Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

"Let's go! Lets go!" shouted Tommen, dashing up the Serpentine Steps in full armor. They made a terrible and—indeed—ominous racket, four armored men fierce and committed to each other even unto death. He held up a hand as they reached the gate to the Middle Bailey. It was time to address the Young Swords one last time. "Alright, everyone! This is it!" he said, searching for the right words. The Young Swords stared back, huffing after the dead sprint through the stairs, anticipatory grins lighting up their faces. Tommen opened his mouth and… Damnit, Joffrey makes it look so easy. "This is it! No quarter given! We've trained for this!"

Brother could've done better in his sleep. The Young Swords didn't seem to notice though; they snarled like lions, pumped up and ready to win. Their infectious enthusiasm propelled him out of murky doubt. "That's what I like to hear! Today we win! Once and for all we wipe the floor with the bastard! Let's go over the plan again. One last time. Cousin?" He nodded at Tytos.

Tytos Lannister was their anvil, their unstoppable weight which absorbed blow after blow, consuming all attention. Not even twenty namedays and he was as thick as a bull; clad in full plate as he was, the dull-grey steel contrasted menacingly against his dark Summer Islander skin. Lannister-blond eyebrows clashed in furious thought, "I'll charge straight at him," he said, banging his sword against the big tower shield on his other hand. "Force him back, make him focus on me."

"If you manage to make him loose his footing, the battle will be half won," said Tommen. He turned to Bran, quick witty Bran, always ready to make use of an opening, "Then?"

The Stark boy shifted the grip on his bastard sword, eyes lean and focused, "I'll attack him from the side, make a nuisance of myself."

"And I'll hit from the other side at the same time," said the Young Falcon, his arming sword in one hand and his bow on his back. Observant and always with a comment that could turn previous assumptions on their heads, the smaller of the four made it up with senses as sharp as those of his House's sigil, "He'll try to wheel away. We can't let him focus on either one of us."

"Watch that sword!" said Tommen, "He'll swing it in circles, trying to create space for an opening. Don't fall for it! Push him in!"

"And you?" said Robin. The heir to the Vale knew the answer, but it was exactly the right question to ask.

"I'll swing around, use the time and the distraction and strike!" He hefted sword and hammer, licking his lips, "Behind his knee, making fall on the ground. He'll yield then. He has to."

"What if he doesn't?" asked Tytos.

"Me and Bran will grapple him to the ground. Robin will put a sword to his neck. You plant your shield right over his sword arm, we can't let him swing it again!"

They nodded, armed and armored, forming a triangle with Tytos at the tip. Tommen placed his back against the side of the gate. "Ready!?"

Summer barked.

"Summer, no!" said Bran, "You stay!"

The giant direwolf chuffed.

Tommen shook his head, trying to pump himself again, "Now!"

Tytos roared like a giant unleashed, charging through the gate. Bran and Robin ran by his flanks, weapons high as they echoed the cry. Tommen closed the formation from behind, holding a hand on the back of Tytos shoulder as a sort of steering oar. "Go! Go! Go!"

They stormed into the Middle Bailey like they said Ser Samwell did at Dragonstone, adrenaline searing through his veins and tunneling his vision. He remembered Joffrey's lessons and scanned the area despite the euphoria, searching for their target. Their hopelessly surprised, hopelessly outmatched opponent. They would win this time. They would win this time!!!

They charged all across the Middle Bailey, servants scrambling out of the way. But there was no sign of their opponent. "A trap!" said Bran.

"Fall back to the middle!" roared Tommen, "Penitent turtle! Back to back and keep your eyes open!" They scrambled back to the middle of the courtyard, forming an oval of sorts. "Robin! Get your bow out and use those blunt arrows of yours! If he wants to play dirty we'll do him no favors!"

"On it!" said the Arryn heir. He nocked an arrow as they waited, tense, circling like drunk guardsmen and pressing shoulders against each other. "I don't see him…" he said. Tommen frowned, tense. If Robin didn't see him, then he just wasn't there.

"Where… where is he?" said Tytos.

The servants were all looking at them like they were the best mummer show ever to grace the face of the earth. A group of guardsmen by the Maidenvault were outright laughing.

"Somethings wrong," said Tommen. He could feel his face going beet-red. Oh gods. These past few years it had grown worse and worse. And the more he thought about it, the more his face tingled. "Oh no."

A serjeant took pity on them, and he walked up to the Young Swords with his palms out, as if saying Don't strike me down! I'm unarmed! "Got bad news for you boys." He nodded at Tommen, "My Prince. Ser Barristan didn't show up today. Looks like your bout's canceled."

"And what a damn shame," muttered one of the guardsmen, with feeling.

-: PD :-

"I'm sorry, but he needs his rest," said Maester Galwyn.

"Oh let them in already!" came the voice from the bedchamber.

Maester Galwyn sighed, opening the door for them. "Just- keep it short. He needs to keep his breath."

Tommen entered, the Young Swords behind him, creeping up to the old man's bed as if it were wildfire. The bedchamber inside the White Tower had a little sharp tang, sweet but sour. The smell of old men, perhaps. Or death. Tommen felt like a pilgrim shown a most horrible sacrilege—there was something deeply wrong with seeing a god laid so low. Ser Barristan Selmy, legendary Kingsguard, gave them a wan smile. It dissolved into a coughing fit with a bass louder than that demonstration stagram that almost took Robin's head off. "Oh come sit already," he said after it was over, hiding the handkerchief out of sight, "I promise I won't hit you unconscious. Practice's out for the day."

They clustered around him in a rush, sitting on tiny, spartan stools and sheepishly leaving their weapons on the floor. "Ser Barristan," said Tommen, "Are you… alright?"

"I've been worse. I'm sorry about the bout, my Prince. I sent a page with word about it…" He sighed.

Tommen shook his head. He was still stunned to see such an implacable task master like this. Paler than his sheets, his white eyebrows wild and out of order. The words Ser Barristan and out of order just didn't mix. "I think I speak for all of us when I say we don't care, Lord Commander. That is, we care about you." He smiled awkwardly, how to phrase it… "It's… it's not-" lethal?

"I'm not going to die yet boy," he said with confident smile, "Though I wouldn't mind it if I did." His gaze turned to the window, where tiny ships stretched as far as the eye could see, coming and going in columns that stretched well past the harbor and into Blackwater Bay. His smile was dangerously melancholic, "I've lived a full life. Served more than my fair share of Kings… but my time's long past, my Young Swords. As, it would seem, the Kingsguard's." His eyes turned turned serious, riveting unto to Tommen's with such force that he had to quash the impulse to ready his guard. "I can see we won't survive this war unscathed. It makes sense, in a way. The Silver Knights will be much more useful to King Joffrey's rule. Larger numbers. More flexible. No pesky permanent vows in the way." A grim smile, "And some of them are almost as good as King Aerys' old Kingsguard. But sometimes, Prince Tommen, 'almost' just doesn't cut it. There's no almost between dead and alive."

Tommen frowned, trying to decipher the old man's words. And failing. Ser Barristan shook his head, "I've trained you—all of you, because it is my sworn duty to do so. And," he added as he looked at Bran, "Because some of you would like nothing more than to join our ranks. I've no right to ask anything for that, but…" The look he shot at Tommen was almost pleading, "But if my lessons have been of any use to you, I'd ask you if you would prevail on King Joffrey, after the war. Talk to him. Convince him not to dissolve my order. To not let us die of old age and leave our posts empty." He stretched and grabbed Tommen's hand, old strength briefly holding it painful tight. "There is no almost, Prince Tommen. Remember that."

Tommen nodded slowly, "I'll do my best. But… you'll be there too, Ser Barristan. We'll team up together, for once."

He gave him a wintry smile, "I hope so, my Prince. I hope so." He was wracked by another coughing fit, and waved them away, "Now go. Rest for today. Seek Ser Arys and the good serjeant tomorrow. Vary the routine, seek different opponents—rope in a few of those centurions coming in from the Silver Keep. Don't think I'll go easy on you after this!"

They made the appropriate sounds and left the bedchamber, Maester Galwyn shoing them the rest of the way. Leaving the White Tower, they ambled impotently around the courtyard, coiling energy now sagging into glum non-action. It made Tommen feel dirty. "He'll be okay," he said out loud. The Young Swords stayed silent.

By some unconscious, shared consensus, they ended up walking out of the Red Keep and into the city proper. They strolled about without a clear purpose, making dubious smalltalk and dissecting the latest news yet again. Young Lord Aldon Estermont was the talk of the city; the man and his group of hardy Stormlanders had somehow battled their way out of Barrowton a full three days after the city had fallen, sneaking through storm drains and marshy canals to reach elements of the Iron Fleet around the Saltspear's mouth. Not content with that, they'd helped the Ironborn hold the river long enough for the evacuees there to board their ships. And then they'd commandeered a longboat and sailed it through the Fever River up to Moat Cailin, joining up with the rest of Joffrey's force.

"The man was reckless," said Bran, swirling a cup of Arbor Gold, "Should've left the city before the wights enveloped it."

Robin nodded along, chewing slowly and gesticulating with his fork, "Crazy. No sense to the whole thing." Tytos banged his tankard in approval.

"Yeah," said Tommen. They simmered in silent envy for a while, eating their food without much gusto. They'd taken an early lunch near the Street of Silk; roasted venison with carrots-and-onions. It was snowing outside. Again. Not even noon and the tavern-keep had already been forced to get the candles out, trying to make up for the choked sun. The pale light gave the whole table a lugubrious, hushed tone.

Tytos wiped his mouth with his silken handkerchief. A gift from his Mother, Tommen remembered. Nadhata, High Priestess of Jhala. "What now?" he asked.

The Young Swords looked at each other, lost. Without Ser Barristan's daily, grueling routine, carried about both by himself and by his helpers in the forms of Serjeant Gywen and Ser Arys Oakheart, everything felt off. Undeserved. Here they were, dining King's Landing's finest while men starved by the frontlines. Now they did not even have the excuse of a sound thrashing in the training yard.

"We could… go to the Street of Silk?" said Bran, not quite wanting it himself.

They boasted, demurred, set their way towards it and then promptly got lost. Their hearts hadn't been on it. It'd only add salt to the wound…

They ended up sitting down on a bench near the harbor, which had sprouted a seemingly permanent forest of masts. Ships barely managed to dock before longshoremen clambered on board, engaging in shouting matches with the sailors and helping unload their cargo. Crate after crate. Bundles of cloth. Salted fish. Quay after quay of them and more—the activity was such that ships had anchored out past the harbor, unleashing rowboats and skiffs laden with cargo. They sailed up the Blackwater Rush so they could unload in the less overcrowded riverside-docks. Purple galleys from Braavos docked next to Volantene galleons, smaller swanships darting in between, sun-tanned sailors sniffing at the light snow. It fell like tiny white petals, stubbornly nestling on the ground and refusing to melt.

Tommen let his eyes glaze over the throngs of sailors and longshoremen walking along the jetties, all loud boasts and complaints, sharing news and rumors. He could pick some of it, but his low Valyrian was a far cry from Joffrey's. He'd once seen him haggle with a Pentoshi trader himself, not too far from here actually—using his dominance over the flying dialect like a cudgel all so he could buy a keg of pear brandy 'for a less outrageous price'. The sailors sought cover under wooden roofs erected on the sides of the roads that reached the harbor, squatting down in groups to drink, play dice, and fondle cheap wenches before some quartermaster inevitably rounded them all up and threw them to the longshoremen. They didn't complain much; there lacked a certain vigour to the half-hearted partying. As if they were just going through the motions.

The Young Swords stayed on their bench, cold and grateful for it, snow perching on their shoulders.

Bran wiped a fluff that had posed on his nose, "We could steal aboard one of the cogs headed for Saltpans," he said.

And now they were back to their favorite timewaster. They all knew it would get them nowhere, but much like a hopeless addict, they couldn't help scratching the itch.

"Bad idea," said Robin, "We'll get picked up before Lord Harroway's town." He sneaked a peek at Tytos, "No offense, Rockhead, but you're rather conspicuous."

"None taken, Pidgeon," said Tytos. He looked at his hands, "Sneaking away like that would bring shame to my Swanlord, anyway. And my House." And he almost believed those words.

"But he's your Father!" said Robin, "Can't he like… help us?"

Tytos shook his head. Tommen could sympathize. Great-uncle Gerion was probably the funniest man he'd ever met—after Uncle Tyrion, of course. The sudden swing from boisterous good-cheer to dead-serious menace was somewhat less savory. And there was scarcely a better way to catalyze said swing than by bringing up the subject of, oh, fighting in an actual war for the living.

"We could steal a skiff, though," said his cousin. Screw the shame, apparently. "Back home, I learned to sail when I was six." He was warming up to the idea, nodding compulsively, "It doesn't have to be very big. If it's got a sail we're good."

"Yeah!" said Bran, "We could sail it up the Trident! Dump it before the Twins and walk the rest of the way. Things are bound to be hectic nearer the front! We could pass off as the young dregs of some mercenary company. Or maybe Essosi volunteers?" Their first choice, posing as young squires, had been discussed to death and ultimately discarded. It would create more questions than answers for whoever took an interest… especially when word got out that four young very similar and very high ranking nobles had ran off from King's Landing, seeking to get themselves killed in the frontlines.

"No good," said Tommen, "The first are few and far between. Joffrey doesn't trust them. As for volunteers…" He looked at the young nobles; making them pass off as adventuring Essosi would take a minor miracle. Still, the itch. Tommen couldn't help shuffle the options again. Masquerading as members of the Sealord's Foreign Guard was out of the question, for one. Besides, the elite Braavosi group was small and probably knew each other by name. Combined Summer Fleet? Tytos would fit right in—that is, if no one recognized him as their commander's son… and his Lannister hair was atypical indeed. Which would still leave the rest of us… The image of the other Young Swords all passing as Tytos' hired bodyguards made him shake his head in hopeless mirth. The Free City Legion? Not much better. They numbered less than a Regiment and nobody here had a good enough grasp of low Valyrian. The bulk of the Free Cities' aid was economic anyway, not martial. They'd stand out like a sore thumb and draw unfortunate comparisons to…

Tommen grunted, the irony hitting him badly.

"What?" said Bran.

"Nothing. It's just our best bet would probably be to pose as former Golden Company squires."

They chuckled sadly at that. Not an association one willingly put out. Not in Westeros. He pictured himself and the other Swords brought before Joffrey and put on their knees. My King! We found these Golden Company assassins just as they reached the camp! His expression would've been priceless, at least.

"Besides, Joffrey's got guard forts straddling every Fork. And you can bet the Green Fork is going to be the worst of the three." One scorpion bolt across their bow and they'd be forced to heave. "The Guard would bundle us back to the capital faster than you can say 'Uncle Renly! It was a mistake!'"

"Its not fair," said Tytos, watching one of the Sawnships as it unloaded thick stacks of treated ebonwood. "Mdeta can prance around with the Queen's Handmaidens—practically in the frontline herself!—while I get left behind here. Aren't we supposed to be fighting for the world's very survival?!" His Summer Islander accent turned choppier as he grew madder, "We need every shield fighting! Why won't Father see?!"

"Preaching to the choir, cousin," muttered Tommen.

"You think you've got it bad?" said Bran, "My whole family except Rickon is up North! Robb's leading our bannermen, Jon a damned Regiment, Sansa's the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Arya-!" His face contorted in adolescent rage, "Arya's out there scouting for Joffrey's van!" They all cringed. "Arya! His van! Warging ravens!"

"Oh quiet you lot," said Robin, sharing a look with Tommen. He seemed morose, "At least you've a chance. No way in seven hells the King risks the heir to the Vale." He said both words with enough understated loathing to make Grandfather Tywin proud. "Much less Lord Royce. If I so much as stub a toe they'll be whispering he hired the door that did it…"

"Yeah…" said Tommen.

They all blinked, then looked at him sheepishly.

Yeah. And no one's more cursed than I. The heir to the entire realm. The only way he would see a White Walker was if it came for him in Maegor's Holdfast, climbing over the bodies of the entire keep. Bit too late to make a meaningful contribution by then…

A growing commotion brought him out of that spiraling line of thought. People were clustering around King's Aide's and centurions, their voices scarcely heard over the storm of conversation each announcement seemed to unleash.

"What the hells' going on?" said Bran.

"Sounds like bad news. Look at all the glum faces," said Robin.

"Maybe," said Tommen, "Come on, let's find out."

The Young Swords weren't much known beyond the Red Keep. To the rest of the city they were just a bunch of lord's sons with enough coin to buy good equipment, and so managed to get close to one of the groups without making a show of it. The Swords formed up around Tommen without a word, Tytos taking the lead and shielding him from the flying elbows of the crowd. Some of them cried, others just stared in dumb shock. Smaller groups were engaged in hushed conversations, arguing, shouting. A line had formed before the centurion atop the overturned cart, advancing slowly as the man directed forth. They spelled their names and occupations to the serjeant below the officer, using the cart as a writing aide as he scribbled with quill and Silver Keep-issue paper. "One line! One line only!" shouted the centurion, gesturing with both hands, "Keep it orderly, people!"

Tommen gently shook a girl who was holding a fist close to her mouth, staring at the snowed street. "Excuse me, goodwoman. Would you mind telling me what's going on? Is there some sort of announcement?"

"The Walkers! They've struck the West!" she said, distraught, "Ser Jaime Lannister's rallying a defense but more's sure to come!"

Tommen's head spun. Walkers? In the Westerlands? How? It didn't make any bloody sense. She was off before he could get another word, squeezing in between the crowd. "Lomard!" he could hear her scream, "Lomard! Don't you dare go!"

"I thought the front line was around the Neck," said Bran, flabbergasted.

Tommen shook his head, "It is. Come on, help me get to that centurion over there." They reached the man just as he jumped from the cart and spoke with the serjeant.

The serjeant looked up from his list, "One line only! If you want to volunteer, the line starts over there!"

"We're just looking for some information," said Tommen, "What-"

"Do I look like a fucking herald? King's Aide is over there! Now get in line or get out!" he said, pointing with his quill.

The centurion placed a hand on his shoulder, frowning at Tommen. Uh oh.

"My Prince!" he realized, bowing, "Almost didn't recognize you there for a moment. What can we do for you?"

Tommen sighed, "Just trying to understand what's going on, ser. What's this about Walkers in the Westerlands?"

"You don't know? Wait, no, you wouldn't." He shook his head, "We just got word ourselves. Glass Candle by the Silver Keep wouldn't stop shining. Maesters in and out." He snorted, "Wasn't long before they brought in the Guard, and Lord Renly too."

"So it's true?" asked Robin, "The Westerlands have been invaded?"

The centurion took a step towards them and lowered his voice, "Invaded is a strong word," he cautioned, "But there's been landings. Great Wyk at first, and then on the Westerlands proper; Fair Isle, the Crag, Castamere. Not raids but fast, small hosts. Supposedly stormed out of reanimated Leviathans, spilling out to the countryside." The man shivered.

"Father Above," whispered Robin.

"What about the metal raiders?" Tytos cringed, "I mean, the Ironborn."

"Above my head, but I'd guess they have their hands full with Great Wyk. Lord Renly's aiming to send some sort of fast relief effort through the Blackwater Rush and then on through the Gold Road… But we've more river galleys than people to man them. Even dredging up some of the Goldcloaks, we simply lack warm bodies."

"Everyone's up fighting north," Tommen whispered.

The centurion nodded, "Lord Renly's put out the call for any volunteers to sign up and be here by noon tomorrow." His head jerked to the side, "I said a single line! Excuse me, my Prince." He stomped off, "Single line! You three! Are you deaf?!"

They stumbled out of the crowd as the line shuffled forward, ending up back on the bench. But whereas before Tommen had sat with a sigh and a headache, now he was holding his sword's pommel in a tight grip.

"This is… this is bad," said Bran, "Lord Tywin and three-quarters of the Westerlands are out fighting in the North. What does that leave to Ser Jaime?"

"A lot of Royal Militias and a few old veterans to stiffen them up," said Robin.

"There's no way the Others take Lannisport with what they've landed," said Tytos. "I don't care if its an undead leviathan, you simply can't cram that many wights."

"They don't have to," said Bran, "All they have to do is lay waste to the countryside; swarm villages, grow fat on fresh bodies. Sap the strength from the main war effort by the Neck."

Force Joffrey to weaken his lines. Collapse the front. Generate panic.

"We're going," he said.

They looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. Then they smiled viciously. "Hells yes," said Bran, "Though, how do you plan to sneak out from Lord Renly?"

"We won't," said Tommen. "I'm telling him right now. And we'll be bringing what's left of the Kingsguard with us."

There must've been something to his tone of voice, because now they looked as if he'd grown a third head. Tytos smacked his shoulder, "Almost sounded like your brother back there, cousin. You're going to do the House proud."

That or die and mess up Joffrey's succession to hells. He'd take precautions, but he wasn't going to take a 'no' from his uncle. "Let's get back to the Red Keep. We've got some packing to do."

-: PD :-