Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The Purple swirled around him in a vortex of fractals, the pain greeting him back like an old friend. It was quickly apparent that something had gone wrong though. A huge hole had been punched through the very fabric of the Purple, a gaping wound beyond which lay nothing but all-encompassing darkness.

A strong breeze seemed to burn away the purple as it chilled Joffrey's broken bones, his mind growing sluggish as the cold winds seemed to flay his very soul. Joffrey gave a wordless, harrowing scream as the flaying winds blew through him, his mind loosing focus as his very self started to dissipate. The pain was worse than any agony the Purple could ever deliver, for as cruel as it was, the Purple did not seek to evaporate him to the cold winds of the ether. He could see the ragged ends of it, his old nemesis, flapping around wildly around the hole as if they were but rags tacked besides an open window.

Joffrey had long ago come to terms with his mortality though. He had made his decision, he had accepted the consequences. He had refused to live like a scared rat. He had said no to the melody of despair.

He had chosen to stand together. To die together.

Tis only fitting. A General should die with his men. He thought with a small smile despite the harrowing pain. As his mind slowly turned to nothing, Joffrey let his gaze wander one last time, appreciating the sheer intricate vastness, the complexity of the interlocking dance that was the Purple. It was, he thought, the grandest work of art he had ever seen. He gazed at the incomprehensible patterns of vectors and fractals, tesseracts and three dimensional shadows not even the most fevered of Archmaesters could have conjured, or perhaps even understood, as the cold wind made his eyes droop and the pain ebbed.

Almost over now…

He saw something strange through the corner of his eye though… the ragged remains of the Purple around the hole, twisting and growing and shrinking at the same time. They stretched as if to infinity for a second only to return just a little bit further than their starting positions. As they advanced through the tearing slash of blackness, Joffrey came to a startling realization.

The Purple… it's mending itself.

The treacherous tendrils of Purple snaked towards him once more, some of them getting blown away by the Cold Wind as other reached him again and the all too familiar pain returned.

A General should die with his men… Joffrey thought as he struggled weakly against their grasp, a bone deep, no, a soul deep weariness inside of him wishing it all to just end.

A good day to die, had whispered one of the soldiers next to him right before the column crashed against the line of White Walkers.

The Purple and the Cold Wind kept battling for his soul for a second, or eternity, before the whole hole in the very fabric of the Purple seemed to mend itself instantly, overwhelming the Cold Wind once it had lost the initial impetus provided by the eldritch thing that had originally powered it. Joffrey could somehow feel the backblast of pain and soul freezing coldness from the mending, propelling him to impossible speeds as the agony turned unbearable and all else turned white.

He suddenly found himself in a snowy vault, a caricature of his old room in the Red Keep. Ice seemed to coat every available surface, and he could feel his limbs going senseless from instant frostbite.

It seems I have arrived at the Hell where the Walkers keep their souls. He thought to himself, vaguely undaunted by the prospect.

I thought the pain would have gone though, he thought, standing back from the frozen wreck of his bed and grabbing a laughably impractical ornate dagger on the night stand.

A Legionnaire should never be unarmed, he thought, somewhat amused as he shivered uncontrollably and his faltering steps burned in pain at the contact with the frozen floor. If the freezing pain was some kind of afterlife meted punishment then he was thoroughly unimpressed.

More important than all else, he didn't know where he was… but he was still himself.

Joffrey.

It was with that liberating thought that he trundled over the ice and snow, the dagger firm in his left hand. Half-forgotten memories rose to the forefront of his mind as he navigated the increasingly familiar layout of his old room, each step harder than the last as the cold seemed to sap the very life out of him. He fumbled with the door for a bit before it was suddenly opened as if by itself. He stumbled another half-step, feeling light as a feather, as if he would float away to nothing with but another step.

"A good day to die…" he whispered with a half-smile at the blinding sunlight beyond the opened door. He collapsed on the floor, his strength ebbing away like a pebble under a stream. The light said something as it carried him away, somehow banishing the cold.

"Watchers… stars… their… vigil…" he mumbled as he was deposited on the floor again. He blinked heavily as the light seemed to recede, gradually turning into a very familiar silhouette.

"S… Sa… Sandor..?" he muttered, confused.

Of course he's here too.

What did one say to someone who you'd failed so tremendously?

He struggled with the vaguely song like tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, tasting words he had not spoken for a long time. "Imhr… I'm… sorry…" he slurred, the encroaching darkness enveloping him completely.

-.PD.-

"A TIME OF RENEWAL!!!"

"… who stand in vigil…"

"There's too many of them!"

"We got to breakthrough! Sunbeam-"

"A TIME OF DESTRUCTION!!!"

"…masters of their fate…"

"He loved his Siwine, that he did…"

"They're hiding under the sand! Get back--"

"A the TIME watchers OF stars REBIRTH!!!"

-.PD.-

Joffrey stirred weakly, trying to focus on the thing to his left. It felt… warm. He could hear it cackling, occasionally cracking as the blessed heat it created fluctuated slightly, sometimes rising almost to lick his cheek, and others diminishing. Joffrey found it hard how to put into words how confortable he felt. Near the end the Fort's firewood supplies had been all but exhausted, and he hadn't even the manpower to send Scouts out for more…

This was all his spirit craved for, peace and a warm fire. He would have been quite comfortable with those two things for a lifetime... Curiosity however, as always, eventually got the better of him.

Why am I still thinking… I should be gone now, dust in the wind… he thought, very confused. The notion of an Afterlife of any sort had become somewhat strange to Joffrey over all his lifetimes, despite the very likely possibility he was in one of some kind right now. The notion of experiencing forever, of being conscious as if on a never ending sea of purple… even a peaceful one… seemed horrifying to a degree he doubted his old self would have been even capable of comprehending. The things he'd seen had, somewhat paradoxically, only made the notion even stranger. He'd seen beings beyond the reasoning of men. He'd studied the vastness and impossible scale of the night sky… He'd seen messages and works of art left by forces capable of thinking beyond the horizons of time. He'd seen things, almost pure concepts of incomprehensible complexity and power… He very much doubted the assumptions and reasoning's of man could be applied to such things as freely as priests and shamans had done through history. To expect such things to abide by the beliefs and expectations of something so small…

And yet, here he was. Wherever here was…

He stirred weakly, struggling against a thousand cobwebs that seemed to restrain his very bones. He managed to tilt his head to the side, struggling against the filth that had his eyes shut. Finally, he managed to open them, only to recoil and blink heavily under the light of the beautiful hearth fire to his side.

The abrupt sight of the merry flames made him tear up slightly as a torrent of indescribable emotion see sawed inside of him. He blinked slowly as he felt the silent tears sluggishly riding down his face, mesmerized by the red and orange flame.

"Prince Joffrey?" suddenly said someone from the other side.

Joffrey slowly tilted his head to the other side of what he now understood was a bed. A very soft, very cushy, very awkward bed. To his side was Sandor, standing with his sheathed sword's tip resting on the ground as if the man were standing at a death vigil. He seemed urgent as he spoke with someone to his side before quickly approaching him.

Joffrey tried to speak, but all he managed was a slightly whiny noise, like a broken flute.

"Here, drink this," said Sandor, carefully letting him sip from a cup of water he'd grabbed from the small table beside the bed.

Joffrey drank in tiny sips, taking his time before the next. He'd seen too many thirsting legionnaires choke and splutter water all over themselves in their haste. "Sandor"- he finally managed to croak- "you're here too…" he said, feeling slightly more comfortable with his mother tongue after each word.

Sandor just lifted an eyebrow like he always did when he was somewhat confused. "Don't worry Prince Joffrey"- he cringed as he spoke, looking at the tears on Joffrey's cheeks - "the Grandmaester said you'll be alright…" he said quickly as if to preemptively comfort him, his voice soothing as if trying to comfort a small child… and failing.

Joffrey barely heard him though, gazing at the face of his old companion. "They got you too I suppose…" he whispered before a small smile grazed his lips. "I don't know where we are old friend… but we'll be okay… as long as we are together… we'll be okay…" he whispered, blinking heavily as he heard distant footsteps and the room grew dark.

-.PD.-

The place Joffrey had landed on seemed very strange. Wild visions of wights, sandstorms and huge, dark oceans often mixed with the quiet comfort of a small, warm room he swore he'd never seen before, and its visitors. Sometimes he wondered if he still was upon that frozen clearing, reliving parts of his life one last time before he was firmly in the grasp of the White Walkers.

The shades of his past lives often visited him. Sandor was almost always present in the room, his familiar presence a soothing balm for Joffrey's nerves when the infinite fractals or the leering faces of Cultists and White Walkers got too intense. Grandmaester Pycell was another regular visitor to his quiet purgatory, though the old man looked a bit different than what Joffrey remembered about him. His eyes seemed shiftier, somehow cannier. He'd even seen Tyrion in between the shades and lights, but it had only been fleeting.

Strangely enough, the shade that had affected him the most had been that of his mother.

She'd entered the room just after Joffrey had arrived back into it, having been desperately fighting spectral wights and snarling Shrykes not a moment before.

"…Mother?" he'd asked dumbly as she sat down on the chair next to the bed.

"I'm here sweetling," she'd said as she stroked his hair with a gentle smile that hid infinite worry. Joffrey's throat had constricted almost instantly, his chest throbbing wildly as his eyes teared up from one moment to the next.

"…Mother," he'd whispered, somehow finding the energy to raise his chest from the bed and hugg her with all the strength he had, crying silently.

For all the spite and the old schemes and intrigues she'd concocted over what felt a thousand years ago, his mother had always loved him. Her warmth, her soothing whispers, her arms holding tightly into his shivering body, they somehow seemed to transport him to simpler, gentler times. She smelled of warm, carefree mornings. Of times when the sunlight seemed almost golden, brighter somehow.

Despite all her sins, his mother had always loved him…

And he basked in that love, that warmth he so desperately needed, almost forgotten about. Even if she was a mere shade or hallucination, Joffrey cherished her with all his being in those moments of timeless peace.

As the wild visions and incoherent memories faded and his strength came back though, he spent more and more time in the room, slowly coming to grips with an impossible conclusion.

"…I'm… I'm alive…" he muttered, incredibly confused.

Sandor, who stood guard in the room seemed even more confused.

He felt numb as Grandmaester Pycell checked him one last time before pronouncing him to be in good health, and both him and his mother asked for the one hundredth time if he knew anything about what had happened. The old maester had examined him as never before, frequently consulting books and scrolls and muttering to himself. It was almost like seeing a different man.

Joffrey couldn't shake off the awkward sensation that had dominated his body since the moment he'd been lucid enough to remember himself. He felt weak, brutally so. The small exercises he'd been carrying out inside the room out of sheer reflex left him drained and exhausted, and his body felt clumsy and small. Strangest of it all was getting used to seeing again with two eyes. He frequently bumped into things, and sometimes he had trouble understanding the depth of objects in plain sight.

But the physical aftershocks of his return were nothing compared to how he really felt. When he'd been first released from his room, Joffrey had walked out almost in a daze, blinking at every person and object.

He had known, he had felt, emotionally, instinctively, intellectually… Joffrey had known that his previous life would be his final one. He'd struggled with the thought of impending abyss, of the sheer scale of the meaning of nothingness, of nonexistence… and come to terms with it. He'd found meaning in it.

But that had all been taken away. He'd somehow escaped from the grasping, ice cold hands of the White Walkers to live once more when all his friends and brothers had died, left behind, turned to wights… or had their memories and their very being erased and replaced by the Purple.

Every time he drew breath, he mocked their sacrifice. With every heartbeat he sullied their faith, their courage, and their bravery.

And now, it would all begin once more. The deathly, dampened silence of the eternal snowstorms. The quiet raising of the dead. The melody of despair. The fall of Man.

The Long Night.

And not even death will spare him the terrorizing sight… only the eldritch embrace of the White Walkers, if anything, will.

It was a concept potent enough to drive far sturdier men than him to madness, or at least that's what he thought.

Still, for all that the notion of returning to that blissfully unaware catatonia of years long gone appealed to Joffrey, he knew it would serve no real purpose… And so he soldiered on, as he'd been doing for years now, out of sheer bullheaded stubbornness and inertial routine if nothing else.

The strangeness of his waking hours was accented by his surroundings. The Red Keep felt like a new and old place at the same time. He was flooded by a perpetual sense of Déjà vu as he crossed corridors and rooms, kitchens and guard towers. The layout of his childhood home remained unchanged, but inside Joffrey's mind the place had a vague, uncanny feeling of irreality.

As the routine of daily life returned to the Red Keep, as the teams of Maesters and guards gradually stopped inspecting his room, and as the servant's gossips gradually shifted from the strange occurrence to the latest spat between Robert and his mother, Joffrey suddenly found himself forcefully inserted back into his old life. It felt as some sort of twisted play with a script that was both bizarre and unintelligible… and half-forgotten to boot.

-.PD.-

Had our meals really been this… twisted and awkward? Joffrey thought as he mechanically ate through his dish, quickly and efficiently munching down every scrap of food in it.

"Glad to see you recovered your appetite boy," said Robert, shifting in his big chair as if trying to find a more comfortable position.

How exactly did I talk with him..? Joffrey asked himself in a small panic as he took a moment to check and found out that he had no idea. Your Grace? No… Father?

He left his fork beside the silver plate as he looked back at him in the eye. He was the liege lord of seven kingdoms after all, there had to have been some modicum of respect. "Yes, Father" he said as he nodded at him.

There, short but good enough. He thought as he searched for something to drink with. Robert though was looking at him very strangely.

Maybe it was Your Grace after all… Joffrey shrugged mentally as he stretched to grab a pitcher of orange flavored water with his right hand. Instead of grabbing it though he clumsily smacked it to its side, spilling water all over his and Myrcella's part of the table as droplets jumped through the air thanks to the impact.

"Ah fuck!" he cursed as he stood up, trying to dodge the spilled liquid before it could reach his clothes. His cursed arm was too short, and moving his right fingers was like moving a bunch of bricks.

He nodded at the nearby servant that dashed towards the table with a piece of cloth, moving a step to the side and taking it from her strangely clenched hands with a small 'thank you' as he turned back to the table. He cleaned some of the table's parts that were nearest to him before he noticed the petrified form of Myrcella by his side, almost completely still even though a good part of her dress was soaked with water.

"Oh shit… I'm sorry Myrcella" He apologized as he kneeled to her side and wiped away some of the droplets that had reached her face.

It was immediately apparent to Joffrey that Myrcella was terrified. Her hands almost seemed to be trembling as he absorbed some of the water with the piece of cloth, three other servants taking care of the mess in the table. She was very scared for some reason but she was trying to put on a brave front. It reminded him of the handful of orphaned girls that had been left behind in the Dawn Fort, all brave little things with nowhere to go, terrified almost out of their wits but determined to help defend their home even if it only meant sewing cloth or boiling water for the kitchens. They slaved away what remained of their lives with some sort of integral, heartbreaking dedication more pure than even the most veteran of soldiers, a toll that would not go without consequences. By the time of the last charge, after months of harsh winter and bone deep hunger all of them had perished. Legionaries tried to donate their whole rations to them only for the paltry meal to find its way to a wounded, incoherent soldier or a distracted, beleaguered night watchman. He remembered one that had usually served him his meals when he dined with the rest of his brothers, Jun, a tiny slip of a girl barely older than ten, with a crooked teeth and an awed smile that would grace her quiet features whenever she served him his meal, as if giving porridge to the Silver Lion was the greatest treat a good girl like her could aspire to in her lifetime—

"-ey. Joffrey? Joffrey?" someone called out again.

Joffrey shook his head slightly, blinking away the itch in his eyes as he realized he was still kneeling besides Myrcella, his hand still touching her quivering form. His mother was looking at him in confused disapproval as Myrcella tilted as hard as she could on the edge of her chair, on the verge of crying.

"..Right. She's scared of me, he realized as he sat back on his chair with a murmured 'sorry'.

"It's okay," she squeaked, slowly centering herself again as Joffrey shook his head, still reeling from the abrupt and very vivid memory. Robert was still watching him, slowly eating a slice of venison as Cercei again asked if he was okay.

"I'm fine, Mother" he said, more disgusted about his body's lack of control than anything else.

"Joffrey," suddenly spoke Robert, leaving the venison alone as he leaned slightly forward. "What happened back in your room?" he asked, almost pleaded, looking as lost as Joffrey felt.

Joffrey's throat constricted abruptly, as if he were physically incapable of actually saying it. He swallowed, looking at the shaken forms of Myrcella and Tommen, of worried Cercei and confused Robert.

I came back from the dead, he thought about saying. I witnessed the end of the world and all that lived within it. I saw a glimmer of an ancient mechanism of unfathomable scale, an eldritch closure destined to consume all… It beckons, it beckons and it's time has come… it comes and there's likely nothing we can do to stop it.

He looked at his brother and sister. What would it all gain them? To leave them terrified in foreboding until the White Walkers finally came for them? Would Robert even listen to him instead of leaving him permanently sedated under the tender mercies of Grandmaester Pycell? Would it even make a difference? Or would he just repeat what happened in the Dawn Fort?

He shook his head slightly as he looked back at Robert. "I don't know Father, I just went to sleep the night before and woke up freezing" he repeated the lame excuse.

Robert said nothing as he went back to his venison. He wasn't fooled, and neither was Joffrey. What could he do about it though? Torture his own 'son'? Guards and Maesters had combed his room like bandits looking for gold and found nothing but his bone tablet, which had been zealously seized by the Grandmaester as a tentative clue to the whole puzzle. Joffrey was not concerned, if Pycell figured out something from the bone tablet he would take back every single bad thing he'd thought about the old man.

A thorough search and interrogation had been conducted in and around the Red Keep… for all the good it had done. What or who had they even been searching for? Some nose wrinkling hedge magi? A splinter sect of Alchemists? An assassin carrying a block of ice on his shoulder? He doubted even the guards knew. Alchemists… quite a few of those had been brought to the keep to examine his room, to no avail. Even his mother's muffled rage (that he could hear from his bed) had gradually quieted as the days passed and things returned to normal.

He excused himself as he stood up from the silent table, fed up with being stared like some sort of freak.

-.PD.-

"What in the Hells is happening back there!" Joffrey roared as he reined in his horse.

"Wights sir! They appeared out of nowhere!" shouted a Threeray as he carried a wounded officer with his shoulder.

"They're trying to split the caravan in two, General…" muttered the wounded Sun.

Joffrey cursed as he whirled his horse with a single prompt of his knees. "Sabu! Get the cavalry to form a wedge!" He shouted as he peered at the great mass of wights trying to splinter his formation. They were still weeks away from the Dawn Fort and having his rear elements surrounded and annihilated would probably spell their doom long before they could even get there.

Sabu arrived with the eclectic mix of Garrison Cavalrymen, mounted Rangers and Heavy Camelry that served as the formation's strike cavalry, signaling to halt as Joffrey joined them. Most of the stragglers this side from the wight's attack had already cleared the way.

"We have to link up with the rearguard now, follow me and don't stop killing until you see the living! For Dawn!!!" he roared as he spurred his horse forward, his men roaring with him even as arrows planted themselves on armor and flesh and wights shrieked to the heavens.

Joffrey roared as he charged the undead, their shambling figures growing closer and closer as the smell of rot intensified and the endless mass of grey surrounded him and his horse, tearing and rending and biting as Joffrey shouted orders to his men, orders that couldn't be heard no matter how hard he screamed—

He jumped out of his bedroll with a strangled scream, rolling up to his feet with a water recovery as he dashed out of the tent, sword in hand. He was about to scream for a report when he noticed the shaken redcloak was not actually a legionary.

"Ah.. carry on soldier…" he said awkwardly as he stopped gripping the man's shoulder, taking a step back. It was still night time in the Kingsroad, the multitude of stars the only light for the agitated guardsmen apart from his torch.

"S'all right, my lord, all quiet round here," said the redcloak, vaguely trying to calm him down as he eyed the unsheathed arming sword in Joffrey's hand.

"Yes… yes of course," Joffrey said as he shook his head and walked on, disturbed. He found a bit of solace in the grass under his feet and the warm wind of a summer's night, two regular sensations that eased him along his customary measured steps in the task of calming his racing heart.

Only a dream…

Only a memory…

He stopped beside a tree in a corner of the big, slumbering encampment, gazing at the stars. He took a deep breath as he leaned on the tree, thinking.

The one's that stand in vigil…

He just stayed there, feeling an all-encompassing loneliness as the stars twinkled in the night sky and his heart hammered against his chest with an ever increasing thrum-

"You look like you might faint there nephew" Tyrion commented idly from the other side of the tree, tying his belt as he secured his breeches.

"Uncle!" gasped Joffrey as he jumped backwards, his sword reflexively coming up into a guard.

"I don't know what you've been told by my brother, but a sword won't make you somehow more resistant to the cold, nephew" said the imp, looking at Joffrey's lack of clothes except for his breeches.

"Uncle…" muttered Joffrey. He had seen him only a handful of times this life, and half of those he'd been too incoherent to have a meaningful conversation. He was torn between hugging the bastard or break down crying… until he remembered when… who he was at this point in time.

Alone.

He was suddenly a bit self-conscious as his uncle regarded the naked steel uneasily. "I… We don't actually talk… much…" he said lamely as he left the arming sword next to the tree and sat down. He didn't know what Uncle Tyrion thought of his… old self prowling like a caged cat inside the camp with naked steel, but it was probably nothing good.

The unease in his face warred with curiosity for a few seconds before curiosity won and he tentatively sat down nearby, watching the stars with him.

"Feeling contemplative, nephew?" He asked with a slight undertone of disbelief that old Joffrey would have probably missed.

Joffrey took a deep breath as he leaned back on the tree trunk, his eyes slightly unfocused before he barked a short, self-depreciating guffaw. "You've got no idea Uncle," he said.

The curiosity was now plainly evident as he leaned closer, "Pray tell, has this new mood anything to do with the events that had half the Red Keep's staff near fainting levels of gossip last week?" he asked.

Joffrey moved his jaw from side to side as if he were biting off a particularly large bite off one of Robert's venison servings, "Yeah…" he managed. He'd been living with this burden for so long he didn't think he was actually capable of speaking out loud about it.

Tyrion was quiet for a while, perhaps reassessing several established facts before nodding slightly to himself as he looked back at him. "If you ever need someone to just hear you out…" he said tentatively.

Joffrey smiled as he looked back at him, "Thank you, Tyrion" he said with a fond, sad smile that seemed to leave the Half-Man even more confused.

He fell asleep there, leaning on the trunk, the summer night's breeze but a lukewarm, gentle caress against his skin.

-.PD.-

Riding in half plate and armed with both mace and sword lifted quite a few eyebrows amongst the caravan. Joffrey didn't care, he felt almost conceptually naked every time he even thought about riding out without armor and something heavy to crack skulls with. He'd been silently practicing alone in the early hours before dawn with both one handed mace and arming sword, trying to get used to his right arm again. His whirling, contained snarling and occasional cursing had unfortunately drawn a small crowd to the daily (or should it be nightly?) occurrence. Even though he tried to change the location of it relative to his tent he always managed to attract a few off duty Red Cloaks and Stormlanders.

One thing had let to another…

"Keep that guard up! No! Up damnit!" He shouted as he ducked under the tourney sword and came up close to the Stormlander guard, the longsword's reach useless as he pinged him in the helmet with his hammer, "Out!" he shouted as the guard stumbled back, shaking his head against the blow. He quickly sat down with a dozen other men who shared his assorted bruises, rashes and small cuts.

It was their fault, really. Idle soldiers left him feeling decidedly strange, as if the sun suddenly rose from the west... It was just unnatural, and to have them there just watching in a perfectly serviceable little clearing…

"You just aren't being aggressive enough! You can't rely on your opponent to make a mistake by exhaustion! You got to hammer it in quickly and move to the next one" he said as he turned back and demonstrated with a wooden mockup made of brooms and buckets he'd been sparring with before he started to get an awkward audience.

He feinted and dodged two times against the mockup's imaginary attacks (attacks that in Joffrey's mind were always accompanied by the harrowing screaming of Wights) before closing in with a backsided parry and slammed his hammer against the mockup's head. The wooden bucket erupted in splinters as it fell back, dragging the whole thing with it as Joffrey jumped over it and redoubled the hammering, turning the whole upper area into splinters as he brutally pounded it half a dozen times with a snarl.

He stumbled back, breathing heavily as his body burned pleasurably, his lungs struggling with the unusual exertion.

He looked up at the sky as he willed his chest to expand, to bring in more blessedly warm air as legionnaires were drowned under their own blood and Flying Wights snatched stray soldiers unlucky enough to be left out of formation, the ominous buzzing of a coming sandstorm flooding his senses as he breathed again, the warm air the most pleasurable sensation he had ever experienced—

"—My prince?" said someone behind him. Joffrey whirled, placing the sword on its neck before raising his hammer, ready for a scissor'd club-and-decapitation, only barely stopping as he realized his target was actually a man.

"Never, sneak up to me like that from behind, never, understood?" he asked the wild eyed Red Cloak, not a hint of a threat in his voice. It was only a heartfelt warning, Joffrey couldn't trust he would not actually kill the next person to do that. Even now there was a voice screaming inside his head to bring the hammer down twice, and to make sure the head was separated from the body.

He lowered the warhammer and the sword, the voice, or perhaps instinct, quickly loosing strength as it disappeared.

"Y-y-yes my prince," he said as he walked back slowly.

"Was there something..?" asked Joffrey.

"N- I mean, you seemed… distracted, only for a small while my prince," he said as a few of the neutral faced audience members nodded slightly.

"Ah… I kind of got into it a bit didn't I?" he asked rhetorically as he turned back to lift the mock up.

The pile of scrap wood looked like it wouldn't be able to hold its own weight though…

"Oh, well, always confirm your kill, right men?" he said with the tone he used to joke around with his soldiers, but instead of laughing his audience all nodded seriously. If out of grudging respect or feared royal retribution… he was not sure. "Dawn is almost here… we better clean up" he said as he started collecting the future firewood. The rest of the soldiers seemed a bit stunned, but after Joffrey finished filling the first wheel cart they were soon stumbling all over themselves to help. Soon all the weapons, armor and targets were all stowed away, and he used the small chaos to slip away from the clearing.

The sun was already peeking over the sleepy encampment as Joffrey strode past the night watch, grunting acknowledgement as the Red Cloaks bowed slightly. He had managed to convince Sandor to, somehow, sleep while he practiced. He was inside the camp anyway… most of the time. It hadn't even been that hard, Sandor had just nodded slightly after scrutinizing him for a few seconds… it had been kind of weird.

In fact, the whole caravan seemed to keep him at arm's length most of the time, so much so that Joffrey spent quite a few moments wondering what he was doing wrong.

It may have been the armor, he thought ruefully as he loosened the straps from his breast plate, letting it clang on the ground beside the lazy waters of the Green Fork. He didn't think his old self lugged the whole thing from King's Landing all the way to Winterfell…

Did I?

Perhaps it was only light leathers… or perhaps horribly impractical finery. He really couldn't remember.

I was definitively armed though… a sword, it even had a name… something ridiculous like Mother's Wail or Golden Claw…

Or was that the valyrian steel sword they made out of Ice?

It was maddening, like being in the middle of an enormous Bravosi play where everybody knew his part but him.

He put those thoughts aside as he climbed atop the big rock, eyeing the Green Fork's slow moving waters before he jumped from the ledge, angling for a dive in one of the river's deeper parts. He crashed against it, the water cleaning the grime and sweat, making him feel somewhat renewed. He swimmed vigorously against the tide, paddling up and down the stream as he loosed himself in the water.

He came out breathing heavily, the eastern sun blinding him as he shook himself off, simply enjoying the morning sun as he let the water leech out of his smallclothes.

Warmth and peace… how little we appreciate the things we take every day… he thought with closed eyes, reveling in the sunlight.

"You're not him, are you?" almost whispered a voice to his side.

He almost jumped, but he managed to restrain himself to a quick turn of his head. There, in between a couple of bushes was Myrcella, somehow without her escorting Septa to boot.

"Myrcella..? What do you mean by that?" he asked as he started putting his plain if serviceable half plate again.

"You move differently, you talk differently… you think differently" she added hesitantly.

You torment us differently, she forgot to add… he thought morosely as he sat on the small clearing, thinking about how he was going to handle this.

"The wisdom of children huh.." he muttered as he shook his head.

"Are you a faceless man?" asked Myrcella as she crept closer, a bit of confidence adorning her features as Joffrey didn't deny her statement.

It says a lot of my old self that she's more comfortable with a Faceless impostor than myself…

"Why do you think that?" he asked, curious.

"That's what one of the servants was saying, before Mother sent him away" she said as she stopped a couple of steps from him, apparently completely convinced he was some kind of other.

Away as in the streets and not the Black Cells, I hope…

He chuckled as he leaned back, deciding to enjoy the sun for a while longer and screw everything else. What am I going to do, scare her even more?

"That's at least the third time I've been mistaken for one…" he said with an amused smile.

"…Who else?" she asked, her voice curious. She approached him another step, and seemed to think for a bit before sitting down closer to him.

"Uncle Tyrion, for one. He never told me but one could tell by the way he cleared the Royal Library of books about the House of Black and White… that's where the Faceless train" he added when he saw Myrcella's confused look.

"The other was Benerro, he was the head worthy of the R'hllorian church back in Volantis… he was so convinced I was not real he shoved his head into a lit brazier… now that was a sight…" he said with a chuckle.

"What?!" Myrcella exclaimed.

"It's true! Blind worship can do that to you," he said with another chuckle. Yes, lame puns, getting back into the Lannister spirit!

Myrcella laughed a bit before the implication hit her. "But… you've never…" she trailed off, confused.

"I'm not the Joffrey you knew Myrcella. I'm still Joffrey but… It's… It's been a long time now…" he said, the words suddenly coming out of his mouth as he blinked repeatedly.

What am I doing?! Get ahold of yourself, soldier!

But he couldn't, he suddenly found out he couldn't shut his mouth off.

"I've seen things Myrcella… I've seen great warlords commanding tens of thousands to their beck and call, sorcerers with powers beyond the ken of simpler men, I've seen natural wonders so beautiful to gaze at as to be reduced to tears, and workings so ancient as to leave one breathless… magic and art and invention and all the workings of our race, and beyond… I've seen the cruelty and the kindness of man in all its splendor, in all its infamy… I've seen things Myrcella… things that no mortal should ever see… abominations of ice and snow and eldritch magic bent on exterminating all that draws breath, workings of ancient lore of a time even beyond our understanding, workings of shapes and concepts that seem more real than you or I… " he said, rushing almost breathlessly as the words kept pouring out of his mouth.

"The things I've seen Myrcella…" he whispered almost to himself, his eyes clouded as he relived a thousand and one memories. "The Joffrey you knew died a long, long time ago Myrcella…" he continued, blinking slowly as the rush of memories gradually stopped.

He looked at her almost against his will. She seemed transfixed by what he'd said, despite being a girl barely over ten. She looked a bit lost, perhaps shocked by his sudden revelation, and she spent a minute puzzling over it.

What she said shocked Joffrey to his core.

"I… I'm glad he's dead," she finally said with a tiny voice.

"… Me too Myrcella… me too," he said as he bobbed his head stupidly.

He stood up as strapped the last of the armor, bowing slightly to his sister before quickly walking back to the camp, incapable of bearing the silence. Things were already moving, and he could see Myrcella's harried looking septa turning over crates and peering over wagons with a vaguely perplexed expression. He thought he understood the poor woman, Myrcella had always been the better behaved of them all.

Apparently the most perceptive too… or perhaps her young age lets her arrive at places adults just can't…

I wonder what she made of my abrupt confession… and I wonder why I suddenly unloaded on a freaking girl of ten…

He could feel just a tiny bit lighter after his chaotic, brief summary of his lives after the first time he saw the purple, just a tiny bit more at ease with himself, despite the occasional foreboding, slightly colder winds that came down the Kingsroad from the North…

And now its back on the Kingsroad again… to Winterfell, and then back to King's Landing…

And then what..?

Death, Ice, Despair.

Joffrey shook his head again, letting the sunlight dissolve those thoughts as he slowly walked back to his tent. There he could see Sandor, about two seconds from starting to search for him himself, and a couple of servants loading his belongings into a wagon. He nodded at Clegane as he arrived, taking one of the chests and loading it into the Wagon. When he turned for another one he was confronted by the disbelieving stares of both servants.

"Oh come on! I'm not a fucking invalid!" he almost shouted… though it only seemed to make the servants even more nervous.

Great! He grumbled.

-.PD.-

AN: Taking it a bit slow as I get my bearings again, kind of like Joffrey here. Funny thing is he was originally going to (somewhat) spill the beans to another person... but when Myrcella asked him, Joffrey just opened up, couldn't hold it in him. It makes some sort of sense if you think about it, (that it was her I mean), but who knows really.

Hope you enjoyed it, and remember to comment!