Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The feast was in full swing, squadrons of maids and servants carried trays full of ale mugs and all manner of roasted beasts, plying Robert and everyone else in the Stark's hall with a never ending supply of merriment.

Joffrey had been sat opposite to Ned's eldest, Robb, and besides his brother and sister. The Stark children were arranged in a row downwards facing Tommen and Myrcella, like duckling in a row. Robb looked like he was having fun, chatting with Theon who sat next to him, boasting about woman and archery, though one could tell he had not forgotten about Jon, occasionally peering at the doors, perhaps hoping his bastard brother had decided to defy Catelyn and attend the feast. The rest of the Stark children seemed to be having fun too, carrying out their typical interactions that Joffrey had found so fascinating years ago, and still did. The interactions of a happy family. Bran was laughing out loud as Arya threw a spoonful of food at Sansa, right at her lush red hair, splattering all over her carefully braided pony tail.

He chuckled a bit at the sight, finding Sansa's progressively reddening face both cute and hilarious. Unfortunately the sight of him laughing at 'her' or rather more accurately the situation itself, caused her to redden even more, tiny tears struggling to be unleashed as she stood up and turned on Arya, shouting 'I hate you!' before storming out of the Hall.

Sansa… he had momentarily struggled with the sudden impulse to spill everything to her when he'd first seen her, strange memories and confusing feelings swirling inside his head before he firmly clamped them down. What possible good would have unloading on her (even more than he'd done with Myrcella anyway) he didn't know, but he'd been but a hair's breadth of doing it.

He sighted as he got back to his food, methodically and efficiently cutting and eating the steak as was his want. He honestly found the fancy food strange to his tastes after the gruel and hardtack of his last life, though the YiTish had been overly fond of spices too, so it sometimes evened out in his mind. He'd been in some sort of conversation with Robb, though for the life of him he couldn't remember what he'd said but a moment before.

"…I'm sorry, I think I lost the last thing you said…" he said awkwardly as Robb and Theon stared at him for a moment too long.

"..Well, Theon here was asking if the King lets you do any archery back in the capital," said Robb, looking curious.

"…Archery? Yeah I know a bit…" Joffrey said distractedly as he scratched the back of his neck, looking back occasionally. He felt he was somehow missing something important.

Theon's eyebrows rose appreciatively as he leaned forward, leaving behind his previous disinterested expression. "Really? I wouldn't have thought you dabbled in that field… you don't quite have the build for it," he probed tentatively, the corner of his mouth threatening to smirk at the subtle barb.

There's something wrong, he thought as he kept turning his head, looking at the great hall's doors before he caught Myrcella looking at him.

Breath, she mouthed to him.

Breath? I'm breathing—

He was suddenly aware of the rate he was breathing at, shaking his head as he settled back in his seat.

"… so… would you like to?" asked Robb tentatively, looking at the doors a bit confused before he turned back to Joffrey, Theon looking on eagerly.

"Sure, sure" nodded Joffrey, bobbing his head as he concentrated on his food.

"Excellent! Tomorrow at the yard then, after breakfast… You'll go first of course, my prince…" Theon said with a triumphant smirk.

"Of course of course…" Joffrey muttered. He still felt he was missing something as he ate, something deep inside him pressing him insistently.

He eyed his own knife suspiciously after each cut, finally finding the source of his discomfort.

"This knife…" he muttered, peering at it closely.

"… What about it?" came the voice of Robb, accompanied by a snort from Theon. "It seems the Prince has an appreciation for Stark cutlery" said the Greyjoy heir.

"This knife… I've seen it before…" he muttered as he tilted the cutlery with his hand, gazing at it intently as if trying to extract some unknowable mystery from it.

A shout startled him out of his contemplation, and he quickly looked up to the big tent's entrance, where a panic'd looking Sunbeam had just opened the tent flap. "The outer guards are deaaaaarrgh--" his scream was cut short by the Shryke that appeared out of nowhere like a specter behind him, cutting his throat with a bronze dagger.

Shrill warscreams erupted at once all around him as Shryke claws tore open sections of the tent, snatching scouts away from their tables as quick as lightning and stabbing the surprised legionnaires dozens of times with their short swords before anyone could even move.

Joffrey didn't even have time to stand up before sharp claws grabbed him from behind and slammed him to the ground. He saw the glossy shine of the bronze short sword moments before he rolled to the side, its sharp blade cutting his left shoulder. He leapt back towards the Shryke before another one he'd spotted in the corner of his eye could gut him from behind, not even having time to draw his katana before he slammed into the scaled humanoid. He grappled with it for two seconds, rolling inside the tent as men screamed and died. He managed to stay on top for a second, pinning the short sword under his weight as his other hand rammed the knife against the Shryke's eye, unleashing strange fluids and screams of agony from it. The Shryke raider kept screaming and screaming as Joffrey rammed the small knife as far as it could go under into the skull, the loud noise mixed with another repeating sound.

"Joffrey, Joffrey! Brother!!!" insisted a voice again and again.

He blinked twice, still looking at the knife in his hand. He was holding it tight with all his strength, his hand almost white and covered by another, smaller one. He stared at the knife in his hand for half a dozen seconds longer before he made up his mind and he delicately left it on the table beside his plate. Myrcella slowly released his hand after that.

"Are you okay, brother?" she asked timidly, as Robb and Theon stared, slightly worried.

"Of course! Of course… I'm fine…" he said, trying to hold the sudden tears in his eyes.

She called me brother… she called me brother…

The thought threatened to make him bawl like a baby for some incomprehensible reason. He squeezed his leg painfully under the table with his other hand, the blessed pain helping his ongoing efforts to try and open his throat.

"…Thank you, sister," he finally managed.

She looked at him for a bit longer before she hesitantly nodded, turning back to her seat as Tommen stared at her in unabashed awe as if she'd just tamed a White Walker.

When the third course arrived, Joffrey tried to in vain to cut the pork in two with his fork, only for the still staring Robb to try and help him. "I can get you another knife Prince Joffrey… if you… wish?" he asked awkwardly.

He tries to sound lordly, he really tries, bless his heart.

"No, thank you," he said as he raised his palm slightly. He gave the dish a second look before leaving the fork too.

"I'm full" he lied as he leaned back on his chair again. He sneaked a glance at the high table, and to his relief found Robert merry and happy as always when he visited Winterfell, relishing each plate as if he were a starving sailor and laughing and teasing Ned without taking a breath. He had resented Robert in some of his lives, so long ago… for his carefree ways even as the Kingdom he left him readied itself to burn to ash. But now he was just glad the old man had something to be happy about in between all the brooding and the worry and the spite…

His mother was looking funny at him again, and Eddard seemed to have caught on that something weird had been going on just a moment before.

Damnit, why do they keep looking at me like that?!

He shook his head angrily as the dessert arrived. Lemon cakes.

Pity about Sansa… he thought as he eyed the dish. This was her favorite…

…I remember that but I couldn't remember how I talked to Robert?! He asked himself as he placed a palm over his face.

-.PD.-

The sound of the whetstone against the steel of his arming sword was a familiar and soothing sound, a regular chriiiick that repeated itself precisely and without a fault. He breathed in each time the whetstone glided down the good castle steel, synchronized with the little gusts of wind that surrounded the weirwood heart tree.

He paused for a moment as a particularly strong, warm gust shifted the leaves around him, letting his head angle slightly upwards as he breathed again with his eyes closed.

It's been a long time…

He let himself relax under the morning sun, reveling in the warm sunlight for a timeless moment before he opened up his eyes and looked in front of him.

"Been following me?" he asked with a half-smile.

"I asked Sandor" said Myrcella as she approached, sitting in a nearby tree branch.

Joffrey's sad looking smile turned a bit warmer at that, grunting as he leaned back again. He'd began an odd sort of friendship with his erstwhile sister in this bizarre, uncomfortable life. He'd found himself opening up about tiny tidbits, fragments too incoherent for her to piece any meaningful story, but enough so they could talk about it.

"You don't have to keep sharpening it, you know? The… ice monsters… they're not here anymore," she told him as he kept sharpening his sword.

"A sword forever sharp and a mind forever ready, in peace and in war," he quoted the mangled translation, moving the whetstone yet again.

"Everything sounds oh so very wise if you make your voice sound like a quote from a hundred year old man" she faux quoted him back.

Joffrey guffawed, shaking his head as he turned back to her. "You… Well played… well played sister" he said with a small chuckle. "What have you and Tommen been up to lately?" he asked, trying to change the theme of the conversation.

For all that she was wise beyond her years, Myrcella was still a girl of ten. "He chased me all the way through the courtyard with Bran, I promised that I'd tell him the spell to tame you if he caught me," she said impishly.

Joffrey grimaced at that, but grunted as after he thought about Bran a little. "I take it Bran had nothing better to do?" he asked.

"Nope, he still thinks it was Arya the one that told on him," she said with a raised, blonde eyebrow.

"Hmm. Yes… Lady Catelyn can be… quite overzealous where the health of her children is concerned," Joffrey said innocently. You won't be climbing again anytime soon Bran Stark, he thought with satisfaction.

He'll be killed and turned into a wight while on his two own feet at least, he thought, the intrusive thought throwing off his budding happy mood.

Chrrrriiick, went the whetstone.

"You know Robb and Theon are still waiting for you at the archery range?" she suddenly said, helping him change his coming brooding mood in a very annoying way. She had a knack for knowing when they came.

"…what?" he asked, confused.

"You said you'd meet them there… yesterday at the feast," she said with a cheeky smile.

"…I… you… I did didn't I?" he grumbled as he stood up, tightening the loose straps of his steel chest plate by reflex as he sheathed his sword.

"You did," she confirmed as he jogged back out of the Godswood, somehow knowing the layout by hard even after all the years gone by. He arrived at the training yard to the sight of a bored Ser Rodrick Cassel, idly cleaning one of the training swords as Robb and Theon chatted lazily by the archery target.

"Robb! Theon! I'm sorry for the delay…" he said as he arrived.

"Don't worry, the outcome will be the same," said Theon as he stood up from a roll of hay, smirking when he saw Joffrey's plate. "I assure you this will be perfectly safe my prince," he said as he mock bowed.

"Just get this over with quickly, will you?" murmured Robb as he got close to Theon and handed him a bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Royalty first, of course," said the Greyjoy as he handed the bow and quiver to Joffrey.

Joffrey just raised an incredulous eyebrow at Robb, chuckling at the Greyjoy heir's antics. "Very kind of you," he said, leaving the boy flatfooted as Robb eyed him keenly for the first time in the day.

They all walked back to the edge of the range as Joffrey tied the quiver to his belt and tested the unfamiliar bow, bending it slightly and testing the string. "Alright boys, my prince" nodded Ser Rodrick as he stood up, leaving the sword there as he walked to them. "One arrow each until the quiver is empty or the opponent calls it off, then we'll compare targets" he said, pointing at the two hay-and-wood targets down range, next to the training square. "And if any of you little menaces cross the range without my say so"- he grumbled as he looked up to the raised bridge corridor just behind the training square, -"I'll tan the hide out of you myself!" he finished, extracting hurried assent from the gallery of bobbing heads that was Bran, Arya, Tommen, Rickon, and Sansa.

"Seems we've got quite the audience," grimaced Joffrey.

"Indeed we do," relished the damned squid.

Ser Rodrick seemed to take pity on his expression as he hurried the proceedings. "Well, go ahead when you are ready Prince Joffrey," he said.

Joffrey just chuckled as he shook his head, "Alright" he said as he took an arrow from the quiver, placed it on the bow and loosed, the arrow quickly inserting itself in the throat of the Camel Tribe raider. He tumbled back down the dune as a small squirt of blood erupted from his mouth, his face locked in surprise. "ARCHERS! LOOSE AT WILL!" Joffrey screamed, his leg burning as if it were on fire after the near miss of a javelin.

-----

Bloodied scouts kneeled to his sides under the baleful glare of the half-moon high in the sky, loosing arrows as fast as they could as dozens of the raiders dashed up the dune, their camels curiously absent. They shrieked their characteristic ululating scream as they dashed upwards, sabers raised high as arrows planted themselves with horribly loud thuds on chests and legs, unleashing horrifying screams of agony as they fell backwards, tangling up their comrades in their death throes. Their scream were ragged, almost exhausted as they soldiered on, jumping over their fallen comrades.

"DON'T LET THEM GET TO MELEE RANGE! CUT THEM DOWN!" screamed Joffrey as the Scouts unleashed a desperate storm of arrows. Joffrey loosed every three seconds, his movements precise like some sort of clockwork mechanism. He planted an arrow in the chest of a raider not older than fifteen, another on a screaming warrior's neck, and yet another one on a small child barely capable of wielding the sabre he held with both hands. The bodkin arrow slammed through his skull like a ballista bolt, making him collapse like a puppet with the strings cut off.

They're kids, they're just kids, thought Joffrey in horror, his hands still moving as the armed remnants of the Camel Tribe charged up the dune in terror and bloodlust, knowing their only salvation rested in butchering Joffrey and his men.

If we stop we'll die, If we stop we'll die, If we stop we'll die, Joffrey repeated inside his head again and again as he kept loosing arrows. He slayed a woman with a dirk, her steps faltering as she fell on her belly, the raging sandstorm already burying her lithe form. He planted a broadhead on the chest of a boy of his age, his frightened eyes blinking slowly as he plummeted back, not quite understanding the sudden turn of events. The mob kept getting closer and closer, and Joffrey despaired as his quiver kept getting emptier, his arrows dwindling to nothing, the screaming mob almost upon them.

He snapped an arrow from the quiver, fast as lightning as he let loose on a raging berserker taller than the Eastern Winds' figurehead. The man roared in pain as he kept running up the dune, not minding the arrow in his shoulder, wielding a saber with his right hand and carrying something with his left. Joffrey fetched another arrow desperately, pinning it in the huge man's gut. The Camel Tribe warrior shook his head like a bull, still running up the slope with what remained of his tribe, almost a dozen steps away from the ragged line of Scouts. Joffrey suddenly realized it was not bloodlust that dominated the man's eyes, but terror. Terror and despair as he tried to cover the small, crying bundle of blankets with his big hand.

Joffrey didn't hesitate, the sandstorm buffeting him as he loosed another arrow, the bodkin inserting itself in the man's sternum. He dropped his hand for another arrow, his heart clenching in terror as he grasped nothing but air. The man screamed desperately, one last ragged rallying cry emerging from his bloodied lips as he raised his saber to cut him down, just a few steps away from him.

"SWOOOOORDS! SWOOOOORDS!" Joffrey screamed as he tossed the bow aside and drew his katana, the bundle in the warrior's blood soaked hands wailing and wailing and wailing—

"—it's okay, it's okay, breath brother, breathe deeply, it's okay, it's okay," repeated Myrcella as she hugged him as tight as she could. Joffrey realized distantly he was hyperventilating, his breathing louder than a bull's as he swayed, staring fixedly at the archery target like a madman. It looked like a hedgehog, filled with arrows, most of them surrounding the circle's center or a bit up, roughly where the head should be in a person.

"Aahh… I… aahhh… aahhh… I'mhh… aaahhhh" he struggled to say, swaying as he stared at the sword that lay clasped in his sweaty palm, its tip unerringly aimed in the archery target's direction. "I'm… aaah… I'm okay… I'm okay Myrcella…" he managed, lowering the sword as he struggled for more air. His sister let him go hesitantly as his swaying lessened and his hands stopped shaking. He tried to breathe deeply as he sheathed the arming sword, clumsily trying to wipe his drenched forehead with his hand. "Thank you," he muttered as Myrcella gave him a piece of cloth which he used to wipe the sweat off his eyes.

He turned back and saw his assorted audience up in the corridor staring at him in varying degrees of awed confusion. They were quickly scrambled by the booming voice of Ser Rodrick though. "Alright you lot! That's enough for the day!" he thundered, shooing them only with his voice. "Here, drink it all," he ordered Joffrey with the tone of an experienced Sunbeam as he passed him a waterskin. Joffrey obeyed without question, downing the water gratefully. "Let it drip over your head, shake out of it completely," he insisted as he grabbed his shoulder. Joffrey did as he was told, the cold water running down his body and clearing the strange cobwebs that insisted he stare at the target range.

He turned back to Robb and Theon, picking up the bow from the ground. "I'm really sorry Theon, I kind of got carried away there… would you like to…" Joffrey trailed off as the Greyjoy heir raised his hands chest high and warded him off "No, no, I think we all know who the better marksman here is…" he said, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice for once. "…Where did you learn… that," he asked, pointing at the target, all twenty arrows either close to the center or higher.

"I…" Joffrey started but was promptly interrupted by Ser Rodrick, "You've had your fun for the day boys, now scram before Lord Stark starts inquiring about the improper use of the training yard," he commanded as he took the bow and quiver from Joffrey's hands.

"But Rodrick--" tried Robb, only to be glared down by the Master-at-Arms. "I guess we'll see you later Joffrey, nice shooting," he congratulated him with a slightly awed look himself, before walking away with a thoughtful Theon.

"Sit here," commanded Ser Rodrick with that universal tone Sunbeams use to have a talk with their officers. Joffrey sat in the wooden bench, taking another sip as the Master-At-Arms of Winterfell sat next to him. "Been getting worse?" he asked, straight to the point.

"…A little," lied Joffrey, staring at his unmoving hand.

"And the nightmares?" asked Ser Rodrick as he gazed at the target.

"They're fine," said Joffrey a tad too fast, still staring at his hand as flexed it over and over, feeling the painful exertion in his strained arms and shoulders.

"… I see," muttered the knight, turning to look at Joffrey once more.

"I'm fine, Ser Rodrick," Joffrey insisted as he stood up and walked away, somewhat thinking more clearly now.

"Of course, my prince," he said as Joffrey made for the keep. Before he could walk away completely though, the Master-At-Arms raised his voice again.

"A bit of nightshade essence will help, when the screams get too loud," he called out quietly.

Joffrey stopped by the keep's door. He stayed there for a second before turning and nodding respectfully at the Master-At-Arms.

"Thank you, Ser," he called out in the same low tone before entering the main keep.

-.PD.-

"Thanks, for what you did back there… you seem to be the only person here that can handle me when I… go back…" Joffrey said awkwardly, seating next to Myrcella in the Stark's dining hall.

"It's alright, I just do what I'd do with a kitten," she said with a willful smile.

"A kitten huh…" Joffrey chuckled slightly, his green eyes clouded, thoughtful.

"Well, it has worked so far has it not..?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It has! It has…" Joffrey surrendered immediately. "Has anyone started asking too many questions?" he asked her.

Since when was I reduced to using a ten year old girl as my chief informant… he thought for the umpteenth time as Myrcella looked up thoughtfully.

"Hmmm, well, I told Tommen not to tell anyone, and he hasn't so far… you should really talk to him by the way," she scolded him.

"I will… someday, alright?" he appeased her, before gesturing to go on with a fork (fortunately his… issues with the Stark cutlery had died down… for now).

"You really should, he still doesn't believe me the old Joffrey died…" she said flippantly, and Joffrey cringed as he tilted his head from side to side, seeing if anyone heard that.

"Would you please keep your voice down," he muttered.

"Everyone's thinking the littlest Stark boys made it up, and that Sansa found the tale so incredible she now thinks she saw it. Arya followed along to make fun of her, and Robb and Theon haven't said a word from what I've heard," she continued as if she hadn't heard him.

"But Ser Rodrick is bound to have told Ned…" Joffrey sighted.

"And he probably told Father," finished Myrcella.

"That explains the recent whispers coming from the high table," muttered Joffrey as he let his head fall a little, eyeing a very, very rare King Robert as he played with his food.

Wow… that is bad. Very bad.

"I just don't understand why you don't tell everyone…" Myrcella pouted as she ate halfheartedly.

"They'll lock me up in my room in shame and hope the other nobles don't notice one of King Robert's 'sons' is a few fruits short of a basket…" Joffrey said gloomily.

"But I believed you! I'll help you convince them!" she declared as her whole face lit up.

Joffrey was assaulted by the bizarre impulse to ruffle her blonde locks; instead he contented himself with leaning his head against her shoulder. "That would be very funny," he said, relishing the close contact with someone whom he thought would have never been able to forgive his old sins.

"You should really talk to Tommen," idly commented Myrcella.

"I told you I will eventually, why…" he trailed off as he saw Tommen, sitting in a table in front of them besides Bran Stark. He was staring at Myrcella, his jaw literally open and his eyes wide as if he were staring at a living Goddess.

Joffrey choked on his pudding for a second before he bellowed in bone deep laughter, a rich sound he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard it.

Tommen swiveled his head like a madman from side to side as if to say 'is anyone else seeing this?!' which of course made Joffrey laugh even harder.

-.PD.-

Joffrey had mixed feelings about the end of their stay at Winterfell. On one hand, turning back to King's Landing meant examining some hard truths he'd been suppressing since he'd found out he was still alive. On the other, it meant that he would not have to endure Robb and Theon's almost painful curiosity. There were many more things he would have liked to do there, like talking to Jon, interrogate Benjen Stark about the Night's Watch, or spend another day meditating under the incomparable Winterfell Godswood (that had really sent some heads spinning…). Alas, time, as always, moved on.

He went with the flow, more or less, doing what was expected of him (or what he thought was expected of him, the differences were sometimes unfathomable and unknowable, and Joffrey had given up on figuring them out after they'd ridden past the Neck). He'd been wary of interacting with Sansa at all, half fearful he would unload everything into her in a moment of weakness, which seemed plentiful enough. He maintained his distance from practically everyone except Tyrion and Myrcella, two people that had somehow managed to slip under his guard in this life.

The slightly distorted visions of his past kept getting worse and worse, confusing him and making him mad. The accompanying feelings they usually carried would sometimes strike all on their lonesome, making him blink heavily under the sunlight or force him to sit down for no reason, as if he'd lost control of his own body.

They were very annoying… but he moved on, like he always had. Myrcella had been an unexpected godsend in that regard. She had taken an almost motherly role with him, hearing him speak about a few slightly sanitized memories and holding him when he started to cry silently for, infuriatingly enough, no apparent reason, always in the middle of the night. He didn't know if the servants and guards (of both him and Myrcella) knew… if they did they had kept mum about it. Sandor certainly knew, he had become a strange sort of enabler, making sure his tent and Myrcella's were always close together when they camped.

Joffrey was not ashamed. He'd lost such uselessly idiotic feelings along with his arm and his eye, left forgotten atop some godsforsaken dune. What threatened to make him go into a blind rage was the fact this was happening at all, as if his own body and mind were rebelling against himself. The fact that Myrcella's soothing voice helped at all was something he thanked daily, though to what god or eldritch being he didn't know.

Tyrion, his other pillar of support that helped him weather the storm, had opted for a completely different approach. He did his best to keep him distracted, talking about, for example, his mind bogglingly funny adventures in Casterly Rock when he was a child. They had all the makings of an epic saga, complete with witty characters, unexpected twists and the looming figure of the evil enemy, Grandfather Tywin, gazing from the ether with his classical timeless glare and working his will through his minions.

Joffrey could empathize with that…

Tyrion's prescribed treatment, though, took a radical turn after he witnessed a particularly bad episode.

-.PD.-

"By the Seven when are they going to fix that carriage!?" Joffrey muttered from the patch of grass he was laying upon. He was doing his best impression of a sack of potatoes as he lay still in the sunlight, battling a mind crushing boredom that threatened to destroy his sanity. "How long have we been on this miserable stretch of road again?" he asked out loud.

The imp rose from the tall grass like some sort of eldritch sapling, shaking off pieces of green as he looked up, then to the horizon. "Well, the sun was on the opposite edge the last time I really looked," he said. "I think I'm starting to gain a newfound empathy for our dear King Robert" he muttered as he turned back and gazed at the never-sufficiently-cursed-wheelhouse.

"Me too… imagine that…" Joffrey snorted in disbelief. "Why didn't we ride with him and Ned again?" he asked him as he sat up, shaking off weeds and other assorted greens. "They must be munching down half the Royal Kitchens by now… well, Robert is anyway," he grumbled as he turned and looked at the imp.

"You didn't want to leave Myrcella behind… though there's something to be said about staring at the same piece of sky for hours… I think you may be unto something nephew…" said Tyrion.

"That joke got old like five hours ago uncle… Ugh, that's it," said Joffrey as he stood up, effortlessly standing up without his hands.

"You think you're going to succeed where an experienced carpenter and his five Cercei-scream-powered apprentices failed?!" Tyrion called out as Joffrey stomped meaningfully towards the disabled wheelhouse.

"Yes!" he shouted back, climbing the slight slope until he reached the road and the cursed carriage. Tommen and Myrcella were playing at the far end of the caravan, and he could see his mother taking supper with her ladies in waiting by a table on the other side of the road. The Wheelhouse itself was propped by a couple of sturdy crates as the master carpenter and his disheveled apprentices worked on it at full speed.

"Good evening gentlemen," Joffrey called out as he grabbed a hammer and some nails.

"M'prince!" squeaked the master carpenter as if he'd seen a ghost… or an executioner. "Everything is proceeding perfectly, we'll get this… beautiful wheelhouse up and moving in no time," he lied so obviously Joffrey's forehead hurt.

"Look, is there anything I can do to help, I'm going to go mad if I don't do something," said Joffrey, the words pouring out.

"The prince working like a common apprentice!!!" he choked with a horrified expression, "Why, I'd never-".

"Master Corlys, please," he begged him, "I can hammer something in, I'm good at that," he tried.

Something about what he'd said had startled the Master Carpenter. He nodded reluctantly as he pointed at one of the spare wheels. "That wheel steel needs the supporting nails hammered in, we are going to need it when… if the next wheel breaks" he said.

Joffrey bowed slightly before walking towards the wheel. "Much appreciated, Master Corlys," he said as he grabbed some more nails. The Master Carpenter said nothing as Joffrey sat down next to the wheel, sitting on his sheens and placing a nail over the charcoal marked X.

"Alright, this seems easy enough," he muttered as he lifted the hammer, all the hair at the back of his neck standing at once as he hammered down with all his strength. The White Walker shrieked in pain as its head slammed to the ground under the impact and Joffrey snarled as he lifted his wickedly sharp flanged mace again, the metal prosthesis glinting under the moonlight as he hammered down savagely, breaking off pieces of the prone White Walker's head. He was kneeling over it, ignoring the painful cold that was creeping up his legs as he pumped his arm up and down, shattering the thing's head with each blow.

He looked up and saw the burning wreckage of what used to be the Dragon Choir launch towers. The wall section seemed to be flooded by wights and Walkers, slaying the wounded and the unconscious as they advanced almost mechanically over the annihilated husk of the 117th Consolidated Iron Garrison and the slain operators of the 8th, 12th and 17th Dawn Fort Artillery.

"Sunbeam Jonki!!! Get the men in order, prepare for a counter charge!" he snarled at the man next to him. The Sunbeam regarded him with dead eyes, blood slowly oozing from his body as he leaned on a crenellation.

The Walker shrieked weakly from below him, stirring against his weight. It seemed almost incoherent as Joffrey snarled again with another savage blow, turning its head into blue mush as the ice shattered under the flanges.

He struggled to breath, using his mace hand as support against the floor.

If we get overwhelmed here the whole Inner Wall will fall… he thought desperately as he looked back to the trios of Walkers roaming all over the wall section, securing the beachhead and consolidating against a counter attack.

They knew exactly what they were doing… and Joffrey didn't have the men here to stop them.

"What the…" he whispered as he focused on a small moving thing inside the perimeter established by the Walkers atop the wall. "…Jun..?" he muttered, confused as he stood up, looking at small slip of a girl crawling under some debris. The raging fires close by illuminated her terrified features perfectly, but the Walkers had somehow missed her.

"What are you doing..?" Joffrey muttered, taking a moment to breathe again before he spat a glob of blood. The little orphan was crawling with the big wooden spoon she'd been using to serve broth to weary legionnaires in what seemed like centuries ago, wielding it as if the bloody thing would even scratch a Walker. She was making her way towards a piece of burning wood next to a wrecked ballista, to what—

The Walkers of the perimeter turned as one suddenly, shrieking as they marched towards her. Jun stood up quickly though, dashing like a terrier towards the piece of burning wood and wrenching it with terror fueled strength. She then dashed towards the pile of stacked Coiling Dragons next to the destroyed launcher.

"JUN! N-" he shouted as he gave a step towards her only for an impossibly large explosion to pick him up as if he were a mere leaf, punching him backwards with the fury of a thousand lightning bolts as the right side of his face, the right side of his whole body, burned in agony.

He screamed incoherently as he bounced on the ground before the earth stopped moving and he lay on his back. He couldn't hear anything, an omnipresent chime drowning everything else as he tilted his head drunkenly, watching the eerily silent figures of legionnaires and Master Corlys' apprentices crouching to his side and uselessly trying to help him. He tried to crawl backwards, his hands oddly unresponsive as he only managed to shuffle a bit. He ran his nails against his cheek, trying to extract but a shred of feeling from it, only to feel absolutely nothing even as they came away with blood. He kept clawing his cheek as he tried to crawl backwards with his other hand, the monotonous chime somehow turning louder and louder still!

Why can't I feel my face?! Why can't I feel my face?!?!

Myrcella shoved one of the Threeray's aside as she crouched by his side, her hand cupping his cheek firmly even though his wild clawing drew blood from her hand instead of his cheek. She still left her hand there, her slight grimace the only indication of pain.

Slowly, blessedly, the senses returned to the right side of his face, the indistinct buzz coalescing into the distinctive shape of Myrcella's hand. His hand stopped clawing hers and instead latched on like a drowning sailor grabs a length of rope. She stayed there as the overwhelming chime slowly lessened in intensity, and Joffrey realized he had been screaming all this time.

He clamped his mouth shut, breathing harshly through his nostrils as he focused on Myrcella's soothing voice, blinking rapidly as the ambient light returned to its normal levels, leaving the dark grey behind. 'Breathe,' she mouthed quietly, her green eyes locked with his as his wild heart settled and he stopped struggling, laying there on the ground for a few moments as his jumbled thoughts took their time knitting back together into a coherent whole.

He stood up shakily, slowly moving his head side to side before Myrcella ripped a piece of her dress and stilled him long enough to tie a crude bandage to his cheek.

Cercei appeared from behind the Wheelhouse, her hands holding the lower parts of her dress as she ran towards him. "Mother" muttered Joffrey as he hugged her, almost melting down as his legs threatened to let go. She hugged him back, whispering sweet nothings as she petted his hair over and over.

And then she screamed at the Red Cloaks.

"What have you done to my son!" she screamed in genuine angst, "Get them! Now!!!" she screeched as she pointed at Master Corlys and his apprentices.

The Red Cloaks that had only recently arrived unsheathed their swords and moved towards the now terrified carpenters, but before they could do more than move Joffrey shoved his mother to the side and unsheathing both arming sword and one handed mace as he stood in front of the carpenters in two smooth steps.

"Sheath your swords good sers!" he commanded, his arming sword held in a high guard as his mace hanged low, almost lazily against his right leg. The Red Cloaks were staring nervously at the mace, not the sword.

Smart boys, thought Joffrey approvingly as he tightened his grip on the mace very slightly. "Now, if you please," he asked gently, the confused swirl of before being replaced by a kind of crystal clear reality almost instantly as his body practically singed for a fight.

A large part of him was begging the Red Cloaks to attack, begging like never before as reality seemed to somehow get even more real, like a blind man opening his eyes for the first time.

The Red Cloaks lasted a second under his gaze before they all sheathed their swords, standing back awkwardly as Cercei, the Carpenters and basically everyone looked on in confusion. "Thank you," he said as he sheathed both of his weapons, inexplicably disappointed.

"Sorry mother," he said as he helped up a vaguely dazed Cercei. "The carpenters had nothing to do with it, okay?" he said as he brushed a bit of the dirt from her dress. She said nothing as he walked to his sister.

"I'm sorry Myrcella" he said as he grabbed her already bandaged hand tenderly, only for her to smirk and walk away, "Tommen fight's harder!" she called out as she returned to his slack jawed brother.

He shook his head as he walked back a bit drunkenly to the edge of the road where Tyrion lay downing a wineskin and looking thoroughly entertained. He'd known getting mixed into the whole thing would have accomplished nothing, apparently.

"Nephew, we need to get you laid," he said as if he'd just muttered an utterly profound, timeless wisdom.

Joffrey just stared at him before snatching the wineskin from his hands.

Arbor Gold had never tasted so fucking good.

-.PD.-