Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Joffrey's back was as straight as a plank, his breathing even. The soft pillow's of Castle Darry had proven too much for him, and he'd ended up in an extended meditation session. Minisa Darry had been despondent when Joffrey showed up with upwards of seven thousand men beneath her front gate, the news travelling faster than horse as always. Joffrey had barely manage to promise the lives of those within before she surrendered the castle… he was almost certain the Silent Sisters would have a new acolyte soon.

He dispelled the worries and the nightmares as he kept sinking within his consciousness, the sea of meanings growing indistinct as the blessed peace flooded throughout him, carrying him deep within. He felt like a stone sinking throughout the depths of the summer sea, sinking, sinking, sinking…

Again he felt the tiny brush of what felt like the bone tablet, familiar, so far away in the Red Keep yet so close all the same, almost as if he could touch it. His awareness slowly concentrated on a single point as he traced the feeling deep within, following the feelings of familiar mystery and knowledge, sea salt and storms, coarse lines over white smoothness. He followed its pull, the same way he'd done with Stars, using the sensation as a rope to guide himself. He examined the thing with something far more complete than mere eyesight, than sound, than touch. It was everything the tablet was, almost a concept, its very being anchored or connected by strange twisting lines around it. Joffrey followed the connections as they got more complex, twists turning into fractals, shadows acquiring weight and lines becoming tethers as Joffrey stared up and up and up until he realized he was staring at his very soul in all its terrifying complexity, held up by a never ending cathedral of terrible Purple pillars that extended to infinity-

He gave a strangled scream as he opened his eyes, breathing like a madman as he stood up from the ground and fell, curling upon himself as he closed his arms around his chest. He bit his hand as he blinked rapidly, rocking back and forth and drawing blood from his palm, the blessed pain anchoring him back to reality. Anchoring back to what he thought was reality.

…Even though the pain felt less real than the pillars.

"Your Grace?! Joffrey?!" shouted blessed Sandor as he shook him.

Joffrey looked at him like a drowning sailor eyes a bit of flotsam, practically strangling him as he leapt at him with shaky hands.

Sandor Clegane. The Hound. He felt real.

He hugged him tightly, feeling the cold of his breastplate and the slight breath of ale, the awkward patting and the dubious voice.

"It's only nightmares… Joffrey. It's only nightmares," he said awkwardly.

For a second Joffrey thought he was back in the Red Keep, so great was his disorientation. What was real? What was not? The slowly returning guilt over the killing of Lord Darry and his son was almost a balm to his being, the familiar, weary weight of his hopeless task and the tiredness of his body taking his mind away from the existential dread.

"I'm okay Sandor, I'm okay. I think…. I think I'm okay," he muttered as he let him go.

The Hound stood back with a hesitant step, Ser Barristan pointedly looking out of the room at his side.

"Thank you Sandor, thank you, thank you," he said as he took a deep breath, shaking his head every two seconds.

Does not even meditation give me peace anymore? He thought in mounting despair. He shook his head one last time, concentrating on the here and now. "Sandor… tell the men we move out today, they've rested enough," he told him.

The Hound nodded as he stepped back, the look of respect he'd strove so hard to get in so many past lives devoid of the laugh lines of friendship. He found out he much preferred the latter as he looked away, sitting in the floor again. He barely slept in beds anymore, his body almost finding the hard ground more comfortable than the distressingly sinking beds of Westeros. Certainly preferable than the claustrophobic shifting sand that passed for a mattress in Castle Darry.

He shook his head once more. There was work to do.

-.PD.-

The tale of what happened in the 'Battle of the Bloody Fields' spread far and wide, as those things tend to do. Joffrey had been a bit surprised by the name, though in hindsight Westerosi had an almost natural knack for naming things like that in a manner that was both highly creative and highly predictable at the same time. More surprised had been Lord Edgerton congratulating on winning such a battle so decisively.

"… why is everyone calling this a battle?" he'd asked him in an admittedly confrontational manner. Lord Geyn had just looked confused as Joffrey waved it off, disappointed at himself for unloading on the man. Besides the fact that their little scuffle by the God's Eye barely counted as a skirmish, battles were supposed to have… more… meaning… something. He felt calling it anything else but a farce was a disservice to everyone that died there… alas, his outburst had only served to gain him more strange looks from the knights and lords of his retinue.

His handling of the strange manner of martial politics involving war in Westeros had been decidedly lukewarm however. His decision to grant Castle Darry to one of Lord Buckwell's sons had been well received, and more than just in his opinion. The doughty lord of the Antlers had succumbed to his wounds the day after the 'battle', much to Joffrey's mounting frustration with the world in general. His decision to send Lord Gaunt to secure the loyalty of the nearby holdfasts and houses of the Ruby Ford had proven less successful. Lord Gaunt had been on the edge of rage as he rode off with a snarl, the fact that his men were the most intact within the force and his personality the best suited to the task apparently lost on the man. All he had cared of was the 'dishonor' of abandoning his liege lord in the middle of a campaign, to round up a few no name riverlanders. His lords and knights looked at him with respect now, sometimes even fear, but even so it seemed his 'hard' ways had been a strain for many to bear. From the organizing of the baggage train to his policy on raiding to placing the most competent in charge instead of those with more prestige or men, it seemed his way of doing warfare was trampling egos and prides like an elephant amok. The fear and respect had silenced many, but drove others to speak in private, merely managing their disrespect in private instead of doing it openly like before. Even his decision to completely encircle and annihilate the riverlander force in the 'battle' had caused some controversy, with many believing some smaller houses would have just been content to bleeding Joffrey's army a bit before yielding with honor and swearing their oaths on their own terms.

Joffrey couldn't really give a damn. If they'd thought he was going to leave an operational force at his back, free to raid his logistics or his rear out of some misplaced sense of chivalry then the lords still had a lot to learn.

He looked to his left at the meandering waters of the Green Fork, leaves and twigs floating down along with the occasional river trout, jumping from the depths and disappearing in an instant.

I'd like to take a river boat through these waters someday… with only the sun and the gentle swaying to worry about… he mused distantly as his horse cantered along the kingsroad, practically at the head of his army. The constant rumble of their march quickly awoke him from the reverie though.

"So, what's with the death wish?" he suddenly asked the rather weary looking youth in Mooton livery, riding his own horse at his side.

He seemed startled as he looked back, "Ah, Your Grace… Its… I was only carrying out my duty," he said, uncomfortable with the subject.

Master Willard Mooton had bent the knee and swore loyalty to the crown in the name of House Mooton, but they hadn't spoken much since then beyond an accounting of his surviving forces and the sending of a rider to fetch reinforcements to Maidenpool. Joffrey was curious to learn more about him, finding him vaguely intriguing. He'd joined him shortly after the army had gotten on the way, very wary at what his new King wanted from him.

"That was more than loyalty. No one expects a noble to charge to his death when there is the chance of an honorable surrender," Joffrey mused out loud. After so many years of travel and meeting so many people, he knew when there was something else to dig within the young heir.

"It was the only choice for me, Your Grace. I had to," he said with a strange kind of brittle intensity.

Joffrey leaned back on his saddle, "It's okay to be afraid Willard, anyone who-"

"I WAS NOT AFRAID!" he suddenly exploded, his whole body tensing.

Joffrey said nothing as he kept riding, gazing at the river again. A line of great poplar trees lined the edge of this part of the Green Fork, serving as a natural wall and drainage system that kept the river's flow stable, the compact earth and the small, weedy flowers evidence enough of careful tending by patient hands.

"I almost shat myself during my first battle," Joffrey said suddenly, his eyes distant. He could feel the incredulity in Willard's stare, the disbelief shining from him like some sort of fiery orb.

"It feels like a lifetime ago… multiple lifetimes ago," he laughed at his own pun, looking at a slight bend in the river, the small cul-de-sac filled with errant lily pads that had lost their way. "I ran away, couldn't stand the steady pounding of foot and bows… it was dark, nighttime," he continued, the lilies transforming into small row boats and burning galleys, each lily holding grim faced men from Dragonstone.

"Yes… I remember being shocked at how dark everything was. Looking from torch to torch as if trying to absorb their light for my own use," he said with a small chuckle. "I really did know nothing back then... So of course I was almost constantly blinded when I looked down the walls… I thought my heart was going to explode by the way it was beating… I had somehow constructed this image inside my mind of a dreaded warrior… the dread King Joffrey… with his named sword and his fine armor… a legend in the making…" he trailed off, his gaze going up slowly as if following an invisible projectile hurling itself towards the sky. "The arrows fell so quickly… they were like rain…" he almost whispered.

They rode in silence for a while, until Joffrey turned his gaze to the entranced Master Willard. "The dread King Joffrey…" he repeated again with a self-depreciating smile. "What are the men calling me now?" he asked him.

Willard shifted uneasily over his saddle, looking at a random pebble on the road before looking back to Joffrey's chin, "The Bloody Lion, Your Grace," he said at last.

Joffrey smiled lightly, looking back towards the road, "I would have loved that name back then… 'The Bloody Lion'… so evocative… like something out of the Dance of Dragons, a maesterly historical work… perhaps an old King of the Rock…" he mused before breathing heavily. "If only he'd known… if only I'd known…" Joffrey trailed off once again, looking down at his chest. "Later, the fear of battle… it used to make me feel alive..." he whispered, so low Willard had to lean, his attention supreme. "It used to be something visceral, terrifying while strangely invigorating… but now every time I feel it less and less…" he suddenly turned to Willard, holding his eyes with his gaze, "Fear does more than keep you alive… it grounds you. It… it's…" Joffrey tried to find the words, not really looking at Willard, but beyond.

"It's a mirror… A reminder. A partner… without it… without it… you lose one of the anchors," he finally managed, frustrated at the very imperfect analogy.

"One of the anchors?" asked Willard, still as a statue as their horses kept moving.

"One of the anchors that tethers you," said Joffrey, suddenly slamming his fist against his breastplate and startling Willard. "Here. Now," he said as he pounded the breastplate over his chest with each word. "You don't want to lose that anchor Willard… there's so few of them… so few of them left…" he trailed off.

They continued in silence for what seemed like an hour, a flock of river warblers flying overhead, chirping occasionally as they landed on the other side of the Green Fork.

Suddenly, Willard spoke. "My Lord Father… he… he's not the bravest of lords…" he trailed off as he shook his head, turning to look at Joffrey once more, decisive. "No. He's a coward. He's the laughing stock of Maidenpool's vassals. He wouldn't come out of the walls even if bandits were terrorizing a village half a day's ride away..." he trailed off, ashamed.

"Is that why you use a two-hander instead of a shield?" said Joffrey, "To show them all you're not afraid? That you're not like him?" he asked him.

Willard took his time, examining his hand. "I grew up surrounded by the laughter. The japes," he said the word like a curse.

"And yet you still fear," Joffrey stated.

"…Yes…" said Willard.

"That's good, Willard. It means your life is very precious to you. Some would say the only way to be brave is to be afraid… paradoxical, I know," he said with a small smile. "You refused to yield even after you saw me best knights and lords many times your better in war… I'd say you grew past the shadow of your father a long time ago," he said simply.

Master Willard said nothing as the horses kept cantering along the road, the lilies flowing downstream.

-.PD.-

The great oaken snake crushed him within its grip, his bones tearing apart as a liquid agony coursed through his veins, the screams of dying men all-encompassing like a discordant, maddened tune Joffrey couldn't stop listening to. The screams and the singing of steel on steel had him its grip as Joffrey rolled from under the blanket inside his tent, grabbing Sandor by the neck as his other hand held an obsidian dagger at the ready.

The screeching steel and the panicked screams did not stop as he woke up.

"Raiders! Get behind me!" The Hound bellowed as he turned back towards the tent flap with longsword, Joffrey returning the obsidian dagger to his ankle sheath and putt on his boots. In twenty seconds he was sporting his sword and hammer, though he didn't have time to wear anything heavier than a gambeson.

They both left the tent to the sight of Ser Barristan slashing at a horse's legs, brutally unseating the rider and delivering a swift finishing blow. "Tully's, Your Grace!" he shouted.

Hoster? Edmure? How?

"Follow me! Let's rally at the command tent!" Joffrey bellowed as he made his way throughout the chaos, shouting and roaring at everyone he could see, trying to make them follow him.

Soon he had a sizeable following, though there seemed to be more panicked trampling than fighting, a few enemy horsemen throwing torches at supply tents and makeshift stables before riding out as fast as they could in between the confusion.

"Spread out! Spread out!!! Don't let them burn the tents!" Joffrey roared, waving his sword and shoving bleary eyed levies and men at arms.

As soon as it started, it was suddenly over, the horsemen melting into the night as they left their fires to burn. Joffrey organized a bucket chain using the Green Fork as a source of water, all the while trying to get the men in order to receive a possible, second attack. Ser Barristan proved his worth in gold there, rallying the men and forming them up quickly beneath the raging fires.

"Where the hells were our scouts?!" Joffrey bellowed as he spotted a dazed looking, lightly armored Rosby man.

"Th-They came outta nowhere my liege! The Blackfish' himself cut down Ser Ethon with single stroke!" he shouted back, looking lost.

"What's your name?!" Joffrey asked him.

The man swallowed before quickly answering, "Tiler, my liege," he said.

"Find the rest of your riders, and take anyone else you need! You're in command until the morning, don't let them get the jump on us again!" he said as he clapped his shoulder hard.

He looked panicked for a second before Joffrey's steel gaze grounded him, "Aye ser!" he said as he ran back, shouting at a few of nearby men who were already atop their horses.

Joffrey kept organizing the damage control efforts, and soon the sun was rising over the east as he met with his ragged looking vassals by the command tent. "How did this happen?" he asked, his voice hollow.

Lord Edgerton looked outraged, "The Blackfish's men must have slain our scouts over the course of the night… We know for a certainty he personally led a fierce skirmish against Ser Ethon's group though… he struck us soon after, before word from the survivors could properly reach us.

Joffrey breathed heavily as he looked at Lord Rykker, "Renfred, our supply's?" he asked him.

The burly lord of the Dun Fort looked furious for once, muttering under his breath before looking at him, "Not as bad as we first though. They went for the bigger tents first, the ones that held the least…" he said as he nodded at Joffrey, "that idea of yours may have saved more than we can count, though we'll have to resort to foraging again. Casualties were light, but Lord Roote… he died when his burning tent collapsed over him," he said grimly.

Does not bode well for future Riverland vassals…

"Lord Roote was a former Tully vassal, could it have been deliberate?" asked Ser Lyle.

"Not likely, not with tonight's visibility," Joffrey countered.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Lord Gaunt, fixing one of his beady eyes upon Joffrey.

"What do you mean, my lord? We continue the same as before, and try to catch the Blackfish before he does any more damage," said Joffrey.

"I don't think that's wise. We should retreat back to the Ruby Ford, hold feasts and small tourney's, entice the riverlander houses with promises of seats and gold," said Lord Gaunt.

"And leave the northern Riverlands to Robb Stark without a fight? No, that's exactly what the Blackfish wants," Joffrey dismissed him.

"Of course, Your Grace," said Gaunt with a small bow, the sarcasm self-evident.

"Of course, Lord Gaunt." Joffrey bit back, his patience running thin. "The Tully's and thus many of their vassals are tied to Robb Stark by blood. A waiting game will only benefit them… besides after that damned trap at Wayfarer's Rest…" he trailed off, the lords looking nervous as they contemplated that little setback. The Vance's and the Tully's had laid some sort of ambush at Wayfarer's Rest. They hadn't even contested the passes out of the Golden Tooth, and thus Tywin had been overconfident…

Great surprise there… he thought sardonically as he scratched his head.

The Westerlander's had been bloodied though, and bloodied further when Tywin insisted on taking Wayfarer's Rest by storm to soothe his accursed pride. They were currently stuck outside Riverrun, trying to take the castle and fighting off raiders out of Pinkmaiden. Twyin had been wounded at Wayfarer's Rest, and the more cautious Kevan was making careful, painfully slow progress securing the three gates of Riverrun before marching to reinforce Joffrey… the awe shattering power of the Westerlands didn't seem that impressive when given the same time to prepare as the riverlords. They knew the country side well, and had taken measures to prepare their keeps and holdfasts for extended sieges and powerful sally's… and unlike the southern riverlands, they'd had time to prepare.

The fucking Mountain that Rides of all people had broken through with almost a thousand riders, supposedly with orders to reinforce him though the beast last been seen west of Raventree Hall of all places, razing everything he found to the ground and slaying anyone in his way, including Lord Jonos Bracken and Lord Tytos Blackwood, their generation's feud laid to rest with the cold embrace of death.

If he retreated back south, he'd be able to link up with the Lannister host, likely giving him numerical superiority against Robb Stark and the northern riverland houses he'd be sure to take… on the other hand, they'd be stuck in a bloody war of attrition over the narrow fords of the trident as the riverlands burned all around them, giving time for Renly or Stannis to strike…

The situation was unpalatable, and Joffrey's gut was loath to cede the initiative… it was almost anathema.

"We'll deal with Robb first before turning south. With the northmen defeated the riverlords will have no choice but to bend the knee," he said.

"We barely have over ten thousand men, assuming the Roote men don't decide to go home with their tails tucked in!" shouted Lord Gaunt, "And you mean to take on twenty thousand northmen?!" he exclaimed.

"They're led by a green boy-" started Ser Lyle only to be interrupted by Gaunt.

"And we're not?! One lucky battle and a few skirmishes does not a 'Bloody Lion' make! If we keep marching north-!"

Joffrey's hand moved almost of his own accord, smashing Lord Gaun't left hand with his hammer. Bloodied fingers flew around the table as Lord Gaunt fell to the floor, screaming. Pandemonium erupted around the table as everyone stood up, their shouting indistinct to Joffrey's ears as he stood up slowly, aiming the hammer like a crossbow towards Lord Gaunt. "You will obey, or the next time I'll take out your other hand," he told the seditious lord, his voice oddly still. Gaunt stared back at him in raw fear, clutching his bleeding hand.

He sat back down as Gaunt left the tent, and Ser Lyle swallowed before speaking, "Your Grace… perhaps you should speak to the Roote men? They-"

"No," Joffrey said, dropping his head and holding it tight with his hands, "They'll do their fucking job, the one they just swore to do, and that is the end of that," he spat out.

"Now, we march. And if anyone sees the Blackfish again, let me know," he ordered them.

-.PD.-

They kept marching north, the northern Riverland houses like the Keath's and the Terrick's staying well away from his riders. There were unconfirmed sightings of the Blackfish travelling between the various keeps that bordered the Mountains of the Moon, his attempts at forming a bigger host apparently falling on deaf ears. It seemed that with the Crownland's host so close by, those houses had decided to forget there was a civil war in all but name going on near their lands. Joffrey, for once, was glad for his absurd reputation. The tale of the Bloody Lion and the Bloody Fields had spread far and wide, and the more reclusive riverlanders seemed wary to see for themselves if the rumors were true. One thing was certain though… the northmen were close. Very close.

Joffrey dispersed his thoughts, sinking once again deeper and deeper within himself, using the pull of the tablet as the beacon to guide his awareness, being very careful never to look 'up'. The essence of the tablet beckoned, and Joffrey was mesmerized as he examined not the… 'soul' of the tablet itself, but the twisting contours at its edges, the parts that somehow anchored the tablet to the much greater whole… to him. The turning and twisting lines were like runes more ancient than man or beast. Familiar to him. Very much so.

He wondered about that as he stretched his consciousness towards the essence of the tablet itself, its smell and its shape and its texture flooding him as if he could almost touch it-

"Your Grace," said the old, steely voice of Ser Barristan. His voice felt like battle worn steel expertly maintained, glossy and trusty but chipped as well. It lifted him up like a bladder full of air lost in the seas, carrying him upwards until he opened his eyes. He let his body relax from the Half Lotus form Half Moon Jhos had been so fond of, his hands returning to his thighs.

Ser Barristan gazed at him with the look of a man resigned to an incomprehensible enigma. "Riders in the horizon Your Grace, half a day away," he said.

"The Blackfish?" asked Joffrey.

"No, they look like heavy horse… and they carry the Stark Banner," he answered.

"No parley flag?" he asked without hope.

"None, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan.

"Very well then, get the preparations in order," Joffrey said with a nod as he unfolded his legs, standing up in one smooth move. "Let's finish this," he said.

-.PD.-

The might of the Northern cavalry was a sight to behold. The Barrowknights of the North, along with a smattering of Manderly knights and Flint riders were trundling down the Kingsroad like a runaway freight cart, their multitude of banners held high and proud. They were almost charging already, intent on shattering to pieces the formation of Langward and Stokeworth infantry in front of them.

Joffrey smiled coldly, turning back to look at more than half of his cavalry hiding in the trees with him, archers to their left. They were hiding in a particularly thick forest of sentinel pines that crawled up lazily towards the Mountains of the Moon, the Green Fork in front of them. Perpendicular to them was the Kingsroad, where most of the northern cavalry were charging a 'surprised' formation of Joffrey's foot.

Joffrey's plan to wipe out a substantial portion of the roaming northern cavalry had been baited liberally. A bit less than two thousand crownlanders from 'his' fictitious van hastily fanning out and bracing against each other. Once they were pinned down with his men, Joffrey would charge them as the archers hidden to his left opened up… by nightfall, the majority of the northern cavalry here should be dead.

Ser Barristan though didn't share his 'optimism'. "Your Grace," he said from his side. The Hound looked at them with the gaze of a man which has seen the same discussion again and again.

"We've been through this Ser Barristan, even heavy cavalry won't charge against braced pikemen, and if they do they'll get turned into mincemeat," he told his kingsguard with a sigh.

Ser Barristan looked as if he'd wish he had more hair… to pull out, slowly and painfully. "Your Grace, please… let us charge now, avoid the loss of our infantry. They're going to melt!" he said the last in steadily mounting despair.

"They won't," Joffrey sentenced swiftly. "They're heavily armored and soon to wield pikes, it will be brutal, I'll grant you that… but the northern cavalry will be wiped out by tonight," he told him, swiftly returning his eyes to the battlefield.

A horn sounded from within the northern cavalry, followed by three or four more differently pitched ones, their sound eerie as their mounts sped up immensely, quickly eating the distance to the crownlanders.

A horn sounded from within the infantry this time, the troops kneeling and grabbing the pikes that had been on the ground, bracing themselves. It was double layered instead of the triple one used by the Dawn Fort's Iron Guard regiments, and considerably slower as well, the pikes rising up almost drunkenly and not at all synchronized.

A pike wall is a pike wall, Joffrey told himself as the northern cavalry didn't stop, apparently content to charge to their deaths.

They're going to bloody kill themselves… all to fucking bounce against a pike wall?!

The northern cavalry roared as they lowered their lances, banners from half a dozen northern houses fluttering wildly above them as Joffrey's pikes swayed lightly, as if the enemy roar had unleashed a small gust of wind upon them.

"WINTERFELL!!! FOR THE NOOOORTH!!!" they bellowed with all their might as the distance was reduced to meters, the pikes swaying wildly as the whole formation seemed to stumble back for a few seconds right before the northern cavalry slammed into them with the fury of a storm. Blood and helmets flew all over the small battlefield as men and horses screamed and died in an earth shattering crash, some knights even flying over the air without their mounts before crashing back down to the ground in bloody heaps. Even as the first line of knights skewered themselves on the pikemen, the second charged through, and the third, and the fourth. Lances pierced plate and flesh, Joffrey's foot stumbling back like a panicked mob even as the congestion in front of them slowed the charge of the remaining northmen.

"What are they doing?!" Joffrey whispered.

Instead of bracing themselves again and relaying on the pikemen behind them to kill the vulnerable horses right in front of them, Joffrey's men disintegrated as the now barely trotting knights drew longswords and axes, reaping a bloody harvest as the surviving front and second line of pikemen turned back and tried to escape, the bulk of their companions making such a task impossible and leaving their backs bared to the thirsty northern axes and longswords.

Quickly, the rows of men at the back started to flee, dropping their weapons and running for the forest or the road, their blood leeching into the Green Fork and turning it red.

"KNIGHTS!" Joffrey roared at his back as he hefted an unwieldy knightly lance aloft, "WITH ME! ARCHERS, LOOSE!" he bellowed before charging out of the forest.

The crownlanders and riverlanders of his host quickly followed him, forming up at his sides as their own horns thundered. Joffrey angled the lance awkwardly as he rode, not having a clue about what he was doing, his other hand holding his shield tight.

Should have paid attention to all those tourneys instead of watching the blood, he thought in mild distress as he shifted the unfamiliar weight of the spear. Fortunately he had no problems controlling his horse, absentmindedly driving it with his legs alone, though he noted the other knights used their shield hand to keep a stern hold on their reins.

The northern cavalry was already retreating back since before Joffrey charged, content with the bloody toll they had extracted from the shattered pikemen before speeding back north.

How could they have reacted so fast?!

"LORD EDGERTON!" he roared over the din of the horse, standing tall over the stirrups as the lord to his right flank looked at him. He slashed with his lance to a point vaguely in front of the retreating northern cavalry, and quickly the right flank of his charging cavalry line peeled off for an intercept, Joffrey's archers managing to lame a few horses before the northeners fled out of range.

Lord Edgerton's flank managed to catch some of the northern knights, delaying them enough for the rest of Joffrey cavalry to catch up from behind and slaughter them even as most of their compatriots fled his failed ambush.

Joffrey roared as his lance bounced off a breastplate, the force of the blow painfully wrenching it from his grasp. Ser Barristan outperformed his liege shamefully, skewering a knight right through the visor with his own lance.

What kind of Westerosi King doesn't know how to charge properly?! He thought to himself furiously as he took his trusty hammer and got to work on the northmen. While the charge itself had been pathetically executed, Joffrey's horse handling skills suffered no such fate. He'd spent many nights during their march north training and bonding with the stallion as he'd done with his own mounts over the pale sands of the Grey Wastes, trying to install an almost instinctive understanding with the black horse… and Moonlight had responded admirably.

He blocked an axe with his shield, Moonlight swiftly cantering sideways to close the distance as Joffrey attacked at the same time, reaching the back of the knight and making him fall down his horse. Joffrey looked behind him for a second before twisting his knees slightly, Moonlight turning swiftly and enabling him to parry another knight's longsword long enough for Sandor to slam his own mace on the man's neck. "Damn you Joffrey! Stay behind me!" he bellowed as he slammed down another knight that got too close.

Joffrey was about to respond when he caught sight of light cavalry in Tully and Stark colors entering the woods he'd just left.

"The fucking Blackfish is butchering our archers!" bellowed a nearby lord he couldn't see, and Joffrey's knuckles whitened under the strain.

The cursed asshole knew our whole plan… he thought in shock, the lack of competent scouts once again biting him in the ass.

"Ser Barristan! Finish these northmen!" he bellowed over the battlefield, his voice cutting through the song of steel on steel. "Sandor! Redcloaks! With me!" he shouted as he spurred his horse back towards the forest.

He cursed the Blackfish yet again as a couple of bloodied archers left the woods, two Tully horsemen appearing from behind them like specters, cutting them down. Joffrey snarled as he rode past them, decapitating one with his arming sword as he left his shield to tumble in the ground.

Sandor, a few redcloaks and some knights followed quickly behind him, and Joffrey was soon amongst the light cavalry who were busy butchering his men. He caved one's skull in even as he ripped another one with his sword, Moonlight whirling in circles and in between the enemy horsemen as Joffrey slaughtered them through their light armor. The quickly began to disperse though, riding much faster than he could catch them.

Joffrey snarled again as he saw a figure in a black cloak slash at a fleeing archer with his sword before speeding away, gesticulating at other riders nearby.

No, you Tully son of a whore, this ends today, he thought as he sheathed both hammer and sword, Moonlight reached one of his archers quickly.

"You! Bow and arrow, now!" he snarled at the archer, the man almost falling to the ground as Moonlight slammed to a stop right beside him. The man barely had time to react before Joffrey wrenched the quiver from his side and strapped it to his belt.

"Y-Your Grace?" he asked dubiously as he handed his bow, Joffrey saying nothing as Moonlight leapt over a fallen log and sped after the Blackfish. He could hear Sandor's enraged bellowing and the pounding hoofs of his escort behind him, but he was not going to let the Blackfish just get away with this.

He deftly maneuvered Moonlight over fallen trees and small streams, the Blackfish gesturing at the three riders close to him and back to Joffrey. They took their bows and fumbled with their arrows as they kept riding as hard as they could back north, dodging branches and rocks.

One.

Two.

Three.

By the time they were nocking, he slammed an arrow into one of the rider's back. He fell to the ground in a splatter of blood, Joffrey's hand automatically grabbing the next arrow as he felt the unfamiliar bow in his hands, aiming for the other two. Their shot's went wildly off target, the rocking of their horses throwing their arrows pitifully off their mark.

Unaccustomed to horseback archery you bloody pests? Joffrey thought in triumph as he let loose another arrow, his accuracy improving as he nailed an arrow to a horse's neck, bringing it down brutally and leaving its rider a broken heap below it. Joffrey was riding side to side now, the Blackfish and his surviving man only a dozen meters to his right.

The third rider tried to close in, unsheathing a sword that fell off his hand as he stared at the arrow planted on his chest. The Blackfish was weaving back and forth desperately now, trying to throw off Joffrey's aim even as he lost precious speed. His next arrow was caught by a pine, and the one after that grazed the Blackfish, tearing a bit of cloth from his black cloak as Joffrey closed the distance, lowering his head and avoiding a branch that almost tossed him off Moonlight.

Joffrey stilled his breath as he nocked another arrow, taking five seconds more to aim his next shot carefully, feeling the swaying of Moonlight as the Blackfish started another wild turn, leaning to his right…

Thung.

The sound almost startled Joffrey, the arrow leaping from his bow like an eager hound. He immediately knew it was going to hit.

The Blackfish was in the middle of another swerve in his mad dash north when the arrow caught him in the neck, making him fall off his horse in a tangle of blood and broken limbs.

Joffrey reared his horse in with a savage smile, the sound of his own men steadily growing closer as he eyed the Blackfish, belly down on the ground as his blood pooled around fallen green and orange leaves.

He wasn't one to gloat, but he felt the occasion merited an exception, "Well, if it isn't the black trout himself… you've been giving me-" a white whirl interrupted him, tearing into Moonlight and savaging the horse's throat as Joffrey fell back with an alarmed cry, protecting the bow as he tumbled down the ground.

He stood up in a swift water recovery, already nocking an arrow with his intact bow as the white wolf finished tearing fallen Moonlight's throat, raising its bloodied snout and red eyes.

"…Ghost?" Joffrey said, dumbfounded.

The direwolf leapt at Joffrey with a snarl, but even as his wits shut down, Joffrey's reaction was automatic. He loosed his nocked arrow straight at Ghosts opened maw, already stepping to the side soon as the arrow had cleared the bow. Ghost landed right were Joffrey had been standing but half a second ago, the direwolf barely had time to register the arrow sticking from his snout before Joffrey completed the maneuver, slamming his dagger through the side of Ghost's neck and tearing up in a shower of blood, following instincts sharpened by the deadly claws of Sothory Raptors.

Ghost made a keening, gurgling sound before collapsing on the ground, still as a stone.

Joffrey stayed there, breathing heavily as he watched the dead direwolf, his mind a confused whirlwind as he turned back to the Blackfish. He approached the black hooded man slowly, shaking dagger at the ready as he barely managed to hear a slow rattling, barely a wisp in the wind. His shaking hand grabbed the man's shoulder, slowly, very slowly turning him around.

Jon Snow didn't seem to know what was going on around him, his panicked eyes swiveling randomly as blood poured down his throat, each breath a gurgling struggle as he kept shaking, the arrow in his neck almost completely covered in blood.

"Jon…" whispered Joffrey as he kneeled beside him, the dagger falling from his hand. Jon didn't seem to hear him though, his breath hitching suddenly as if he'd just choked on something. His eyes stopped moving as they widened, blood suddenly pouring out of his mouth as the shaking stopped.

He stayed there on his knees, staring at Jon for a while before Sandor found him, his insistent shaking the only thing to startle Joffrey from his trance.

"Let's get back to camp," said Joffrey, oddly still.

-.PD.-

The final tally was brutal. The northern lords had lost more knights than him by a considerable margin, and their cavalry had been substantially weakened… at the cost of over half the pikemen, a third of the archers and a few crownlander knights.

A few noble idiots had proclaimed that a good enough trade before Joffrey had slammed them to the ground, an inch away from ending their pathetic, worthless lives. Between Ser Barristan and Sandor though, they'd managed to contain his fury.

The Blackfish… and Jon Snow too, had lead their scouts superbly, giving Robb enough information to turn Joffrey's trap on its self… of course, if the useless cowards in the infantry had stood their ground as pikemen were supposed to do against cavalry, things would have turned differently… He'd almost killed Lord Langward for that…

That outburst had been… impulsive. He was not feeling like himself lately. Or was he?

Whatever the case, desperate measures had been necessary, and Joffrey's army had prepared a final gambit that would either win them the war or see them all dead, much to his many lord's apprehension. Robb Stark was out for blood, tired of skirmishes and ambushes, marching with his whole strength straight at Joffrey.

He'd gladly meet him on the battlefield, though on his own terms. It was time to end this one way or the other.

-.PD.-

The Red Wolf… mused Joffrey as he stared at the assembling northern host… no, army. He could estimate about fifteen thousand men in total… and further reinforcements from the North were sure to come.

Most of Joffrey's foot had taken refuge in a small valley in the outskirts of the Mountains of the Moon, creating a narrow front so Robb could not bear his numerical superiority against him. Robb could of course leave him trapped here, but this was not the Red Wolf, or at least not yet. He was still an unproven, arguably green boy playing at war. If he left a force at his back, one he outnumbered around two to one or more besides… things could get complicated with his vassals.

At least I can count on vassal clusterfucks to strike both sides… kind of like a natural disaster, he laughed at the joke, trying to lift his mind from the morass of darkness and failing. After all the Stark's that had died by his hand, he was doubtful Robb would have left him here even if he had a hundred thousand crownlanders.

The men at arms around him all looked at him strangely, though Joffrey didn't care. He was busy contemplating whether or not he had it in him to slay Robb Stark.

Gods… I hope he yields… he thought, clenching his hands as he walked in front of the line of shields and spears, behind the line of stakes, stiffening the infantry with his very presence after last time's debacle. He thought about giving a speech to rally the morale of the men, something sorely needed as the banners outside the valley's opening seemed to multiply by the second, but he found he didn't have it within him. The words that propelled his legionnaires until their end seemed dry, wrong. It would be an insult to use them here… for all that the siege of the Dawn Fort had been a much, much more desperate situation, Joffrey had fallen fighting, dying for what he believed in. With a purpose… all he could muster now was a black weariness and an iron will to keep going forward.

Tallharts, Manderlys, Forresters, Cerwyns, Karstarks… the banners went on and on.

No parley flags were offered as the Stark archers marched forward, readying their bows.

By the Old Gods I hope you get the timing right, Renfred…

"Archers! Send the curs back North!" he shouted as he turned back towards the line, "Infantry! Raise those shields high and ready the pikes! They'll be charging soon!" he called out, getting behind the first line of spearmen, clapping shoulders and mainly looking unafraid.

I wonder what I'll feel when I face Robb… regret? Satisfaction? Pleasure?? He asked himself as the arrows rained down, one or two bouncing off his breastplate as he thought.

He remembered the long afternoon's he'd spent fighting him in Winterfell's training yard, Jon Snow looking on with interest for reasons entirely different from Sansa, who combed her hair as she watched from the upper walkway. He remembered Robb's smile as the boy complemented him about his ability with a spear, the way his eyes lit up when he'd asked Jon to join in too… Robb certainly hadn't expected that.

"Joffrey," muttered the Hound in his ear. He brought his attention back to the battlefield, it seemed Robb had had enough of the ineffectual missile duel. A rough estimate of bodies told Joffrey he'd won a minor victory there, superior crownlander plate giving his men an edge against the relatively lighter armored forces that composed the majority of the Northern foot.

Of course, the armored infantry that came next put paid to the myth that the north couldn't field heavy infantry. The ranks of Winterfell, Tallhart and Cerwyn men, amongst others, marched directly down the gradual slope of the valley, their ranks concentrating as the spaces got tighter and tighter, crownlander arrows doing little to slow them down.

His three Kingsguards stood in a triangle around him, with the Hound at his side, all breathing heavily as the pounding footsteps of the northern heavy infantry kept getting louder and louder.

No heavy cavalry charge… thought Joffrey. Robb had avoided the rookie mistake of sending his cavalry down a narrow valley possibly filled with traps and against braced spearmen with nowhere to run. Not exactly 'Young Wolf' worthy yet, though he was sure the Stark Lord would attempt something unconventional soon.

The northern heavy infantry crashed against his lines like a hurricane against a palisade wall. Many of them fell to the ditches and the stakes, but most managed to reach the line in somewhat ragged order, heavy battleaxes and warhammers unleashing a whirlwind of steel against his own spears and the heavy infantry standing behind them.

Joffrey was in the middle of it from the start, not so much as encouraging his men but unleashing a bloody harvest on the dozens upon dozens of northmen that seemed drawn to him like moths to the fire. Their hateful rage gave them power, but made them easy marks for Joffrey, who maintained himself calm and methodical, striking only when he saw an opening, conserving his strength as long as he could even as the heavily armored men fell to his precise blows, one after the other.

The battle raged for a good long while, neither side moving much as the valley was just too tight for any sort of complex maneuver beyond 'push forward'. What Joffrey had not been expecting though, were the ballista bolts raining on him and his men.

"What?! How?!" Joffrey shouted as they fell, piercing two and even three men at times. He could see a battery of ballista at the valley's entrance, lighter pieces that must have been looted from Greywater Watch or the Twins if the Frey's had already joined the north... They were inaccurate as hells, especially given that the crews, at least to Joffrey's opinion, barely seemed to know what they were doing… but if they kept it up for the length of the battle then things could turn bad.

Fortunately, Joffrey had a strategy of his own. He grinned darkly as he heard the steadily louder rumble that echoed inside the valley. It seemed Rykker had exercised some initiative and sped up his part of the plan, thankfully.

Dozens of heavy oaken logs thundered down the tight slopes at the valley's edges, slopes that had been too steep to climb without specialist equipment… or without careful planning and preparation. The logs rolled down incredibly fast, gaining and gaining speed with no sign of stopping… until they struck the flanks of Robb's infantry. As tightly packed as they were, some of the logs legitimately bounced, rising a few meters over the air to fall back again and crush untouched formations. More and more logs kept appearing from the ledges which had seemed secure to the northmen at first sight, being well beyond arrow range. The logs crashed and thundered, disorganizing even more men than those who died, and thus giving Joffrey his chance.

"Ser Lyle! Now!!!" he roared back. Almost as one fresh troops surged from between his lines, relieving the exhausted spearmen and heavy infantry and tearing into the dazed and disorganized northmen. Reinforcements from their rear were slow to arrive due to the logs, and Joffrey could see northerners franticly trying to clear the way as their brethren were slaughtered.

Joffrey could see the starting smidgens of panic within the eyes of the northmen as he cut them down, jumping past logs with his Kingsguard, Sandor and two dozen red cloaks, their flanks filled with crownlander veterans making good use of the shock and momentum. It was still not enough for a rout… no, Lord Edgerton would make sure of that. Him along with most of Joffrey's heavy cavalry and some infantry should be about to strike within the next five minutes.

Joffrey continued fighting, pushing back against the northmen until they could advance no more, the press of bodies too great. Slowly, they started to push him and his men back… and back, and back, and back… Several hours of battle had passed and the men's morale started to plummet as the northern host kept advancing and replacing its casualties, bringing up fresh men from behind, the ballistas still raining death from above.

Joffey was drinking greedily from a waterskin at the back of the frontline, getting ready to resist another push when a ragged, almost dead runner caught him.

"M'liege," he said in between gasps, two arrows sticking from his padded armor. "Lord Edgerton can't break through… the Blackfish and his men saw them coming and bought the northern cavalry enough time to reposition… He says he won't be able to smash into their rear any time soon m'liege," he rasped, swaying. His lack of competent scouts had bit him again, this time fatally.

Joffrey steadied the man as his heart beat soared, cold sweat slipping down his neck. "Go… go tell him to use his foot as a distraction, he has to break through right now!" Joffrey said almost desperately.

The man looked ready to faint as he shook his head, "His foot is gone m'liege… Lord Gaunt tucked tail and ran with all his men, along with the Langwards," he said before falling down to the cold, hard ground.

Joffrey stood there, stunned as Ser Barristan kneeled and checked for a pulse on them man. He shook his head in denial, in rage as all the thing's he'd done for this life turned to nothing. He hadn't played the damned, hellish game correctly, thus his vassals were abandoning in his hour of greatest need.

The cries of battle turned increasingly frantic, even panicked, as the news spread, likely through other messengers and word of mouth. Joffrey could see from here how his left flank started to erode, the Roote men routing completely and running towards the goat paths at the far end of the valley as his mistakes built on each other. The other riverland houses he'd managed to win over were starting to fracture as well.

All seemed lost.

All the suffering… all the death… for nothing.

Again.

The thought threatened to break him as he bit his fist, staring at the ground like a madman.

No.

I refuse.

"MEN! WITH ME! WITH YOUR KING!" he roared suddenly, startling those around him.

"King Joffrey, we can get our horses in the rear and track the back path's to-" starter Ser Barristan only for Joffrey to cut him off.

"NO! Ser Boros! Get me that banner! The one Rykker's men put together, go! GO!" he shouted at the Kingsguard. He dashed off as Joffrey turned, his left flank almost completely gone as he saw a Rosby banner fall. He manhandled the men around him, surprised to almost crash with Master Willard and some Mooton knights. He looked at him for a second before the man shook his head, "I'm going with you, Your Grace," he said, brooking no other option as he hefted his two hander.

Joffrey stared at him for a moment longer before nodding decisively and turning around to his red cloaks, veterans of the Bloody Fields and a dozen other skirmishes beyond. "I'M GOING OUT TO SKIN A WOLF! WHO'S WITH ME?!" he roared.

The men roared back as the rotund figure of Ser Boros returned with a big banner painted pure red. No sigils, no animals, only red.

Red Blood for the Bloody Lion.

"Stay behind me and keep following me!" he said to Ser Boros, the banner fluttering wildly with the wind.

I'm going to cut my way to the Red Wolf in a sea of blood if I have to.

"WITH ME!!!" he roared as he charged the past his disintegrating lines through to the northmen. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Joffrey rent aside shields with his hammer, cutting wildly with his arming sword, splattering blood all around him as he dodged and weaved as he could, turning just so his breastplate could contain those blows he could not dodge. His reckless slaughter seemed to embolden his companions as they roared their defiance, pushing through and beyond the first lines of northmen.

"STAAAARK! STAAAAAAAAAAARK!!!" bellowed Joffrey, pummeling down a man at arms that tried to get in his way. A big man in Umber livery tried to cleave him in half with a two handed axe, only for Joffrey to duck at the last moment and smash his hammer against the back of the man's leg. He roared in pain as he fell on one knee, Joffrey raising his arming sword at the same time.

Joffrey screamed as he cleaved the Smalljon's neck, the usually festive smile he reserved for drinking with friends and family replaced by agony as blood erupted from the huge wound.

He kept moving, his own men falling as they were attacked from all sides. "STAAAAARK!!!" screamed Joffrey as the Greatjon barreled towards him like a runaway freight cart, only for him to be pummeled aside by Sandor, his longsword managing to lick the Lord of Last Hearth's arm. "Keep going!" shouted the Hound with a snarl, parrying a great swipe from the Greatjon's axe.

"STAAARK! WHERE ARE YOU?! YOUR FATHER PLEADED LIKE A PIG BEFORE I CUT HIM DOWN!" Joffrey bellowed as two men at arms attacked him as one. He managed to parry them both with sword and hammer, twisting to the side and hammering the man's head before engaging the other one. At the same time, a fierce looking woman in Mormont livery jumped from his right with a one handed hammer and a shield. Ser Boros parried two blows with the banner turned spear before the woman bashed him brutally in the head with her shield, making him stumble back before she planted her hammer on the kingsguard's visor, extracting it in a shower of blood.

Joffrey finished the second man at arms quickly, turning to the sight of the enraged Mormont woman trying to split his skull in two. He dodged at the last second, but not enough. The hammer slammed into his right shoulder pauldron, the flange biting into his flesh as it ruptured a small part of the plate.

The Mormont's grin was feral as she extracted it, Joffrey bellowing in pain as he responded with a hammer strike of his own that was parried by her shield. He only just managed to stop her hammer this time, his arming sword screeching as she closed in and pummeled his face with her shield. "You don't look Bloody to me," she whispered almost to herself as she kicked Joffrey's leg, the King too dazed to stop the blow as he fell to the ground.

He could see Ser Barristan engaging a broad shouldered, bearded man in Karstark livery, the Kingsguard was a white whirlwind as he parried and counterattacked, two other Kartark's very similar to the broad shouldered man attacking him from either side. Ser Barristan pivoted as he deftly avoided one strike and absorbed the other with his plate, his longsword coming up exactly where the Karstark man overextended himself, the longsword chopping his arm off almost completely as Ser Barristan moved.

All of that happened in a second, and Joffrey was already rolling, narrowly avoiding the Mormont's hammer. He stood up as an arrow bounced on his back, grimacing as he managed to lick her arm with his own hammer. The woman responding brutally with heavy strike on his thigh, the plate only partially stopping the blow.

Joffrey bellowed a might roar, dropping his sword and grabbing the rim of her shield, shoving it aside with all his strength and startling the Mormont woman before she could get her hammer up. He slammed his hammer on her visor, same as she did with Blount.

"STAAAAAAARK! LITTLE BRAN WAS BRAVER THAN THIS! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU COWARD?!" Joffrey's roar cut through the battlefield as he extracted his hammer in a rain of blood and gore, the Mormont woman collapsing. The northmen were not exactly stopping their assault but rather giving Joffrey's group in general and Joffrey in particular a bit of space as he struck all around him like a crazed animal. Willard Mooton appeared by his side for a few moments, intercepting a northern axe and disemboweling the man with his two hander.

By the God's I'll knight him after this, he thought as he slayed a man in Cerwyn livery, nodding at Willard. A King can do that, I can do that, he thought as he kept slaughtering people, his blood mingling with theirs.

Suddenly Willard straightened himself, looking over the battle, "Your Grace! I think I see Lord Sta-" he was interrupted by an arrow slamming into his eye socket. He fell back, sprawling on the ground, the Mooton Salmon sewed over his breastplate turning red.

Another arrow flew, planting itself in the gap between Joffrey's pauldron and his chest plate, making him stumble half a step back before turning to the offending archer with a snarl. Theon Greyjoy stood a few meters to his side, he was already nocking another arrow with his trademark smirk, his smile growing as if to congratulate himself on his accuracy over a Mooton boy and Joffrey himself.

Joffrey stalked towards him as he ducked and grabbed his arming sword back, Theon taking his time to aim the next shot right at the other gap between pauldron and chestplate, trying to angle his shot in between the wild swirl of the melee. Joffrey followed his gaze and his bow, time crawling almost to standstill as old instincts reacted and he raised his arming sword sideways. Theon loosed, his tight smirk evaporating as his arrow bounced off Joffrey's sword with a high whined ping smoother than a bell. He was dropping his bow and taking out a one handed axe when Joffrey was upon him.

"Fancy yourself an Ironborn Theon?!" Joffrey snarled as he parried aside the axe with his hammer, his arming sword slamming through the man's neck all the way through the other side.

"THEOOON!" Bellowed someone in horror.

Joffrey saw Robb Stark pushing aside soldiers and bannermen like a madman, his eyes lit with a crazed anger as he locked eyes with him. "BARATHEON!!!" he snarled, batting aside Ser Meryn Trant's sword and splitting the kingsguard's face with a two hander, his rage too great for any other taunt than a gut deep snarl as he leapt over the falling body of the white cloak and charged Joffrey.

Half formed pleas for him to yield or go back home died as Joffrey charged as well, flicking his hammer constantly as he held his sword low.

He felt nothing as he tried to kill Robb Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell was decked out in full northern plate, his outfit eerily similar to that of the Red Wolf, his rage fuelled strength propelling the Valyrian sheen of Ice as if it were a living gale. Joffrey stepped to his left, the blade whistling fast, faster than a greatsword had any right to be. Joffrey stared into the eyes of the man that had been his nightmare for many lives, many, many years ago.

"And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours," the words came unbidden from Joffrey's mouth, his arm flexed back, his hammer parrying a blow that would have split his shoulder blades. He used the opportunity to close in with his arming sword, brutally slashing at Robb's elbow and making him grimace in pain.

Red Wolf you may be, but this Lion was soaked in blood too, long, long ago…

Robb stumbled back, managing a decent defensive move with his greatsword as Joffrey probed again with his hammer, crossing it sideways and warding Joffrey off with a preemptive slash. Joffrey angled the plate to stop the blow and leave Robb completely open for a swift kill, but gasped in surprised agony as the Valyrian Steel bit past the plate, gashing a moderate slash that nonetheless quickly turned red. He stumbled back with an arm over it as Robb quickly followed with a powerful, strong but predictable long swipe. Joffrey kept stumbling back as he raised his battered arming sword in an automatic parry with the flat side of the blade. He realized his mistake too late as the valyrian steel cut his arming sword in half, the razor sharp edge slashing his cheek and jaw in a shower of blood.

"Ah differhent cohlor…" Joffrey mumbled, coughing blood as he shook his head clear again. Robb was eyeing him warily, cautiously, the rage burning cold as he feinted again and again, angling his greatsword and abusing his reach advantage in the prelude to the next clash. Joffrey dropped the now useless arming sword, covering his jaw with his now free hand and trying to stop the bleeding.

He's waiting for some- his thoughts broke off as an animal snarl thundered right besides him. He screamed as Grey Wind tore his ear off, the bulk of the direwolf slamming him to the ground. He managed to ward him off with one hand, only for the savage beast to tear into his fingers and bite past the mail, tearing off a couple of them. He screamed in pain as he tried to stab the wolf with his hammer, but the Grey beast retreated backwards like a sinewy snake before he could do it.

Joffrey stood back up, dazed as he stumbled back and forth, almost closing his eyes as his heart hammered away wildly. The northmen were giving them a lot of space now, waiting for their lord to claim his prize. He swore he could see ash falling down around the Red Wolf's grey armor as the young lord regaled him with a triumphant snarl, looking at Joffrey as if he were the scum of the earth, Ice held straight up almost as if in ceremony.

"Kill him," Lord Stark commanded his brother.

Grey Wind leapt with a bloodthirsty snarl against swaying Joffrey, straight at his throat.

Joffrey twisted aside, his heart hammering like a gong, the scent of salt and storms and death and will overwhelming him as an earth shattering roar thundered behind him, Stars leaping from where Joffrey been standing just a second ago and crashing against Grey Wind in midair. They mauled each other in an unparalleled burst of savage, animal bloodlust, the two beasts crashing to the ground in a frenzy of claws and fur and teeth and blood. Joffrey could feel the ghostly pain deep within him as Grey Wolf bit into Stars, as if he were being stabbed in the heart. Everyone surrounding them took a step back in surprised awe, foe and friend stumbling back as Stars used his superior weight to pin Grey Wind to the ground, Robb frozen like a statue as the Silver Lion tore into his direwolve's throat, his silvery fur bathing in the blood of the agonizing Grey Wind.

The Bloody Lion reared his head over his fallen foe, roaring to the skies in a strange, keening sort of triumph, saddened but content. He prowled back to him, grinding his head against Joffrey's armor as he keened deeply, the outlet of Joffrey's pain and grief. He kneeled beside Stars, rubbing the side of his head as he hugged the big lion's head tightly, staining his fur with his own blood.

He spat blood before turning back to the still petrified Robb, the northmen behind him shuffling back in shock as Joffrey strode forwards, spilling blood everywhere and twisting his hammer from side to side.

"As long and sharp my lord… longer than yours," He enunciated clearly despite the blood in his mouth. It was not a taunt, but a statement of some sort of fact that Joffrey seemed deeply saddened about. Robb slashed with Ice and a strangled roar, Joffrey ducking low before leaning sideways as he avoided the back blow, and then he was past Robb's guard, jamming an obsidian dagger below his jaw, shoving it up all the way to the hilt.

Robb seemed to look at him in confusion and fear for a second, before his eyes closed and he fell back with the dagger still planted under his jaw, Stars roaring behind him once more, almost deafening him as the surviving redcloaks around him and the surprisingly close by crownlanders took up the cry.

They roared with all their might as Ser Barristan and Sandor reached him, both bloodied but alive, giving Stars a wide berth as Joffrey stared at the northern forces that had but seconds ago stood still waiting for their lord to kill the clearly finished blood soaked King. Blood still spilled down his jaw as his gaze bore into them, his face locked in deep fury. The sterner knights and lords didn't even have a chance to recover from the shock before their men started to run, in two and threes all around them, unleashing a chain reaction until the entire northern host was routing, lords searching for their sons or for horses, shouting for yield or ransom even as others charged to their deaths.

Soon he could see the northern cavalry melting away from the battlefield, leaving unprotected most of their foot to die beneath Lord Edgerton's late and somewhat ragged charge… the enemy cavalry only contesting charges against a curiously well-organized foot formation retreating in good order since the moment Robb Stark had died, whose most prominent banner consisted of the Flayed Man.

Joffrey looked at the body of the Red Wolf as the blood pooled around it, the surprise and the fear still etched over his faced like a freshly carved sculpture. It wasn't the Red Wolf, not really.

It was just a scared boy.

"We won, Sandor," he said as he turned, his voice hollow as he collapsed on the ground.

-.PD.-

Joffrey opened his eyes slowly, strange sights and banners and knives flashing at the periphery of his vision. His jaw ached horribly, a constant throbbing that kept pounding him with each heartbeat, each thump reviving the cold embrace of Ice. He closed his eyes.

…

He opened them again to find several maesters working on him, their sharp needles threading his flesh, the pain shunting him back into blessed sleep as Ser Barristan's steely voice argued with someone.

…

The third time he opened them, it was to the sight of Sandor. He tried to speak, but it hurt so much he stayed quiet, blinking slowly. One blink took too long, and Sandor was replaced by Ser Barristan, standing by his side in some kind of big tent.

"Brr… er…" he mumbled.

"Your Grace?!" said Ser Barristan as he turned, "You must keep your strength, your wounds…" he trailed off, no doubt wondering if he was going to have a third King die under his watch.

"…Whe…re…" he mumbled.

"Not too far from the battlefield, the northmen have been routed completely, and Roose Bolton came to us under parley flag. He has sworn allegiance to the Iron Throne along with a dozen other Houses," said Selmy.

Joffrey chuckled a bit, or at least tried to, blood sputtering out of his mouth as he thought about the machinations of Roose Bolton. It had all played into his hands all too well. The North must be ruled by a northener, and Lord Roose's men had barely been bloodied… He held all the cards to lose the war but win the game.

"Thell… the new… Lohrd Pa… Paramount … to go north… half his men… secure it… leave half…" he muttered, fading in and out of consciousness. "Your Grace?" Ser Barristan held his shoulder as Joffrey coughed more blood, "Tell the … bastard… well… played…" he muttered as he fell asleep again.

-.PD.-

He managed to order his lords south again, those that still lived anyway, learning dribs and drabs of information as he faded in and out of consciousness, the wagon carrying him often making his wounds bleed. It seemed the now twice Late Lord Walder, or rather his son, had done the Frey special again. The dogged Blackfish had been rallying the survivors from the battle that hadn't joined up with Lord Bolton, along with those of his raiders that survived the clash with Lord Edgerton's cavalry… but that hadn't lasted long.

Ser Stevron Frey had read his sire's letter stiffly, Old Walder's gleeful tone translating very badly, almost uncannily to the lips of his son. The letter placed a special emphasis on how the Blackfish's face transfigured from relief to horror as the three thousand odd 'reinforcing' Frey host slaughtered them to the last man. They had joined up with Joffrey's army a week later, and Ser Stevron's host had brought much needed supplies and men… perhaps too many men… Too many men to deny the old bastard's dream. Another well played move by another newly minted Lord Paramount, though at least the Frey bastards would not have the satisfaction of sacking Riverrun, Ser Kevan had finally managed to take the castle and the Riverlands were now truly shattered. Every day knights and lords came to his host to swear fealty, or raven's carrying the news from Ser Kevan to the same effect. The Frey's wouldn't even have to commit any greed fuelled executions, as the Blackfish's string of good luck had ended with a Frey crossbow bolt to the eye, Old Hoster had died during the siege of Riverrun, Ser Edmure during the defense, and Catelyn Stark, who had been accompanying Robb's host, was coincidentally 'missing'. Joffrey had the dark suspicion that Lord Bolton had buried her in a nameless mire somewhere along the Neck…

There was nothing he could really do at this point, events had spiraled out of control. Even if the overall outcome favored him (by a broad definition of favor), he couldn't summon up a shred of emotion. He felt lifeless, like a husk, a dark pit inside his stomach that seemed to leech his very being. It was even comforting, in a way.

His head wound hurt a lot, not yet reaching the maddening highs of agony he'd experienced during his long lives, but still causing him constant suffering, like black tendrils spreading around his head. His cheek, his ear, even the side of his neck felt swollen, pounding. He couldn't even eat due to the pain that got worse every day.

His head wound had infected.

The fever got worse the farther they descended back down the kingsroad, the nausea making sure he could barely drink water, the involuntary shivering unleashing streaks of black pain that seemed to envelop his ear canals right through his brain.

When they reached the Ruby Ford Joffrey could barely resist the pain of the road, each little bump of the mediocre carriage an agony. They had reached Castle Darry when Lord Rykker came to his tent.

"What… news…" Joffrey managed, his head hazy with pain and milk of the poppy.

"News from King's Landing, Your Grace…" said Renfred, shuffling.

Joffrey stared at him impotently, the throbbing inside his skull growing stronger, "Renfred…" he pleaded.

"It's… Lord Tyrion… He's dead," he said.

No…

"… What..? Stannis..?" Joffrey mumbled, each throb inside his head shooting streaks of black pain across his neck and the gums of his teeth.

"No, Your Grace, they found him dead in his chambers. A quiet, peaceful death by all accounts. The Queen has named Lord Petyr Baelish as the new Hand of the King in the meantime," he said, uncomfortable.

Joffrey's muscle seized up, "No… NO!!!" he screamed, an infinite rage blossoming inside him. He felt so cold, so bloody cold. "I'LL FEED HIM TO STARS MYSELF! I'LL… I'll…" the throbbing was no more, the pain constant as he started to shiver again, shadows streaking around the periphery of the room as the rage evaporated like morning dew, leaving him exhausted.

"Tell… Tell Sandor…" he trailed off, the pain overwhelming as he closed his eyes with a sigh.

-.PD.-

"…Your Grace?" asked Ser Barristan.

Joffrey was in the horrible, sinking bed again, the late lord Darry having his last laugh. He was staring at a fixed point in the wall, shivering like fish out of water, muttering to himself in sheer, genuine terror when the kingsguard entered the room.

"s-s—s---Ser--- Barristnan," he managed, speaking even through the horrible pain.

"Your Grace, what's the matter?!" he asked, looking around warily as he moved beside his king.

Joffrey shivered wildly, at the verge of tears and pale as a ghost. "D-D-Don't… let her… turn around…" he managed between shivers.

"Turn? Let who, Your Grace?" asked the knight, replacing the wet towel over his liege's forehead.

"…S…San… Sansa…" said Joffrey, still staring at the wall, "Her… her face…" he said before giving a strangled scream and closing his eyes, shoving his head aside and opening his wounds.

"Maester Hyllim! Maester Hyllim!" shouted the Kingsguard at his back.

"Get! Where's…" Joffrey struggled against Ser Barristan's strong arms, shouting and ripping apart the stitches in his mouth, "Get-! Where's Xon-Mi?! Ser Barristan!!! Tell him! Tell him to fire everything!!! Oh! Oh Gods!!! I can't stop them!!!" Joffrey screamed.

A blonde haired maester entered the room, rushing as fast as his robes permitted as Joffrey kept screaming, "Tell… Tell Sandor to gather the men! Yham came from the Summer Islands, we can hide there! Get a spell from the Jade Scribes to hide us! Surely they can't cross the oceans, oh god, oh gods please don't, they can't right?! Tell Jon to run south!!!" he screamed hysterically as Ser Barristan struggled, the Maester quickly uncorking a glass vial and diluting its milky white content on a wine cup.

"We can lose them in Sothoryos! The Brindled Men won't allow Baelish's machinations! Yes! YES!! Please Ser Barristan!" Joffrey spluttered blood everywhere, Maester Hyllim losing a hold of the wine cup as he tried to shove it into Joffrey's mouth, spilling it to the ground.

"He's going to kill himself at this rate! Move damn you!!!" Ser Barristan bellowed at the Maester, the man rushing back to the table and grabbing the glass vial as the Hound entered the room swiftly and helped Ser Barristan, both holding Joffrey down as he thrashed.

"Sandor! Thank you, thank you, please, please go cross the Purple and fetch me Tyrion, we can lose them in Sothoryos! We can lose them there right?! No… NO BEHIND YOU! WATCH THE FANGS! WATCH THE SNAKE!" he bellowed, the maester pouring undiluted milk of the poppy down Joffrey's throat even as he spluttered over his bloodied shirt, "OH GODS THEY TURNED IT INTO A WIGHT! OH GODS, WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT?!" he screamed, tears of despair rolling down his cheeks as he kept shaking.

Joffrey stopped shaking gradually, his crazed eyes drooping slightly as the terror started to give way to emptiness. "Why does this happen?" he suddenly asked Sandor, the sheer anguish in his voice enough to shake even him. "Did the Purple create me? Can it kill me?" he slurred, blinking heavily. "Sandor…. Sandor please… tell the Purple… please…" he mumbled, his eyes closing into a sea of white, the pain fading away as sounds distorted into a timeless existence, white numbness giving way to Purple fractals.

-.PD.-