Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Andon swallowed bile as he leaned on the tent pole, trying not to throw up. The ground rumbled at a steady beat; a dragging cadence pounded unto the earth by thousands of marching boots. "We'll be okay," whispered Tabby, tying his helmet with trembling hands.

"Stay with me in the melee. We'll watch out for each other."

They kissed—quickly, desperately. It was over all too soon as Serjeant Knub's voice rang over the encampment and they ran out of the tent, libards in hand.

"1st Groverick!" said Knub, "Prepare to move out!"

Almost the entire village had gathering into one long block, moonlight and comet-glare melding into a vermilion night that splattered over their helmets. Their faces were almost unrecognizable under the strange light; here Old Tom cringed in fear, there Bale and Mother held each other's hands, and beyond them Long Jon stared into the distance, to the road north where fires glimmered in the dark and screams drifted with the wind. Mothers gripped their libards next to their sons—children as young as ten namedays with dangling waterskins swept over their shoulders. Others had arms themselves, libards and torches comically large to their frames, throats bobbing as more people joined the block. They weren't soldiers—not really… but they had answered the call.

He and Tabby took their posts at the front of the column, and Serjeant Knub stopped his pacing by their side, clearing his throat.

"Serjeant," said Andon.

"Andon," said Knub. He looked jittery, licking his lips after every explosion in the distance.

"We won't freeze up, Serjeant," said Andon. "You trained us well."

"Aye," said Knub, biting his lip again as he looked at the column.

"You won't freeze up," he said, grabbing his shoulder.

Knub took a shuddering breath—the nightmares had never stopped. His gaze wandered, lost in the horizon before coming to rest on Andon's. "Aye," he said slowly—a nod.

Andon squeezed Tabby's hand as the Serjeant walked down the column, "Alright! You've faced raids and lone wights, but never before have you fought the bastards in open battle!" Knub spat to the side of the road, where the dust kicked up by the latest unit to march through still hung in the air. "It'll be bloody mayhem, but the King gave us the tools to hold them back! It's time we fight for all the people in our Kingdom besieged, and show the bastards what a red Royal Militia can do!"

Andon shouted with them all, hefting libards up and screaming out his fear. "Groverick!" they roared, stomping their feet, "The Kingdom!" It helped to get his blood moving, to shake his body into something beyond paralyzing terror.

"1st Groverick! Forward march!" Serjeant Knub called out. Instincts swept his legs, muscle memory overriding panic. They set out at the steady gait they'd practiced up and down the Kingsroad—a single unit of men, women, and children marching north, north to the sounds of battle. To the place where the fate of Westeros was being decided. Andon breathed deeply with each step, the rumble of his friends and kin close by, a comforting rumble even as fear gnawed his chest. All would fight for Dawn, the King had said… and so it would be.

Groverick marched down snaking trails before joining the King's Road, freshly cut and expanded to accommodate the huge influx of troops swarming the Northern Riverlands. The full moon and the hellish glare of the comet painted the hills and valleys of the land in broad strokes of white and red, marking out great encampments and watchtowers over hills and near rivers. A subtle murmur of battle hung in the air—an indistinct buzz on the edge of audition… as if the whole world were having an argument just beyond the hills to the north. Occasionally, a hollow scream would fly over the buzz; a sharp gurgle as if an arrow had reached out and gotten Tabby in the neck. But every time he looked, she was there marching by his side, her eyes almost obscured by a helmet too big for her—her only piece of armor. And so was Old Tom, and Mother, and Fat Gollys, all with their eyes fixed forward, darting constantly for the sight of carnage.

"Steady, Groverick! Steady!" Knub called out, striding beside the block with his axe in hand. Andon could see another block of people just cresting the next hill, libards bobbing under red light. He scrambled his mind for what little Knub had known, trying to take his mind away from the formless dread sawing through his chest. The 7th Maidenpool. Must be, we're to be right beside them at the front. The battle had been going on all throughout the day, but everyone knew it'd be the night when the wights gave it their all. The errant screams grew sharper still, more numerous as they kept up the pace. After another bend, Andon saw a cluster of open aired tents by the side of the road, bands of gold sewn over their sides—the Handmaiden's sign, spotted by softly falling snow.

Field Hospital, he thought as they marched towards it. Men were screaming, crying out from simple stretchers laid on wooden supports, the gagging stench of rot thick in the air. Handmaidens and maesters ran between them, their bloody instruments gleaming under torchlight as they gave out orders and restrained their patients, stumbling unto fresh wounded as they shambled out of the fields and into the light. "Help!" screamed a boy maybe sixteen name days, half his face lacerated to shreds. He was carrying someone in a full-bodied embrace, her head tucked to his chest, limbs dangling loose from which blood trickled down like water. "Please help her!" he screamed, stumbling over the middle of the road as the column began to falter.

"Steady Groverick! Keep the pace!" shouted Knub, the edicts of war merciless.

"Watch out! Get out of the way!" shouted Andon, breaking ranks and sprinting forward. He tackled the couple out of the road and into the trampled field to the side.

"Please do somethin'!" the boy begged, tears crawling down his cheeks and mixing with blood and muck. The girl in his arms did not move—her face slack, eyes wide open, in awe of the comet above.

"Go on! Go to the hospital!" he shouted, lifting him up and shoving them towards the lights. The boy stumbled aimlessly before falling on his knees again, rocking her back and forth. He stared at the boy and the dead girl, his heart painfully loud as he replaced her face with Tabby's. He gave out a dry grunt, like an ox choking with its own plow and pulling still. Pulling. Pulling.

"Andon!" drifted the potent voice of Serjeant Knub. A lifeline. "Get back in line!" He broke out into a sprint, desperate to see his wife's face right now, devoid of that horrifying dead awe. He got back to the column just as they passed beside the hospital—there was Tabby, alive, still marching, adjusting the libard's bite on her shoulder. The Red Comet made it look as if she were bleeding.

"We'll be okay, Andon," she whispered, eyes darting to the tents. More figures were emerging from the dark, drawn to the light like moths and calling for help. "We'll be okay," she whispered again, his hand clasping hers.

A hair-raising scream made him jump. Right besides them, in the hospital—a guardsman wrestling with a boy and a handmaiden. "NO! Mother's mercy please don't saw it off!!!" he screamed, clutching the mangled ruin of his arm like a miser does treasure.

A maester rushed to the struggle, pushing him back to the bloody stretcher. His handsaw was a wicked gleam of steel in the night. "Restrain him! Hold him still-!" One of the wounded jumped at his back with a chilling wail, blue eyes alight as it bit off a chunk of his neck. The maester screamed as he wheeled with the fresh wight at his back, crashing against a table and falling to the ground in a rain of bloody instruments.

"Wight!" shouted the handmaiden, taking up another saw and pummeling the undead with the wooden grip. "Burn detail! Where are you!?" she said, breaking its spine with efficient hits to the base of its neck.

Another boy ran to her side, "M'lady I'm sorry! We've-"

"Sharpen up your watch!" she snarled, wrapping a bandage around the whimpering maester's neck, "I want them burning the second they stop breathing!" She turned back to the wounded guardsman, "And you! We're either cutting that arm or you're going headfirst into the wight-pile! Which is it going to be!?"

Andon swallowed, loosing sight of them as the column kept going. They passed bonfires thick with the scent of roasting flesh, like pork left too long under a fire. Far too long. Teams of men and women tossed body after body into the piles, the scalding heat washing over him as great gouts of fire flared up into the night. Serjeant Knub matched his pace to that of the front row, and eased his way beside him. The light of the fires gave him a fierce visage, "I'll be keeping overwatch from the middle, but you'll be right at the front," he said, voice low and barely audible through the rumbling march. "If you think we're about to crumble, I want you to call a withdrawal before it happens."

He gave him a shaky nod. With Guardsman Peyter gone to train another village also not on the map, he was technically Knub's second.

"Only if you think we absolutely can't hold," said Knub, closer this time, "Word is the front is stretched thin. Wights keep expanding the line and we've not the reserves to plug every gap in good time. We mess up a withdrawal and we might end up creatin' a breach. Doom thousands." He frowned at the passing fires, alight with burning silhouettes. Did some of them stir? "Millions, maybe."

"I'll do my best, Serjeant," he said, his throat impossibly dry.

"All of us," whispered Tabby.

Knub nodded, "I've faith in you," he said, looking back at the marching column, "In all of Groverick."

In all of Westeros, thought Andon, gritting his teeth and willing it to be true. Soon enough they reached the hill where they'd lost sight of the 7th Maidenpool. This valley was the last before reaching battlefield proper, marked by orange glows beyond the next set of hills. They passed groups of soldiers going the other way—limping, bleeding, holding each other in mutual embrace. Many of them didn't have any weapons. "They're marching the wrong way!" said Fat Gollys, three rows back from Andon. He realized with a start these were guardsmen. They carried their splintered tower shields as if they were made out of lead, their banners flickering torn and tattered, at the whims of the freezing wind. "Hey!" said Gollys, "Where are you going?!"

One of the soldiers spat blood to their side of the road, "Too many casualties. Can't hold the line." He was gone before anyone could reply.

Another looked up from the ground as if surprised to see them, still dragging a halberd even though the other arm hung limp—a twisted broken mess, "It's the end of the world," he said, declaiming it like a herald. He shook his head, looking at his feet again, "It's the end of the bloody world."

"Bloody unbelievable is what it is," muttered Gollys.

"Quiet in the ranks!" said Knub. The sorry lot shambled on, more wight than men, more mob than unit. "They'll be broken up after an hour's rest, most like," whispered Knub, "Sent in to patch another unit."

Gods, he thought, What's happening past those hills? And he'd thought he'd had it hard spotting enemies with the foxes and poking wights from the town palisade. How many wights had those guardsmen faced? How many beyond the next hill? It could be worse, he whispered to himself. He could be skirmishing in the Vale, where whole villages vanished from one night to the other. Much better to know the score of things. Right?

Dug outs had been carved out of the descending slope, each position centered around a long range stagram battery pointed at the sky. The long-snouted siege weapons had their backs covered by long tarps, where artillerymen in Guard colors huddled in groups, not a campfire in sight. The snow fell harder now—clingy snowflakes flying from the north and settling on Andon's woolen cloak like mayflies. He was shivering, but whether out of fear or the cold he could not say. Probably both.

A centurion trotted out to meet them from one of the dugouts, "Stop! Halt immediately!"

Serjeant Knub scowled before filling his lungs, "1st Groverick! Halt!"

The village stopped awkwardly, shuddering without spilling people to its sides—a sight that left a little ember of pride in Andon's gut; a ward against the cold. Knub bent his head at him before walking to the centurion, and he hurried after him.

"Which unit?!" the centurion bellowed before Knub could get a word in edgewise.

"1st Groverick Militia! We're expected at the front, right flank!"

The centurion shook his head, "Not anymore!"

Knub lowered his voice as they closed the last of the distance, "Ser, what's going on?"

"They want to break the center, and they're doing a damn good job of it," said the centurion in the same voice, "How good's your C&R?"

Knub spat at the ground, "Red. As red as the glowy bastard up top."

"Good. Good."

"We're not going to the right flank?" asked Andon.

"No. Center section. Straight down the road and up that hill, no breaking off. Some officer will meet you there and pick your place in the line. You-" A horse squealed out of the night, spittle spraying over Andon's face. Knub pulled him back as the horse reared with a foamy whinny, the rider yanking on the reigns. He'd almost run down the centurion. "Who the hells do you-!"

"Wights!" said the rider, struggling to regain control of his mount, "Massing again! It's the big 'one!"

The centurion passed from red to white as his teeth showed, "What? Where?! Where godsdammit!"

"Hills one through eleven!" he wheezed, "The blue treeline and Tyrek's pass and-" The horse drew a circle as he pulled on the reigns again- "Mooton's section and— bloody everywhere alright?! They're gathering all along the center! You are ordered to fire until out of ammunition, and then to join the fray!"

"What?!"

"With frying pans if you have to! Legate Snow's own words!" He circled once again before whipping his horse and galloping back to the battlefield.

"Seven Hells!" shouted the centurion, running to the nearest dug out as he waved his arms, "All batteries! Blanket bombardment! Fire at will!!!"

"Come on, let's go," said Knub. They jogged back to Groverick, weapons in hand, shouts and tiny bells ringing from behind. The gritted faces of his people lit up with every stagram launch, their eyes following their contrails as he and Knub got in position.

"Sounds like things are falling apart," Andon whispered, changing the grip on his libard time and again.

"Haven't you heard?" said Knub, his grin hideous, "It's the end of the bloody world."

They marched out as more stagrams ignited with whistling screams, launching off from positions all along the hill and flying beyond the small valley. Explosions bloomed in the distance—orange glows beyond the hills, hollow crack-oms echoing down the slopes. More and more until it was one rolling barrage.

"I'm scared," said Tabby, her face blank though she winced with every boom. She was his better with the libard, but her smaller frame meant there was only so much strength she could put behind a blow.

"Me too," he said as he grabbed her hand again, remembering the boy and the dead girl. Would he carry her the same way? Would his brother carry him instead? Would he turn into a wight before they burned him? He didn't want to die. Nor Ma. Nor Bale. Nor Tabby or Old Tom or anyone. Fucking wights, he thought, snarling quietly, what did we do to fuckin' deserve you?

As they climbed the last hill the sounds of battle became defined. Acquired weight. Voices with striking individuality rang out above the mayhem; roars of frenzy, screams of terror, solid bellows heavy with the sound of authority. Explosions too, the wheezing of stagrams out of fuel now free falling before detonation. Steel, most of all. Steel-on-steel. Steel-on-flesh.

Near the crest of the hill were several blocks of infantry, all furs and axes and blood-curdling screams. "They took our people!" roared their leader, a one-eyed warrior with a giant wolf by his side. He paced from banner to banner, going from horses to mermen, from bears to lizard-lions; beasts and kettles, unchained giants and flayed men still livid red—banners wild against the wind, exiled sigils thirsting for blood.

"They took our land!" he shouted, "They took our pride!" His host roared back in righteous fury, warriors banging their shields—a symphony of steel, "What will they take now?!"

"Death!" they roared.

"What will they take!?"

"Death!!!"

"Northmen!" He raised Valyrian steel up in the air, "What will they take!!!"

"Death!!!!!" they roared, their defiance electric. Andon found himself marching quicker, Groverick at a pace, war on the horizon. This was it. This was the time. Would he live to see the Dawn? The first banners were already advancing over the hill, the northmen still chanting as they went to war, disappearing beyond the crest. In between breaths, it was Groverick's turn.

Andon stumbled as they reached the top of the hill, gales of snow buffeting him backwards and revealing the battlefield in all its terrifying glory. White and scarlet, twin moons in the sky painted the valley below, running east-to-west with gently sloped hills on either side. On the southern side of the valley lay the forces of the living—a network of fortifications manned by a boiling sea of humanity snarling and heaving; screaming and dying. Successive lines of waist-high earthworks, stakes, and palisades had been erected all along the hill's slope, and more than half of them lay wrecked and unmanned. Banners of fallen units lay scattered over the wreckage like toothpicks, scattered fires burning bodies in between—a wasteland bathed in red glare. Further up—only a few minute's marching time—lay the current battleline, where the remnants of some earlier wight army was still smashing into rows of stakes and halberds, firespears unleashed at point-blank range.

On the other side of the valley… on the other side…

"Oh gods…" whispered Andon, Groverick faltering with him. On the other side of the valley massed the army of Winter—a swollen mass of Westeros' dead now marching as one. A frothing sea of undeath. Their conjoined shrieking hit him worse than the snow—a song of the lonely damned, pleading for company. They swarmed and swarmed—hordes of them cresting the top of the northern hills, one after the other before shambling down the slopes. Andon could see guardsmen and wildlings, faces torn and crusted with frost. He saw knights in full plate hefting rusted axes, giants shambling in between as if dragging the weight of the world. Entire villages clustered together—smallfolk just like him hefting libards and tweaked hoes, marching against the land who'd let them die. How many fathers in that featureless mass? How many wives torn apart and made to dance—dance to Winter's wrath? Far worse were the children: solemn and blue-eyed, long gashes from their necks to their bellies. They'd been murdered not by wights.

"Keep the pace!" bellowed Serjeant Knub. A lifeline.

"Steady, Groverick!" roared Andon, forcing his feet forward one at a time at a pace with his people. Remember the Kingsroad. Remember the Dawn. In the middle of that undead tempest stood the White Walkers; ten thousand marble statues whose crystal swords glittered under moonlight, still and patient as the dead washed around them like high tide. Dawn, thought Andon, his heart yammering out of his chest as he cringed in white-terror. He was going to break down. Curl in the floor and scream. Remember the Dawn. The kiss of the sun beyond the clouds. Wildflowers unleashed. Tabby's lips warm and tight. Dawn Dawn Dawn Dawn.

Knub was calling out the beat now: 'One-to, One-to, One-to', like he'd done so many months ago, when they'd been but a rabble practicing war. Andon held on to that voice as Groverick marched to war—that reassuring rhythm, that song on the edge of audition. He focused on his immediate surroundings, his breathing at a beat with Knub's voice.

They marched past lines of black-skinned archers in plumed armor, their immense longbows crackling sharply every five seconds. He cringed every time he heard them loose—swarms of wasps buzzing above and into the distance, off to rain down on the dead. Onagers and ballistas followed suit with bolt and stone, barrels of oil exploding above the wight vanguard and lighting up the night in brilliant orange.

"Keep going down!" shouted a man in legate's armor, twin red wings painted on his tabard. Legate Jon Snow, thought Andon, awe beating terror. A messenger had handed him a written missive, which he used to point at Serjeant Knub. "Straight down this road! Cover the 43rd's right flank!"

"43rd's right flank, aye ser!" bellowed Knub. The column snaked its way down the middle road, Andon searching for the 43rd's banners as Knub kept a grip on the march… but all he could see was blurred color, meaningless heraldries and numbers he could not read mashed all together with death and madness. Make it stop. He wanted to get out. He wanted to run but Groverick's claustrophobic embrace cupped him close, marching him inexorably forward towards the line. Towards the wights. Stop. Father Above please help me. Mother sweet and caring, Mother warm and loving—help! Help me!

But it did not stop. It could not stop. Sweat and blood hung in the air as they delved deeper—further down the slope, whips hissing as men and crazed horses shoveled wagons up and down the hill in endless trains. One of them tumbled sideways and crushed a man from the waist down. He cried in agony as Groverick marched past him, piecemeal reinforcements jogging past the column in two's and threes as they dashed to positions beyond Andon's sight. He couldn't stop marching—Groverick had him, the relentless 'One-to' of Serjeant Knub harsh against his ears. "Ser Beric!" yelled a squire with a livid gash across his face; he smashed into the side of Groverick's marching column, squirming in between and tearing out the other side. He ran past them, towards the battleline. "Ser Beric!!!" he bawled like a child lost in the woods, "Ser Beric, where are you!?" He stumbled into a couple of soldiers busy taking mallets to a jammed catapult, shoving each other and then him as they argued. Inexplicably, a wight had impaled itself halfway into a stake well beyond the current frontline. It snarled at Andon, hopelessly trying to get its hands on him as they marched past. This is madness. I've gone insane. We've all gone insane.

Most of the wights were retreating, scuttling back across the blasted valley, back to their dead brethren on the opposite hills. Seeking to bolster the next charge? The line let out a tired cheer as the wights fled, their ranks loosening as they repaired obstacles or carried bodies to the piles. Others just sat—listless wights-in-waiting with hollowed out minds, waiting for the end until an officer got them moving again. Groverick nestled into a growing gap right beside the 43rd, taking cover behind a waist-high timbered earthwork thick with dried blood. "Form a double line!" bellowed Knub. A lifeline.

"Double line!" Andon yelled, his voice shrilly, "Ready those libards! Watch your spacing!" Obvious reminders. It made him feel useful. I'm control, he thought, I'm in control. I can help. I can do this.

By now most of the wights had retreated back to their brethren to the north, though some remained. A guardsman was walking past the stakes covering the approaches, taking a mace to the wights helplessly impaled there. "Where's your commanding officer!?" Knub yelled at him.

There was a disturbing parsimony to the man—calm concentration as he bashed skull after skull. Meaty thunks one after the other, brains sprayed on his tabard. He lifted his calm gaze and pointed at a wooden platform to the other side of the 43rd. Bits of flesh and gore dribbled from his mace.

A surge of nausea wracked Andon like a hit to the gut. He doubled over, gagging, taking halting breaths of air. "Come on, boy," whispered Knub, his breath close against his ear, warm against the blizzard, "Don't die on me now. Follow! Follow!!!"

"Aye Serjeant!" he managed, half-carried as they jogged together, passing through the 43rd's rear. Here men nursed minor wounds, scarfing down meals from tiny cookfires. "Bolts!" snarled a serjeant as he saw them, grabbing Andon with a fierce grip, "You've got my bolts?!"

I'm sorry, Andon wanted to tell him. He didn't know why. I'm so sorry.

"Do we look like a supply wagon?!" said Knub, shoving him aside.

"What are my crossbows supposed to do?! Huh?! Fucking spit at them?!" The man shouldered them aside, "Bolts! Where are my godsdamned bolts!? Romard! Get up the hill and fetch me another load!"

"Romard's dead ser," said one of them men by the cookfire.

"Then you and his ghost better pick up the pace!" he said, pulling him up and shoving him uphill.

"Come on Andon, keep moving," Knub whispered urgently, troubled eyes scanning the ragged troops. It was all melding together—the stench of rotten meat carried forth by the blizzard, the bubbling vegetable stew by the cook fire, the shivers crawling up and down his back like a seesaw. Gore dripping from the stakes. Knub's grip was now the only thing holding him together.

They somehow got to the raised platform and clambered up, finding a heavyset man in battered plate, taking a big swing from his waterskin.

"You're my right flank?!" he said as they reached him. "Maiden's sweet tits, now we're well buggered."

"Centurion." Knub rammed a fist against his chestplate, "I'm Serjeant Knub, this is Andon." He took off his helmet, pan-like ears springing free and reddish. He scratched one desperately, "1st Groverick."

"This is what they're plugging the center with? Militia?" the man stared at the enemy hills before shooting them a disapproving frown, "I'm Ollen. Welcome to the Seven Hells."

Andon took a big breath. "Our orders?" he managed, watching the wights massing by the foot of the enemy hills. Between the Comet and the full moon, there was enough light to see the entire battlefield even through the blizzard. Errant long-range stagrams still landed here and there, blowing wights apart in thick fountains of smoke. An undead giant bellowed at the living—deep bass, long and resounding before a stagram caught it straight in the chest; a freak lucky-shot. It exploded into a million pieces, its roar cut off with terrifying suddenness.

"Orders?" said Ollen, "To hold this line. Or die trying."

Andon leaned on the railing and puked his guts out. Acid churned through his throat into a helpless torrent. And again. Again. They hit him one after the other—punches straight to the gut that left him not a second to breathe.

Gods. I want to die. I don't want to die. Oh Gods-

Knub's hand. A comforting weight on his back, "Now, lad. Breathe. Breathe. Remember what I taught you." A lifeline.

Andon focused on his breath, a long line of spittle wobbling in the wind before an errant gust jammed it against his cloak. Below the platform a soldier jeered, "You missed the serjeant, boy!"

He felt a bit better, somehow. Lighter. "Andon. Remember." Knub's voice was low, below the mayhem of a world dying, "How do we face the fear?"

He took another breath, swaying, swallowing acid as he straightened. He locked gazes with Knub. "Face on," he rasped. Just like the serjeant with his nightmares—night after night in Groverick, his screams waking half the town. Fear; it was there… and there was nothing you could do to avoid it. Nothing.

You just had to face it.

"Head on," said Knub, squeezing his arm.

Ollen did not look down on him. If anything, there was pity in his iron gaze.

"It'll be bad, won't it?" he asked him.

"Aye," said Ollen.

"You're ready for this," said Knub, something wobbling in Andon's chest. Knub could feel it too. A melody on the edge of audition. His grip turned tighter, more confident, "We're ready for this," he said, a fire guzzling to life behind eyes, somehow gazing beyond the nightmares, gazing at something on the right flank.

The sickness buffeted out of him as he heard a rolling cheer, a budding scream on everyone's throats—a roiling something crisp and clear surging within his chest. On and on it swelled, a surging thing sweeping the assembled ranks from east to west. A plea for salvation… No. A roar of determination. Upon that wave of human emotion sprinted a silver lion the size of a warhorse, its prowling gait quickly bounding through the broken field in front of the battleline. Its rider was clad in blackest armor, its sheen ignoring the snow-riddled clouds above and reflecting the night sky as it should be—with stars fierce and bright, and in his hand… in his hand bloomed fractal light like a recursive thunder strike, a purple construct shaping itself into a long pole from which detonated gold and silver. Like a glittering mantle it weaved itself out of shimmering air, longer and longer as if the pole were driving a gash upon the fabric of reality, spilling silver paint. A grand banner, waving at the armies of Dawn as if thrust by cosmic winds.

Andon found himself breathing like a bull, staring at the colossal banner flying atop the figure—impossibly large, hanging upon the sky like a soaring dragon. A banner he'd never seen before but which seized him with sudden, brutal comprehension; seven rays of light radiating from a single sun dawning over mountains. Seven rays of light for Seven Kingdoms united in vision. In purpose. In dreams. They were seven rays of light emerging from a single dream of Dawn that reached out to cup Andon's very heart. A single heart-wrenching hope. Andon gazed at the spreading banner of Dawn and felt Tabby so close, closer than ever before, her mirthful eyes and her kind soul, her quick anger and her sorrow deep. It was Bale and his belly-rolling laughter, steely quiet Knob, Ollen the card-loving centurion, it was everyone now gasping in supernatural insight. Hundreds. Thousands. He could feel them all.

It was the banner of Westeros, and it was carried by Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of his Name. He was their hope through Winter's wrath. He was the man that made them into one. He was-

"THE KING!!!" he roared as loud as his lungs could bare, Knub and Ollen and Groverick and Westeros entire with him.

-: PD :-

He'd wondered, what shape it would take. To protect, to safe-keep; a suit of armor had been an altogether intuitive leap. But what about hope? Connection? Love? What shape the Dream of Dawn? Joffrey rode down the length of the battleline at high speed, Stars' bounding prowl easily navigating the wreckage of the battlefield. The construct given shape by his soul kept spreading from the long pole—like an artist's brush leaving wide trails of color in canvas unleashed. It seemed made more of ethereal light than cloth; an aurora of the living rising up to the skies and stretching for far horizons. He couldn't see it—his vision drawn to slits as the wind raked his face, Stars furious speed carrying him ever forward… but he could feel it. The love he felt for his people. For Westeros. For all the living hanging unto the dream of a green future warm and bright, a new age beyond the terrible cold, beyond the numbing blizzard choking them all. "The King!" his people roared as they saw him, raising fists and iron to the air, "The King!!!"

He didn't respond, not yet, riding Stars as fast as he could as they dashed across the battlefield with the banner of Westeros held high; the dawn sun of the Kingdom fluttering in between the falling snow. He gazed at the faces of his people as he passed them by; lords bellowing oaths, militias raising libards and screaming out their fear, battle-scarred Guard veterans slamming halberds against the ground. It was good to remember, before the end. What he fought for. What he'd given so much to protect. To create.

He didn't feel different now; it had been an understanding, more than a transformation. A closing of a circle which he'd begun to draw long, long ago, when he could still remember the face of Jon Arryn. It felt logical, natural even, a consequent end to his journey. His brother the Red Comet had shown him what lay behind the fabric, behind the tapestry. All throughout the Kingdom the people had seen those eldritch truths, revealed on open skies as a hole in reality. But to Joffrey? To him who had sailed the skein of time through countless lives? To him who'd listened through purple cathedrals and heard the singing melodies of existence? To Joffrey it had revealed not only the secrets of Comet and Purple but of the existential sea they shared. The Song they heard. The last piece had been slotted into place and he'd understood. What is a Song without a Listener?

He was connected now, almost like Comet and Walker, as if he could touch the souls of every man, every woman, every single living person on that grand army of Dawn and beyond, beyond to the land itself and the roots of the world, the Silence nibbling its edges like termites on wood. The Song burned mighty in his veins, an intimate wildfire coursing through his body and soul that reached out, out to the sea of humanity now bellowing defiance. He felt their burning hope, their fathomless dreams of peace over green fields—a silver dawn over a new world. He felt their purpose and channeled it right back, infusing the Song with silvery timbres that echoed, echoed so loud even little Eddard could hear them, far away in the Red Keep. It echoed through everyone—that powerful, breathtaking realization that they were not alone.

They were the very thing the Silence sought to quench; they were the source of the Song that gave shape to all that was… They were not just the Watchers. They were the stars.

He rode all the way to the left flank and back to the center, gliding on the cheering fervor of a people united in purpose. Stars leapt atop a mound of rubble and reared up in an awesome display of puffed silver fur shaking under wild winds, giving out a world-ending roar that reached for the high heavens. The answering clamor would've driven his old self drunk, and there was still a part of him that reveled in savage joy at the sight of thousands upon thousands screaming his name… but it went far beyond that now. When they cheered for him they cheered for the hope of dawn. For life beyond the Cold, for the love of all that breathed in this tiny world hung from the void. It was bigger than him. Bigger even than the Comet. 'King' they'd roared, and that was what a King should be; a conduit for his people to rise.

"I will not lie to you!" he called out, his voice clear across the valley, "The claws of winter dig deep into our land, 'tis true! The North has fallen! The east and the west lie besieged! And on that hill and beyond," he said, Brightroar materializing in his hand as he pointed north, "There lies the grand army of Silence, intent on ending!" The wight legions were already moving, shambling at a steady almost-marching pace as they sought to cluster tighter still, a quaking avalanche of grey blanketing the valley in blue-eyed bone. "Intent on ending the warmth you feel coursing through your souls! On killing that bond now pulsing between us all! The vibrant choir that gives this world meaning!"

The severity of such sin was beyond words. Men cried openly—stern soldiers hardened by brutal combat now gasping under the weight of endings. Others screamed denial, defiant cries reaching out for Joffrey, blood and rage in the air. The gall of the Cycle, the Walkers. To seek to silence such a beautiful thing as a human soul—a fragile treasure each unique and infinitely complex, now revealed for all to see. To understand. It seemed now, at last, did they understand what Winter's final victory would truly mean. The enormity of such catastrophic defeat. At last, they understand, Joffrey thought, his eyes watering ever so slowly, a happiness with no name filling his gut. At last, so they understand. The banner of Westeros glowed over dark skies, turning radiant with each new understanding. With each new will now woken up and defiant. Lightning flashed in the distance.

"But tonight," he said, voice loud and clear, "It is they who shall end! Tonight, we'll return a debt long in the making!" They would not go quietly into the arms of such Silence. They would not kneel before such sacrilege. The murderous Cycle and its parsimonious Walkers, slayers of life and dreams. How dare they? Righteous rage filled Joffrey's belly, intertwined with the will of his people made manifest, their understanding now one and the same. Not even in the highest heights of his sadistic, unthinking rage, that towering cruelty of his youth—not even then had he felt such powerful crystal-clear hate. "We've watched them ravage our land! Tear down what generations have built! Frozen all that is green and beautiful!" he said, the words crawling out of his mouth like stagram-fire, explosions of outrage buffeting his people. "They've made puppets out of our dead! Out of our heroes! Out of our children!" Thunder strikes bellowed near the horizon and closer still, a rolling barrage of echoes creeping closer as his hair stood on edge, his back crawling up and down. Blinding flashes speared through the skies like curled yellow hooks, afterimages seared into his eyes—the Song surging, bursting through the fabric into a savage dry thunderstorm, a wall of warm air clashing against the Walker-storm screaming from the North. Joffrey breathed in that dry warmth, the combined outrage of a continent made sharper still by the clarity of the Song tying them now together—a shared injustice binding them all in revenge, ozone in the air. Every word out of his mouth brought forth another roar from the Army of Dawn, another thunder strike connecting earth to heaven as he channeled horror and outrage back into their bonded souls and the Song feedbacked out of control.

He slashed with Brightroar at the columns of the dead, at the Walkers perched high and mighty on their hill, "They've spread their cold misery from the Wall to the seas—this scourge on our hearts unleashed! This nightmare with no end! This all-consuming total war! They-" Joffrey gasped, his mind caught by visions of his Kingdom ravaged—his cities burning, his armies slaughtered and raised, his people freezing—drowning as they swam for the evacuation ships, scuttling aboard as swollen wights. So many bright dreams turned to ash under a muffled sun—such awesome potential now destroyed. Oh Sansa, what we could've built. Ned flashed his thoughtful smile, blood bubbling through his lips. They-

"They stole our Summer!!!" roared Joffrey, wisps of lightning crawling down Brightroar's edge, "They stole our Dawn!!!"

"Dawn!!!" bellowed Westeros, a pulsing clamor thick with hope and longing, a bursting battlecry savage and defiant, fit to terrify even an army of the dead. A human thunder one with the storm raging above their heads.

A promise to take back what was stolen.

The Cycle flinched, its attention riveting unto Joffrey with steadfast will. He rode back to the command post atop the hill, mounted drummers and hornbearers accreting to Star's gait like fillings to a lodestone—runners and knights and officers connecting his will to that of his men. He could feel the Comet's order, emerging from its crystalline mind like a commandment; a single-minded directive.

Silence, whispered the Cycle. The dead of Westeros broke out into a shambling sprint—driven mad by such encompassing desire, a roiling sea of shrieks and moans carried forth by one timeless edict.

He felt the Song surge as he surveyed the battlefield, the Silence enroaching like a crushing grip as the wights crossed the valley. He would give the order, one last time. "One last time, my friend," he told his legate. Jon smiled back.

"Artillery," he said, turning to the hornbearer, "Loose at will."

His command reached forth, through the air and up the sky as horns sang long and low. Trebuchet-arms let loose with wooden groans—pent up torsion released into wide swings, long arms waving at the night air. Short-ranged Stagrams took flight by choirs—flurries of them leaping for the skies by the scores. Flaming boulders tore through the charging dead, drawing fiery gashes on the valley, explosions sweeping through wights like meteors. Burn, thought Joffrey, his grip on Brightroar waning and waxing as the dead crept closer. The plumed archers of the Summer Islands let loose with their longbows at extreme range, greeting the charging dead with a hail of iron that snapped bones in two, skulls exploding into mush. Ballistas and onagres swept entire lines, bolts and flaming pots ravaging them—destruction compounded as crossbows let loose by sections, their volleys raking the dead hundreds at a time. The wights didn't care—they leapt atop each other like demented spiders as they swept over the slain, an avalanche consuming fire and steel. Closer. Closer. Joffrey steeled himself.

The battlelines crashed like a storm wracking the Mountains of the Vale—dead bone tearing into living flesh, people screaming back defiance, weapons rising and falling. From a battalion of runners, drummers, and horn-bearers, Joffrey sought to keep up with the brutal pace dictated by the Red Comet—almost a dance of sorts, a partner with which to maximize death and destruction. For every move of his enemy Joffrey had an answer; to charging undead giants he met with giants of his own, Borgan's kin armored in enough steel to outfit four knights each. Their tree-trunk maces blew the jaws off their undead brethren, sweeping smaller wights away with all-bodied heaves. To massed waves of wights Joffrey answered with reserves, cycling out troops and countering numerical superiority with extensive fortifications, buying time for ballistas and catapults to decimate the clustered masses. Each shot raked dozens, leaving wakes of fire which burned a hellish orange—flames titillating under gales of snow. It was a battle of stratagems, of attrition, the mud painted red with the blood of men and with the snowy guts of the Walkers. The map under his fingers glazed over as he swept beads and figures, spelling out messages for his runners he would later scarcely remember, his mind adrift from the flow of time as he zoned into a state of absolute concentration—a game of Cyvasse against the horror in the night sky in which the tiniest mistake would mean final Silence. His people would not make it easy for it. Terrified but defiant, ground down but unbroken. Knights and militias, Freefolk and guardsmen, they fought until their limbs would no longer rise. Wights-of-the-Living, vessels of the Song, they'd understood the stakes of this war. Of this battle. Unlike the puppets of the Comet, they threw themselves willingly into the horrendous maelstrom lashing at the front lines, fighting against all odds. Fighting for hope. Fighting against the Silence.

And oh how it wanted that Silence. The Comet's glare turned a sickly scarlet as the battle wore on, pale brilliance ever brighter—an ethereal momentum gathering in its gimlet gaze. As Westeros piled up the dead in great wight-piles which blazed from the hilltops, as the banner of Westeros still hung from the air like a living aurora—as the Song still surged defiant through blinding thunder strikes that warmed the soul, Joffrey could feel its crystal mind edging towards a conclusion. An ultimatum. He could feel it in his skin, in the way the hair on his arms stood up as if caressed by those same cosmic winds now tugging the Comet's red mantle. He could hear it in the chill around him, in the sound of steel on flesh biting deep, in Star's purr which crackled by his side like a forest fire, entranced as it gazed up at their enemy. With every minute that the living stood their ground, the red orb on the horizon grew larger. This thing that he had unleashed, this Song Aware was like acid to its thirsting Silence—a taunt beyond words that forced it to seek its immediate destruction, its end no matter the cost. The Comet shared Joffrey's drive, his will to protect against its will to destroy.

His fingers came to a stop. He stared at the beads representing the armsmen of Houses Rosby and Darry, and then leaned back on his seat. The Red Comet stared back, its will absolute.

The runner by his side stopped his scribbling, raising eyes from his orders. "You were saying, Your Grace?"

He stood up. "It's time."

Jon nodded; he felt it too. Another enormous mass of wights was already surging from the undead lines, flowing between the still Walkers like the sea between reefs. He didn't need a far-eye to see it was the biggest wave yet. "I'll hold the front here," said Jon, "End this, Joffrey. For Father."

"For all the Living," he said with a smile, clasping his shoulder.

He rode down the hill opposite the battlefield, around to the left flank as his bones tingled—a thrum in the air. In the clearing he found the cavalry force already mounting their horses, as if they, too, had felt Joffrey's decision. The Comet's decision. Sandor joined his side as he reached the knights, carrying the banner of the Antlered Lion.

"Knights of the Seven Kingdoms!" Joffrey bellowed, and the thousands of knights bellowed back. He could see Samwell and Robar leading the Silver Knights, riding out to form up around him. He saw Lord Tarly and his Lances leading the Reach, Tywin and the lords of the west taking up his right. He saw Renly in his armor of summer carrying the Stag of the Stormlands, Edmure Tully and his fishbones chanting out defiance. In the way of legends, the Lords of Westeros had gathered for one final charge. Even though it might mean the death of them all, Joffrey could see that they were glad for it. An ending fit for a song—one last charge for peace. Final rest, either way.

Joffrey straighten his legs atop Stars, raising Brightroar, "You all know what's at stake! What we hope to win today!" he said, the earth trembling as the Comet began to unfold like a scarlet rose, petals twirling to reveal a hole in the fabric of reality. Sansa reached his side, Meera Reed and Lyra Mormont flanking her. "So raise those proud banners high and follow me to the Night King! For Westeros!" he roared.

"Westeros!" shouted Sansa, raising her spear high. "Westeros!" bellowed Tyrion, strapped to Borgan's shoulder as the giant echoed with a powerful battlecry. "Westeros!" roared Lord Tarly and the lords of the Reach, of the Vale, of the west and the south and the exiled North.

They charged through the far left flank, smashing through a wight spoiling attack and bypassing the mighty host of Winter which was now tearing into the center. No time for that, thought Joffrey, forcing himself to gaze at his prize—the army of Walkers standing atop their hill, the Night King at their center. They had been preparing to charge the already splintering center, but it seemed as if his move had caught them by surprise. They swerved from their march downhill, arranging themselves into rectangles around the Night King. Faster, thought Joffrey, Faster, urging Stars forward as the Comet continued its escalation—an almost unbearable weight forming in all-that-is. They had to strike now before it recalled the greater part of its horde. Before the escalation ground them all to pieces.

Joffrey did not dare look back, but through the Song he felt the charging host of knights close behind; a rolling earthquake of hooves on mud and snow, neighs and roars and banners snapping against the wind. He rode on a wave of dreams and hope, a defiance of the Silence which he materialized through the Banner of Westeros forming out of his closed fist; a mighty symbol made of light, the will of his people made manifest. It lifted some of the terrible weight, the will of the Comet finally finding its equal. Joffrey could feel its surprise, its immaterial recoil as an arrow of humanity reached for its icy heart, shielded from its wrath by a banner of hope. Of Song Aware.

Obsidian-tipped lances exploded into splinter storms as Westeros roared its challenge, Walkers screeching to high heavens as they were pulverized into misty ice. Broken. Torn. Trampled. Warhammers swung down in powerful arcs, thrown axes wheeling through the air, banners snapping free and flying away. Away. The crushing momentum of the charge carried them through rank after rank as he swung Brightroar in nonstop arcs, tearing a huge wound into the assembled Walker lines. The cost was enormous—riders flew from their mounts, horses were cut in half by crystal blades. The dreaded 'ice-spiders'—perfect spheres of icy crystal scuttling over the snow—leapt from the masses to snatch knights out of their horses, piercing them with eight limbs as sharp as any Walker blade. Stars received a slash that dissipated him back into the Purple; Joffrey rolled through the snow and fought on dismounted, tearing through the Walkers as fallen knights congregated around him. Sansa fought by his side, her spear leaving misty holes in Walker lines as tendrils of blood emerged from her back—scorpion tails spearing through half-a-dozen Walkers at a time.

Above him, the Comet stretched out with arms made of light—a monstrous aurora enveloping the horizon, an alien language writ large on skies now crawling with fractals.

"With me!" Joffrey roared, reaping another Walker with a berserker slash. They had to reach the Night King whatever the cost, but the initial wedge of the charge had crumpled into a many-pronged assault. He could see other groups of men making separate progress in between the lines of the Walkers, "Robar! We have to join forces!" he told the knight by his side, "Westeros! With me!"

"With the King!" roared Ser Robar, more survivors joining their group as others—still mounted—charged on ahead. Joffrey's pauldron stopped a Walker's blade, and he stabbed it in the belly before twisting out. He had to concentrate in the now—in immediate survival. He could feel a nexus in the silence close by; the Night King channeling the Comet's escalation into the Walkers. Above him his ancient enemy sang in discordant tunes, buffeting the Song as lines of geometric precision drew themselves through the heavens, drawing support pillars for the hole in the sky. It was not backing down.

"Let's go! Push on! Push on!" he roared. Close by a Walker screeched as it grew, taller and thicker even as it malformed, ice and crystal filling its frame until its humanoid figure became distorted by the Comet's power. An Abomination like the one's they'd fought at Carcosa. Its head now lay encased in the chest of the new creature—a towering thing with five limbs of crystal glowing sharp in the brightening dark.

Joffrey sprinted at it as it began smashing people apart with careless ease. He leapt after one of its swipes, ramming Brightroar where its head used to be. It screeched before melting into nothing, but it seemed as if every second another of the hulking figures transformed nearby. He could feel the Comet sharpening its attention here, pouring forth precious power like a sieve. It, too, wanted to end this now.

Another of the hulking monstrosities rammed into a group of Westerlanders just a bit forward of Joffrey's group. It stomped over three dismounted knights before folding its arms like a pair of scissors and lashing out, cutting a still mounted Tywin cleanly in half, steel and flesh parting like silk. His grandfather fell with nary a sigh, the Westerlanders behind him stumbling back in horror. "Push on!" yelled Joffrey, "Lord Crakehall! Raise those banners high! Make way to me!"

Lord Crakehall picked up the cry, but before long another Walker slew his standard bearer. Two ice spider leapt at the lord, skittering limbs jutting in and out of his body as they stabbed him to shreds. The Walkers reduced the entire group to corpses as they closed the circle from all sides. There's so many of them, thought Joffrey, dodging and killing, dazed as Ser Robar caught a blade through the chest. The Knight Commander of the Silver Knights had risen his battleaxe high; he brought it down on the Walker's head with one a last gasp of effort, shattering it before giving Joffrey a bloody smile.

"We built something wonderful, didn't we?" said Ser Robar.

He collapsed before Joffrey could answer, eyes still and wide open.

Samwell smashed the guilty Walker to bits. "Close ranks! Protect the King!" he bellowed. The Silver Knights died around them in droves, their bodies shielding their advance as the pressure kept mounting.

"Dismount! With the King!" bellowed Lord Tarly. The horses were now more of a danger to them than to the enemy—as battle hardened as they were, there were simply too many Walkers around, driving them crazy with fear. Joffrey pushed forward and tore a wight out of a knight's back, stomping on its neck and cutting down another one before it got to him barehanded. Every second he delayed would mean another death. Another ending of friends, family, and vassals. Faster. Faster!

"It's just ahead, Joff! Just ahead!!!" said Sansa, gritting her teeth under the pressure of the Silence.

"Keep moving! With me!" he shouted, feeling it too, Sandor taking up Robar's position by his side as they joined forces with a group slightly ahead of them; Edmure Tully and his Fishbones. Together they pushed onward, hand-crossbows spewing obsidian-tipped bolts and covering knights wielding maces and battleaxes. For every Walker they brought down four men fell with it, and on that wave of self-sacrifice they reached a cluster of Walker-Abominations forming a circle around something—a spike in the Silence, a nexus radiating overwhelming pressure. The light of the Comet was now as bright as the sun, reflected off the monsters' crystalline bodies in painful kaleidoscopic radiance. Night turned into day as people screamed, holding their heads in pain.

Silence, whispered the Cycle.

Such was the light that Joffrey didn't see the giant till the last second. Borgan gave out a thundering war-bellow as he smashed his trebuchet-arm against one of the abominations' chest, knocking it to the ground. Tyrion, hanging from the giant's shoulder, shot the Abomination beside it with a hand-crossbow, melting off half its frame.

"The Living!!!" Joffrey roared as he charged after Tyrion, Brightroar held high. Sansa and Sandor and Samwell and Meera and Edmure and all who remained alive running with him and tearing down the Walkers in the way.

They smashed against the crystalline guard of the Night King under a red dawn; Lyra Mormont brought one down with a savage blow from Longclaw, moments before twin arm-blades tore through her chest with frightening speed. The Abomination lifted her up in the air before tearing her apart from the inside out, pulverized blood mixing up with the falling snow. Faster, Joffrey thought as he brought down one of the monsters with twin slashes at its bulging knee and its crystal chest. Lord Tarly pressed Heartsbane into his son's hands before collapsing on his knees, his belly a mangled ruin. Faster. He parried and pivoted alongside Sansa, his blade reaping the Walkers that sought to surround them, his heart beating like a kicking horse as he strived to fight beyond horrific sights that ghosted in and out of his vision. Borgan bellowing in agony as a spider pierced his shoulder, Tyrion falling to the ground. Sandor clutching a bloody stump as he stumbled back, an 'O' of surprise fresh on his lips. Faster!!!

And then he buried his blade into the chest of a Walker with eyes as red as that of the Comet. Its even stare promised escalation unrestrained as he drove the sword deeper still, churning it inside its guts, Brightroar shining like a star as spiderwebs of lightning crawled out of its glowing frame. Sense-moment-time. The instant. The second.

Joffrey felt the fractals of the Purple multiply and meld with those of the Red Comet, Sansa gasping as they pushed through that connection with all their being. Joffrey saw with a million Walker eyes, felt the void of space and the fire of the atmosphere licking his skin. It was coming here. The Red Comet. Hurtling through the sky as it spread its guts wide in a fractal dawn, covering the heavens with its presence. It was coming here to end this.

He stared up at that sea of fractals unleashed. There was no Purple or Cycle now. Only a single thing with a roiling soul battling for its own identity. He closed his eyes, bracing himself before such potent might, Sansa by his side, pillars surging impossibly tall as time screamed.

Joffrey opened his eyes to the fabric of reality.

-: PD :-