Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Sansa received the messenger with a tilt of her head. The girl whispered into her ear before departing the council room, leaving her to brood by the window. "Old Walder's dead," she said.

"I'll give Olyvar the good news," said Joffrey, "If I can bloody find him. He has a habit of misplacing the Third Regiment."

"Mind where we are," she said, frowning.

"Sorry." She could practically hear him smile; that was good. Something to be cherished, like a wild flower found in the depths of winter… even if it wouldn't reach his eyes. "You'll have to wait though, he's still crossing the Neck," she said, gazing out the window. The Twins held a spectacular view of the northern Riverlands; the tributaries of the Green Fork spread out into a spiderwebs of creeks as her gaze followed the land upriver, feeding fertile hills until they lost themselves into the mires of the southern Neck. The land was covered in work crews still digging up ditches and planting palisades, only looking up from their work when the food carts stopped by, jingling their tiny bells.

"There's been new sightings," he said, making her turn. Joffrey was leaning on the table, clutching his back with one hand as he marked the map. "Ser Jaime confirmed at least three new landings along the Westerlands. One on Fair Isle-"

"Another one?" she said.

"Yeah. And not a word from House Farman. By now we must assume Faircastle has fallen."

She sighed, "The other two?"

"One near the Bainfort, repulsed by local militias and dispersed to the countryside, and one somewhere around Feastfire. That last one's the most dangerous."

"That's what? Three days from Lannisport?" asked Sansa, joining him by the map table.

Joffrey shook his head. "For a wight? More like one. He said he was rounding up Lannisport's Royal Militia. And whatever dregs Tywin didn't take North." Joffrey gritted his teeth, "Must've fought them already, for good or ill. Could you see what happened there later tonight?"

Sansa hid a weary sigh, "Of course," she said, gazing at the map. It was the eastern edges of it that worried her the most. There were old marks on the Sisters, and fresher ones farther south… the Vale was now in play; the shore around the Bite, the Fingers, even Coldwater had reported sightings… The productive heart of the Vale—the Vale of Arryn itself—lay thankfully undisturbed for now, but her ravens assured her wights roamed around the northern mountain ranges. 'The War for the Vale' they were starting to call it. She had no doubt the budding campaign to defend the Westerlands would earn a similar epithet soon.

"We have to fight off these raids, and quickly," said Joffrey, "Those leviathans don't carry enough wights to take out a good fortified position-" the uncertain fate of Faircastle cut him off, "-well, at least not if they're part of an integrated defense… but the outlying villages-"

"We can't play into their hands," Sansa interrupted him, "The Cycle wants us to send troops south. It's baiting you out of position."

"Hm. Ironic, given we wanted to do the same." She shivered at yet another similarity between them and the Comet. Joffrey stretched his back with a pained grimace. "I know that's what it wants. But we can't let them roam wild, else we'll be left with nothing to defend even if we manage to hold off the main horde here."

"We'll have to place our trust in the militias," she said, "There's just no other way."

Joffrey clutched his face, pressing forcefully as if the pain would make the way clear. Sansa held his arm, trying to rub the cold away, "We've done all we can, Joff. Prepared all we could. It's in their hands now."

He let his arm drop, smiling at her, "Our people." His gaze turned to the window, "That's what we wanted, wasn't it? A New Kingdom that could fight for itself. A unified whole…" He shook his head, "What's the latest news from the East? I'd kill for a hundred Greatborn lancers right now. Or just half a House's worth of blood matrons."

"I wouldn't hold much hope for that. The dead are pressing them hard," she said, "They've reached the Dry Deep and cut the allies in two. The Legions are falling back to the Five Forts, trading space for time."

"And the Bloodless?"

"They don't have that luxury. Bladahar's turned into a meat grinder."

"Hm. If the city falls, the way will be open to the dead till they reach the Mountains of the Morn… So, High Warlord Ka-Mil's throwing everything at the walls? He looked like a sharp one back in Carcosa."

"Well, he's not High Warlord yet—his father is still alive... But yes, he's in charge of the defense."

"Hurray for competence," said Joffrey, arranging beads on the map, testing experimental stratagems around the Neck. "And Vajul?"

She looked to the east before shaking her head, "He's running ragged keeping both the Legion's and the Bloodless' airfronts clear of raiders."

"Hm." Sansa knew that look, his campaigner's mind working on numbers, distance, supplies… "It could be worse. Yi-Ti is still in one piece, at least. And there's barely been any landings on Western Essos. We must be taking the bulk of the Cycle's attention still…" He looked at her suddenly, "Is the army around the Crystal Palace moving yet?"

If only…

Joffrey must have read her expression. It was his turn to clutch her arm, painfully. "We can't hold for much longer. We're out of time, Sansa."

It was true. It didn't take a genius to realize they were out of strategic depth. They had to risk it all in hopes of using the 'Night King' as a conduit, and soon, else even that fleeting chance would vanish. "So it's come to this…" she whispered. "We'll have to force it to escalate."

Her husband turned to the map, a manic glint in his eyes. "First we need the Night King where we can get at it. And as it only follows the main bulk of the wights and the Walkers-"

"We'll have to force the Cycle into giving battle with a majority of its host, I know. But where?"

"Somewhere we can plug its main advance before it breaks into the southern Riverlands. Force it do deal with us if it wants to move south in any meaningful numbers. Like it had to at the Wall. I'm thinking… here." He traced the line on the map, north of The Twins but just south of the Neck proper, using its many hills as anchors for a huge battle line.

He was making the best of a bad situation, she could see that. "We'll need more troops to hold a pitched battle there," she said, eying the map skeptically. Even such a reduced frontline as the southern Neck afforded them, they simply needed more bodies. Attrition had been terrible as of late.

Joffrey nodded, "We'll bring the Eighth Regiment out of training. Scrape every fighting man not engaged in the War for the West or the East. Arm more of the refugees from the North…" He sucked air, "Mobilize every Royal Militia in the Riverlands. Every last village." His fingers tapped an uncertain rhythm on the table, growing strained as he revealed the magnitude of the gambit, "The Night King will be somewhere in there, serving as a nexus for the massive amount of Walkers needed to keep a grip on all those wights."

If they were going to risk it all, it made sense to play every strength they had. But would it be enough? It had taken truly horrendous losses at the Wall to make the Comet escalate… and its savaging of the North had filled its ranks with plenty of wights. She caressed the edges of the map, "We'll need something more to make it escalate. More than just mauling its troops."

Joffrey stopped his tapping, closing his eyes. He wasn't in his starry plate now, but bits of it seemed to shimmer out of the ether, flickering before disappearing. "I'll taunt it," he said at last.

Taunt it? While her own growth after witnessing the secrets of the Comet had been evident for all to see, Joffrey's own revelations had been far subtler. He grunted at her raised eyebrow, "I have an idea, don't know if it'll work."

"It's the module we found in Carcosa, isn't it?"

"Spoil sport," he said, his smile turning grim. "Yeah. That and more," he said, fisting his hand. A starry gauntlet drew itself through fractals before dissipating the same way. "Armor. Hah. I've been thinking too small…" He shook his head, "We'll see if it works. For now we have to make sure the Comet commits the majority of its forces."

Sansa felt as if on the edge of a leap. A long, hard fall over tempestuous seas. She remembered her sister being dangled over the battlements of the Red Keep after Renly's coup, her shoe spinning without end as it fell and fell and fell... She followed soon after, her throat slit, her body tumbling down rocky reefs before the sea swallowed her whole. Sansa swallowed acid. "And if we lose?" she asked, her voice unnaturally tight.

"If we lose," said Joffrey, his grip on the table now white, "The Riverlands fall almost immediately and Westeros is cut in two, its best troops decimated again. Supply lines from the Blackworks are severed. The Crownlands would fall in short order; King's Landing within the month… three at most, if I'm still alive to play around Darry with a regiment or two. The supply-ships from the Free Cities would then have to dock at Sunspear or Old Town, if they kept coming at all." Joffrey said it calmly—the air of a terrible prophecy hanging on his words, steel-green eyes tracing the map further south. Further. Sansa imagined every last stand, every atrocity and massacre inflicted upon the land they'd given so much to save. It didn't take much effort; it'd be the Fall of the North all over again, but multiplied by a thousand. It was enough to hitch her throat. Joffrey droned on, "The defense of the Kingdom would turn regional, uncoordinated. The Walkers would cut into the Reach from the southeast and spread like the bloody flux, gorging on our most populous region before overwhelming what's left of the Westerlands. Most of the Stormlands would wither away under the strain." He took a deep breath, "The fight would go on, of course. Whoever's left could last quite a while, if they're clever enough with geography. Dorne, parts of the Vale, Stormlanders around the Rainwood... though by then even the village idiot would know enough to realize the war is lost. Morale would hit rock-bottom, and holdouts would be flooded by refugees. Wights would be everywhere not protected by stout walls, turning the roads dangerous to traverse even in broad daylight. Starvation though…" He shook his head, "Starvation would be the real enemy by then. If we're still holding some semblance of authority and the Royal Fleet hasn't deserted, I suppose we could escape to Jhala with Tommen and the others."

"A court in exile," muttered Sansa, "Waiting for Winter's claw." They'd get to watch the rest of the world fall as they survived for a few more years. Arya and Myrcella would marry local Islander nobility, to buy support from the land they were practically invading. Bran too in all likelihood, but she'd save Tommen for whatever highborn Westerosi lady they'd manage to find… hopefully one from the largest regional subgroup within the refugees. Dornish, probably. She grimaced. And then? Another exodus down the Sothori coast with whatever ships they could get away with? She'd have to reframe the Westerosi identity into something at ease with constantly running away. Like the old Andal warlords searching for their promised land.

Joffrey was looking at her with a private smile, "Always planning the next move."

She blinked the pointless thoughts away, "Just a reflex. By then it wouldn't matter anyway." Her throat tightened yet again, despite her best efforts. She gave an idle turn, facing away from him, "I think we'd all be better served by taking a last trip to Nahdata's temple."

"Why prolong it? We could make our stand in the Red Keep. We kept enough of the wildfire it would blow sky high." She knew he was smiling, but she also knew that smile didn't reach his eyes. It'd been some time since it last did. A beat passed, heavy with loaded meaning. "It'd be quick," he whispered.

She hugged him tight, thick angst coiling in her gut. Would Bran and Arya die with them? Or would it be better to send them away, to eek out a few more years in the south watching their world die? "Going out in a blaze of glory. Why am I not surprised?" she said with a silly smile, blinking as fast as she could. Which death would be best for little Eddard and Olenna? Wildfire? A slit throat? Thrown off from the heights of Maegor's Holdfast as the wights stormed the corridors? She'd seen so much death throughout the past few months she could picture it all in excruciating detail. She'd seen the deeds; mothers holding knives over freshly silent cribs, that horrible silence so sick and wrong. She'd borne witness to hollow-eyed men tossing torches to the wood stores, shouldering bloody libards before taking one last tumble down timbered walls… Death. So much death.

She managed to keep her sobs to quiet, dignified things. Coming and going with slow ease, just a few tears sliding down her cheeks as Joffrey's grip tightened around her, his chest swaying with each long breath. He was her stout weirwood, her mighty tree with roots to the center of the earth, wise as ages and strong, so strong she could hang on and never once drown. It was his turn now, but later it would be hers. Later, when night came and his terrified screams woke her up to eyes as wild as those of a wounded lion, bleeding from wounds only she could see. Then it would be her turn to cup him close, to whisper sweet nothings as his ragged breath found its rhythm again, the nightmares fading but never quite leaving. It was as they promised each other, so many, many years ago. Taking turns being stronger.

"Together," she said into his chest, her voice raspy but unbroken.

"Together," he whispered back, caressing her head with long, calming strokes. Death loomed over them with a white hand, its crushing grip growing ever tighter, tighter than ever before to the point she sometimes struggled to breathe. Perhaps it was fortunate the end was at hand, one way or the other. They would have their peace soon, whatever happened.

Soon, she could feel the Comet agree, a scarlet moon perched over grey horizons, it's light bathing the tiles past the window. Soon.

-: PD :-