Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The rain caressed Harrenhal's stony frame like muffled pinpricks, a silent concert in the midst of the night. It hadn't stopped since Lord Tarly's arrival, growing in strength with every passing hour.

"You should get some sleep," said Sansa. Joffrey smiled as she twisted within his embrace, turning to face him. Red locks lay haphazard over her face, mingling with the blankets in a thoroughly unqueenly mess.

"Heed your own advice," he said, flicking one of them off her eyes.

She huffed, undoing his work as they scattered all over again. They stared at each other for a long while, only the rain and the subdued crackling of the hearth keeping them company. Joffrey had taken one look at Harrenhal's master bedroom before staking out camp at one of the much more intimate secondary suites, and even that felt too large. The bed made for a warm little nest though, warding off the steadier chills sneaking through autumn like assassins at a feast. "We could throw some blankets on the floor near the hearth," Sansa said with a quirk of her lips.

"Hm." He'd gotten used again to sleeping in the veritable sandpits Westerosi called beds. Mostly. Sometimes he still awoke gasping, convinced that the Purple had sneaked within without warning, dragging him to fractal depths. He took a deep breath, tucking Sansa under his chin as he brought her closer still. Ever since their bonding they'd shared a sort of complicit knowing, a wordless certainty that linked them without words. It had grown stronger with the years, and as of late Joffrey had noticed their conversations were as much felt as spoken. Sometimes it was almost like mind reading.

Her warm breath tickled his chest, "It's always hard to get some shut eye. The night before a big plot."

An idle smile lined his lips. "Do you have a favorite?"

"The time you sank a sword through my heart was hard to forget."

"First time doesn't count," he said. It felt like so long ago. "You remember what I told you?"

The hearth rumbled softly, a log settling on its new place. "You said it would be beyond horrible," she said, "Beyond despair."

A terrible moment of uncertainty settled within Joffrey, and he asked the question even as he felt the answer radiate from Sansa. "Was it?"

"Yes." She shuffled from under his neck, looking up at him. There was no regret in that serene gaze. "But there was happiness too. Love and joy. It was a good trade."

"Aye." Joffrey smiled. "That it was." His companion through war and intrigue, through seas and empires. His partner. His lover.

"You told me to be brave," she said, her voice faraway. And so she'd been. By the Old Gods so she'd been. She burrowed between his neck and the blankets again, relishing in the pride he felt for her. "I'm glad you think that," she whispered.

Joffrey caressed her neck, feeling it's bend with calloused hands. "Your favorite though, not the most memorable."

A silent beat. "Braavos, then." The mirth in her voice was contagious. "So awkward and hesitating. I'd like to go back to them just to croon over their innocence."

He snorted. "I'd go back to yell at them to get it over with."

"We'd have spared the Sealord a table at least."

"Heh." Joffrey looked beyond the wall, beyond westeros. "You remember that time in New Ghis? When we were on the way to Asshai?"

"I remember you playing merchant with a bunch of would-be pirates."

"Well, someone had to make enough gold for the rest of the trip. Besides." He gave an exaggerated shrug, jostling Sansa from her crook. "You plotted the last of those insane deals."

She mumbled as she resettled a bit lower, leaning her head against his chest. "We were still getting the hang of pillow-plotting back then."

Cutlass wielding corsairs chased them through New Ghis' lower harbor before Joffrey blinked the memory away. "Pillow-plotting… I like how it sounds."

Sansa moaned, she must have recognized the eagerness. "You told me you'd stop."

Joffrey's reply was in a deep baritone, filled with mischief. "Through sheets- and sleeves- oh plot- they did-" He ignored the nails raking his chest, "Pill…-Ow Talk- To scheme- and doom."

"Stop it!"

"Heroes are supposed to have their ballads! How else will our descendants know of our deeds?"

"Through books, Joff."

Joffrey sniffed. A Speck of Purple had all the makings of a perfectly valid historical artifact. He was sure Archmaester Perestan would agree. Sansa said nothing, a wordless tinge of unease making them both scuttle closer even though that was scarcely possible. The levity faded quietly, seeping away with the hearth's diminishing heat. Distant crickets chirped at the sky, barley audible over the soft rains and the choking maelstrom between breaths. It was so close now; an eye of red crystal cold gazed and silent, it's rate of descent slowing as it poised over a tiny world. So many times they'd plotted like this, planning how to face that Cold Wind making for their world.

"It feels different, this time," he said after a while. Even thinking about it brought a jolt throughout his body, veins flashing into awareness before lazy heat crawled over his face. Wars fought. Secrets uncovered. Journeys to the end of the world. It was all coming to a head now, the beginning of the end. All he'd worked for throughout this life and many others. "You think they'll buy it?"

"We won't leave them any other choice. We'll force them if we have to."

"I don't like the way they look at me," he said, his tongue dry as he licked his lips. "It was hard before Drogon, but now-"

"They need heroes, Joff." Sansa spoke with quiet determination, "Proportional in awe to the dread of the of the Red Comet."

"I know," he whispered. Few songs ever spoke of how lonely that role was, even A Speck of Purple fell short. It needed a stronger word than loneliness. Awe or dread it mattered not when the magnitude measured against was that of the Red Comet. Destroyer or Saviour, both were equally alienating. "It's the last time, Sansa," he said, feeling the weight of it in his bones. Intellectually, he'd known. But now… now it hit him with chills the closer the hour approached. It was the last time. The last time they'd prepare their homeland for the true war. The last time they'd plot and prepare for what was to come. Never before had they been so close to that ideal Westeros, armed and ready for the end of days. And never again they would be.

"We won't be denied," Sansa whispered. "They'll march with us. And we'll finish it."

"For the living," said Joffrey.

They held each other throughout the night. Joffrey didn't quite sleep. He sailed through a drowsy half-world of dreams both broken and accomplished, the golden glow of a work well done battling with the anxieties of tomorrow. When the light of dawn seeped through the windows the rain had redoubled, his eyes opening at the same time as his wife's. It was time.

-: PD :-

The Greatjon and his son were already hard at it when Joffrey and Sansa emerged from the sidedoor. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths echoed with polite talk, rumors abuzz in the air and not without a hint of wariness. Tyrion and the Umbers were squarely in the middle of the northener tables, making for a strange contrast. The northmen knew more than most of what was to come, some of them having fought wights not a few months ago when they rode to relieve Sansa and the Third Regiment. The Umbers were busy tanking down their lunch with plentiful ale, the Smalljon bellowing at Tyrion to keep up.

The sight sent a pang of longing through Joffrey, their laughter filling him with the taste of hard ale and the bite of scaling pikes on an icy cliff. He'd been an errant young prince bumbling through the North back then, just some precocious noble with wild dreams and a dwarf uncle looking for a good time. The Greatjon turned and for a moment Joffrey expected a smile to lit up across his wide, bearded face; an offer of ale on his lips.

"Your Grace," he said after a stunned second, his voice grave as he took a knee. He didn't see a lost prince. He saw a pale faced king armored in steel and severe furs, a black crown of wrought iron twisting upon his brow. Sword and hammer instead of scaling pikes, forged purpose instead of wanderlust.

"Lord Umber," he said, succeeding at keeping the childish disappointment from his voice. The nobles around him turned in surprise, kneeling as the silence spread through the hall like a tidal wave. Soon there was not a sound in the air, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms as quiet as the soldiers, maesters, merchants and ambassadors on the balconies of the second floor.

"Rise, my lords and ladies," said Sansa, "We would not keep you from your meal."

The subsequent smalltalk was subdued, and it seemed to Joffrey that every person in the room kept a half-eye on them at all times. "Lord Stark." He smiled at his goodfather.

Eddard's hair bore streaks of silver now, the Handship aging him fast as it usually did with the worthy. It hadn't been easy for him, 'picking the shit' of young and energetic royals with a concrete vision to execute. Some of that weight lifted as Eddard nodded, perhaps eased by the knowledge he would no longer have to keep such a terrible secret from everyone. "My king. My queen," he said, a ghost of a smile as he looked at Sansa.

They walked on; there was nothing to say, the die cast. Tyrion waddled to their side as they passed the Karstarks. "Is he near?"

Joffrey couldn't keep the fond smile from his face, "He won't leave port for a few months longer. Patience, uncle."

"Easy for you to say." He lowered his voice as they transitioned to the tables hosting most of the Riverlanders, Sansa taking the brunt of the formalities and the smalltalk. "You look good. Both of you. An Andal warlord and his First Men queen." Tyrion nodded, eyes lingering on the assembled nobles. "They'll need that."

He wondered if Tyrion included himself as he said the last. Sansa looked more regal than ever in her green and blue wrap dress, the white northern pelts giving the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms an exotic edge. And suitably martial, he thought as he gazed at the ornate dagger on her belt. A sapphire coronet adorned her brow, of a color with her eyes and framed by long locks of red; they draped past her shoulders like ivy hugging a waterfall, her back straight as she greeted the Slayerfish with a hearty hug.

Edmure held a goblet in his dragonbone hand, nodding deeply at Joffrey as Sansa stood back. "Your Grace. I'm glad we'll finally find out what's this all about," he said before taking a sip.

"As am I." Joffrey nodded at the dragonbone prostheses attached to his stump, "You seem to be getting the hang of it."

He shrugged, "This is easy, compared to the hammer." He smiled slightly, "Perhaps another session at the yard would be in order?"

"I think it would," said Joffrey, clasping his shoulder. He'd been drilling with Edmure now and then, showing him the occasional benefits of having a hammer for an arm. The Riverlanders followed the queues of their lord with utmost respect, seeking his gaze to speak and silently giving each other their turns with the king; Edmure had them dancing like a school of fish around a shark. The 'Fishbones' -those who'd charged Rhaegal along with their liege- were foremost in their deference to the Lord of Riverun, but they weren't the only ones. For the first time in living memory, the Riverlands seemed to have found a liege worthy enough to follow without too much grumbling. Well, most of them, Joffrey thought with a smirk. Walder Frey and his constant scowl kept clear of the clustered nobles, content to sling his sons and daughters at distant targets before his strength waned as it usually did after noon.

They left the Riverlanders behind, receiving oafish platitudes from Mace Tyrell and a hollow nod from Lord Tarly. The Queen of Thorns ghosted between the Reachlords, her gaze fixed on Lord Tarly before she took Maergery by the arm and they walked to the northener tables. Tywin had his own little court within the hall, with those Westerlanders in better standing now closer to him than those that were not. Nobody wanted to be seen as outside of Lord Tywin's graces though, so it was more like a core of those most in his trust surrounded by a larger mass of awkwards caught in some kind of political twilight state. The man's bow was so correct as to border on insolence, but for a moment he swore a smile had twitched within Tywin's lips. "We are at your service, Your Grace," he said with a relaxed tilt of the head, "Your Highness."

Sansa smiled sweetly, praising the Westerland's sons and daughters and the work they'd done for the Crown. The outer group crept closer, happy to hear Sansa's praises included them as well. Joffrey kept an eye on Tywin, noticing the approval in his eyes. He'd come to understand his grandfather's struggle for the 'Lannister legacy' as an impossible game, an eternal war played by Tywin against Tywin. He would never truly win, though he supposed he could be in a state of winning. Perhaps it was the closest his grandfather would ever know to true peace. I wonder if Jaime found his alongside Mother. He breathed out.

Stormlords and Crownlanders they passed by swifter than most. With them he shared a quality that was hard to name; a synchrony perhaps, or a shared ideal. It was them, along with most of the Riverlands, that had for the most part embraced his dream of Westeros. They would follow him into war no matter the battlefield. Lord Renly had found his true calling as Master of Ambassadors, though he hadn't neglected his own land, his charm serving as a glue for the Stormlords. By far the worst stares were from the Valelords; those had a glassy tint of a kind with religious fervor; awed and trusting. It was within their ranks that Septon Kyle's word had reached deepest.

Lord Royce kept a head as cool as the heights of the Eyrie -thank the Gods- but Joffrey couldn't help but think of him as the good-faith dissident necessary to any religious saga worth the name. There could be no Hugor of the Hill without a Landon Seven-Tongues, after all. "How fares Lord Arryn, Your Grace? I hear he's taken well to the capital," said Lord Royce.

"He and his cousin Brandon are night on inseparable," he said, a smile getting out.

"Tommen as well," said Sansa, "They call each other 'knight-brother' and won't let Ser Barristan train one without the other two."

"Splendid," said Lord Royce, "After his mother I feared…" he shook his head. Lysa Arryn did not take well to the separation. After her calls for rebellion fell on deaf ears -she'd scarcely controlled her own bedchamber within the Eyrie- she'd taken one long leap down the Moon Door.

"I think he'll make a fine knight -and lord- one day," said Joffrey, eyes drawn by the runes on his bronze plate. Most days Lord Royce had been robed in finery, but not today.

"I hope I live to see those days," he said, voice somber. Yes. He too felt something in the air. Something of what was to come.

Many of the other Valelords clustered around Septon Kyle, though Joffrey didn't manage a word before the man went prostrate on the floor, like a supplicant at the Yellow Emperor's court. Joffrey shifted within his plate; the Valelords didn't follow suite, but some eyed him with something that was more than mortal respect. He tugged Sansa's elbow and they walked away. She considered Septon Kyle a useful if overzealous asset -one could hardly accuse the King and Queen of being witches if one of the Most Devout was busy canonizing them next door- but Joffrey still cursed the man in the privacy of his own mind. He'd thought of himself as many things over his long life, from monster to lover, weakling to warrior and simpleton to strategist. Even 'Last Hero', if he must… but never a god. Gods were the dread artificers that had crafted the Purple and the Red Comet, or something more abstract like the breathing-living world he'd come to understand as the Old Gods. Perhaps the ebb-and-flow of the Song was worthy of that title, but never him.

The wearier -and perhaps weaker- of his lords were the Dornish and the Ironborn. The Dornish regarded him with sullen acceptance, content with watching Arianne snare knight after knight or Oberyn poke at Reacher pride, both sources of petty amusement until came the time to go home again. Joffrey hoped that would change soon, though Sansa's 'handmaidens' had done a good job of soothing ruffled feathers in the meantime. The Ironborn's disdain had been no surprise, though amusingly enough the fact that he'd hanged one of them seemed to have garnered some respect. And with Balon Greyjoy sadly wracked by the bloody cough and unlikely to live past the month, a new center of power had formed around Lord Rodrick Harlaw, helped along by recent good fortune in some of his ventures around the Sothori coast. A battle-hardened Theon prowled by his side, lending the legitimacy of the Greyjoys when he was not with Robb. He gave Sansa a sly grin; few were the lords lucid enough to fear his wife instead of him.

The midday feast was nearing its end when Joffrey and Sansa ascended the steps to the thrones on the dais, one made of swords and the other of ebonwood. Above were splayed Drogon's bones, a menace hanging over the gathering like a vulture out of nightmare. Silver Knights surrounded the dais, a nearby guardsman raising the butt of his halberd. He didn't need to slam it against the floor; the act of sitting on the throne was enough to bring a skittering sort of silence across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The tension built up as he surveyed the upper balconies, officers and merchants from Steeltown and the Blackworks returning his gaze. They knew the broad extent of his preparations, and so they couldn't help but fear the target of it.

The silence stretched. The heavy rain outside was like a wall separating the hall from the rest of the world; a constant drone, droplets thick with shards of ice that chilled the stones and frightened the hearths. The sounds ignored through daily life turned too loud to bare; the creak of furniture on stone, the strangled cough, the fidgeting hands. They compounded on one another as Joffrey traced the jagged armrests of the Iron Throne. The lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms held their breath without the need for herald or warning; such was the tension in the Song. He smiled grimly. This had been his dream, his hope during countless lives lost in blood and mud. To unite Westeros against the true threat. To forge a Kingdom worth saving. And now here they were. He cleared his throat but found he couldn't speak. Legates and Silver Knights looked up at him with truth in their eyes. Northeners and Westerlanders sat side by side in peace. Stormlords and Crownlanders shared their food. All under the same hall.

He blinked away the bit of dirt in his eyes. Now was the time to bring them into the true war. My war. My pain. My dream. Righteousness was something he'd seldom felt since the heady, monstrous reigns of his youth. Now it rampaged through his spine like an escaped beast, relishing every single second of existence. "Lords of the Seven Kingdoms," he said, projecting his voice to carry, "I thank you for your presence this day. It has been one long in the making, a road filled with sweat and blood and lost friends." How to explain such cosmic stakes? How to relate such fervent hope? The words of his prepared speech slipped into the aether, hopelessly lost as he gazed at the eyes of his countrymen. The people he hoped to save. To lead.

His hand searched Sansa's of its own accord and held it tight, her squeeze sending wordless love. Perhaps he was seeing the whole thing backwards. What do I want? He fought against the Red Comet and the Cycle, that was certain. But what did Joffrey Baratheon fight for? He searched for the words uttered in dreams and longing, and found one burning in his gut, a single animating light that'd saved him after Melissandre's pyre and the silence of the Seven, dispelled the ashes of the Red Wolf and the cold neglect of his father. The seed Ned had planted one day by a Heart Tree.

"Peace," he said, the word a hole in the silence. "If there is one law or project the Maesters will remember me by, if it is one single thing that will be said after my death, let it be this; King Joffrey Baratheon dreamt of peace." He straightened his back, the crown of wrought steel cold on his brow, "To see my friends and family together, to see my people prosper. To see weapons brought out only for jousts and melees." He squeezed Sansa's hand again, "To grow old with my lady wife," he almost whispered. He stood up, the stares following him as he walked to the front of the dais, the limp forgotten, "I've chased for that peace with all I have, my lords. And when they came to take it from me I fought." He growled the last word. It seemed to startle them, "Killed for it. Defiled it so it could be protected." They were listening intently, the Song soft to his ears, "I smoked Stannis out his island and sent that bastard Aegon and his blessed sword to the bottom of the sea." He tossed a hand up behind him, "I jammed a blade through that thing's eye so it could lie still and give me some godsdamned peace!" He held the hand as he stared at them, willing his vassals to understand the core of what he wanted. His legates were at the far back with knowing smiles, his Silver Knights closer to the dais and standing still as marble statues. "But there's one more war, my lords. One more war before I can promise you an age of peace and plenty. Of good harvests and never ending summer." He raised his voice over startled whispers, "One more war for peace. And its one I cannot fight alone." He turned to his wife.

"Lyra!" she said, standing up and taking his side. The sidedoor opened then, revealing Lyra Mormont and the Hound as they dragged a casket to the dais. Some of the lords whispered and pointed, others standing up from their benches as the thing rattled. Chains dragged behind it, screeching a horrible sound against the stone that set his hair on edge. Joffrey realized he was holding his hammer in his hand.

"Your Highness, what's in there?!" said Lord Paxter Redwyne.

Sansa nodded at Lyra before turning to Lord Redwyne, "Our enemy, my lords. The enemy to all who breathe upon this earth."

The lock was opened, and it emerged from the casket like a banshee from the Seven Hells. It had been a wildling spearwife, once. Now it was rotting carcass, a ragged bundle of putrid flesh clinging to a jagged skeletal frame. It shrieked a piercing wail as it leapt from the casket, scuttling like a possessed spider towards the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Seven Above!" cried Randyll, sword in his hand as he was followed by nearly half the room. Tywin appeared frozen as Lord Brax used a chair like a buckler, covering his liege and waving a bastard sword with the other. Everyone scattered back before the Hound pulled the chain wrapped around the wight, slamming it on its back. He strapped a blunted trident to its neck, Lyra doing the same as it turned to bite them. They managed to hold it relatively still between them, bits of rotten flesh tumbling away as it chafed, falling on the stone floor like enormous black leeches. Sickly black hair covered half its head like a torn curtain, doing nothing to hide the ravenous hunger that gleamed within its dead eyes, aglow with unnatural blue as it surveyed the hall.

People hadn't stopped screaming; the wight's wailing had set off some primal fright buried deep within all the armor and the finery, and its dead gaze seemed to fuel the panic. Some by the back end were trying to force the doors, pushing and shoveling each other. His guardsmen -veterans from the Third- held firm, and they were not shy in pushing back. "Let us out!" cried someone, "Open the doors! Now!" Lady Whent tripped between the mayhem; she'd surely be crushed at this rate.

Joffrey filled his lungs as if in the midst of a battlefield. "SILENCE!" he roared. The bellow reached the end of the hall and doubled back, the more martial lords standing on edge as the rest subsided to a mild panic, even the wight turning to stare at him. "Now compose yourself, rulers of the Seven Kingdoms!" he said, staring them down.

The abrupt silence left room for the wight's mouldy stench. It was the smell of death; that vaguely sweet edge on the final rattling breath of an old man ravaged by sickness. It sneaked into one's nose without warning, a stale breath reaching the back of the throat. Mace Tyrell swayed as he stared at the thing, "Your Grace, what- that-" his face twitched. He hung to Willas as he swayed again, a great heave coming unto him as he bellowed his share of the noon feast back all over the table. A few others quickly followed suit, though not Willas; he was as still as a statue gazing at the dead thing.

Joffrey flicked a gaze at the wight. It tried to reach for him, but Sandor slapped the arm away. "None of that!" he rumbled, "You stay still, dead fuckin' bitch." It was enough to tease a smile out of Joffrey.

"There's no shame in panicking at the first sight of this," Joffrey said as he waved at the wight. "But you will behave yourselves when under my roof," he continued. "Lady Whent, are you alright back there?"

"As fine as these old bones can be, Your Grace," she said, voice shaky as Lord Estermont helped her up.

"Good," said Joffrey. "Sansa, if you would?"

"Of course." She raised her voice almost as if to sing, and Joffrey thought Septa Mordane must be smiling somewhere. "This is but one of the scouts that ambushed the leading elements of the Third Regiment as it deployed Beyond-the-Wall. They came with little warning and under the cover of a blizzard, intent on taking my life and those of every soldier in the encampment."

Awe. Disbelief. Dawning terror. The implications grasped some lords faster than others. Joffrey could tell by the way they paled.

"There were thousands of them, attacking in waves so as to not disrupt their charge overmuch. Fire and steel repelled them, but at great cost," she said, the last word wobbling by the tiniest margin. He knew whose gaze she looked for in the crowd.

"Preposterous!" cried Lord Sunglass, "She's gone mad! Insane!"

A direwolf growled in a dangerously low tone, and Joffrey realized with a start it had not been Lady; she was still nibbling Drogon's tail behind the thrones. A circle formed around Robb Stark, Grey Wind by his side. The One-Eyed Wolf's sole eye bored on Lord Sunglass with the intensity of a fired stagram; one whose warhead had leapt hight before fizzling out, now falling relentlessly on its target. "I saw them clawing at the Third's camp like dogs around a scrap of meat," he said as he walked towards Lord Sunglass. "We slammed them from behind but there was no morale to break. They dragged the horses down. Butchered us." The other Crownlords made haste to part from his way, and he didn't stop until his breath tickled Lord Sunglass' quivering eyebrows. Throughout it all Robb's voice stayed the same, a monotone cadence that was a distant cousin to the Red Wolf's. "When you call our Queen mad you tar them with the same brush. Mormonts and Glovers and Karstarks and Umbers," Robb said, "You look into the eyes of their families and tell them they were mad."

Lord Sunglass tried to find his voice, mumbling "Eh's" and "Ah's" before Robb Stark took off his eye-patch.

"Look at me, and tell me I'm mad," he said, almost a whisper, dangerously low like his direwolf. Lord Sunglass appeared to lose himself in that gaping eye-socket, the upper half of it deformed where Robb's skull had withstood most of the force behind the wight's arrow. The lords of the North were deathly still, hands resting on axe handles or sword pommels as they stared at Lord Sunglass, the other worthies of the Narrow Sea shuffling a step back. Ned didn't move to stop them, ice cold eyes looking at his son approvingly. Unwittingly, Lord Sunglass had delivered a personal affront to the North itself, and to the Third Regiment too for good measure.

He caught Olyvar's gaze and shook his head, the legate taking a regretful step back to his comrades. He prepared to move swiftly should things spin out of control, but he doubted it would come to that; not even Sunglass' fellow Narrow Sea lords were sticking up for him. They'd never had much regional loyalty for each other after the Targeryen's fell, and the gutting of Stannis' Rebellion had stomped what little there'd remained.

"You- they- they're not," said Lord Sunglass, eyes flicking from that hole down to the direwolf; unsure which one was less threatening. "M-my apologies."

"Accepted," said Robb, turning on his heels and walking back, Grey Wind sniffing Lord Sunglass' breeches before trailing after his master. Ned stood taller amongst his bannermen, the northmen at ease again as they eyed their future liege approvingly. The hall seemed to breath a sigh of relief, and then Lord Tarly realized the tactical implications.

"Your Highness, pardon," he said. "You said they were scouts?" He still had his sword in his hand, staring at the thing as if he'd scarcely believed his own eyes. Good thing that's not Heartsbane or someone might have lost a finger.

"Yes," she said, "A van for a much larger force even now gathering in the Far North. We believe the greater part of it will march south before the end of the year."

Silence. Lord Tarly frowned, then cleared his throat, "Excuse me my Queen, but how can you be so certain?" The rainstorm outside had gathered strength, and the entire hall seemed to lean forward for an answer.

Sansa looked at him. Joffrey took a deep breath, "Because we've seen them. The White Walkers march again, and the dead with them."

A servant dropped a tray of silverware. Lord Marbrand's daughter fainted. And then the whole room was upside down, roars and shouts and shrill voices over the sound of rumbling furniture and spilled tables. It was a tonal tempest that sought to drown even Joffrey's commands to stay quiet; he could scarcely hear himself breath. Oberyn Martell stood over a table aiming an accusing finger at him, though Joffrey couldn't hear a word of what he was saying. Septon Kyle and some of the other Most Devout who had reached Harrenhal were on their knees, hands held up and beseeching. Slayer and Black, both Tully fishes stood in harried conference, the Fishbones a knot around them. Joffrey blinked. Tywin was still frozen, he hoped he was alright. Worst of all, the ruckus had set off the wight again. It shrieked as it twisted; a whirling top tangled up in leather straps and dangling chains that cackled over the wooden dais. On and on it spun its head, shrieking without end. It was the prelude to the disintegration of his homeland.

No.

A chest-rattling roar battered the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, long and deep and touched by the Song. People watched in stunned silence as Stars padded to his side, even the wight regarding him with dead blue eyes. Stars growled a warning at it; a long crackling rumble like logs splitting within a bonfire. A light breeze played with his fur, swirling with abstract patterns, fractal runes peeking beneath silver fur. Joffrey petted him on the head, then scratched his jowl. He didn't even need to bend his back to do so, so large was his companion. Abruptly, both of them stared at the disheveled nobles of the Seven Kingdom and the scarcely better-off balconies. "Are you all done then?"

"It's true…" someone whispered. Half the kneeling septons were crying, and Lord Darry had taken a knee in front of his drawn sword like a knight holding his vigil over a sept. Joffrey frowned before looking down at himself, feeling the weight of antlers on his head. He stared at his gauntleted hand, marveling again at the soul stuff metal. Purple fractals crisscrossed through it, framing distant stars yellowed and one white. He was almost fully encased in it, his plate of stars covering him from head to toes. He looked up at the awed nobles and breathed out. Oh well.

Might as well take it all the way, he thought as he turned to Sansa. She gave him that exasperated half-smile she always had when he 'improvised'… and then her face turned serious. She took a deep breath as she stared up and her arms drifted to her sides, some unknowable wind picking up and making the hearths shiver. Twin portals of skittering mirages opened up by the sides of the thrones, massive holes in the frayed canvas of reality and anchored by purple fractals. There wasn't much shock left to give, but the lords were speechless as they gazed at the legions of wights massing in bogs and forests, crags and clearings. There was no end to them. They tore out of barrows and ancient battlefields, some little more than convulsing bones while others were almost human, armed and garbed in ceremonial bronze covered with half faded runes. Mammoths and giants dragged their torn shadows under the light of the Red Comet, columns of them trundling down vast tundras of painfully white snow now bathed in red. Most horrible of all were the Walkers; lockstep regiments of ice turning to look up at the sky. Turning to look up at Harrenhal.

Sweat lined Sansa's forehead, her red locks fluttering out of control. She brought her hands down with a controlled heave, the portals closing to pinpricks as the hearths roared back to life. "That is our enemy," she said, the wight looking longingly at the now empty place by the throne. "That is what we've been preparing for."

"They speak with the voice of the Seven!" shrieked Septon Kyle, "Repent! Find the Father's Light before the end finds you!"

"Gods help me!" someone said, "I- I felt them watching me!"

"They're just legends!" screamed Lord Florent, "They can't be real!" His shrill voice seemed on the edge of tears.

Disbelief suffered a swift death, and in its place terror reigned. Except there was no where to run to. The sight of the legions of the damned had seared itself into everyone present; they hadn't just seen the Walkers, they had felt the weight of their gaze across the portals, a smidgen of the Red Comet's attention, almost an imprint on their souls. The portals alone might have been some trick of illusion, but with the physical wight there staring at them, even now jerking from Sandor's grip? It was undeniable. Unavoidable. Fights broke out. People prayed. Others held each other in mute terror, still staring at the empty space where the window in reality had been. It all lacked some sort of vitality, as if a ghost had passed by and stolen the life out of them; the Ghost of Harrenhal released by the death of the last dragon.

Joffrey's voice was hard and loud. "We didn't ask for this. We didn't wish for visions of our loved ones dying. We didn't wish to see the White Walkers carve a cold and bloody path across Westeros." He looked at his wife, "And yet we did. I don't know if it was the Old Gods or the Seven," he said as he nodded at Septon Kyle, "Or some greater whole that hugs them all. What I do know is that those hordes are on course to break through the Wall and invade our lands. They will not stop until they have brought death to Westeros from Last Hearth to Sunspear itself. And then they will build glaciers of crystal to carry our reanimated bodies across the world. Braavos will fall. Then Lorath. Pentos. Lys. Myr. They'll sweep through Essos like a plague and bring their doom to Yi-Ti and beyond. In time, even the sunny shores of the Summer Islands will freeze and never thaw again." Silence had loomed larger the longer he spoke; now they stared up at him, stunned and hopeless. Only the wight spoke, wailing dry like a choked miner. Its insidious screech prickled Joffrey's ears.

"It's hopeless then." It didn't matter who'd whispered it. They all felt it true.

"No. There is a way to kill them," he said. The wight shrieked denial, louder this time.

"How?" demanded Tarly.

The wight shrieked again, and Joffrey scowled as he turned to face it. "Ser Samwell!" he barked.

Samwell Tarly strode up the dais from the line of Silver Knights, an armored ball of silver steel and thick furs. He hefted a slender warhammer with both hands as he reached the wight, swinging it back before bellowing like an ox. He smashed the wight's ribcage, sending bones and flesh tumbling away as the warhammer sunk into its chest like a sword. The Knight Chronicler of the Silver Knights extracted the warhammer as if he'd been felling a tree, and then promptly smashed the wight's head to mushy fragments. It collapsed on the ground like a puppet with severed strings, and Samwell cleaned the warhammer against its rags. They seemed equally filthy, but Joffrey guessed it was force of habit.

"Thank you, my Chronicler."

"Your Grace." Samwell nodded before walking down the dais again.

He turned to Lord Tarly, who had the expression of a man whose soul had just been flayed raw. "That is how we'll win. With cold steel and harnessed will." He lifted his gaze to the rest of those assembled, "My lords and ladies, we are now at the beginning of the Second War for Dawn. No mercy will be given to the enemy, for we will receive none in turn." He walked as he spoke, his armor of stars shimmering with distant worlds, "The enemy will know neither fear nor honor. It will spare no woman and take no hostages. They will march on us with monsters out of myth and legend, with tides of wights and Walkers made of bone and ice. They'll reanimate our dead if we don't burn them first, and they'll wield powers not seen since the Dawn Age." He smiled grimly, "War come upon us, my lords and ladies. A war to the hilt. A war to the bone. A war for every living soul on this world."

"What can we possibly do against them?!" shouted Lord Mooton, voice laced with terror. The rain outside had turned into a proper autumn storm; one of the infamous seasonal thunderstorms that swept up and down the Narrow Sea drowning both crops and ships with relentless, ice-cold rain. They were the precursors of winter, the vanguard of the white blizzards.

Joffrey's gaze raked across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, taking in that silent pale-faced sea of horror and fear and remembering a cruel boy lost in despair. Lightning flashed beyond the double doors, lighting the nobles in sharp relief; fine lace and glittering jewelery, polished armor and sumptuous furs. How worthless it must have all felt now, compared to the paralyzing void devouring their chests. How worthless their wealth and power. The boy had learned that lesson too, it's truth a harsh teacher. "What can we do?" he said, voice deceptively low as thunder growled in the distance, a question pondered under cold and rain. "We could give in to despair and die. We could sit when our ancestors stood. We could make a lie out of everything we believe in." His voice rose higher with every word, "We could watch them destroy everything we've ever held dear. Our smallfolk. Our lands. Our keeps. Our families." The litany of woes went against everything a westerosi believed in, each word tearing a chunk out of his trapped audience, "We could watch them devour our loved ones and bring silence to this continent!" he said, flinches violent like physical blows, "We could see it all end before the first battle! The songs! The stories! The bloodlines mingling back to the Age of Heroes! The proud banners outside drenched in the rain! Ten thousand years of history brought to an end with but a whimper!"

Outrage fed on bone-deep terror; an explosion of emotion sweeping the hall like wildfire as people roared denial. Defiance. Anything but the bleak ending of all they held dear. Joffrey shivered as he felt the Song like never before; a maelstrom far grander than the storm buffeting Harrenhal, an electric monster pouring out of them all from the inside out. His voice cut through that maelstrom with crystal clarity, fury and purpose as he took a single step forward and crushed what remained of the wight's twitching skull, "What we'll do?!" he roared, "We'll gather the banners of the Seven Kingdoms and march North!" he said, pointing across the room, "We'll line the Wall with the armies of men! We'll stockpile enough firewood to burn the Seven Hells over! We'll give a poleaxe to every man woman and child from Sunspear to Last Hearth and teach them how to use it!" He took a deep breath, willing steel into their spines, "We'll fight godsdamnit! We'll fight for every square inch of our land! Our Kingdom!"

The Greatjon slammed his tankard against the table, cracking it in half, "None of mine ancestors will shame me!" he roared, "I'll greet them Walkers axe in hand, King Joffrey!"

"There'll be plenty to go around, my Lord of Umber!" he said with a vicious smile. Their faces lit up as they realized there was a way out of the horror, and Joffrey intoned that challenge the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms had been reared to respond to all their life; that righteous powerful oath. "The enemy marches to the ruin of us all and the Crown calls its banners!" Joffrey roared, "What say you, Bannermen of the Seven Kingdoms!?"

No sooner had he said the words than Eddard Stark was on his feet, brandishing Ice, "The North heeds the call!" he bellowed. Chairs flew back and steel was drawn; shock and soul-clenching terror given way to frenzied action. The rulers of the North hefted swords and axes as if ready to charge up the dais, their voices raw with the power of oaths. "The North!" they bellowed, "The North!!!" That guttural cry swelled Joffrey's chest with pride, with righteousness. This is what it means to be King. To master oneself before others. To lead the way for others to rise. "War!" they promised, "War!!!"

That soul-wrenching hope spread like a tidal wave. Nothing could stop it. "Stormking!" roared Lord Lester Morrigen, for it was the only oath the Stormlords needed. "Stormking!" bellowed Lord Selmy, the Bucklers of Bronzegate and the Carons of Nightsong drawing their swords. "Stormking!" they chanted as lightning struck again; a plea and a promise, a smile through Renly's lips, a boom of thunder shaking Harrenhal's stones with autumn's wrath. It was alive now, possessed by a will of its own. "Steel or Bones!" roared the Fishbones, a cry and a challenge uttered by dragonslayers. From their midst emerged Edmure Tully, carved dragonbone hand gleaming white as he echoed the cry that had preceded a charge against a monster, "Riverlanders!" he called, "To War! To War!!!" It turned electric, a glimpse of redemption for those that'd fled and forever lost the chance to be called dragonslayers. They would not forsake glory twice. "War!" chanted the Riverlords, cravens and dragonslayers alike, "War!!!"

The cries managed to lift Tywin out of his stupor. He drew himself tall and lifted half a lip at the screaming Stormlords. A single nod was all that the banners of the Westerlands had been waiting for. Their arming swords were drawn like one, a symphony of leather on steel as a warrior clad in bronze did likewise from across the room. "The banners of the Vale shall not be found wanting!" said Lord Royce, his armor burnished yellow before the light of the hearths. Septons held up copies of the Seven-Pointed Star like talismans, Valelords drawing swords with eyes closed and lips locked in silent prayers. The cries of "War!" kept spreading, through Crownlanders and even the Ironborn as Rodrick Harlaw smashed the haft of his axe against a table and Theon whooped a raider's scream, at a rhythm with the call. Even the worst of the raiders -rapists and murderers- could not deny the truth, the truth that called on them all to fight against that unnatural horror, to fight for the very right to draw breath.

Oberyn Martell rose with a theatrical flourish, relishing in the attention as he raised his voice over the calls and he gave Joffrey a smile a filled with teeth, "Rest easy, Your Grace. The sun bakes our skulls well, but we're not as stupid as some would have you believe." He bowed, "You'll have my brother's banners… And my spear, of course."

Joffrey exchanged looks with Sansa. We'll see how well a viper tangles with a direwolf, he thought. Lord Yronwood scowled at Oberyn before he drew his sword, "Then it's done! We stand with the King!"

"War!" agreed the Dornishmen, Stony and Rohynar.

The mass of Reachlords by the middle of the hall made up by far the largest contingent; a mass of shell-shocked chivalry silent and horrified. They formed a hole around Mace Tyrell as he shoved Olenna back with a firm but gentle hand. His muttonchops still held bits of spittle and vomit as he stood up, but it was the eyes that made Joffrey nod. They were wild and on the edge of tears, "Those things won't get their claws on my family!" he shouted, "On my daughter!!!" his voice hitched with the last word, hands fumbling with his arming sword, "Let them come and get a fistful of Tyrell thorns! Let them come and hear the songs of the Reach!!!"

"War!!!"roared Randyll Tarly, voice shrill with the edge of a man who'd lost everything. "War!" roared the Reachlords, ornate swords pointing up.

And with that, it was done. Westeros united under a single banner and a single purpose. Warnings heeded and wills sharpened. It was all over but for the war. The Second War for Dawn.

He clasped Sansa's hand as he materialized Brightroar with the other, lifting the sword high. The shimmering bundle of gold and purple acquired weight through fractal patterns snaking into reality, weaving a blade of light that drew kaleidoscopes across the faces of his people. They raised their steel with him.

"The Living!" he roared.

"The Living!" they roared back.

-: PD :-