Chapter 53: Chapter 43: Masks, part Three.
Sansa let out a monstrous yawn as she stretched, blinking slowly as she tried to clear the cobwebs off her eyes. She gave up with a sigh, turning around and snuggling closer to Joffrey's chest. She blinked again when she saw he was already awake, a gentle smile on his lips as he stroked her back lightly. "You should sleep more, it's good for you," she whispered, enjoying the caress of his calloused hand.
"It's the damned bed, too soft for my tastes," he whispered back, his eyes devouring her curves.
"Been sleeping on the floor again? That explains why this bed is so stiff," she complained as she snuggled even closer, her legs tangling with his and forcing Joffrey on his back, using his chest as a pillow. "It's barely been used," she said, looking around at Joffrey's room and the suspiciously nest-like cluster of sheets in one corner.
"Next time we can use your room then," Joffrey offered, now massaging her back with both hands.
Sansa let out a long breath as she looked at the other side, gazing at the closed door. "But it's so far away," she complained, her hand sneaking down Joffrey's thigh.
"Better than-" Joffrey gasped, -"the Sealord's dining room," he said very quickly as he expelled all the air in his lungs.
Sansa suddenly froze, her mouth opening slowly. "The Sealord… Oh Seven…" she whispered in shock as she remembered the later events of the previous night.
"The Sealord, yes," he said, trying not to laugh.
"We have to leave Braavos Joffrey, like, right now," she said in dawning horror.
"That would imply leaving this bed," Joffrey mused thoughtfully, his massaging hands travelling down Sansa's back.
She sighed in grudging resignation, hugging Joffrey's neck as she gave him a small peck, then two. "I can't believe we just ran," She said in between pecks, only to freeze again. "Oh, the gondola…" she remembered, her face turning beet red. "How much are we paying Inneo again?" she asked him urgently.
"Clearly not enough," Joffrey sniggered, unable to contain himself.
"Joffrey, why haven't we been doing this? Every day?" She asked him, suddenly flabbergasted.
Joffrey hummed as he lifted her and turned, lying side by side as he gazed at her eyes, "I don't rightly know, I could spend the rest of this life staring at those lovely blue eyes of yours and I'd count it a life well spent," he said before kissing her.
Sometimes, he could think himself into knots. He realized that Sansa's tongue was much more effective than a scissor at cutting said knots, though.
"And now the poet comes out," Sansa complained after she broke the kiss, "You've got the order all wrong Joffrey," she complained as she snaked her hands down his back. "First comes the poems, then the awkward looks, after that the declaration of love and then the ravaging," she explained as she grabbed that tight buttocks of his. She'd been wanting to do that for a while now, even if she'd had trouble admitting it to herself in the past, the ghostly voice of her mother whispering shame every time her yes drifted from what was 'proper'.
"Hm," Joffrey grunted, "I think you got the last part wrong, shouldn't that be 'and then they gently kiss'?" He whispered as his hands returned the favor and rounded Sansa's thighs.
Sansa yelped, glaring at him as she climbed his chest and grabbed his hands. She slammed them against the matress as she lowered her head. "The pure maidens can keep their gentle," she said forcefully before kissing him as if they're lives depended on it.
They spent most of the day in Joffrey's room, and Inneo shook his head in mirth when he realized the meal he'd left by the door had been ignored.
He chuckled lowly when dinner was similarly left untouched, the door locked tight.
That certainly took a while, he thought as he returned to the kitchens. He'd have to leave a couple of Iron Scepters by Adaro's grave tomorrow, the old man had certainly won that bet.
-: PD :-
The next six months were an odd experience for Joffrey. No enemies threatened their position in Braavos, beyond the usual jockeying and petty intrigue that characterized the normal politics of the city. Flushed with coin, Joffrey practically turned the best scholarly minds of Braavos into his private retinue, using them as a sounding board for the myriad plans he had in mind for when he finally ruled Westeros as he meant it. He debated with military historians about the effectiveness of Old Ghis' legions, he spent mornings speaking with master engineers over sketches and plans, creating theoretical siege engines as he put to use what he'd learned in the Five Forts, modifying them in favor of simplicity and ease of manufacture. He leaned on the Iron Bank to explore and understand the state of Westeros' debt, and the mood of the important keyholders and bureaucrats regarding it. He dreamed up fleets and watermills, roads and storehouses as his beloved gave him a fresh perspective on the dusty plans that had formed up inside his head during the course of a hundred lifetimes.
"King's Landing will be the key," he told Sansa as they stared at the map of Westeros and rain pattered against Dure House's high windows. "Often denigrated for its slums and the smell, ignored by Royalty in favor of petty politics abroad…" he muttered.
"Half a million souls at our beck and call," mused Sansa. The intense concentration and focus in her eyes would have scared the young girl that had once existed, years ago.
"Tanners, cobblers, weavers, smiths, bakers, fishermen, many of them genuine masters of their craft, all historically neglected and ripe for expansion by a clever hand…" he whispered with closed eyes, tracking production values and investment returns in the back of his mind.
"Their efforts will power our rule, give us the coin to turn it into the engine of prosperity, as it should be," Sansa agreed, their conversation a familiar one as she studied its roadside connections to the rest of the Crownlands.
"The coin to build an army worth the name…" Joffrey added ominously. Sansa looked at him curiously, tilting her head.
"Speaking of which, have you decided yet on your little pet legion?" She asked him.
"Pet Legion?" he asked her, affronted. "Sansa, the 'Guard will be the most lethal fighting force in Westeros. It'll revolutionize warfare in the continent… if we live to tell the tale at least," he added.
Sansa raised an eyebrow as she looked at him, "So you're done?" she asked him.
Joffrey nodded, confident, "Only three tools: halberd, crossbow, and shovel. It'll simplify logistics at least," he said.
"I thought you said pikes were a better idea?" She asked, puzzled.
A lone lightning was heard in the distance as Joffrey stood up and walked to the wooden cabinet, searching for something, "Kind of. The halberd adds some much needed versatility though, and can be almost as effective as a pike block if you make good use of terrain," he said in a lecturing tone, "I'd go for them if it weren't for the bloody walkers. Wights don't give a damn about getting impaled in a pike wall, they'd just swarm them and turn it into a close quarters fight… and any notion of winning an urban skirmish with pikes is a fantasy as well, especially against the Walkers themselves," he grumbled as he poured two cups of wine.
Sansa nodded slightly, looking at the window as she thought, "Won't they be too vulnerable to missile troops? As they have no shields, I mean," she asked him.
Joffrey smiled as she approached her, giving her one of the cups. He loved it when they bounced ideas like that, because even if Sansa's knowledge of warfare was not enough to meaningfully change his mind, she still served as an excellent sounding board, just as he did with matters of intrigue.
"Hence the crossbows and the cover they will provide. Assuming excellent drill, massed fire tactics, and intelligent formations, my armies would be like fast hedgehogs, dictating the rhythm of the engagement by threatening quick charges or sitting back and pelting the enemy with crossbow bolts, minimizing weaknesses …" he trailed off, his smile growing a tad bit feral in slight anticipation, "With a force like that, with runners and signalmen worth the name… the initiative would be like clay in my hands," he said almost dreamily. Sansa had to hide a smile as she looked at him… Joffrey spoke of 'The Initiative' like Westerosi lords spoke of the Kingsguard.
"I think I could combine the advantages of Old Ghis' legions, the superior missile volume of Dawn troops, and the charging tactics of Westeros to create an army capable of shattering a variety of enemies, from breaking rebellious hosts to pinning wights in place either in the field or in the cities… Of course, for the latter I think I'll switch half the crossbowmen for shield bearers as bolts will do little to-" he trailed off again once he saw Sansa, twinkling her nose fondly as she slowly swirled her cup of wine.
"What?" he asked her.
"Too much strategy Joffrey. What about the men? You'll need loyal and trustworthy officers if it is all to work," she explained.
Joffrey huffed, "Now that's more of a rarity than trust in the Lannisters," he said as he shook his head.
"Old hands will not be so lightly swayed to your new ways," she said, ignoring the huff. "You'll have to work on the younger nobles, the younger the better actually," she said thoughtfully.
"So they can be taken in by my glorious persona?" he asked mockingly.
"Yes," she said seriously.
Joffrey chuckled, but Sansa was still looking at him quite seriously, leaning forward as she spoke, "I'm not joking Joffrey. I saw you fight back in the Red Keep, I've seen you here in the yard when you cut loose against the dummies… Westerosi boys worship war. You'll be a god to them," she said forcefully.
Joffrey scoffed, grudgingly tilting his head, "There are better warriors than me Sansa, my real father for instance, or Ser Barristan," he told her.
"Maybe," she said, not quite convinced as she kept looking at his eyes, "But better soldiers?" she asked him, and there was a small silence as she stood up and grasped his shoulders. "You've told me what you did in the Dawn Fort, in the Riverlands, I've seen you when you were jousting the Mountain that Rides," she said slowly, trying to get into that thick skull of his. "You have this burning conviction when you think the cause is righteous, almost something physical that clogs the air and make men stop and pay attention…" she said, her hands gently massaging his neck, "Let it out. Let it all out. Find young scions who have lost themselves within the system, adrift in the order they were raised to maintain but feeling hollow all the same. Do to them what you did to your legions, make them yours," she told him.
"Manipulate them," Joffrey said in grudging assent, seeing the necessity behind it even if he hated it.
"No Joffrey," Sansa cut him off, "Help them. Give them what all men crave for. A family to call their own. Brotherhood. Greatness."
"Purpose," Joffrey muttered, gazing at her vivid blue eyes.
-: PD :-
He and Sansa spent whole nights thinking and brainstorming about the Seven Kingdom's trade routes and the comparative advantages they held against the Free Cities, the inflexible politics that stifled ports and ships, the notable personalities and nobles of the Crownlands and their strengths and weaknesses… when they were not too busying enjoying each other.
All their planning and preparations seemed like a side show to Joffrey though, a mere blip of their existence as they spent nights carousing and enjoying all that the Secret City had to offer. They laughed and cried at the grand theater halls which dotted the Purple Harbor, they danced and smiled in the raucous soirees at Lazono's, they laughed as they sang, or rather mangled, famous opera duets in the privacy of Dure House when the snows made for a slow day. They talked and kissed under the trees of the Braavosi hinterlands, Lady chasing the green, wide winged woodpeckers that soared dangerously closed to the ground.
Most of all, Joffrey enjoyed the loose feeling of peace deep inside him that swelled when he opened his eyes in the morning, the core of warmth that was Sansa held tightly against his chest, his hands holding her securely as she slept.
He always woke up first, the awkward feeling of their bed drawing him out of the nightmares that still haunted him after all these years. They were always dissipated when he gazed at Sansa's sleeping form, and though he couldn't sleep again after waking up, he liked to spend the early hours of the morning just breathing slowly, his eyes closed as he left his mind drift.
Sansa seemed of a similar mind, though rather than the soirees and the feasts, she seemed the most content when they spent their afternoons snuggling on the long couch by the hearth, a heavy blanket over them as she read an interesting book and Joffrey took dreamless, pleasant naps.
It was during one of those peaceful afternoons, when Joffrey woke up from the gentle nap to the sight of Sansa reading a light story, laying on her side and facing the lit hearth, that he realized he'd never felt happier in his life.
"Hm?" she asked wordlessly as she felt him shuffling against her back, not taking her eyes away from the gripping story.
"I love you," Joffrey whispered as he finished the slight repositioning, his hands now holding her belly from behind as he closed his eyes once more. He realized he'd never said that before… Sansa was right, he did have the order all messed up.
She smiled gently as she shuffled within his grip, giving her back to the hearth and the gently falling snow beyond the window, the book forgotten. "I love you too," she whispered back with a content sigh, her forehead touching Joffrey's. Lady gave her mistress a monstrous yawn from her nest of blankets by the fireplace, her head emerging from the bulk of her white-grey fur to stare at the sofa before she coiled on herself again, back to resembling a sleepy grey rock.
Sansa yawned before she blinked slowly, drowsiness practically poured from Joffrey when he was like this. She was debating whether or not to continue reading about Vellamo and the Laughing Nightingale when she yawned again, and eventually decided to rest her eyes, just for a few minutes…
-: PD :-
Joffrey smirked as he perused the letter from his informant in the Iron Bank. It seemed Baelish had accrued quite the little nest egg here in Braavos, mostly in the form of property and actual gold dragons in the Bank's vaults.
Though it does open up possibilities for our next life, Joffrey mused as he found a considerable part of the funds which had been unaccounted for after he'd tore Littlefinger's empire to pieces. The fact that they were stashed all the way in Braavos and not King's Landing or even Gulltown did complicate things, but it deed seem that something could be worked out…
He was startled out of his paperwork when Sansa closed the door behind her, and he worried when he saw her face. The last time he'd seen her like that had been when they had spoken about the possibility of having… children, a few days after their encounter in the Sealord's Palace.
It had been a heavy conversation, filled with the creeping doubts of the Purple and the ominous strength gathering to the Northwest, a reminder that their life here would not last forever. Sansa had decided to start drinking Moontea permanently, and Joffrey had agreed immediately, drawing on his memories of the Citadel to make a blend of the tea which minimized side effects and maximized effectiveness. The thought of having a child, a small, defenseless being of their flesh and blood, only to be eventually left behind in a dying world never to be seen again had been enough to give Joffrey more than a few sleepless nights. Sansa still awoke in a cold sweat sometimes, after they'd spoken about the horrible implications.
"What's the matter?" he asked as he stopped writing and left the quill by the inkwell.
"News from Westeros," she said seriously.
Joffrey took the letter, and frowned as he read it.
"Who the fuck is John Connington?" he asked in shocked anger as he gazed back at Sansa.
-: PD :-
"Just what we fucking needed, ten thousand veterans and a bunch of elephants joining the fray," Joffrey cursed, the Braavosi morning chilling his bones as he paced around the inner courtyard, absently twirling his spear.
"Assuming we can stave off the war of the Five Kings, ten thousand veterans shouldn't be too much to handle for you," Sansa pointed out as she feinted, her spear low before delivering a quick flurry of blows which Joffrey parried almost effortlessly with his own spear, tapping her in the arm strongly with the blunted steel.
"Point," she grumbled as she took a few steps back.
"War is chaos personified," Joffrey said as he went on the offensive, working a bit of his frustration as he kept her on her toes, spinning and delivering 'slow' but strong blows which she parried with a huff or barely avoided altogether, "Ten thousand veterans could quickly snowball into a greater rebellion if it's not nipped in the bud, especially if they're competently led. Every second that army draws breathe is another second legitimacy drains from King's Landing…" he pointed out as he overextended and Sansa used the opportunity to shove him back and earn some time to breathe.
"And are they? Competently led?" Sansa asked him, flicking a lock of red hair away from her eye as she studied his guard.
"They took Storm's End, so they probably are… though there's no way to be sure without more information. The Golden Company is known for both its tactical and strategic acumen, that you can count on… they'll make themselves a bloody plague before they're stamped out… assuming no more of our future vassals turn their cloaks to this supposed 'Aegon'," he scoffed before trying for a fancy jumping strike at Sansa.
Sansa parried the heavy blow, tapping him in the knee as she twisted away and avoided Joffrey's backblow with his spear's butt. Their conversation lapsed into huffs and grunts as they kept striking and parrying, feinting and side stepping with only the sound of the spears clashing to mark the time. She had been almost as surprised as Joffrey when she'd read the letter their spies in the capital had sent her. The Golden Company was an order of sellswords descended from Westerosi who had been exiled after the Blackfyre Rebellions, prized for never breaking their contracts and being the most deadly sellsword company in Western Essos. The fact that they'd abandoned their previous Blackfyre loyalties in favor of this 'Aegon Targeryean', himself of dubious lineage as he'd been supposedly dead for more than a decade at this point… it all reeked of something more to Sansa.
She grimaced as she took a breath, planting her spear on the floor as she wiped the sweat off her forehead. "This is exactly what Doran Martell had been waiting for, isn't it?" she asked Joffrey.
"Most likely. I used to think he was waiting for Daenerys Targeryean, but it seems she's staying in Mereen for the long haul, possibly forever… rumors from the east are always garbled," he grumbled, taking a small towel from the nearby table and wiping the sweat off his head.
"And for that we can be thankful," said Sansa. The fact that Daenerys and her three living, breathing Dragons seemed content on staying as far away from Westeros as possible was a blessing as far as she was concerned.
"You can say that again…" said Joffrey as he resumed their sparring session, putting her in on the back foot as he opened up with a quick sequence of thrusts and feints, "We need more information. How did they get to the Stormlands? On what ships? Who is backing them in Westeros?" he questioned quickly as Sansa retreated, parrying wildly.
The conversation devolved once more into grunts and pained huffs as Sansa managed to get a few strong blows on Joffrey's torso and the melee turned into a frenzied close quarters match. Joffrey lost his spear but managed an arm lock as he positioned himself behind Sansa, grabbing both her arms in a hold as he kissed her in the neck. Seeing Sansa flushed and sweaty always seemed to leave him… hot headed.
He couldn't resist.
"I don't think that's part of the spear drill…" Sansa huffed, her cheeks turning red. She stomped on Joffrey's toe and slipped from his grip. She tried to strike him with the butt of the spear, but failed as Joffrey sidestepped the blow and closed in with another delightful kiss, this one on the other side of her neck.
"The Summer Islanders use it to great effect," he told her glibly, dodging a few halfhearted spear thrusts from Sansa before once more locking her in his grasp.
"Liar. You've never been to the Summer Islands," Sansa huffed in annoyance before twisting within his hold and planting a strong, proper kiss on the damned tease, her sudden weight making him fall on the smooth stone floor with her on top, the spear discarded.
"We can't -end every -practice session -like this-," Sansa complained in between kisses, Joffrey's hands opening up her padded armor. "We still have two hours to go," she huffed as she did the same to Joffrey's slim armor.
"Sorry," he said before kissing her again, and it was the most insincere apology Sansa had ever heard… Not that she cared.
-: PD :-
They spent the next three months amassing as much useful information as they could from the happenings in Westeros, which seemed to have reached some sort of critical mass of destruction. The Tyrells' powerful marriage block had finally broken apart under the strain, and the Reach had devolved into its own petty civil war, of which the strongest factions were the Stannis-backed Florents and the Tyrell-Hightower remnants, with the Greyjoys adding fuel to the fire and raiding everywhere. The arrival of Aegon Targeryean in the Stormlands had given fresh hopes to the Tyrells, who had been hoping for a marriage with the young king to stave off the hopeless situation they had found themselves in… until they learned that Dorne had stolen a march from them. Arianne Martell married Aegon Targeryean in Storm's End's Sept to the clamor of golden veterans and the trumpeting of elephants, at the same time as ten thousand Dornish spears marched out of the Prince's Pass, setting the southern Reach on fire and aiding in the slaughter of the Seven Kingdom's bread basket.
Stannis had been forced to turn south east back to regain his ancient seat before more Stormlanders turned their cloaks, abandoning the siege of Casterly Rock and leaving Tywin and the last dregs of the Westerlands alone save for a comparatively small blocking force. In a curiously convenient twist of fate, Tywin was found in his bedchambers with a smile on his neck, just when Stannis was too far away to do anything about it and just before Tywin could make use of the reprieve to get some sort of plan going again beyond 'If the Rock falls, Stannis will have all our heads'.
With Tywin's iron fist gone, the swiftly disintegrating Westermen who had not yet sworn to Stannis had taken to Aegon's more comparatively magnanimous terms with relief. Many keeps in the Westerlands suddenly flew the Dragon's banner almost overnight, as ravens came and went.
Information on the North had all but broken down as reports grew more and more contradictory until the more meaningful ones simply stopped reaching Braavos at all. What they did know was that Robb Stark had returned to the North with less than half the men who had followed him south, but the Muddy Wolf and his compact army of veterans had fallen on the Wildlings like a pack of ravenous direwolves on a herd of goats. He'd slaughtered his way up to sacked Winterfell, executing every single Iron Born raider or Wildling he could get his hands on, and resistance to his advance was scattered. It seemed the great Wildling army had splintered after taking the Wall, with various bands and clans independently making their way southwards… And though it seemed that a northmen victory seemed assured on any battlefield, it was becoming apparent that the task of securing the North itself from the tens of thousands of scattering wildlings would take many years… many more than they could afford, even if they did not know it.
As for the Golden Company itself, many questions had answered themselves when Varys, missing and presumed dead since Stannis had taken King's Landing, had appeared in Storm's End and personally penned a letter to all lords high and low, declaring 'to his utmost recollection' his actions during the days before the Sack of King's Landing, years ago. The way he'd smuggled one Aegon Targeryean and replaced him with a silver haired lookalike days after learning of the Battle of the Trident…
Groomed since birth to reclaim his rightful throne, the Spider had painted a pretty picture around his favored pawn, calling him a King of rightful Targeryean blood who would bring back the order of the days of old to the continent. A just and chivalric knight, friend of lords and commoners alike.
It seemed the Spider was not so lacking in ambitions as the rest of the nobility had thought…
-: PD :-
They sailed to Lys, eager to learn more about yet another enemy which had emerged from the shadows. The rightful son and heir of Rhaegar Targeryean, and now harbinger of further war and devastation to southern Westeros, the young king returning from anonymity after a life of exile amongst the common folk, surrounded by a loyalist cadre of Westerosi nobles to shape the King Westeros deserves…
Joffrey was not buying it. Romantic tales like that did not happen in this planet.
"We knew the ships were from Volantis, twelve galleons in all, but the Gewyns were adamant that the Golden Company's longest stay was in Lys," said Sansa as their ship tumbled over the waves, a furious late autumn storm shaking it about like a dog with a rat.
Joffrey grimaced as he held on to the bulkhead. Their room was the best he could get without sacrificing the Fast Trader's speed, though he was starting to regret that choice. "Makes sense, they must have been awaiting news from Varys so they didn't land in front of an enemy army by accident. A contested landing is no joke, and would have probably seen them slaughtered to a man if something went wrong," Joffrey told her as the ship creaked ominously and he heard shouts coming from above.
"So that is where -or rather when- we should face the Golden Company? As they disembark?" Sansa asked out loud, holding on for dear life as the ship tilted left.
"Yeah, though forcing a sea battle would be much more effective… if we can find them en route that is, which is harder than it sounds. Galleons loaded with armored men, horses and elephants…" Joffrey trailed off as he shook his head. He blinked at the minute amount of seawater pooling at his feet, sloshing around their small room. "They would struggle against proper warships. I much prefer the Golden Company drowning at sea than dying on land, where their heavy plate and horse are an advantage rather than a detriment. Soldiers that die against them will be soldiers that can't face the Walkers… at least not on our side…" He trailed off once more when the amount of water kept increasing and the ship kept tilting left.
"Something's wrong," Sansa told him before some sort of colossal wave crashed against the ship, tilting it all the way sideways as water flooded their room from one second from the next.
Fucking autumn storms, Joffrey thought as he grabbed Sansa's hand. "We have to get-" he couldn't finish the sentence as the ice cold seawater flooded the room completely in seconds and submerged them both. He could see Sansa spinning, or was that the room?
He tried to lead her towards the door, but the air in his lungs was already starting to burn when he lost sight of it, darkness descending on them as the oil lamps were snuffed out and the ship sunk, darkness replaced by twisting Purple. He held on to her hand as the pillars beckoned, and she squeezed back in silent companionship as they were levitated upwards and upwards and upwards in agony…
-: PD :-