Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

They saw the dragon long before they reached the gatehouse. A sundered, mangled piece of rotting flesh and broken bones. The wind shifted the weight of its shredded wings with every gust that came out of the God's Eye, lifting the regimental banner that emerged from its eyesocket. It had been a fearsome beast, once; its shattered teeth still looked as sharp as Valyrian steel despite the damage, and its arching ribs could've swallowed a group of armsmen whole and still had room for more. "That must be Rhaegal then," said Randyll. He couldn't keep a trace of awe out of his voice.

"Then the rumors were true?" said Dickon, looking back with a wince, "Those men were really dragonslayers?"

Randyll said nothing, their retinue making good time as the rain picked up, washing down twin gullets built lining the cobblestone road. It was amazing how much travel time the cobbles cut off, even for a party of horsemen. The cost must have been ruinous.

It was soon readily apparent what 'Dancing with the Dragon' had meant. Three shifting figures hung from the gatehouse just below dead Rhaegal, swinging with the breeze and the rain. He startled, looking up at the armored knight third in line. 'RAPIST' read the placard nailed to the chestplate of the big Ashford knight.

"You knew him, Father?"

"Only in passing. We met during a tourney in Highgarden." He looked to his hanging companions, spotting some nameless cur in ragged clothing and a placard identical to Ser Pembron's. Next to him hanged no other than Ser Tanton Fossoway, brother to the lord of Cider Hall; 'MURDERER' read his placard. "Seven Above!" said Randyll. His horse neighed as it shuffled backwards, Randyll tearing at the reins by instinct. Hanging two knights like common rabble? It said a lot about the kind of discipline expected of him past the gates, and a lot about King Joffrey if he could get away with it without being deposed. He'd known the Fossowy knight, and though they'd never been close Randyll still found himself shaken as they rode through the eerily long gateway.

The other side of the wall made for sharp contrast to the gloomy warnings hanged outside. Great tents and pavilions had taken over Harrenhal's grand courtyard, stores of supplies guarded from the rain by big awnings attached to the stone walls. There were servants everywhere, moving with decision between the various tents and the central keep. Randyll clenched his mouth shut as he looked around. The whole of Harrenhal was one great flurry of banners. They were everywhere; lining the walls and towers, hanging from staffs and wagons, even draping whole sections of the main keep. All manner of sewn weaponry greeted him; battleaxes and speared suns, swords and catapults, even gatehouses and keeps on checkered patterns. Roses, lightning, beehives, knights, runes and shields separate and intermixed. Most of all there were beasts, snarling bores and badgers against colors smooth and bright, seahorses and krakens staring at each other, great crabs lifting pincers at roaring lions. The ruling might of Westeros had gathered, following the undeniable call of their King, and it was his banner that ruled them all. Above the panoply of color fluttered silver; an antlered lion snarling at a bright star. It waved atop the central keep, five times as big as the others, flanked by the banner of the Baratheons of King's Landing on one side, and the Direwolf of the North on the other. Bloody 'IV's of the Fourth Regiment draped the crenelations of the main keep, like swords of red and silver guarding royalty. The King is in residence then, he thought. Not that he'd expected otherwise. Though he was far indeed from a student of history, Randyll would've had to be dumb to ignore the historical significance of such a gathering. The banners drove it home for Dickon.

"Father Above," whispered his son, "Even the Ironborn are here."

A line of guardsmen were lining the approach out of the gate, standing miserably in the rain. Covered ways had been erected to protect the working servants, but these men's task had obviously been considered too august for that. A herald impeccably dress and bearing the King's personal sigil stepped forward and bowed smartly, the rain but adding to his style. "Welcome to Harrenhal my lords, and none too soon! From where do you hail?"

"You address Randyll Tarly, lord of Horn Hill," said Habart, nodding at Randyll.

"Horn Hill." The man smiled, "Very good." He made a gesture, and Randyll had to keep his hand away from his sword as servants emerged from out of sight, relieving them of their horses. "Don't worry my lord of Tarly. We've a small army of stableboys to tend to them, and a small army of horses to keep them busy. Please, if the lord and his son would follow me out of the rain? I daresay the feast has started without you." He laughed at his own joke. One of the servants had gingerly taken the Tarly banner from Habart, taking it to hang from the tower along with the others no doubt. We're here, thought Randyll, a weary sigh escaping his lips. Let no one say the Tarly's didn't honor the call to council.

"Walk around, Habart, see what you can find out from other retinues," he said before following the man, Dickon at his side.

"My name's Hoswin, I work as a King's Aide in all matter courtly. Please, ask away if you have any questions." The man led them under a covered way, the canvass peppered with rain. "It's a long way to the main keep, we put this up after one lord too many got drenched going for a walk."

"At least two knights are drenched enough," he said as he slipped a look back at the gatehouse.

If the statement unnerved Hoswin, he didn't show, "Oh. Them. Well, so many lords and knights living together for an extended period of time does tend to fray tempers." He waved at the banners, "Too many of those animals are predators, had you noticed that?"

Randyll shrugged, keeping quiet. "But not the Tarly's," said Hoswin, "They chose a huntsman for their banner. Not a terrible and dreadful beast but a killer. A hunter of predators."

Randyll frowned, examining the man more closely. He seemed unremarkable, weak chinned and small-ish though impeccably dressed in embroidered robes. They walked past several enormous tents holding what Randyll thought to be guards and servants from other lords of the Seven Kingdoms, most of them partaking of modest feasts and banging cups when the winebearers neared. "They seemed well cared for," said Randyll, changing the subject.

"The King believes in sharing the good spirits." Hoswin nodded, hands at his back, "Night Lion know they'll need it."

A septon of all things had taken over one of the plazas formed by the pavilions, preaching atop a vegetable cart at the sizable crowd gathered around him. The rain muffled the words but did nothing to contain his sweeps and gestures, holding both hands aloft at the antlered lion as if it were a statue of the Father. Trust a King to use septons as entertainment. As long as they kept the smallfolk distracted, Randyll didn't much care. They reached the main keep after that, though they didn't take the main gates, going up a set of stairs instead and entering through a side door. Hallways bent and curved as they made their way through the massive tower, drafts of wind bringing raised voices and playing lutes. They passed next to an open gallery with a view to the famous Hall of a Hundred Hearths, a hall loyal to its name now thick with the scent of roasted boar and deer, smoke and spilled wine mixing in joined revelry. Lords, knights and ladies formed enormous clusters near the numerous hearths, partaking in the feast. The merry scene felt speared, as if making up for some wary undercurrent.

"They started early today," said Hoswin. He sniffed, "Did you know there's only thirty or so hearths down there? Not a hundred. Not even fifty one." He shook his head, "Do you love all those little alliterations, my lord hunter?"

There was an awkward silence as Lord Tarly tried to figure the little man out, trying to find offense at something he'd said and not finding anything. Then why do I feel this damned irritated? Seven Above, it's been a long day.

"Aren't we going to the feast?" asked Dickon, filling the silence hesitantly.

Hoswin shook his head emphatically, "The King wants to see you, and I intend to carry out that wish."

Randyll stared at him dubiously, "He wanted an audience with me? Since before I arrived?"

"That is his wish, my lord."

"…Very well then. Dickon, I think it's best you made your way down there." And find us some old friends who got here first. We're clearly out of our depth. His son seemed to get the message, nodding slowly before taking the nearby set of stairs. Of course, Randyll would also feel more comfortable breaching the subject of inheritance without the heir-to-be in the same room. His son still harbored some remnants of affection for Samwell; best the arrangements were made out of his sight. If I'm to see the King, then I might as well make use of it. And for that he needed information, too. "And how had the King fared these past few weeks?"

Hoswin gave him a knowing smile as they kept walking, Dickon ducking out of sight. "He grows weary of the lords and knights cluttering his halls and dwindling his food, preferring the company of his wife and friends as of late."

The fertility rumors are out then, if he's keeping company with his wife still. "That must have displeased the lords."

"Oh, far from that. The absence of Good King Joffrey from his own feasting hall has done more for public peace than any number of hanged men." Hoswin opened a set of double doors deeper into the keep, the halberdiers at the sides ignoring them as if they were not even there. "The nobility smells something in the air. Something harsh and dangerous brewing in their midst." Hoswin smiled again, "And they're not even wrong."

Randyll had to keep the unusually blabbering servant talking, "And the King, he has not been giving audience to his lords?"

"Not in the past week. Only a few, here and there. The Queen has done most of the heavy lifting." Except for me. Interesting. What could the King possibly want from him? "Men think you simple; an excellent commander all steel and straight," said Hoswin as they kept walking, leaving the sound of the feast behind.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion on my character," said Randyll, voice terse. King's Aide or not, this man was dangerously close to tipping a limit. Let's hope he's no dragonslayer at least, he thought as he checked his thin frame. They passed by several checkpoints of guardsmen, though none seemed to even notice them, Hoswin opening the doors for him.

"But its not. I said men. Your peers. And yet they forget you are no beast my lord of Tarly." He smiled at him, "For is not the hunter cunning and patient? Biding his time in waiting?" He opened the last set of doors, revealing a grand study with stained glass windows at the end. "Be careful you are not snared by your own traps, my lord hunter. That is my opinion."

Who the hells do you think you are?! The man was out of his reach before he could smack the insolence out of him, taking three quick steps forward and bowing. "Your Grace, Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill to see you." Two steps to the side, a gesture at Randyll, "His Grace, King Joffrey of the House Baratheon."

The King was facing the stained glass window, a stout figure in plate armor covered by thick robes, an iron circlet on his brow. A silver lion stirred from beside the roaring hearth, bigger than the heavy oaken desk behind the King. It growled lowly at Hoswin before Joffrey spoke. "Stop messing with my court. I've already warned you once," he said without turning, the rain pattering gently against the glass.

"But my King," said Hoswin, his voice a pinnacle of absolute servitude, "I merely render aid when required. Didn't you mention need for the good Lord Tarly?"

The King breathed slowly. "In the near future, not now. Haven't you a court of your own to oversee?"

"A court of bored warriors and sand. Not an equal in sight to debate."

"Then you'd do well to meditate on the ways of sand, Your Excellency. Perhaps there you'll find some of that much needed insight," the King said, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Randyll felt absolutely lost, though caution seemed warranted. This man is no mere servant, he thought, hand inching to his sword.

Hoswin splayed his arms wide, palms outward, "You've read too much into the ways of the Aeromancers, Your Grace. There is only so much to be gleaned from within."

"And there's only so much to be gleaned from without, absent a center. Too much water will drown a rootless tree." The King shrugged at the rain, "Perhaps it is the Weirwoods and not sand that which you should study." The words were in the common tongue, but for all Randyll gleaned these men might as well been speaking Qarthi. It didn't sound like this was the first time they discussed like this, though. The King sighed in longing, looking up at the glass. Had they interrupted something? "Now leave," he said.

Randyll bowed tersely, but before he could turn around he found his muscles strangely unresponsive. The sheer shock left his mind similarly frozen. "Nothing but dust stirs north of K'Dath. The hammer will fall here, oh Sunset King." Hoswin smiled eerily, "Best you seed the ground early with your lord hunter."

King Joffrey kept staring at the rain, but something in the air made Randyll shiver past the paralysis now gripping him. He looked at the silver-furred lion as it roused itself from its crook near the glowing hearth, heart hammering his chest as he struggled to move. "I don't like people making my decisions for me," said the King, his voice iron. "I don't like people bewitching my subjects, either." He lowered his voice, the sound carrying over the big study effortlessly, "They may whisper your name in dread out east, Vajul. But this-" He turned and faced them for the first time, eyes sharp green and a half-feral smile that was both threat and warning, "-This, my friend, is the west."

Unspoken words flew between both men, the servant holding that potent gaze before he smiled again and the ghostly grip that held Randyll skittered away, like the rain crawling down the stained glass. He blinked as Hoswin took two steps back and made an elaborate bow, a set of complex flourishes flowing from both hands, "My apologies for the overstep, Your Grace. Until next time."

"Your Excellency," said the King, his gaze boring a hole on his own servant. Hoswin's little smile evaporated, replaced by a bewildered huff as he stumbled, falling to one knee besides Randyll.

From one moment to the next the King was there. "Wh- I- Your Grace?" said Hosiwn, giving Randyll a baffled look as if he seeing him for the first time.

"Don't worry, you've just a long day," said the King as he lifted him from the floor, "Go rest now, close the door behind you."

"But- I… yes, Your Grace," said the servant. The doors closed with a sharp clack.

Randyll breathed deeply as the King greeted him with a clasp of hands, not giving him time to take a knee. What in the Seven's name was all that? "Is-" he stammered as a big headache pounded his forehead. What was he doing again? "Is this a bad time, Your Grace?"

King Joffrey's eyes flicked to him as he guided him to the desk by the stained glass window, and he could feel the full weight of his attention settling over him, "No chance of meditating after that. Please, take a seat," he said as he walked behind the oak desk, "I apologize for… my wayward servant. Are you well?"

"It was nothing, Your Grace," he said. Had he really been unable to move, or had he just been entranced by the clashing wills. And who the hells had been that man? No servant, that was certain. The whole memory already felt surreal, like a dream. He focused on something concrete to steady himself, noting the limp to the King's stride before he sat down by the desk.

He smiled ruefully, "A little gift from Drogon. The maesters assure me it'll heal, but the cold has certainly not helped."

Another rumor true. He sat opposite the desk, the King honoring him by serving the cups himself. He had to find his center now or Horn Hill would be ill-informed for all the intrigues doubtlessly being spun in the feast halls below… and there's the matter of Dickon too. I don't care for plots and insolent servants. Harrenhal can burn to the ground but I'm not leaving without royal backing. "It's true what the minstrels say, Your Grace? That you bested a fully grown dragon in single combat?"

"Hardly fully grown." He snorted, "Drogon was no Black Dread."

Randyll didn't know what to say. Rare was the liege that did not aggrandize his own accomplishments -or took them from their betters-, but to minimize them instead? So this is my liege, thought Randyll, truly examining him for the first time. The coiled tension around the neck was evident, and so were the callouses on his hands as he placed the jug back on the desk with firm motions. A warrior's frame, through more in the mold of the Kingslayer than King Robert's; a shadowcat more than a boar. The classical beauty of the Lannisters had been hammered by that unmistakable Baratheon sternness that made the right side of his chest itch; an old keepsake from the Battle of the Bells. The mixture lent Joffrey an august presence, like some dead Andal warlord the likes of which had crammed Samwell's books before he'd consigned them to the fires. This is a man I can understand, thought Randyll, a smidgen of relief tickling his throat… thought that might have been the drink. They sipped their cups again after a brief toast to the Reach and the Kingdom, something fruity burning his palate. Tyroshi pear brandy? He was surprised but not against it; a man could grow sick of even Arbor Gold after a lifetime of the same.

"You Grace?" said a knight in silver armor as he opened the main door to the study, by the other end. "I felt something-"

"It's alright," said the King, "He's gone now. For a while, I'd say."

His face creased, "I'm sorry I-"

"It's okay, Ser Criston. He's hard to hear, a whisper in the song."

"I'll do better in the future, Your Grace."

"I know you will." He dismissed the knight with a nod, returning his attention to Randyll. Must have been one of the famous Silver Knights, he thought. And to think his son had been taken in by them; like a pet or perhaps an inner jape. He banished the shame with the ease of long practice. The water crawling against the glass distorted the afternoon light, painting shadows over the carpets. "How was the road?" asked the King. He appeared eager to leave the whole business with Hoswin behind. Good riddance I say.

"The autumn rains slowed us down." He couldn't keep the grimace off his lips.

"You and half the Reach," said the King. He shrugged, "With you here we finally have enough lords to get all of this done though. Tomorrow at noon, I'm thinking."

Randyll tried not to shuffle in his seat. I never bandied words at cross meanings before, I won't start now. "Some Reachmen got here just in time for a noose, Your Grace."

"And an Ironborn, but they don't count do they?" That startled a chuckle out of Randyll before Joffrey tilted his head. "They stepped out of line. You disapprove?"

If what the placards had said was true -and he could scarcely call the King a liar to his face- then… "Not in principle, but a headsman would've been more appropriate for their station. It would also have avoided-"

"Leaving their bodies out there as a warning to the others?" said Joffrey. "A point had to be made, and quickly. Either the lords would behave in a manner fitting to their station, or their crimes would merit punishment no different than if the smallfolk they raped or killed had done the deed."

The victims were smallfolk?!

Perhaps reading the shock on his face, the King smiled grimly, "I take the King's Peace very seriously, Lord Tarly. Even more so when the offense is committed in King's Land." He shrugged, "You've been known to hang quite a few men yourself, and for lesser deeds as well."

"That's during war!"

The King gave him a knowing smile that sent shivers down Randyll's spine. Dangerous, this one. He'd learned to trust his instincts on and off the battlefield, and right now they were restless, giving words to the King's smile; 'And what am I preparing for, if not for war?' "You came alone?"

"With my son."

"I see." The King leaned on the desk, fingers steepled. He tapped them twice, examining them for a few secondsas if debating some inner matter. Then his gaze centered on Randyll again, eyes sharp and decided. "I'm curious. Why do you think I called this Great Council?"

The right side of his chest itched again. "War," he said without hesitation. His instincts afire; it felt like the correct answer.

"War. War the likes of which this land has seldom seen before." The King, examined his cup, the reddish brandy tilting to one side, "It has left me with a bit of a problem, concerning your fellow lords. The Reach will need able leadership of its hosts, a steady hand both disciplined and capable." He eyed Randyll, brow furrowed, "I'll need you to provide that leadership, when the time comes."

"Of course, Your Grace." It wasn't as if he hadn't done it before; Mace Tyrell was a mediocre commander to say the least. If war there was, then Randyll had no qualms about leading the Reacher contingent from the front… though he wasn't exactly enthused about conquering a Free City.

"This is not a task I place lightly on you." The King kept staring at him. "Meditate on what I ask of you. Do it under the shadow of those swaying outside. Look into the dead eyes of those knights and ask yourself; Can I do this? Can I hang my friends if it means my House will survive?" Randyll frowned deeply, proud to keep the King's gaze without cowering. The King served himself another cup before leaning back on the chair. "Think on it, and give me your answer when the council's over."

Randyll was not used to hesitating, but he found himself doing so before he nodded slowly. Everything; the lords, the hanged, the septons and the regiments, even the lion and that insolent servant that made his skin crawl… Conquering a Free City felt too petty a goal. The King swirled the brandy in his cup, the room silent but for the crackling fire in the hearth. I won't find a better chance. "Your Grace, there was another matter."

He waved at him.

Randyll marshaled his arguments before clearing his throat, "I've a problem I think you could help me with." He wondered how many twisted plots had started with those words before banishing the grimace off his mouth, "My youngest son, Dickon, has grown to be a knight both capable and disciplined," he said, echoing his liege's words back at him, "He is the righteous heir to Horn Hill in everything but law. A capable commander able to lead my house in war and peace." He sighed, "He stands in sharp contrast to my eldest son Samwell, who I've heard you've taken into your service." And damned if Randyll knew how the King had intercepted the men 'escorting' Samwell to the Night's Watch, but what's done is done. A shame the Silver Knights need not renounce their blood.

"I did. Samwell has served with both strength and cunning these past few years. I'm surprised the news haven't reached Horn Hill."

"Pardon, Your Grace, but your rule has unleashed more rumors than a man knows how to deal with. I know he was present during the Battle in the Mist, though Father knows how you managed to drag him aboard one of your ships."

Joffrey's gaze sharpened, "You'd be surprised how little it actually took." He seemed on the verge of saying something else before closing his mouth with a sigh. Randyll knew enough from what little he'd managed to pry from Melessa; Samwell still kept an intermittent correspondence with his mother. Knight Chronicler. He huffed, hiding it with his cup, a joke in bad taste. Leave it to Samwell to find ink and parchment in an order of ferocious knights sworn to the King.

"Be that as it may, the seat of Horn Hill is wholly unsuited to Samwell both physically and in temperament. The boy doesn't even want it, truth be told. I'd be thankful beyond measure if you'd lend your approval to a formal leap in succession, as if the boy had joined the Night's Watch or-" he swallowed something acid- "the Maesters."

The King stared at him for a while, lounging on his chair in eerie symmetry with the lion by the hearth. His own chair was comfortable enough, but hunter or not he was damned if he let his guard down with that enormous beast watching him. He'd pay good coin to learn how he'd managed to get a tamed lion such as it, much less one so big and unusually colored. Probably some Pentoshi menagerie, he thought. Finally, the King spoke, "Such a royal decree would be very unusual."

Randyll squared his shoulders, "It is not without precedent. King Aegon did likewise many times during his conquest, and King Jaehaerys mediated a dispute that way within House Darklyn."

Joffrey smirked, though there was no humor in it, "Been spending some time with the history books I see." He examined his nails, much like the lion examining its claws, "They can be quite useful sometimes, can they not?"

"Yes," Randyll said after a moment, a sudden itch on his face.

The King sighed, taking another sip. He seemed tired as he leaned back on the seat again, "I'll have the decree signed before the day's end, if that is truly your wish." He tilted his head, "A word of advice, my lord?"

"Of course," said Randyll, trying to keep down the surge of righteous victory flooding his body. He hadn't thought it would be so easy.

"Speak with Samwell, before you add your signature to mine." He lifted his hand vaguely. Joffrey seemed as unused to hesitation as Randyll himself, "Try to see beyond the boy stuck in your mind. Try to…" he trailed off, his hand back over the desk as he caressed the cup. Another sigh. "He should be in the feast, or after that in his solar. One of my aides can show you where that is. Is that all?"

Randyll nodded. If seeing his eldest son -hopefully for the last time- was what it took, then by all the Gods Randyll would do it. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Choose wisely, Lord Tarly," he said as he stood up, the audience over. Randyll felt vaguely unsettled as he left the room, looking back one last time before closing the door. The King had returned to the stained glass, hands clasped behind him as he gazed at the gathering rain now shaking the glass lightly. Randyll shook his head. The King was a stern man, with a lurking intelligence behind those steel eyes. He could practically smell the will gathering around him, like an evening before a thunderstorm. Tomorrow would be a day to for the maesters and their damned books, of that he was certain.

-: PD :-