbormaster's Office, their target taunting them from a rocky overhang in the middle of the town, a single squat tower over a rectangle of walls.

Robar gave a wordless bellow as he followed Joffrey, climbing over the upside down wagon and personally tearing the archer's belly apart. The quick vengeance did nothing to soothe the cold blue horror coursing through his veins, but it did offer distraction as he pushed himself further into the fight. It turned relentless, some bizarre momentum pushing him forth as months of practice locked in, knowing exactly when Ser Hobar would take a step back so he could jump in and finish the spearman, knowing exactly when to crouch as Ser Vardis interposed his shield. Sam's breathing had stabilized, at a tempo with Robar's heart as he heard the rhythm again, a fleeting echo growing closer.

It was sudden. From one moment to the next they were storming through the small keep's entrance, oak doors wide open as they slew runners coming in or out, their run taking them through an enclosed dog leg as shouts echoed through the stonework.

"Who the hells' in charge!?"

"Lord Velaryon! He's back in the hall!"

"Ser Dovin, get those levies organized!"

"Any word from the King yet?!"

"Where's Lord Celtigar?! Someone get me a headcount!"

"Which banners?! Calm down godsdamnit! Which banners did you see?!"

"Where are the damned arrows!? Bows to the wall! Now!"

"Aurene! Your brother wants you back inside!"

"There were ships everywhere! I saw him! I saw Robert Baratheon carried by mist!!!"

"Any word from the west side? What's happening out there for fuck's sake?!"

"Arrows! Father above, get me some damned arrows!"

"Where's that fucking runner?! You! Run to the docks and tell me what's happening!"

Robar felt like some sort of beast as they scuttled through the enclosed tunnel in a mad dash, a runner stumbling to halt and trying to get away from them as they came face to face and almost crashed one another. They emerged from the dog leg into a small rectangular courtyard filled with pandemonium. Smallfolk levies from the Narrow Sea were opening stacks of crates, taking spears and arrows. Men at arms, mostly unarmored though a few wore half plate with Celtigar livery on top, were gathering up in a confused mob at the center. A knight stood atop a table, shouting over the din. They outnumbered the Silver Knights by twice or more.

All of it flashed through Robar's mind in but a moment.

"They're already here!!!" screamed the runner as Joffrey caught up to him, his bastard sword emerging cleanly through the center of his chest. He lifted him up with a grunt, tearing the sword away in a spray of blood as the man flew away to the side like a broken doll and for a single second, only a single second, silence reigned absolute.

The moment seemed surreal, time flowing eternal as heads swiveled towards the entrance. Robar could see in exquisite detail as their eyes widened, mouths opened in surprise as the knight nearest the entrance went for his sword, the runner's body tumbling over the ground one more time as Joffrey's antlers glinted and his liege dropped his arming sword, exchanging it for another hammer as the silence turned unbearable and Robar took in a gulp of air.

"Shieldwall!" screeched the knight nearest the entrance, and before Robar knew it he was beside the man, tearing him apart from the shoulder down. The Silver Knights charged with him as they, followed their King with barely a grunt, some impossible force propelling them forth almost silently, a low growl escaping Ser Robar's throat as they tore through the courtyard. The knight on the table barely managed to leap down before Joffrey crumpled his helmet with twin strikes from his maces, their charge puncturing the confused mob like a spear. Knights years his senior fell under Robar's battleaxe, their momentum unstoppable, their purpose undeniable.

Some of the men dropped their weapons, crying out as they kneeled on the floor and others scrambled for the short, squat tower at the back.

"Samwell!" said the King as they reached the double doors.

Sam took the tower door at a run, slamming it aside and tossing the two men behind it to the floor. He blocked a clumsy overhand sword strike with the haft, the riposte clean and sudden as he drove the hook of his warhammer deep into the neck of the dragonseed which had attacked him. Blood drenched the man's fine silken clothing, giving a tarnished sheen to the silver seahorse brooch that adorned his chest.

"DRIFTMARK!!!" someone roared as the small hall sang with the sound of drawn steel, startled lords flipping over tables as maps and colored beads flew everywhere.

"THE KING!" roared Brienne as Joffrey charged into the breach, the Silver Knights picking up the cry and flooding the room in a frenzy of violence.

It was so fast there wasn't time to think. Sam gasped in pain as an arming sword grazed his elbow joint, sparking against the exposed chainmail. The Valyrian features of his enemy were clear for all to see; violet eyes and long, handsome silver hair. Green silken tunics were covered by a hastily clad chestplate, the man staggering back as Sam's warhammer ripped a gash on the seahorse tabard, failing to penetrate. Two armsmen cornered Robar, blocking him off as he tried to reach Sam, one of them hammering his shoulder and making him scream in pain.

Lord Velaryon's stab made Sam stagger, and he took advantage of that. The Narrow Sea lord took a step forward and reversed the grip on his sword as he grabbed it by the blade in a desperate murderstroke technique, using the pommel as a hammer to cave Sam's chest in.

"My brother! You killed my brother!!!" he shouted as he pounded him, tearing out the Tarly tabard and denting the plate. Sam bellowed in pain, crossing his warhammer and barely parrying the next overhand blow before jerking the blade out of the lord's hands- just as Joffrey had taught him. He drove the spear point into Lord Velaryon's neck, the lord blinking in confusion before the light faded from his eyes and Robar slew one of the armsmen, the other throwing himself to his knees. It was over in seconds, knights and lords tossing down their weapons as they cried for ransom.

The rest of the battle Robar remembered only in flashes. He remembered the panicked Guardsman as he reached Joffrey's newly established command post, pale as the King jerked his head from the maps on the table. "It's too soon," he'd said. Too soon. He remembered the quick march up to the town's entrance, the long winding path to Dragonstone Keep filled with the banners of the Narrow Sea as a mass of cavalry trotted down the path from the fortress. Hundreds of them, too many to count.

"My White Fists!" said Joffrey, pacing in front of the assembled soldiers as blocks of halberds arrayed themselves on the only real chokepoint between Dragonstone Keep and the path to the harbor, where precious troops and supplies were still being disembarked. "We've a choice to make!" he roared as he pointed with his sword, the sun breaking through the mist and glinting off his silvered armor, "We can let Stannis push us back into the sea! We can let him break our will and our dreams!"

The Royal Guard bellowed defiance, less than a third of the First Regiment having managed to reach the chokepoint in time. "Crossbows! Load missiles!" shouted Legate Olyvar, Robar and the Silver Knights steadying the central, understrength Cohort. His eyes were drawn to the knights of the first row as they spread out from their riding column, Stannis Baratheon riding down the length of it with a banner in hand, turning his force into a wedge formation under the strong, curt gestures of his sword.

"Or we can Stand! Our! Ground!" said Joffrey, his voice overpowering the sound of winching crossbows, "We can show this world the power of our bond! The might of our vision!" He paced like a roaming shadowcat, each of his words almost following a melody of some sort, a cadence that bound them, that promised them. "We can forge One Kingdom!" said the King, "Through Blood and Mud! One Kingdom!"

They roared. All those people; cobblers and laborers, bakers and farmers, lower nobility and hedge knights. They all roared as one, lowering halberds as horns thundered ahead and a thousand lances bared down on them, the chivalry of the Narrow Sea bidding it all into one desperate charge to cast them back into the sea.

"Can you feel it?" asked Ser Hobar by his side, a stunned, bewildered smile on his lips.

"Steady!" shouted Legate Snow, the rumbling hooves echoing stronger as Stannis took to the head of the charge, his retainers chanting as they lowered their lances.

Robar blinked slowly, taking a breath of air as squeezed his battleaxe and Joffrey took position barely two steps behind the second line, his sword held high.

"Crossbows!" roared the King, a chorus of clicks answering his call as bolts flew from the forest of steel, impacting horseflesh and armor in a racket of metal and death.

"Steady!" said Legate Snow, the front line of double halberds stilling their trembling hands as they braced.

Stannis shouted something, the knights closest to him picking up the cry as those who fell were trampled underneath, the grand charge undaunted, their fiery banners worshipping foreign gods. The horses neighed in fear and frenzy, at a tempo with the rhythm as Ser Hobar turned to look at him.

"Can you feel it?" he whispered.

"Crossbows!" roared the King, steel bolts blanketing the charging wedge as knights fell and horses tumbled like boulders, banners drooping under the onslaught, Stannis taking two in the chest and somehow screaming through it all; one hand gripping his personal banner as the other raised his sword high.

"Steady!!!" said Legate Snow as Robar strained to listen, the pattern demanding that-

"ONE KINGDOM!" roared Joffrey, and Robar realized he was the Rhythm. They all were.

The might of the Narrow Sea smashed into them with the force of an avalanche.

-: PD :-

Robar was of two minds during the battle. One roared and screamed, suffered and frenzied, lived shame and exultation. The other struggled to keep listening for that Rhythm, that speck of meaning which Joffrey seemed to have mastered so completely, that breath that joined Robar to his battle brothers.

Riders flew from their horses. Blood sprayed over him. Halberds shattered. Blood and snot ran down his nose as he picked himself up from the ground and barely parried a blow from a fallen knight.

War consumed him into a place which had no time, a great and terrible thing which took a life of its own. Joffrey had known. Without a shadow of a doubt, Joffrey had known.

Robar battled knights and men at arms in a world without end, his body burning under a hundred cuts and bruises. He roared in vengeance as he ran Stannis through the throat with his arming sword, the Lord of Dragonstone already sporting a dozen crossbow bolts as he grimaced with bloody lips.

He fell next to Ser Hobar's corpse, and Robar took a moment to close his brother's eyes. "I can feel it," he told him, his eyes too tired to cry.

The haze of the battle eventually gave way though, and Robar realized night had descended upon them. He'd been sitting on a rock, staring at the ground and deep in thought.

He nodded absently at Sam, the other man returning it slowly. "That black pit you spoke of. Did it go away?"

Sam blinked at him again, his lips slowly forming a smile. He snorted, then started laughing. He laughed and laughed as if he'd just heard the greatest joke in all the world, growing red under the strain.

"No," he said, tears in his eyes as the laugher died away, "It didn't." He said it with a bewildered air, much like a man who'd just found out the sky was actually orange.

They trundled over the corpses of friends and foes as Guardsmen separated the dead, walking for a while until they reached the vantage point near the road where Joffrey's banner flew, a silver lion looking up at the dark sky.

He was standing there, helmetless and with his hands clasped behind his back. His legates and the hardened, surviving Silver Knights stood in silence around him, all veterans now, hardened by loss and war. They were watching Dragonstone Keep burn, a great column of fire up in the distance.

Ser Balon gave him a deep nod, and Ser Robar returned it with respect. He'd landed with the second wave, but Robar had seen him sometime during the battle by the road.

"It started burning before we could reach it. Legate Rykker thinks it might have been Stannis' zealots," Ser Balon told him.

"That'll guide in any straggling ships at least," said Samwell, still looking puzzled as he sat next to Ser Horas, the grip on his warhammer so tight Robar could see blood on it. The Redwyne knight seemed stunned as well, still going through the death of his twin brother, Robar supposed. He swallowed something bitter, slapping a hand on the man's shoulder. It had been his fault, his responsibility.

Ser Horas looked up, eyes glazed. There was no blame in them, only grey shock and a kind of strange concentration, as if listening to something just out of sight.

Robar looked up to his liege, and marveled at how Joffrey understood. His every posture, his every breath seemed attuned to that Rhythm Robar could barely hear. He found himself learning more about it just by looking at his liege and the way even his tiniest gesture flowed with it, with the Rhythm that seemed to permeate everything. He gave himself a few minutes just to try and process that growing comprehension, the absent trembling of his hands disappearing.

"Ser Robar?" asked Legate Snow.

"You aren't entirely human, are you?" he said.

The knights and the legates should have sputtered in shock. They should have called for a Maester. They should have led Robar back to a tent and laid him to rest.

Their silence as they turned to look at Joffrey's back said it all. He'd given voice to some instinctual truth, the missing piece in a puzzle they quite couldn't understand. A puzzle they had been crawling over like blind men, feeling out the pieces.

Joffrey tilted his head over his shoulder, looking at him with one eye as the former seat of the Targeryen princes glowed orange in the distance, illuminating the island as if the Dragonmont were undergoing an eruption.

"No, not quite," said the King.

The silence was deafening, Joffrey's eye peering through him and far beyond.

Ser Robar swallowed, his hands tingling as he straightened his back, standing on the precipice of something vast. "You're preparing us," he said, the pieces falling into place.

"Yes."

Shivers ran down his back, the Rhythm echoing with truth so strong it felt like a punch to the gut.

"What for?" said Samwell, shadows playing over his face.

Joffrey returned his eyes to the distant bonfire, "You can hear it by its wake, the silence it imparts."

Legate Olyvar held his head with one hand, "It blocks the currents, like a boulder damming it all. Father Above, it blocks the river."

"I don't understand," said Brienne, her eyes turning to Joffrey, "What are you all talking about?"

It was Ser Balon the one who answered though, slowly putting thoughts into words, "It's like the rumbling of Shipbreaker Bay. Like the sea but alive…"

Joffrey smiled like a proud parent, "The Song of Existence," he said. "You can hear it too, if you dare listen. It's here. It's now. It's us."

Ser Robar listened for it, a slight fraying in the distance, the Rhythm buckling as a dread weight neared closer, a grasping silent hand. "The silence… It's here too," he said, realizing his hand was clutching his throat.

"It is," said Joffrey, turning to look up. Ser Robar lifted his gaze and saw a bright crimson comet flare against the night sky, its silence great and terrible as its brilliance grew and grew from distant dot to fiery star, its dagger sharp tail trailing long behind.

"What… what's happening?" said Lady Brienne.

"The Red Comet is achieving orbit around our planet," said Joffrey, a wan smile spreading through his lips, "Our true enemy has arrived. The end to all life."

Legate Snow shook his head slowly, "The deserter. Sansa. Winterfell… Oh Gods, the Guard."

Ser Robar was struck speechless as he kept staring at the comet. It left a wake in the sky, covering it like crimson wings as they spread gently, the Guardsmen beyond the clearing gasping and muttering as they pointed up. It felt like a choking weight, a horrible presence that was nothing at all.

"Our ancestors called them the White Walkers, and the Red Comet is the source of their power," said Joffrey, hand on the pommel of his arming sword as the other rested between hip and hammer. "That's the true war I've been preparing you all for. Soon, in less than a decade, we shall fight the Second War for Dawn."

"The Guard," said Legate Lancel, "The Blackworks, the Maesters and the fleets…" he trailed off for a moment, gazing up with dawning comprehension, "The Age of Westeros. It's your answer. Your answer to this silence."

Can you feel it?

"Are you the Warrior?" asked Ser Robar, returning his gaze to Joffrey. He too returned his gaze from the skies, smiling at Robar.

"No," he said, "Just Joffrey."

A raven landed on Robar's shoulder, cawing in warning as Joffrey's eyes widened, the Rhythm warbling in dissonance as a towering monstrosity of shadow and smoke took form behind the King. It had three faces and six tendrils made of sharp blackness, the smell of charred blood fresh against Robar's nose as he recoiled in horror.

Joffrey spun in half a breath as the tendrils almost speared him, a Valyrian Steel sword growing out of repeating purple-gold patterns around his hand. He slipped the blade through the thing's chest, and it wailed in agony as the three heads shrilled to the heavens. One was a redheaded woman with a slightly eastern complexion, the second was of a little girl with a half scarred face, and the third-

"Stannis?!" shouted Ser Balon as he unsheathed his sword, the knights and the legates scrambling back in shock as they took out their weapons, but Joffrey was already twisting his golden-tinged blade.

"Blood sacrifice," he said.

Robar couldn't get a word out, holding his sword out like a talisman as he saw Stannis' face locked in agony, shadows starting to dissolve as Joffrey further twisted the length of Valyrian Steel.

"It's over, Melissandre. Let it go," said Joffrey, peering straight at the woman's face as it warbled in torment. His head drifted down a little and he took a sharp breath, "Shireen…"

The Rhythm seemed to grow clearer then, melodies beyond Robar's comprehension ringing around Joffrey as he took a deep breath and looked at the little girl again. "Rest, little one. Rest," he said, his voice haunted.

It dissipated as quickly as it'd appeared, blowing with the wind as the distant fires around the castle dimmed, one of the towers collapsing under the heat.

They stood there in stunned silence, Joffrey gazing at the fires for another second. "That was Stannis' pet Shadowbinder. She must have burnt herself along with the rest of the keep…" he said.

"Brightroar… how?" said Lancel.

"It's a long story," said Joffrey. He turned towards them, the strange recurring patterns on the blade hypnotizing Robar. "What is to come will make the shadow you just witnessed seem like a joke. An amateur under the horror of the Red Comet," he said, his voice ringing clear through them all like an edict. "There's a storm coming, and for some reason fate chose to rest that burden on me."

His eyes travelled through the legates and the knights, and Robar could feel the Rhythm coiling in anticipation, his heart hammering against his chest with deep thrusts. "It's a heavy burden," he said, his voice growing ragged by the slightest margin, "A weight I've carried for almost as long as I can remember."

He took a deep breath, "But I can't do it alone."

Ser Robar realized he was still holding his arming sword. He gazed at it thoughtfully, the hair at the back of his neck standing on edge as if lighting had struck the nearby trees. He felt them rise from tailbone to neck and back down again as he breathed.

He took a knee, planting the sword on the ground as he lowered his head. "I will share this burden, my King."

Samwell took a knee by Robar's left, placing his bloodied warhammer on the floor. "You showed me the truth. I will share this burden," he said.

Ser Horas knelt as well, jamming his sword against the earth as he bowed his head, "For Hobar," he said.

Ser Balon, Ser Vardis, Hendry Bracken, Lady Brienne and the rest, all the survivors of the battle knelt, all but the Legates.

"The Guard Stands with you, Your Grace," said Lancel as him and the other Legates stood to the sides.

"No honor but Blood and Mud," said Legate Olyvar. Joffrey smiled as he gave them single nod, oaths given and accepted.

The King walked to those who had knelt, his stride measured, at a tempo with the Rhythm. Ser Robar felt the light weight of Brightroar touch him on the shoulder, the glow of the fires uphill and the comet above streaking through the blade and playing out ghosts of patterned light on the floor and on his face.

"Robar, of the House Royce," said Joffrey, "Do you swear to protect the Kingdom of Westeros from the living and the dead?"

He'd seen it from afar, but now the door beckoned. The new era called to him, a transformation, an entrance to a frighteningly new world of which he'd seen but the faintest glimmer, the faintest promise. The Age of Westeros. Did he dare?

He remembered Hobar's face, a bewildered smile on his lips.

Can you feel it?

"I do," said Robar, goose bumps searing his body as he entered the Age of Westeros.

"Then rise, Lord Commander of the Silver Knights."

Lord Commander Robar Royce stood up, sheathing his sword and taking a step behind Joffrey, the silence absolute, hallowed. The King gazed at those assembled, and took a step to the right. "Samwell, of the House Tarly," he said. "Do you swear to protect the Kingdom of Westeros from the living and the dead?"

"I do," said Sam, Brightroar bathing him in light as Joffrey tapped his shoulder.

"The rise, Ser Samwell. Knight-brother of the Order of the Silver Knights."

Each time he took a step to the right. Each time a Silver Knight was born.

"Brienne, of the House Tarth."

"Horas, of the House Redwyne."

"Hendry, of the House Bracken."

One by one, the knight-brothers of the Order of the Silver Knights stood, taking their place with their King as the fires in the distance grew dim.

There was much Lord Commander Royce didn't understand. The glow of his newfound duty, at a Rhythm with the beating of his heart and reflected by the gaze of his brothers, that he knew, understood with implicit certainty.

White had given way to Silver. A new order for a new Westeros. Robar would not be unworthy of it.

One Kingdom, great and terrible.

-: PD :-