Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

He flew through a hurricane of awareness, a labyrinth of pillars which had anchored itself into reality and was now beyond it. He felt like a rock dropped on an endless pond, a mediation on infinity sinking without end, his awareness spreading in fractals throughout a storm of raw creation as he sought to understand. Where am I? What am I?

There had been a clash of wills, an explosion in the fabric of existence. He remembered stabbing the Night King with Brightroar, bridging a connection just as he'd once done with Sansa. He had felt a titanic presence open wide; the Red Comet as never before he'd seen it. A living mechanism of crystal thought; a yawning abyss of recursive will. He had not hesitated.

He had leapt at it. He and his wife. Pierced into its sea of fractal will and carrying a sea of their own. There had been a crash. A burst of being. A collision of wills. And now?

What am I?

He was enveloping existence entire; a sphere of purple fractals surrounding a core of red-hot power. The fractals and the red-hot core were melding; twin scriptures of the same language forming a complete sentence as the fractals flew where his mind wandered. What would it say?

Who am I?

The red-hot core lashed out like a striking snake, unbearable pain spearing through his soul. Joffrey woke up.

He sat there on his bed in King's Landing, nursing his head and taking a sip of water from the cup by the nightstand. He'd just had the strangest dream. He yawned, stretching wide before walking to the window. Father was readying for his hunt, already bellowing for wine and sending Lancel in search for more, complete with a kick on the arse. He got on his horse with the help of a little footstool, shooing away servants and beckoning at Ser Barristan, who had a boar spear in hand. One last hunt before they all went North. Right, the North.

Joffrey scowled at the thought of a full month on the road, gallivanting around the countryside so Father could see some old friend. Bunch of savages. One could only hope they had clean sheets in Winterfell. He was forgetting something terribly important. He paced around his bed, frowning. Something to take North? No, that's not it.

It was something grander. Terrifying. Cold as ice and as entrancing as a song. A promise on the tip of his tongue. What was it?! Nameless dread urged him on, hope for a silver dawn.

An itch between his shoulder-blades made him turn. Above his bed there was a growing gash thrumming with skittering fractals. Twin hands made of crystalline ice tore through the hole in reality, winter snow pouring through like a pocket blizzard; twin blue eyes piercing him in place, gusts of cold wind chilling him to the bone. Joffrey screamed.

The Hound smashed against the bedroom door, drawing his sword. "What in the Seven…" he trailed off.

"Clegane! Help!" he screeched, scuttling back as the figure tromped towards him with even strides.

The Hound met the monster's blade with his own; it broke with a clean clack, letting the blade continue on and tear half his sworn shield's head. Blood spattered over Joffrey as he screamed again, running through the opened door. In the corridor servants cried out as they were cut down by more of the figures, converging from both directions. He was trapped.

"Help me! Somebody help your Prince!" he screeched, cold hands grabbing him from behind as the monster that slew Sandor positioned its blade over his chest. "W-Wait! No! I have ransom-" the monster rammed its blade through his chest, ice filling his guts and stealing his voice. Light erupted from the blade and he felt a terrible thing grasp his soul tighter.

He fell down a bottomless existence; a train of thought chased by red will. He had been building something. Yes, he could see it now, see it spreading throughout the existence that surrounded him, fractals drawing a labyrinth that started from the outside and inched inward towards the red core. It was understanding. It was the answer to a question.

Who am I? He felt as if on the ledge of a great precipice, staring down, convincing himself to jump.

The Cycle tore at him again- He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own.

"But I don't want to go North!" said Joffrey. Mother cupped his cheek, smiling, "I don't want to either, Joffrey. But a Queen must fulfill her duties… and so must the Prince." She looked down the balcony, an edge of bitterness lining her voice, "And someone has to make sure your Father doesn't give away the Kingdoms."

Joffrey scoffed, rearing his head away. Going to Mother had been his first, and admittedly last, option; facing Father's rage gain was simply beyond him… And it was probably too late anyway.

He walked outside Maegor's Keep and reached the Outer Yard, followed as usual by the hound Mother had put on him. "Would you stop following me, you useless dog?!"

Sandor Clegane lifted half a burnt lip, "As you wish," he said before walking back and leaning on the tower wall. And good riddance. Still keeping an eye on me, though.

Joffrey shook his head. Mother would insist on keeping the dog close to him while they were in the North, as if going there was not punishment enough. He'd have to get used to it… though being followed around by an armed man ready to do his every bidding did have an appeal. He'd seem mighty and important in front of all those savages, as a prince ought to. Something to think about.

The courtyard looked like a summer fair, complete with trains of wagons and hollering smallfolk. Servants were busy loading baggage into the carriages, their usual indolence turning the whole process into a crawl. And they were supposed to leave today. "What is this?!" he asked the one carrying a huge chest.

"Ah, 'tis Prince Tommen's toys, M'Prince!" said the girl.

"Tommen's toys?!" Joffrey said with a massive scoff, "Leave it!"

"M'Prince?"

"'Mmm'Prince?'" he echoed her with an idiot's voice, slurring the 'm' like a drunkard.

The stupid wench just averted her gaze.

"I said leave it!" he shouted, shoving her back. She fell with on the cobbles with the chest on top of her—a tiny scream of pain. "What are the rest of you looking at!? Get to work!"

The servants scurried about like little rats, avoiding his gaze as they rushed, a warm tingle releasing throughout his chest. Amazing what a little fear will do to the smallfolk. When he was King he'd be sure to teach that lesson to all involved.

It seemed as if they would be carrying half the Red Keep with them; there were garments in all manner of chests and crates, food, kegs of wine and ale. Gods, even furniture. Two of the servants were carrying a big mirror of all things, squirming with effort as they brought it to the Queen's Wheelhouse. Joffrey smirked at them as they passed him by. Reflected on the mirror he saw a man armored in starlight, a Valyrian steel sword in his hand and a helmet with tall antlers on his head. A long gash ran down his right cheek where something stubby had raked his face—the most prominent of scars, though many other nicks and cuts adorned his face and neck. The eyes of the man pinned him in place; a silent intensity that was both loathing and forgiveness.

Joffrey frowned as the servants walked past. A deep unease was worming into his soul; terrible knowledge thick with angst and enlightenment. Who was that man? What did he want with him? Joffrey sure as hells didn't want anything to do with him. The unease turned to pressure as he squealed and went on his knees, breathing hard. He didn't want to know. Or did he? Something was worming its way through the sky, high above him. Something terrible. Something unstoppable.

"My Prince?" asked the Hound, shaking him. Sandor. "Prince Joffrey? What's the matter?"

He breathed hard between his hands, hyperventilating, his heart readying to jump out of his chest. That man. That man was….

He had to remember; he had to remember! "Sandor, somethings—wrong!"

The Hound narrowed his eyes as his breath misted, cold winds raking through the courtyard and crawling over the cobbles in hissing dread. A servant cried out as sheets were torn out of her hands. A Redcloak tripped, falling on cobbles now layered with frost. Joffrey's gaze was drawn to a place a few paces to his left—an unremarkable spot between a chest and the wheelhouse. "Sandor," he squeaked, pointing a trembling finger at it.

He was gripping his sword's pommel tight, "What is it? What's going on?" he asked, looking from the stumbling servants to Joffrey and then the empty place. Gods, its freezing! Joffrey took deep breaths, puffs in the cold, some strange instinct making him close his eyes and feel the tug of gravity on his body. The feeling of his lumpy muscles rusty with indolent disuse. The touch of princely clothing on his body, billowing and uncomfortable.

The Cold Wind raking his flesh. "I think I'm… I'm fighting something." But what? What? Panic tore through his concentration like a runaway horse, his heart beating faster and faster as he gripped the Hound white, something was coming—something was coming!!!

"We have to run!" he shouted, dragging the startled Hound out of the courtyard. He felt something drop in his belly, a deep thrum turning into a low drone. A drone that snapped. Befuddled warning cries. Screams behind them. Joffrey ran, the Hound by his side and taking out his sword as they sprinted through the Middle Bailey and down the Serpentine Steps two at a time. They reached the Lower Bailey just as a knight began making his way up. He cried indignantly as Joffrey shoved him out of the way, running for all he was worth down a covered walkway and into the southeastern tower. His blind dash had brought them to a dead end.

No. A defensible position.

A gaggle of Redcloaks had been playing dice. A few got out startled bows as Joffrey closed and barred the door behind him.

Barret's his name, he thought, looking at one of them. Insight from beyond.

"Barret!" he told him, "Get your men ready and… and…" he grasped for the thought, trusting on alien instincts, "Fortify this door! We're under attack!"

The others looked befuddled, dice still in their hands, but Barret simply shrugged, "As you say, my Prince." Probably thinks its a prank.

But it wasn't. He knew it was not with a deep conviction he had never before felt in his life. A growl tore its way out of his throat, thick with inner authority, "What are you waiting for?! Arm yourselves and help him!" he roared with a voice not his own. Who am I?

That shook the other Redcloaks into action, Sandor hounding them on as they buckled on helmets and grabbed blades from the sword hangers by the walls. They started dragging crates and other junk behind the door to the tower while Joffrey paced behind them. Pacing helped.

Sandor got to his side and talked low, "It would help if you told me what the hells' going on. My Prince."

"I don't know!" he screeched at the stupid dog. He raised his palms, "Sorry. Sorry." Keep pacing. Think. Remember. "I need time. I need time to think."

"Well, you better think fast," said the Hound, the tromp of armored boots echoing past the barred door and away. Calls to arms sounded in the distance; echoing steel, screams cut short. He shifted the grip on his blade, knees bent as he took quick peeks through the arrowslits, "Sounds like a fucking war out there."

Joffrey tapped on the brick wall of the tower, an uncertain rhythm as he leaned his forehead on it. Those things out there had one purpose only; to kill him. He knew this with an iron certainty. That could not be allowed to happen. The intensity of the thought frightened him. Well of course I can't die. That would be the worse thing…. To happen?

No.

The force of the revelation took the air out his lungs. He didn't fear death. Not anymore. Nonexistence. The thought of dying forever didn't fill him with anguish. It would be… peaceful. He crouched, still facing the wall as he hugged himself. It was the consequences of his death that brought such intense anxiety, such blood-freezing terror. He bit his fist as the horror mounted, tears falling down his cheeks. Never in his life had he felt such despair.

"Oh, Sandor," he whispered, holding his face, trying to contain the tears.

"It's snowing," said one of the Redcloaks, shaken. Joffrey craned his neck and looked through a nearby arrowslit; a savage snowstorm had birthed to life somehow, raging through the Red Keep and reducing visibility by the second. Figures drifted in and out of the Lower Bailey; panicked mobs of smallfolk, groups of confused serjeants. Ser Arys Oakheart, his billowing white cloak hugging Myrcella as they ran with their heads bowed down, away through the mist. A flake of ice drifted past the arrowslit, settling on Joffrey's palm and melting—more and more of them as the gray outside consumed the courtyard. Joffrey blinked. Now the world beyond the arrowslit was little more than a smoky swirl.

"M-Maiden's t-t-tits, I can b-barely see p-p-past the w-w-walkway," said Barret, shivering like a man with the palsy. Another Redcloak lit a torch, and they clustered around it as another—Orland—took Barret's post. The distant sounds of battle turned elastic. Sometimes close, sometimes far. Muffled. Joffrey blinked, touching his face. Tears had frozen over his cheeks. Why was he crying?

Because if the things outside—White Walkers—killed him, then all would be lost. All would die. Green would give way to gray, life to wight, Song to Silence. Who I am? The question held the key—it held the key! Joffrey banged his head against the wall. Think! He had to answer it before final death. It was the way. The Completion. The End.

A bang shook him out of it. Orland ran from the arrowslit, "There's scores of 'em outside!" he screamed, "White knights 'o some sort with blood on their blades! They appeared outta nowhere!!!"

Another bang rattled the door, a blade of crystalline ice erupting through it, splinters flying like shrapnel. One of them caught Barret in the throat; he dropped to his knees, gurgling as the Redlcoaks stumbled back. Blue eyes leered through the hole in the door.

"Stand your ground!" shouted Sandor, readying his blade and pushing the men forward. Three more blows and the door and the rest of the crates were reduced to shavings, revealing Winter's cavalcade in all its glory. Several of them; icy armor lined in crystal, eyes bright blue and reeking death. Orland gave a shrill scream and charged the lead White Walker. It parried the blade sideways and cut him down like nothing before tromping his way in. Its brethren followed it inside, the storm howled behind them.

"Stay behind me!" shouted Sandor, eyes wide in incomprehension as he shoved him against a corner. The White Walkers slaughtered through the Redcloaks in the blink of an eye, silent automatons calm and precise. Who am I? Joffrey shivered as they got closer and Sandor threw meaningless taunts. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who-

He gasped, an icy spear piercing his soul though no wound marred his body. He fell on his knees, gasping, agonizing as Sandor gawked. A pain beyond flesh ground him apart, an angst that crushed. Sansa. They got Sansa.

He fell on his belly but didn't touch the floor. He flew instead; a chain of thought, a coalescing comprehension surrounding the red-core. The Cycle. His enlightenment were the spreading fractals around its core, that indrawn labyrinth surging to life from the outside and scribbling its way in wards. He was beginning to remember… but slow. Too slow.

The Comet, no, the Cycle lashed out. Sansa. The thought brought him weight. Existence.

He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. And then he was shame.

The merry song prattled off senselessly, lutes and bows harping on top of each other like a tavern jig. Joffrey forced a smile through the noise; Mother had admonished him quite sternly on how he ought to behave, when they'd been a week away from Winterfell. Between the song and the laughter, the cheers of the northrons and all the people Father had brought North… it was almost as festive a place as home. Except with worse music, and the fact that Father was actually happy. Jealousy spiked his heart as he saw him clasp Eddard Stark's shoulder before the Lord of the North begged off; Father threw a bah before turning to the plump serving wench over his thighs, guffawing as he shook her this way and that, her giggles tearing at his ears. Joffrey took another drink from his goblet, leaning back on the chair. Winterfell's great hall was full to bursting; people ate and drank around tables, or standing up around the hearths, or in the little space that remained in between all the mayhem, talking loudly and slapping each other's shoulders at some joke or another. The servants navigate the mess carrying platter after platter from the kitchens—roasted venison, fresh fruit from the glass gardens, pork and poultries all wetting his appetite. He stretched out and grabbed a dumpling; the salty treat was dry and crunchy. He coughed, and washed it down with more wine. Is a good meal too much to ask of these people?

He tried to locate again the one they said was to be his betrothed—if Lord Stark accepted Father's offer. She was comely enough on the eyes, he supposed. Mother had insisted he treat her right... And to begin seeding the ground. He tittered at the pun. Might as well start now, he thought, skimming over the tables until—there she is. She'd been speaking to Mother and Lady Stark, before returning to her seat about three tables in front of him, right besides… what was her name? Jeyne something?

Sansa sneaked a glance at him but froze, her timid smile crawling off her face. He did not see a northron girl in a quaint dress of her own making, awed by banners, gushing about the south and adventures not yet lived. Joffrey leaned forward, the cup of wine slipping his fingers and tumbling over the floor. He saw a woman with sapphire-blue eyes of a color with the gems on her crown; a queen facing off a great storm that shook her hair into tangled reds, a spear-maiden whose blood rose behind her in tendrils glinting under moonlight, cold wind raking her white northern furs.

Joffrey found himself walking towards her, squeezing between the loud guests—Father's friends and Stark bannermen guffawing at the King's antics, fueling them with attention. Her gaze bored into his own and did not wander; they were tidally locked, hypnotized, put under an unshakable spell. A blob of thrown food caught her in the cheek just as he reached her side, but she didn't even flinch, not even when Arya giggled madly and loaded another shot on her spoon, guests laughing. She just stared up at him.

Joffrey got a handkerchief out his pocket and cleaned her cheek. The movement was automatic, so ingrained and sure of itself that Jeyne lowered her own abortive attempt. He swiped carefully, making sure every bit of food was swept up. Her sapphire gaze was an ocean's abyss; a deep trench where he could lose himself forever and be happy. Be loved. An ocean of care and love and bravery and intellect as entrancing as any sea he'd care to name—Sunset, Summer, Jade, Shivering, made no difference to him. His hand lingered on her face; a caress. She leaned into it, grabbing his hand and slowly rubbing her cheek on it, closing her eyes with a sigh and at last breaking line-of-sight.

But the spell was not broken.

"I know you," whispered Joffrey.

She looked up like a hawk at the words. Another glob of food landed short, spilling a glass of watered wine beside her as she stood up. "Joffrey," she said, tasting it, the word like a forbidden secret.

"Sansa," he said, the word so vast, so all-encompassing it brought stabs of memory, of sensation; of fiery kisses under bright fireworks, of knowing smiles flashed in council chambers. It was intoxicating. As heady as fine pear brandy, as addictive as purest spicemilk. He wanted more.

"Joffrey," she whispered, a tremulous smile on her lips. She brushed a tuft of hair off his brow. A familiar gesture.

"Sansa." Long sea voyages spraying saltwater on his brow, her hand a warm brush. A hole in the sky as they fought in ancient Stygai, her back against his as they wheeled and wheeled surrounded by shadows thirsting for blood. Forbidden kisses in the Red Keep; a rain of them, passion unleashed and purpose shared. More. He wanted more!!!

"Joffrey," she whispered in ecstasy.

"Sansa," he said, joy and horror and sadness and love drenching his mind in a storm of memories; a storm of Being.

They embraced like drowning sailors—shaking, dazed. His hands roamed throughout her body, desperately trying to feel her, to convince himself that this was real.

"Oh Joff," she whispered as she did the same, tears sliding unto his neck, "Oh Joff… what have we done?"

"What we had to," he whispered back, holding her tight, "We did what we had to. Now we have to finish it."

"Its already coming. Again. Its coming again, Joff. I don't know if I've the strength."

"Me neither, Sansa. Me neither," he said, his own voice shrill to his ears. He reared back and held her head against his, foreheads joined, her face his world, "But we have to. We have to end it before it ends us."

"You're building something. I felt you in the-" Purple-Cycle-Being-Self-Tapestry. Her thoughts breached him cleanly, their meaning and intent.

"I think its what I was meant to do. To smash together against the Cycle and subvert it. Turn it- us into something else. Into-" Union-Awareness-Axis-Time-Gestalt.

"Time for bed, Arya!" said Robb, hurrying to her and stopping another projectile before it could leave the spoon. He frowned as he walked towards them, "You too, Sansa."

She maintained her death grip on him, and they retreated back from Robb's confused advance. "I can buy us time, Joff. I know I can, but not for how long." There was a chill in the hall already, a servant throwing wood into one of the hearths.

Joffrey gritted his teeth, his mind flying above the Purple-Cycle-Tapestry-Self. There were no distinctions; his perception was his construction, his thoughts and observations now purple fractals tracing a new shape. A new form scribbling to life that used the Cycle's very power as raw material. A meditation on the nature of existence. "Can you…" Joffrey shook his head; it was damnably hard to do that and interact with the other side of that coin. With their side of reality. "When you can't hold 'em any longer dump 'em as far from us as you can. Outside the castle if you're able. Even if it costs us a few more seconds, we'll gain that much more as they make their way to us."

She swallowed as she looked at Robb, "It'll be a slaughter." Her gathering will tingled Joffrey's spine.

Robb's expression had turned from confusion to anger, forceful as he took another step and grabbed Sansa, a hand on Joffrey's chest. "What are you doing?!"

Sansa turned the grab into a lock before shoving him away, "Stay back, Robb!" The nearby guests leaned backwards, startled. Catelyn frowned at Joffrey as Cercei stood up.

"Wow, what's going on here?" said Ser Jaime, an idle hand over his sword's pommel. "That's the Prince you're shoving around, little wolf. Terribly bad manners down south, don't you know?" His smile was full of teeth.

Robb pointed a finger at Joffrey, "Then tell him to lay his hands off my sister!" he yelled. People turned to stare, the hall growing quiet.

Joffrey returned from the spreading fractals of the thing he was building. Of the thing he was understanding. "We don't have time for this," he muttered, taking a deep breath as he centered himself.

Sansa squirmed, sweat sliding down her forehead as she gripped him tighter and sidestepped another grab from Robb. "They're close, Joff. They're getting close."

"Let one through. Let one through right here, Sansa, the rest anywhere else."

She gasped, holding her head as a hellish drone swept from beyond, fractals skittering over air as the fabric tore open under the power of the Red Comet. Right besides Joffrey, atop a table, a White Walker dragged itself out of the fractals like a man tearing himself out of a tar pit. People screamed and fell off their seats, Robb and Jaime stumbling back as the thing screeched mist and raised its crystalline blade.

"Westeros!" Joffrey roared, jumping atop the table with Brightroar in hand, his body shimmering in recursive lines which swirled in concentric patterns—stars hanging in the void now cast into armor, antlers high and sharp. He brought down his sword with a two-handed heave, splitting the Walker from shoulder to hip and bathing Robb and Jaime in a hail of crystal.

There was a second of vital silence, and Joffrey caught it with the ease of long experience. "Everyone quiet!" he bellowed, pointing Brightroar at the keep's double doors, "There's more from where that came from! Sound the bells! Arm yourselves with whatever you've got!"

He turned to stunned faces. Cercei holding her mouth, Catelyn standing up from the table, Ned gobsmacked and Benjen Stark by his side, sword already in hand. Sansa, bless her heart, let through another one right besides Robb. Her arm slashed through its neck like Valyrian steel, decapitating it in one fell stroke. "Now!" she shouted, "To arms men of the Seven Kingdoms!"

There was an instant of fatal doubt, of unreality, of panic in the air. And then King Robert Baratheon shoved the serving girl off his lap and stood up. "My warhammer!" he thundered, "Bring me my warhammer!"

The room exploded into motion, men taking out swords as servants dove for cover, girls screaming in the chaos as Catelyn cried out to Sansa. But there was scarcely any time; Joffrey could feel his flesh pucker up, hairs squeezing against his skin as his breath misted in front of his very eyes. They were coming.

He walked through two worlds. In one his steps left fractals in their wake, a budding understanding as he examined the might of the Cycle, the wisdom of the Purple, the secrets of the Pillars. Two half's of an emerging whole. But could he complete it? On the other world—no, the other side of the same world, he strode towards the keep's doors on a wake of organization. He had to buy time; a more effective defense would give them just that, and so he threw himself at it. Like countless times before.

He grabbed men who were still shocked into silence and bellowed in their faces, "Help barricade that door! Move! You two, grab those benches!" He caught one of the heavy oak tables and flipped it over, spilling those still seated with food and wine, "Help me get this to the door, now!" Befuddled lords and guests quickly joined him, though Joffrey felt he could have managed it with half the help. He hadn't willed just his armor. He felt lean and strong; fast and deadly, his body a sharpened tool with a well-worn handle. Expertly trained and carefully coaxed to reach the peak of its potential. It was the body of his last life.

"Wait!" yelled Ser Jaime, "Tyrion's out there!"

Screams outside, a bell toling madly in between the screech of a budding blizzard. Jon and Tyrion. Joffrey gritted his teeth, "There's no time, I'm sorry," he said before hurrying off, squirming in between two groups of northrons carrying more tables. His wife had changed as well, though she didn't seem to realize it. She looked taller, her frame filled out, not a trace of baby fat on her cheeks. Lean and regal, a crown of sapphires on her head and a snowfox pelt around her neck. She was explaining something to a group of people that included Robb, Benjen, and practically everyone who had sat at the high table.

"They're weak to Valyrian steel and dragonglass; we've got some of that squirreled away in the crypts-"

"It's too late, dear," said Joffrey, his mind weaving fractals, "We're already cut off inside the main keep." He looked back, "They'll be busting through that door any second now."

Catelyn took Sansa's hand, feeling the calluses and looking a this strange queen in the eye, "Sansa… what happened to you?"

She looked at herself and blinked, "Oh." Her gaze found his and thoughts flew. Reality's growing frail, Joff.

It's all melding together. Past and Future, Dream and Truth, Will and Being.

It might spiral out of control. We have to keep on top of it.

Yes I- Both of them turned to the door. They're here.

Jory got to Ned's side, handing him Ice, "My lord, we are under attack. The courtyard's overrun by- by things and I can't reach the rest of the guard!"

Ned shook his head, "Get the women and children to the top floor, and… I…" He kept shaking his head, lost, "My Prince, please tell me what-"

Cold.

"No time!" he said, turning to the doors, "Watch out for splinters! Get ready and don't let them mass!"

The Walkers hacked down the door at a prodigious rate, but this time people fought back. Knights and lords shoved swords and firepokers through the holes, trying to fight off the assault as a dozen Stark guards got into the hall from the other side, still buckling on armor. The Red Comet was an unfolding rose, a maelstorm of power now beyond restraint, a sledgehammer of reality whose assault made the earth tremble under Joffrey's feet. He could feel the breaches through the fabric, bursting to life in the courtyard, the towers, beyond the walls in the Wolfswood. Scores of them piercing through reality at a time, cutting down all they saw and carrying a horrific winter with them. Joffrey felt it beyond his bones, in his soul; they were inexorably linked now. Two sides of the same coin. The madness would not stop until one of them subsumed the other.

The Walkers forced their way in like a group of knights in formal ceremony, their strides calm and precise as they pushed the defenders past the chokepoint. They carried their breach forward in a wave of screams and blood, cutting down guests with such clockwork precision that people began to break, running for the back entrances and tripping on each other.

"Hold!" shouted Joffrey, jumping into the fray and churning a Walker's guts with Brightroar. "Hold for Dawn!"

But these people were not the veterans of the Second War for Dawn; they were half-drunk guests armed with cutlery and wrought-iron fire pokers. They were routed, and Joffrey soon found himself surrounded, Sansa at his back as they wheeled in circles and her blood lashed out to rend and tear like pliers made of Valyrian steel. A Walker snarled ice and lifted its blade high.

"Ours is the Fury!" roared King Robert Baratheon, his warhammer careening into the Walker's chest and shattering it into a million pieces; a rain of Other-entrails misting around him. He kept the momentum going, spinning in a half circle and slamming another one with a mighty bellow; it flew across the room, landing on the hearth and putting out a fire.

"Sansa!" shouted Ned Stark, Ice sweeping the Walkers to their right and shattering them in an arc.

"Father! We need more time!" she said, bisecting a Walker in half with twin blades made of blood.

"You'll have it!" he said, taking out another Walker as Winterfell's guard rallied around him.

"Get back here you gutless worms!" bellowed King Robert, bringing his hammer down vertically and collapsing a Walker's head, "Twenty years I've plied you all with boar and wine! Now you'll bloody well die by my side!"

"To the King!" roared Ser Jaime, parrying a Walker's blade sideways and planting a dagger on its eyesocket, "Kingsguard! To the King!"

The rally put a spine on the defense, shieldwalls made out of benches consolidating their lines even as they were pushed back. Joffrey and Sansa squeezed out of the melee, breathing hard as they surveyed the battle from the high table.

"We've got minutes before we're overrun," he said.

Sansa snarled, the blood of the slain pooling around her feet before darting off like arrows, flensing bits of armor and icy flesh from the Walkers past the frontline. Her other efforts were far greater, and far grimmer. Joffrey could feel the fabric press around them, as if bulging with a score tumors rippling with undeath. "I can't hold them off much longer either. The Cycle, it's-"

They both gasped in pain, scores of Walkers materializing just past the broken doors, pushing their brethren onward by sheer mass.

"I need more time, Sansa!"

"Let's get up the tower, we can- AH!" Walkers tore through fractals behind them, surrounding the living from all sides and leaving scarce time for words.

They covered the defense's back as best as they could, Joffrey tracing fractals with his eyes and growing faster at it as he began to understand the pattern he was building. It was consolidation. The lessons of a thousand lives congealed into a single understanding and awareness. He could feel the fabric of reality like lines vibrating together, a coherent whole given weight by living perception. It was the seas and the land, the skies and the void, a canvass witnessed by the mind and given vibrant meaning. Given Song. What could he do with the Comet's might? A Song Unleashed through Red and Purple will? Robert was laughing like a madman, wine and mania hand in hand as he spun in circles with his warhammer, crushing small groups of Walkers and dodging their blades by mere inches. Ned jumped in right when Robert's momentum lay spent, Ice renting them apart and deflecting strikes that would've skewered his friend. Robert took the breather to accommodate the grip on his warhammer, taking two steps back before whirling it overhead into another one of his spinning, unstoppable smashes just as Ned backed out of the fray—they were a well oiled tearing machine. "BWAAAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!" he bellowed, catching a Walker by the thigh and sending it down, smashing its head with the haft. "Just like the Rebellion, eh Ned?!? EH?!"

Ned grunted something unintelligible. Joffrey didn't know if it was agreement, scolding, or a prayer; whatever it was supposed to be, it appeared to be exactly the right thing to say because Robert laughed harder still, his hammer catching a Walker by the chin with an uppercut.

The press of Walkers turned tighter around them as they fought over the bodies of the slain; scores of stern faces locked in ice, crystal blades rising and falling. Joffrey gasped as one of them emerged from his own chest, lifting him up into the air. He gaped, surprised, blood dribbling down his mouth as he craned his neck. Robb and Theon stared at him. Jaime in his bloodied white cloak. Arya still gripping a dinner knife. Ned and Robert side by side, eyes glazed. All dead. All wights. Sansa screamed as they got her as well, brilliant light lashing out from the blades. He'd been too late. Too late.

They fell down bottomless depths, the Cycle's power crushing reality. Joffrey marveled at the thing he was beginning to understand; many times bigger than the Cycle or the Purple, an emergent being greater than the sum of its parts. A listener in the Song.

Who am I?

He traced birthing fractals coalescing around a whole. He saw them- a drone of power. Terrible pain lancing through his mind like a frozen pike and making him forget-

No!

He surged with budding understanding, trying to claw back his identity, his self from the Cold Wind ripping him to shreds. Breathe. Listen to the instant. The moment. The second.

He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. But he was more, wasn't he? He was shame. He was curiosity. He was the spray of saltwater on a ship's bow. He was the sound of rustling leaves swept aside to reveal hidden temples.

It was the Trident. The constant rumble of its waters, low but full of life, a lion's purr promising more. A fixture of his lives, a companion through angst and joy. Joffrey found himself straining to hear its soothing currents, a close friend who'd seen almost as much as him. Awareness washed over him like a Summer Storm, hot and tingling, pleasant to the heart. It was warm. Sunny. How long had it been such he'd felt such sunny days?

"What are you doing here?! Go away!"

"Your sister?" A nod.

"And who are you, boy?"

"Mycah, my lord!"

"He's the butcher's boy." That voice. He knew it. He reached out for it.

"He's my friend!"

"Butcher's boy who wants to be a knight, eh?" said Joffrey, "Pick up your sword butcher's boy, let's see how good you are."

"She asked me to, m'lord, she asked me to!" Mycah looked terrified.

"I'm your prince, not your lord." He kept his gaze fixed on the butcher's boy, "And I said…" Joffrey trailed off, looking at his sword. He was holding it wrong. Why was he holding it wrong? Sandor would be ashamed of him. I am ashamed of myself. Arya was tense beside him, hands fisted as her gaze jumped from him to Mycah. The boy swallowed dry, eyes on the tip of his sword. A stick lay on the ground between them. Another one in Arya's hand. They'd been playing.

Joffrey cleared his throat. "And I said…" What had he said? "Pick up your sword…" he whispered, looking at the stick on the ground. What an idiotic thing to say.

"But its not a sword m'prince, its only a stick!"

Joffrey felt the smirk slide off his lips as he heard the Trident rushing beside them, its low gentle purr like a promise of Dawn. He walked past Mycah and Arya, towards the river. It held a message for him. Something important. "Joffrey, what are you doing?" said Sansa, confused as she followed him in.

He waded knee deep into it, frowning at the ripples in the currents now tugging his legs. His reflection gazed back; an armored warrior out of some legend, a stern figure with a tug on the corner of his lips. He too, could hear the river. The summer. The promise.

Joffrey looked at his gaudy sword, now gripped correctly in his gauntleted hand, stars distant but alight as he turned his wrist. He dropped it on the river, its splash adding to the ripples and distorting the reflection. When it came back he realized there was another one standing beside him, a Queen in southern riding dress, white northern fur around her neck.

"Where are we?" said Sansa.

"I think…" said Joffrey, turning to grab her hand, "The Riverlands. Come on, we're Walker bait out here."

They waded out of the river with long strides, Joffrey turning in all directions, looking for threats.

"They're probing again. But I think I can hold 'em off longer this time." She too was fulfilling her purpose as a weapon.

"Good," he said as they reached the shore. Mycah and Arya shuffled back.

"Sansa??" she said, "You look… different."

"I know, sweetie," she said, hugging her by surprise.

Joffrey knelt on the grass, rubbing his head, "The jumps are growing larger in time. Exponential, I think."

"Just like after Carcosa."

"Yeah. Except now there's no way out. Either we win… or are subsumed." He traced the sea of fractals growing around the core. What are you? What is your purpose? Multiplying recursions were his answer, a spike perpendicular to reality. An axis of being.

"Joff… you know where that will take us." Her voice was filled with angst.

"My wedding," he whispered, dread in his gut. The Purple. The Strangler. His first death, and perhaps his last. But he would not die in fear.

"We're getting back from the North, correct?" he asked a startled Arya. She nodded mutely. "That means the camp's close by. We should arrange the defense there."

"Hm. Let's not play into its strength," said Sansa, surveying the land before finding Joffrey's gaze, "Let's ride. Escape as fast as we can."

Joffrey nodded slowly, then faster and faster, "It's worth a try. Come on!"

Stars shimmered to life by their side, Mycah falling on his back in stunned awe. They mounted the silver lion and were quickly bounding through the forest, their heads low as the foliage whisked above them, Sansa's arms tight around his armor. "It's starting," she whispered.

"Let them in gradually. Let them eat dust."

The pressure abated slightly as Walkers roared to life around them, Stars dodging their swipes and leaving them behind as they tore out of the thicket and unto the King's Road. Servants and soldiers startled back as the silver lion dodged and weaved between carriages, shouts behind them as they leapt past a gaping Ned. They raced beyond the caravan, into the open road at furious speed.

"Something else is coming! Get ready!" shouted Sansa.

He materialized Birghtroar just as a skittering mirage erupted to their right; an ice spider leaping at them. He slashed its abdomen—a perfect sphere of crystalline ice—and turned it to shards, slitting his eyes against the mist. The dread ice spiders that had so terrified his men were no wights, and nor were they Walker mounts. They were Walkers themselves, perhaps modeled—like Walker and man—out of another intelligent species that had existed within this cycle. Had those spiders been the Walker's first casualties, in the First War for Dawn?

Two more scuttled behind them at speed, crystal legs skittering over the dirt. Sansa blew them a kiss; a red miasma which congealed over them into a crushing weight, leaving naught but pulverized ice.

"Come on, Stars! Come on!" shouted Joffrey, faster as Walkers emerged ahead of them. Stars weaved left, back into the thicket. Fractals raced with them; leering Walkers and wisps of enlightenment. One second they were rushing through a wall of leaves, the other they were tumbling on the ground. Joffrey blinked the grime out of his eyes just in time to see a featureless ice ball with eight legs rearing up; it slammed its two forward legs into his torso, his scream echoing Sansa's.

Who am I?

Joffrey tore through that sea of oblivion like a man raging through a sandstorm, "I am!" he roared, "I! Am!"

He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. And then he was shame. He was curiosity. He was the spray of saltwater on a ship's bow. He was the sound of rustling leaves swept aside to reveal hidden temples. He was a brother of men. A roar among thousands defending what was theirs. He was the smile of one hopelessly in love.

There was no break in awareness. Coalescing fractals deposited him on the Iron Throne, the people of the court simpering as Ser Meryn Trant readied for another blow at Sansa's back. Oxcross.

"Hold that sword, Ser Meryn!" he said, dropping down the stairs two at a time as starry plate swirled around him. The knight stumbled back as he offered Sansa a hand. The woman that stood up was not the girl which had knelt a few minutes before; more regal than any simpering courtier, more hardened than any Kingsguard; she wore no torn dress but full court regalia, coronet and tight wrap dress like the ones of her Handmaidens, elegant but streamlined with practicality in mind.

His Queen looked troubled, her breaths deep, "We won't survive another one. We'll leap past your death. Past your wedding."

"Then we better win this now."

Sansa surveyed the throne room, "We won't be able to run this time. Maegor's Holdfast?"

"Sounds like a plan," he said. He stuttered when he saw Lancel, but pushed on, "Lancel! Sandor! Go rouse the men of the night watch! And ring the bells! I want every fighting man ready to repel an attack on Maegor's Holdfast in five minutes! Go!"

"Y-yes, Your Grace," said his cousin, backing up as he bowed, as if blasted away by Joffrey's orders. Sandor gave him a mighty frown before Joffrey urged him on with both hands.

"What are you all waiting for!?" he roared at the courtiers, "Arm yourselves and follow me!" This pack of sycophants would barely slow a Walker down, but at least they'd take a hit instead of a more capable Redcloak—or hells, even a Goldcloak.

They walked out of the throne room followed by a stunned entourage, only to bump unto Tyrion and his sellsword. Bronn. "Nephew?" he said.

"Uncle! On me!" he said, walking through the Outer Yard. Joffrey sniffed; there was a chill in the air.

"What the hells' going on?" Tyrion asked Ser Meryn Trant.

"We're about to be under attack, that's what's going on. Bronn, Ser Meryn, go to Traitor's Walk and gather as many of the guards as you can find. Bring them to Maegor's Holdfast; gold, red, I don't care. We'll make our stand there."

"Nephew, have you gone insane?"

"More or less." He turned, feeling the weight of his armor of stars flexing with his muscles, looming over both figures, "You have four minutes or you're staying outside."

Ser Meryn leapt at it, and—a nod from Tyrion later—Bronn followed. His uncle scanned him up and down, "That's quite the armor," he said, stunned.

"Wait until you see the sword," he said, making way to the Middle Bailey. Bells were tolling, men hollering as they ran out of barracks and guard towers.

"You're close, Joff. Growing… Like breathing," said Sansa, her eyes faraway but her stride sure. Joffrey gritted his teeth as understanding became awareness. He could feel the Cycle's strength, the Purple's fractals like never before. A single being coming to life which spanned time and space in an elegant confluence. Sansa was right; he was close. Who am I?

They crossed the dry moat into Maegor's Holdfast, Joffrey waving the troops back inside. "It's growing desperate," said Sansa, a chill breeze swaying her hair sideways. Snow was drifting from above; tiny feathers eerily out of place in summer.

"It ought to be," he snarled, hollering at the men milling around the entry hall and readying a defense by groups around choke points. Sandor and Bronn's groups arrived shortly after. About a second before he ordered the door barred, Lancel and a group of Goldcloaks made it inside too.

"Can we wait for Ser Meryn's group?" he asked Sansa.

She shook her head. "They're already breaching all around the city. The Outer Yard too."

"Shit. Okay. Bar that gate! Barricade it!" He grabbed a servant, "You! Go to my chambers and get my crossbows. Pass 'em on to the guards here!"

Tyrion grabbed hold of him before he could wheel to Sandor with the next set of orders. "Joffrey! Mother's Tits what the hells' happening!? What the hells happened to you?! And to Lady Sansa!? And where did you get that sword!?"

"Tyrion…" he said, grabbing his shoulder in turn but trailing off. How to explain such vast stakes, such cosmic war? He stared fondly at his uncle, this brave man who thought he was a coward, this light in the darkness always with a quip in hand, a laugh to share in the midst of death.

Tyrion blinked back, his mouth closing slowly. "I see," he whispered. "I see…"

"They're swarming the outer gatehouse; more manifesting inside the Middle Baily," said Sansa. "I can keep them out of the holdfast but not indefinitely!"

"Just give us what you can!" he said, raising Brightroar high, it's fractaled glow painting light over the faces of his people. In this life, and all the rest. "Remember your orders! Follow me, men of Westeros!"

These men couldn't have hoped to understand what was happening—what this was all about. And yet… and yet there was a dream of Dawn surging in the Song, a half-remembered hope reaching across time as his own awareness grew; spines straightened, faces were set. When the Walkers began smashing against the small gate of Maegor's Holdfast, not one of them ran away. Joffrey fought it on two worlds; slowing down the Walker advance, accelerating his recursive awareness. Faster and faster, reality squirming as his will grew to match the might of the Red Comet—using its own escalating power against itself as every surge powered the both of them to-

They retreated through another corridor, and suddenly it was not Lancel the simpering coward fighting by their side; it was Legate Lancel Lannister in his Royal Guard half-plate, a knowing smile on his lips as he rammed a halberd against a Walker's head. It was Sandor—not the Hound—covering their escape as Walkers caught him from two sides. Tyrion smiling as he pulled on a firecharge and immolated himself, taking with him a whole room filled with Walkers. They ran to the last floor, to the crenelations atop Maegor's Keep as men died shouting 'Dawn!', fighting past their breaking point, as the Red Comet streaked against the atmosphere and bloomed like a reaching hand towards the keep. Escalations piled atop each other so fast Joffrey could scarcely breathe and then-

He found himself looking at the Walker piercing him in place, the blade churning in his guts. Hundreds of them standing around he and Sansa, thousands all over the keep; millions, blanketing the city of King's Landing and beyond. The Red Comet circled above them—a moon floating above the Red Keep and covering up the blue sky.

Joffrey fell, lightly. Fractals forgotten; dreams in the wind.

Who am I?

He felt himself land on the courtyard, the guests of his wedding smiling awkwardly as he stood with Valyrian steel in hand, having just carved a cake.

He looked down at the cup in his hand, the wine swirling inside. Had he taken a sip already? He licked his lips—moist. Had he? He felt unsteady, dropping the cup as he turned to the high table. He gave Lady Sansa an apologetic smile. He felt he'd failed at something, though he didn't know what.

She stood up slowly, her frown turning into horror. She rushed past the startled guests, reaching his side and shaking him wildly, "Did you drink it?! Did you drink it?!"

"I… I know you," he said, swaying; his throat tingled. It felt… tighter. He collapsed on his back, gasping for air. Above him he could see the Red Comet growing larger, a streaking moon now the size of the sun, now larger still. It was coming here.

Who am I?

"Yes," whispered Sansa, "And you know me; You're mine. Mine alone," she said, her hand pressing against his chest as his blood boiled, the Strangler pooling around it as he screamed in pain. It bought him time. Time to think. Time to remember.

"Do you remember what you told me? All those years ago…" she said, her voice so familiar, "What you promised me?"

He was childish destruction with no thought or awareness, a tantrum with no will of its own. And then he was shame. He was curiosity. He was the spray of saltwater on a ship's bow. He was the sound of rustling leaves swept aside to reveal hidden temples. He was a brother of men. A roar among thousands defending what was theirs. He was the smile of one hopelessly in love. A leader amongst brothers; a leader of men. He was the sword that pointed the way. He was horrific destruction measured and aimed, a holocaust with a will of its own that sought to protect.

He was a strand of the fabric. Watcher and Star. For what was a Song, without a Listener to give it meaning? The fractals cohered into a single whole and he breathed. The instant. The moment.

He was Joffrey. He was Joff. He remembered.

"Together," he said.

They looked up at the arriving Comet, its guts spreading to cover the sky entire above the city and beyond, people screaming in fright. But they were not afraid; Joffrey extended a hand up to the sky. This was not their home. They did not belong here; neither them, nor the Comet.

Take us back, Joff, thought Sansa. Back to the dream of Dawn. Back to the death of Winter. He felt anchored to that memory, that vision of his Kingdoms united, that hope that survived through loss and destruction—they had earned their triumph. They had earned their Dawn.

They jumped through titan pillars powered by Comet's might, fractals spreading in dimensions beyond mortal ken—time and space bending to their will.

-: PD :-