NOVEL NEXT Chapter 110: Epilogue.
The Comet spun slowly above them. It had raced through the atmosphere to stop them—now it hanged over them all, an orb the size of a continent, its fractals spread in all direction and blanketing the sky in red. It shimmered softly, the crystal wisping into nothing as Joffrey willed it so. He felt both different and not; himself but more. It was as if he'd finally understood a paradox; found an answer to an open dilemma. The Red Comet dissolved into twirling recursions that rained above the battlefield like tiny wisps of brilliant snow, a softly falling spectacle silent and majestic. He lowered his gaze and found his wife's, a fond smile on her lips. She cupped his cheek as he held her other hand, a warm joy bouncing between them as the sun emerged from the mountains behind her, far to the east. It bathed the silent battlefield in warm light; radiant through the falling fractals like floating chandeliers, kaleidoscopes of dawn sweeping the earth. The Walkers around them melted into snow, their anima now subsumed, the wights collapsing on the ground as their strings found no puppeteer.
The armies of dawn lay entranced by that falling crystal, that spectacle of light now warming not only their souls but their bodies, their wounds healed under that radiant light. Knights and lords, guardsmen and militia, men and women now gazing up at the death of Winter—at the ethereal rain bright and dissolving.
He felt the Song Resplendent, the Song Victorious. Like a grand choir humming past the climax, smooth and distant but never quite ending. It suffused everything now; bereft of the Silence's assault, it surged taller and wider, a promise now fulfilled and expanding still. He felt it in the swaying of the trees beyond the hills, in the potent hush of the Trident down south, in the hearts of his people now surging with joy.
They smiled together, he and Sansa, hugging each other and giggling like triumphant children. It is done, thought Joffrey. He was stunned into awe by that impossible thought, disbelief melting like the Walkers around him, a mighty certainty crisp in the morning air. They twirled as they laughed, twisting like the guests of honor in a ball, holding unto each other and basking in that warm light now more intoxicating than any luxury known to man. The storm had lifted. The clouds were gone. Now, between dispelled fractals peeked a sky brilliant blue, crisp and fresh and filled with raw promise.
Their giggles died down as they beheld each other, their foreheads joined as they took big breaths, a towering weight swept away. He felt light, free—on the edge of flying away into the sky.
"What now, Joff?" said Sansa, her face his world as he smiled again, a rakish grin he'd almost forgotten. What now indeed? The power of the Red Comet was now theirs—that overwhelming reserve built to last eons now at their fingertips.
"We could let it go," he said, "We could live our dream. Together."
"Together," whispered Sansa, looking to their side with bright eyes that pierced across time. Joffrey followed her flying gaze, away and through a future fulfilled. He saw himself lift Brightroar high, a powerful bellow crawling out of his throat. 'Victory!!!' he roared, breaking the army of dawn from its trance as they raised their weapons to clear skies, the cry filled with rapturous joy—unchained relief, ecstatic awe. A roar echoed throughout the Kingdom, filling all that breathed with primal joy and intrinsic understanding—the knowledge that Winter was dead, that the Silver Dawn now peeked between mountains. He saw himself and Sansa walking under a tunnel of swords and libards, people crying on their knees, fierce whoop's in the air, and later—through King's Landing with the army behind them, petals of newly blossomed flowers jingling in the air as the city celebrated, people dancing in the streets, hugging each other. He saw them lead the Ceremony of the Fallen, kneeling alongside his people entire as the dead were burned in one mighty pyre, their ashes interred under a grand monument facing Baelor's Sept. The dead were mourned and honored; stories and accounts compiled and published.
And then?
Joffrey's breath hitched, his belly tingling like a storm of bright butterflies. And then… he saw his Dream of Dawn brought to life. Without harbingers of doom waiting on the wings, their legitimacy unquestioned even by the mad, at last they had time. The greatest of powers—time beyond the clutches of the Purple and the Cycle, time beyond the deadlines of war and winter. So much time that it brought angst to Joffrey's Purple-trained instincts; what to do with such overwhelming power? What destiny could he create now unbound by a rewinding world?
But he didn't need to see that future to know, for the answer was obvious; he'd mobilized his people for savage war, why not for lasting peace? Time on the throne uncontested, his name living legend—tools to create.
So much time… Tears filled his eyes as Sansa guided him through that future, years and years, decades of peace in the Kingdom of Westeros; the Kingdom of Summer Eternal. No people could survive such an apocalyptic war and emerge unchanged. But what emerged? What defects of old? What virtues conserved? The Second War for Dawn was a massive forge which had broken apart the ingredients of his people and his culture, leaving everything jumbled up and stirred—a golden opportunity for which worthy rulers would've killed for; died for. And now that terrible furnace had spit back the purified metal right into his hands; a raw material of limitless potential ripe for the picking. He would not waste the chance.
Joffrey licked his lips in greedy delight as he saw King and Queen work that Kingdom like master smiths. Artists on their grandest—their last—commission. Through the power of bureaucracy in the hands of the Aides he erected great roads and bridges, sewers and boulevards, parks and monuments; halls of administration spreading his hand to every city, and every town. Through shrewed dealings and meritocratic orders he spread the fires of industry and commerce—a self-fueling endeavor spawning harbors and manufacturies; warehouses filled with goods brought by trade fleets which spanned the world.
His wife ruled by his side, together as it was meant to be, her influence a tidal wave of creation leaving theaters and music halls in its wake, famed storytellers and elaborate minstrel's shows roaming the land and touching every last corner of it, spreading the coalescing identity of the Silver Kingdom. Under Sansa's aegis was magic reborn; the secrets of blood and of warging spread to those who would use them for the benefit of all, the might of the Song a guiding tune. He watched grow orders of healers and woodsmen, their work a blessing on the land. He sailed with ship captains whose seagulls perched on their shoulders, the birds taking flight to range wide—looking for lands beyond Sothoryos, searching for storms and shoals of fish. He trained with shock troops bonded with bears armored in steel, their sight a swift deterrent to any thought of invasion from the east or the west. He saw tall academies raised on the capital, their corridors connected to hospitals just as big, their blood healers praised by the smallfolk on the streets.
Beyond the physical, it was the culture that changed. The soul. Through the examples of the Guard and the Handmaidens, through the works bringing prosperity to the land, and through the very will and example of their King and Queen, Westeros changed. The vows of knighthood turned from thin veneer to cast iron conviction, a sacred belief to be followed no matter the war, no matter the lord. The pathetic and lopsided relationship between lord and smallfolk was transformed; through the war melted, then forged with care and time and patience, Joffrey oversaw its renaissance as a soul-deep bond. A gut-felt instinct to see one's vassals prosper; an obligation to nurture and protect from which turning back was the gravest of sins—the most horrifying of shames. 'We won the War for Dawn, yes,' Joffrey would often say, 'But what of the peace, my lords? We must be worthy of this peace.' Sansa was his co-conspirator, his partner and lover neck deep in this reforging. Her vanguard of Handmaidens paved the way for many of the women of Westeros, and the realm grew stronger as their talents were unchained, as their potential was nurtured. They made cunning spies and diplomats, free-thinking scholars arguing and innovating, self-assured merchants raking coin and exotic spices.
It was not all perfect. There was conflict and tension, but it flowed through mechanisms cannily built out of immortal wisdom, powering on the Kingdom instead of rending it apart. They never really stood a chance, he thought, still smiling as he saw his people become all they could. Battlefields and castle keeps gave way to dueling fields and manor houses as prosperity circled without end, palaces dotting the countryside and overlooking bustling towns whose grand squares were filled with song and trade. The Song hummed Victorious throughout it all, a constant reminder of their shared bond, an instinctual melody on the edge of audition, growing grander by the passing years. It bonded the people with their land, with the seas, with each other. It was a different age—a different world, a response as mighty as the war that preceded it. It was the Silver Age, and thus did the people acclaim their ruling House, its banner that of the Kingdom; the banner of Westeros.
"Sansa…" he whispered, her hand squeezing his. He saw their children; thoughtful Lyarra and her shadowcat partner. Laughing Tygel and his love of tourneys. The twins Robar and Edvard, hounding Sandor for another match and uncle Tyrion for another tale. "No more," he whispered, shielding his eyes and wiping tears. "Show me the end."
He saw himself become old—always working, always moving forward. One day they took a boat down the Trident. It was a usual pastime for the royal couple, increasingly so in later years. They visited not just old friends and family, but the people working the land between the rivers. They shared ale and tales with old veterans of Dawn—asked about their children, and their children's children. Joffrey smiled as he gripped the river galley's railing with gnarled hands, listening for the Song. He met eyes with himself across time, and past and future selves shared a little smile.
That night he and Sansa went to sleep, and on the morn didn't wake up—they died as they lived; together. He saw their caskets flanked by soldiers and nobles as they marched to Baelor's Sept, the city weeping with their family as people lined the streets. They were burned, as had been their wish, their remains spread throughout the land they had loved so much. Joffrey breathed deeply as he saw their ashes fly untethered, carried by the wind out beyond the earth. Grass had covered the scars of the land; the wight-piles feeding fields of flowers which surged in a riot of colors—fierce violets, vibrant yellows, deep reds tinged in scarlet; they covered the old battlefields in rainbow hues, swaying gently under the wind. Peace at last, final rest for his soul.
He turned back to Sansa. Mere seconds had passed. Seconds in which he'd lived a whole life. "It's beautiful," he whispered, playing with her chin, looking at her lips. All they had wanted and more. A peaceful life, loved and cherished, proud and accomplished.
But…
They gazed up at the Comet's corpse—that juggernaut of existence, twirling slowly as it dissolved to shiny wisps. "We could go beyond instead," Sansa whispered. Grab the Cycle's power entire and push through the fabric, to meld with the Song and reach a state incomprehensible to mortal-kind. So many mysteries remained… Had the creators of the Purple and the Cycle gone there? What purpose their creations? To create a being such as he and Sansa, through the strife of Song and Silence? Or perhaps to forbid it entirely—a blockade on ascension. Had they disagreed, formed two factions engaged in civil war? Joffrey could see the lines of the fabric vibrating as a single tune, a Song perpendicular through time like an eternal axis. Could there exist different tunes? What strange dimensions pulsed between the fractals? What forbidden realms thick with both mystery and enlightenment? Joffrey itched to know, his explorer's instincts leaping to the fore. What to do? To ascend into the heavens, like the Night Lion and the Maiden-Made-of-Light of Yitish lore? Or to fill his guts with that primal scream of Victory, to lead his people into an age of legend?
"Sansa, what do we do?" he said, equally torn.
She smiled that sweet, secret smile of hers, "Kiss me first."
An excellent plan. They kissed long and hard, her breath filling him from top to bottom. As heady as strongwine, as addictive as spicemilk. They kissed under the glittering remnants of the Comet destroyed—little fractal snakes drifting with the wind, the light of dawn spreading throughout the land with a warm touch, filled with peace, a promise fulfilled.
THE END.