Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Gorryl cursed as he tripped over a log, falling to the mud with a squelch. His budding training took hold though, the familiar experience guiding his legs as he cushioned the fall and leapt back on his feet despite the muck, vaulting over the next log wall with a grunt. The light rain was like a fine mist hanging in the air, doing its best to try and mess with his eyes and make him fall again.

Now came the hardest part, as well as the last… at least officially. The open aired course ended with twelve of the day's worst crossbowmen, those who had 'won' the lowest score of this morning's shooting practice. Gorryl could see them as they shouted at each other and stood over the earthen rampart to his left, aiming their blunt tipped bolts which were still powerful enough to break bone or even take an eye if you were really unlucky. Those bastards would be up there as a group for the rest of the day pelting Messengers... the only other way out of their predicament was to actually hit one.

Gorryl cursed as the bolts started slamming against the mud all around him, one of them almost hitting his foot. He started on a zigzag pattern as the crossbows sang from the left, changing his speed randomly with every diagonal turn and fooling their aim as he jumped with a roar towards the boxy wooden construction, right through the small opening.

He was now inside the Gauntlet, but the wooden blocky structure was barely illuminated as he looked around him. It was filled with felled tree trunks and logs, shrubs which had been cut and carried there that same day, and other objects of cover. Gorryl kept running as a bell tolled from the outside. "Messenger in! Open three!" shouted a voice.

Fuck, I hate three, he thought as a heavy clang resounded throughout the Gauntlet and a section of the wall gave out and fell towards the outside. It was suspended by chains as it slammed against the ground like some sort of draw bridge. The daylight almost blinded him, but he could still see well enough to curse once more as he saw the gallery of crossbowmen raising their weapons at him. Three ranks, all with clear lines of sight due to the stair-like construction of the stand.

"Loose!" shouted their Serjeant, and Gorryl jumped to the ground as a torrent of crossbow bolts rained all over the log he was now covering against. He crawled down the length of it, the eerie rain of bolts making the hair at the nape of his neck stand on edge as the deadly hail kept pouring from the other side of the collapsed wall. Those whose rate-of-release had been deemed insufficient were stationed here… with similar rules to the 'sharpshooters' he'd just cleared.

He crawled franticly as he tried not to lose his nerves to the hail of bolts raining everywhere, waiting for a small lull before dashing towards another log. Their rate of release was prized more than their accuracy, and so Gorryl thought this part of the Gauntlet had been designed to test the prospective Messenger's nerves more than his ability to crawl under enemy arrows.

Of course, that was on the specific messenger's part, the crossbowmen really were out to loose as fast as they could and maybe hit him in the process. There were extra rations in for them if they got him.

The Commander was like that, 'Training each other- Iron sharpening Iron-' he'd heard him intone once.

Gorryl preferred the wise words of his own Serjeant; 'why make each other miserable for free, when they can get paid for it?'

He cleared the section, still running as the same voice shouted again, "Open five and seven!"

Gorryl snarled at the injustice, Two gates at once?! He thought before two disparate gates opened up at awkward angles; a crossfire that reduced his covering options by half. He thought quickly before dashing for the leftmost side of the Gauntlet, preferring the safer log wall than the smallish piles of rocks to the right… even if it left his backside more exposed.

He somehow got through the Gauntlet and into the adjacent Maze, where the same voice called out. "Messenger in the Maze! Start the light show! Release Watchmen one to twelve!" it roared in quick succession.

Double the usual?! Do they want to kill me?! Gorryl roared in the privacy of his own mind as he immediately took off in a random direction, though always angling towards the far side.

The Maze was pretty dark, only illuminated by the occasionally opening trapdoors in the ceiling which the men had taken to calling the 'light show', letting the light of day shine through and illuminate random sections of the wooden labyrinth. Gorryl cursed yet again when he turned a corner and came face to face with a Watchman holding a wooden baton.

"Hold and kneel!" he roared as he tried to smack him in the arm.

Cheating bastard, thought Gorryl as he dodged the blow and fled. They were supposed to shout the warning first and then club you into submission. He dashed back whence he came, this part of the labyrinth already memorized from the short seconds he'd spent in it. They moved the inner walls around every day, same as the cover objects inside the Gauntlet, so cheeky Messengers had to think on their feet instead of merely memorizing the layout.

"Ah! Fuck you!" Gorryl snarled as a watchman appeared from the other side of the corridor he was running towards. He turned back and saw his pursuer turn the corner, dashing for him at a full sprint. "He's cornered! 'Round up on me!" he roared, his voice guiding the other watchman which were doubtlessly patrolling the other parts of the labyrinth with zeal.

Gorryl quickly assessed his surroundings as he'd been taught to, finding a few small indentations on the left wall just a few meters towards the first watchman. "Hold 'n neel!" shouted the watchman as Gorryl dashed towards him, faking a head on confrontation. Taking on a Watchman was not recommended; they were armored, had a superior strength regime than the Messengers were, and Gorryl had been stripped of his blunt shortsword during the morning anyway. Four out of five beat up and swollen Messengers agreed: Taking on a Watchman inside the Maze was a bad idea.

It was fortunate for Gorryl then that the Watchman took him for an idiot, stopping and bracing as he kept up his mad dash. The watchman grinned, ready to deliver a beating for his boldness when Gorryl turned and climbed up the indentations on the wall instead, vaulting over the end of the wall and jumping down in a roll. He ran towards the general direction of the exit, making use of his ears to avoid the other pursuers. He only resorted to violence when he delivered a surprise uppercut on a watchman when they bumped after a corner. The veterans of the course were right; it was the corners that most often got you.

He slammed against one of the numerous exit doors which spanned the entire far wall, taking in a breath of fresh air as he rung the small bell hanging from a pole.

"Number?" asked the bored looking man sitting in a field chair beyond the pole. He scribbled over a piece of wood-backed parchment quickly as he waited, the small bronze token which hanged from his doublet glinting in the afternoon sun.

"One-One-Three," Gorryl said out loud.

"Message?" droned out the man. One could be forgiven for thinking him inattentive, but the men and women of the Logistics Arm took their jobs pretty damned seriously, jotting down every single word to come out of a Messenger's mouth and comparing them meticulously to the records of the actual orders that had been given to them that morning.

"For the Commander's Eyes only," Gorryl announced.

"Ah... One of the elite eh?" the man mused out loud as he finally lifted his gaze from the parchment, gazing at him in appreciation.

Gorryl grunted as he walked to the other table, taking a long sip from one of the waterskins and biting a huge chunk out of the beef jerky which had been waiting for him…

Hm, looks pretty stocked. I must be one of the first ones today… he thought as he ate, gazing at the supplies on the table which were reserved for starving and thirsting Messengers fresh out of the hell that was 'The Run'.

Either that or all the ones before him had fallen… and personally, he was leaning on the latter. Their trainers had really gone overboard today, he'd known that since they were ambushed in the Thicket. When the screaming Raiders emerged from the trees and the leaves, their horses galloping wildly over uneven terrain as they swung long wooden rods to strike at backs and heads… well, Gorryl had almost pissed himself. The Raiders were crazy, almost as crazy as the Commander, everyone knew that! Well… everyone not a fool. There were rumors that back in King's Landing people thought the Raiders were a gaggle of smallfolk friends 'the Prince' liked to race horses with… Gorryl had laughed for a straight minute when Jepp had told him that.

He stretched his neck slowly as he breathed, catching up his breath. He had to get going soon, or else he might miss the Commander. Finding him was half of the difficult task he'd been entrusted with, as he liked to traverse the camp almost randomly, supervising whatever caught his fancy. Now began what the Commander had called 'Advanced Training' when he'd personally briefed him and two score other candidates a month ago. The Serjeants had pulled them from their regular training to serve as 'the elite of the Messenger Arm', and Gorryl had never looked back since then.

More than the extra food and pay, Gorryl had come to love the feeling of pushing his body to the limit; not in the wasting attrition that had been life in Fleabottom, but in the exalting way that had been his training in the Messenger Arm and then in the elite of it. They were worked to the bone every day, even harder than the Battle Arm. He was fed a hearty meal two times a day, and collapsed in exhaustion the following night… but after the grueling first few months, now every time he woke up he did so stronger and faster than the day before, his mind sharpened under the lighting sessions of the morning classes before they were released for 'Skill and Endurance Training'… Which was most often The Run.

The Messenger Arm was widely believed to be the Commander's favored component of the Royal Guard, mostly because of the amount of time he'd spent perfecting its training methods… which was bound to make Gorryl's task even more difficult than it already was.

Gorryl stretched his legs as he'd been taught, preparing for the real run when the Bronze spoke up again, "The Commander has been supervising Shock & Charge since midmorning, you might want to check the Drill yard," he said.

Gorryl looked at the man in surprise before nodding. He didn't have to tell him that. "Thank you," he said gratefully.

"Don't thank me yet, combat maneuvers for the Third Cohort were cancelled today... The Camp's full of milling Line Infantry," he said with an apologetic smile.

"Aw shit…" Gorryl muttered, "Thanks for the tip anyway, you Bronzes aren't that bad," he told him.

"Despite the Commander's efforts, people who can read and write keep being in short supply… or at least for the amounts he needs. The resulting overwork tends to make us grumpy as a general rule," he explained with a small chuckle.

"I'll keep that in mind," said Gorryl with a smile, before jogging down the road towards the Camp. It was more than twenty minutes later when he reached the outer perimeter, patrolled by squads of line infantry. Gorryl waited as they marched in lockstep past his position, dashed from the bit of shrubbery he'd been hiding in, and made for the wooden palisade. He jumped past the stakes and climbed up, avoiding the sharpened top before carefully climbing down. He made his way past tents and warehouses, ditches and cleared out roads, sneaking through the veritable small town which hosted more than two thousand souls... and climbing.

He made as if he was busy moving a crate when a couple of watchmen passed by his side, patrolling the inside of the Camp itself. These one carried steel maces and iron cudgels instead of wooden batons, and were not afraid to crack bones if whoever disrupted the peace did not stop the moment they called out 'stop and kneel'.

He was almost to the Drill Yard when a group of halberdiers from the Third Cohort, which had been laughing at something near a supply tent, stopped and turned to look at him.

"Oi! There he is! Hey Ferd!" shouted one of them.

"Who the fuck is Ferl?!" Gorryl shouted back as he quickly strode past them, trying not to break out into a sprint. His arm itched where the blue ribbon of the Messengers's elite had been tied.

"Oh, sorry about that," said the man as he shook his head and the group returned to their business… only for one of them to keep staring at him.

"Isn't that one of 'em blue runners?" he asked one of his friends.

"He is!" shouted another one, "Get him!"

Fuck, cursed Gorryl as he broke into a sprint, turning towards an alleyway created by a couple of tents. He could hear a ruckus behind him as the halberdiers sprinted behind him, splitting off into several directions.

"Go 'round the big tent! Stop him!" shouted someone, and Gorryl turned to find one of the halberdiers blocking his path. "Give it up blue boy! I fuckin' need that extra day!" shouted the soldier, but Gorryl ignored him as he climbed up the tent, almost bringing it down as he reached the top of the surprisingly durable fabric.

The Commander had decreed that anyone who caught a blue messenger inside the Camp (though more or less unharmed) would be rewarded with an extra day in Reston. A hefty prize to make the 'Advanced Training' even more interesting.

Fuckin' Commander, thought Gorryl as he jumped from the tent to another next to it. He screamed when the tent's ceiling ripped open as he landed, making him fall atop a small wooden table.

"What the-" Gorryl cut off the startled Serjeant when he pushed him away and leapt up from the table, running for the tent flap and shoulder smashing aside the halberdier which had been opening it.

He lost his pursuers when he sneaked below a cart carrying foodstuffs, crawling beneath another one as he rounded towards the north of the camp and entered the Drill Yard, a large clearing which faced a great wall of piled up logs, filled with bolts.

The light rain had turned into a steady drizzle, but he could see whole centuries marching in lockstep towards clusters of wooden targets, complete with fake swords nailed to 'arms' and wooden shields, getting hollered at by serjeants and centurions. Gorryl spied for the Commander, but only found one of the Legates.

"Formation! Shock Charge!" shouted Legate Snow from the side of the troops, his accompanying horn blower repeating the order musically.

"Centuryyy, halt! Crossbows, quick arrows!" shouted their centurion. The standard century of line infantry slammed to a halt with a collective, guttural grunt, halberds held at the ready as crossbows emerged from the gaps and loosed against the wooden targets. They quickly disappeared into the formation, only for another, fresh set of crossbows to emerge and shoot the targets once more.

"Halberds! Double Charge!" roared the centurion, and the halberdiers roared after him as they charged, weapons held aloft over their heads with the tips pointing towards the enemy. The second rank of halberdiers in the charge ran behind their comrades, their own halberds held low and forwards, protruding from the gaps in between the first line. They slammed against the wooden targets in a burst of controlled violence, stabbing and using hammer or axe heads to mangle the training dummies.

Gorryl made use of the ruckus to dash past them, finally spotting the Commander. He was walking slowly, hands held behind his back as he watched the halberdiers which were drilling all around him in single combat. They were currently practicing trips, and Gorryl winced when one of the soldiers pulled too hard and his partner landed harshly on his back.

"Good technique, too much strength," the Commander observed as he gazed at the suddenly uneasy soldier. "Be careful with the pull or you might injure the man behind you when in battle," he lectured the soldier gently before turning and holding a hand towards the downed one. "Up and at 'em Guardsman, no rest for the Fists," he said with a slight, approving smile.

Gorryl unconsciously straightened as he approached the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. He was decked in armor, wearing an ensemble similar to the chainmail and halfplate the line infantry used. However, while the regular white tabard that went over the plate depicted the silver Fist of the King, the Commander's was also framed by a rising sun, and his pauldrons were enameled with crisscrossing lines of green, unprocessed copper.

The Commander turned to look at him before he was fully there, turning in an eerily smooth half step to look at him. He seemed larger than life as he gazed at him, his eyes oddly still even as Gorryl felt them analyzing every inch of his body despite the fact that he was actually taller. He swallowed dryly as he kept jogging until he was in front of him, standing at attention. He'd once thought the effect would eventually go away, when he'd spoken with him for the first time a month ago.

He was beginning to reconsider that notion.

"Commander!" Gorryl saluted as he slammed his right fist over his gambeson, straight as a beam of steel, "One-One-Three with Message," he said. Calling the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms 'Commander' was both an obligation and the exclusive privilege of the Royal Guard.

"Proceed," said the Commander, his steely green eyes still boring into him.

"From Legate Tyrek to Commander Joffrey, verbal, with written decoy," he recited as he gave him the small scroll case.

The Commander skimmed through the small document before nodding, "What's the real message?" he asked.

"'He who only reacts courts the death of a hundred blades, he who only acts courts the death of the single spear. Keep to the balance and flow like water between the stones, die the death of old age'," Gorryl recited.

The Commander nodded, a glimmer of pride in his eyes, "Excellent work… Gorryl right?" he asked him, continuing after the messenger nodded, "Anything else?"

Gorryl shuffled, remembering the exact wording. He had to say it all and perfectly at that, else the test would be void, "Yes Commander, Legate Tyrek also said: 'Cousin, when did you find the time to think up a book on warcraft again? And more importantly, why did you have to lace it with bad poetry?'" he said dutifully.

The Commander smirked, chuckling lowly for a second before nodding at him. "You even got the intonation right. Tell me Gorryl, what do you think about that quote?" he asked him unexpectedly.

Gorryl blinked, startled as he rushed to come up with a response that would see him out of this one with his rank and privilege intact.

"No, no, what do you really think?" he asked before Gorryl even finished opening his mouth.

He shuffled nervously, "Ah, ehm, I mean, Commander-" he stammered.

"Breathe, take your time," he said as he turned and gazed at another couple of practicing halberdiers, "You're taking too long on the hook! In, turn, out! Less than two seconds at a minimum or your opponent will react!" he called out to one of them.

Gorryl spent the next longest minutes of his life thinking frenziedly as the Commander called out corrections, before he gathered his courage and spoke. "By only reacting to an enemy army you open yourself up to defeat because they can dictate the battles, many times, hence the death of a hundred blades… And, well… on the other hand, if you only act then you leave yourself at the mercy of the enemy's plan," he said.

"Interesting. And if you could only choose one, which would it be?" asked the Commander, still looking at the sparring halberdiers, not giving a hint about what he thought of the answer.

"Act," Gorryl said instantly. It had been one of the most painful, early lessons Fleabottom had taught him.

The Commander said nothing, still gazing at the sparring men as he tapped his chin in thought… before he suddenly turned, "What happened?" he asked as his hand went to his hammer, his voice dangerous.

Gorryl took a step back reflexively, bumping against someone. He turned and saw Legate Rykker, the burly chief of the Logistics Arm shoving him aside lightly before leaning on the Prince's shoulder.

"What?" said the Commander slowly, a budding, raw anger lacing his voice tight.

Legate Rykker whispered some more, his own expression thunderous… which was ominous in and of itself. He was not known for being easy to rouse.

"Messenger!" snapped the Commander.

"Ser!" shouted Gorryl as he saluted reflexively.

"Message to the Camp Prefect: End all activities for the day. Full Regiment recalled to the Marching Grounds. And take off that blue ribbon, no one is to stop you," he said, a staccato of orders which Gorryl took a second to process.

"Aye Ser!" He saluted again before dashing off, feeling the burning gaze of the Commander on his back as he ran.

What the hells is going on?

-: PD :-

The whole (currently) understrength First Regiment of the Royal Guard, which at the moment composed the entirety of said Guard, stood in formation on the Marching Ground. The 'Grounds' as they were often called, were a stretch of fallow land ten minutes away from the Camp, where the Regiment's greenest recruits practiced marching for hours on end. There was no one marching now though…

As the sun set and the full moon arose, Gorryl concentrated on the five roughed up men that had been tied to a set of wooden posts directly ahead. They were all guardsmen who've had their armor and weapons removed, as soaked as the rest of the assembled soldiers under the pouring rain.

The Commander was the only other man near the posts. He'd been there since Gorryl had arrived with the rest of his squad, half an hour ago, their Serjeant cajoling them into formation with the rest of their nominal century. The Guardsman immediately to his right was Hyte, a halberdier from First Cohort, Second Century, and they'd taken to conversing quietly a while ago. According to him, the Commander had stomped off from the medical tent in the Camp an hour ago, and had just stared at the five tied up men until now, slowly fisting and relaxing his hands as if he were debating with himself whether to personally strangle them or not, water pouring down his chest and arms.

The entirety of the Regiment had been assembled; all but the most essential guards. Gorryl could see lines upon lines of halberds held uneasily, crossbowmen shuffling sore muscles after a grinding day at the Gauntlet or the Drill Yard, Messengers looking at each other nervously and whispering. The men and women of the Logistics Arm stood grimly to the right of the Grounds, grim faced and fingering the shortswords strapped to their belts. They knew how to use those just as well as the messengers, maybe even better, and they did not look happy.

The six legates were just to Gorryl's right, standing in silence as they waited for the last of the Regiment to assemble. The Hound was there as well, making sure the last of the troops were in place.

He was about to ask Hyte if he knew what this was all about when the Commander suddenly turned and walked towards the assembled soldiers. "Stand!" roared Legate Snow, and the whole Regiment stamped their right foot as they straightened, the Drill Yard descending into silence in an instant. Even the greenest of recruits, those who had been inducted a mere two weeks ago, knew that much at least.

The Commander walked along the length of the assembled soldiers, his hands still locked in fists even as he hid them behind his back. He strode all the way to the end of the line as the rain kept falling from above, before returning to the other end, almost as if he was daring someone to talk.

Gorryl held a snort, there was no one that stupid.

When the Commander returned to the center, night had fallen completely, the glare of the full moon sketching strange shadows over his face.

"Guardsmen," he addressed them somberly, "When I called you by that name, I used to feel nothing but pride," he said almost thoughtfully, pacing once more. "A group of people joined in arms and purpose, for the greater good of us all," he enunciated clearly and slowly.

"When you accepted my coin, you did so out of necessity or pride, out of ambition or honor… but those were not the only things that pushed you into accepting, weren't they?" he asked almost quietly, the men straining to hear him.

"You all know what is at stake, even if you can't put a name on it. That feeling, that itch between the shoulder blades…" he said as he walked, seemingly looking at every Guardsmen in the eye.

"The way old crones gaze at their grandchildren… those sudden moments of stillness in the city inns that almost everyone rushes to fill… the rumors of peasant folk harvesting early… they know what is coming," he said as he paused, the rain pattering against his plate.

"War," he said abruptly, strongly.

His voice rose in intensity as he kept walking, boots sinking lightly in the mud as he strode, "I called you up, armed and armored you, fed and cared for you, made you Guardsmen," he said the last word as if it pained him. Gorryl could only look on, entranced as the Commander kept talking, "So that when the time comes and the next King-to-be dreams of glory… when the next proud lord thinks the time is right… when the next pretender from across the sea puts forth his righteous claim," he said fiercely, "When the time comes and they rise up in banners-and-chivalry-and-honor-and-courage"- he roared as he paced faster, the rain plastering his long hair to his scalp –"When they come with blade in hand to cut down our people, when they come to burn our barns and our harvests, when they come to rape our wives and our daughters, when they come to burn down this continent in the name of their ambition..!" he spat the last words in near rage, spittle flying from his mouth and meeting the steady downpour of water raining from the heavens. The commander took a moment to breathe, nodding slowly to himself.

"I made you Guardsmen so that when that when the time came and the scourge of war were released, a legion of cold steel would be there to bring back the peace. One gravestone at a time if necessary," he said lowly, the sound still carrying itself over even though he was currently at the other end of the formation.

Silence. Then…

"Today, that purpose was sullied," said the Commander, and Gorryl could hear the disdain and disappointment in his voice.

No Guardsman dared move, not a single breath could be heard as the Commander resumed his pacing, back towards the center, "Johana was a Guardsmen in the service of the Logistics Arm. She joined up in part to escape the misery of Fleabottom, like many of you," he said grimly, "Unlike many of you however, her father had been a merchant before the loss of his last ship brought him to suicide, and before his death he'd taught her how to read and write," said the Commander as he stopped in front of the five men, still looking at the assembled Guardsmen. "And so she was inducted into the Bronze, to make sure your food rations and your pay and your weapons reached your hands the moment there was a need for them," he said.

He isn't… surely they… Gorryl thought in dawning comprehension before the Commander spoke again, "Johana trained with shortsword and quill, Johanna helped organize the bucket chain that saved a quarter of the Camp during the 'big fire'. Today, Johana of Fleabottom was repeatedly raped and then murdered by this bunch of animals who call themselves Guardsmen!" He snarled as he aimed a careless wave of his hand at the tied up men. "Scum who could not hold it in their breeches before the end of the month," he said almost quietly, breathing slowly, "They broke the sacred trust that will be the difference between life and death on the battlefield, they murdered a fellow soldier, they-"

"Baah! Fuckin' wench should have known not to 'strut like that. Moving her ass all over the fuckin' place," sneered one of the accused tied to the posts, a tall one with a scar running from lip to chin.

The silence was painful, almost too much to bear. Gorryl could not endure the temptation and he looked. Hyte too. It seemed everyone had turned their heads to look at the man.

The Commander seemed to be breathing deeply, still not responding as he blinked-

"Come on pretty boy! Your act don't impress me!" shouted the man.

The Commander's hands, which had been fisted in tension since he'd started talking, suddenly seemed to relax. He tilted his head backwards, slowly, "Excuse me, am I boring you?" he asked causally.

"Just get this over with, we all know how it's gonna' end!" said the man.

"I know you are no noble, but would you perhaps prefer a Trial-By-Combat instead of judgment?" he asked the man as he turned completely and walked towards him.

"A combat trial?" mused the man, who had clearly been drinking, "Why not? Better than listening to this shite eh Darlan?" he asked one of the other prisoners. Darlan seemed to ignore him though, doing his best to look away.

"Fuckin' cowards," spat the man, blinking quickly when the Commander drew his sword and cut his bindings. He threw the sword at the man's feet before taking a few steps back, waiting.

The man took up the sword gingerly, looking at him with a smirk, "Me against you? The Prince?!" he said, his smile growing shaky when the Commander didn't answer.

"Fuckin' hell, wait till the boys at Gorthos' hear 'bout this one," he mumbled as he looked backwards before suddenly springing at the Commander with a precise stab Gorryl had seen a hundred times before back in Fleabottom.

The Commander stepped lightly to the right, dodging the stab and slamming a one handed mace against the man's sword hand. He grunted in pain as he dropped it and stumbled back, but the Commander closed the distance in a second and delivered a brutal uppercut with the mace right through his jaw, smashing it asunder in a fountain of blood.

The man collapsed on the floor, screaming. He crawled towards the line of Guardsmen, gurgling for help, but the Commander's quick strides caught up to him in seconds. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, turning him belly up before crouching and smashing the hammer against his chest.

Gorryl felt like he was in some sort of dream or nightmare, unable to react as the Commander kept slamming the mace against the man's chest with almost mechanical efficiency again and again as the screams gradually became quieter. The rain somehow made the sound of the mace striking flesh worse, dampening the noise from beyond and leaving Gorryl no choice but to focus on the horrifying squelch that resounded through the Marching Grounds every time the mace connected and retreated, drawing squirts of blood and gore.

The man was not even moaning now, but the Commander kept hammering, eventually turning his head into red mush. When he stood up, Gorrly was unsurprised to find him covered in blood from the chest up. He seemed to breathe then for a moment, absentmindedly sheathing the hammer as he looked up at the sky, letting the rain clean him.

"Does anyone else want a Trial-By-Combat?" he asked quietly after a long moment, still gazing at the clouds and the moon.

The four remaining prisoners shook their heads wildly, and one of them pissed himself.

"Does anyone have anything else they want to say?" he asked in the same tone.

The men shook their heads once more.

"Good," said the Commander, walking once more as if nothing had happened, "We have been betrayed," he intoned as if he were reading prophecy, "To murder a comrade in arms is the greatest sin beyond hells and heavens. It is an act that goes against everything we now stand for…" he said, sounding disappointed with himself, with them.

Gorryl fought the anger and the sudden uncertainty in his belly, slowly shaking his head.

"Your purpose has been sullied. Your achievements have been sullied," he hammered it in, and Gorryl could see Hyte tapping his hands furiously, moving his jaw slowly.

"The blood of Johana stains us all. A monument giving lie to all we've tried to accomplish here," he intoned, and Gorryl felt as if his father had slapped him, his face burning hot as he shook his head in denial. Surely not, surely not…

The six Legates were as still as statues, but the rest of the men were shuffling greatly, looking down in shame when the Commander fixed his pale gaze on them.

Gorryl tried not to move, but his hands were shaking all the same. The early mornings running until he was on the verge of puking, the furious training with the shortsword, the endless runs through the Thicket and the Gauntlet, the hours upon hours he'd spent marching around the Crownlands with the rest of the halberdiers… dread uncertainty concentrated in his stomach like a loadstone. What was happening? Was the great project he'd let himself be swept up tittering on the edge of collapse? Would he have to return to Fleabottom?! Because of these animals?!

The Commander stopped walking, gazing at them all with his burning gaze… before tilting his head lightly in grudging acknowledgment.

"Though… there is a way," he said almost doubtfully, and Gorryl hanged on to that thread of hope like a blind man lost in the forest, following the sound of a human voice in the distance.

"There is a way to wipe the shame," said the Commander, more certain this time.

"There is a way not to forget, but to acknowledge," he said as he raised an arm and signaled.

Several Watchmen entered the Marching Grounds then, pushing wheelbarrows and dispersing all over the front of the formation.

"There is a way to wipe the stain off our purpose, a way to acknowledge not to King and Lord, but to ourselves, that our cause is still righteous," said the booming voice of the Commander, the heavy rain buffeting them around as the Watchmen tilted their wheelbarrows and emptied their loads all over the front of the formation.

Gorryl gazed at the sprawling stones in a daze… most of them could fit in his hand.

"You all know the punishment for slaying a fellow Guardsmen," said the Commander as he returned to the front row of soldiers, spinning and gazing at the accused, his back ramrod straight. "We are not Southern Lords, to hand the task to the paid executioner. We are no Northern Lords, to give the task to the head of us all. WE. ARE. GUARDSMEN!" He roared suddenly, "Dantis! Harald! Niclas of Duskendale! Darlan of Fleabottom! You are accused of the rape and murder of a fellow soldier. The Royal Guard will now deliver its judgment," he proclaimed.

Gorryl couldn't move, the freezing rain and the otherworldly paleness of the moon holding him in trance, strange and brutal shadows hiding the faces of his fellow Guardsmen. The Marching Grounds were silent, not a soul moving from its position. The silence was deafening, nauseating. He could barely hear the pulsing of his blood and water drops slammed against his face.

His body would not move, and to his horror, neither would his comrades. Gorryl would no longer be a member of the Messenger Elite, a soldier in the service of the Commander ready to bring Cold Steel to those who would burn his city in the name of ambition. He would be Gorryl, petty thief and starving wretch, scum of Fleabottom.

He blinked away a bit of water that had snaked down from his forehead into his eye, and followed the discarded water drops as he gazed down. He realized he was holding a stone in his hand.

He felt hypnotized as he took a step forward and coiled his arm, releasing the stone with a grunt of effort which seemed to stab the silence like Valyrian Steel. The stone flew high in a long arc, slowly, rising and then falling swiftly as if the world regained its rhythm, slamming into the nose of one of the accused.

The man moaned in pain, blood flowing freely from his mouth, and Gorryl nodded.

Their blood would cleanse Johanas'.

Hyte roared in pure rage as he dashed three steps ahead of him, throwing a stone and hitting one of the men in the cheek. It was like a floodgate had been opened, Guardsmen grabbing stones and throwing them with roars of anger and fury, the rain turning red as a tide of stones smashed against the accused, against the those who would seek to undo everything they now lived for.

He grabbed another rock and threw, missing the man he had attacked first. Hundreds more missed, but just as many struck true as the accused screamed and pleaded, their cries for mercy drowned under the hail of rocks that did not stop, could not stop.

Gorryl felt like he'd spent days there, grabbing and throwing stones, each hit a denial of the Commander's words, each scream another step in their long climb back to the purpose that ebbed and flowed through the Camp each night and morning, each roar of anger a pledge to never accept their dissolution.

Gradually, the rain of stone began to ebb. Gorryl was breathing harshly, exhausted like never before. He felt purged. Purified.

But a lone moan threatened to undo it all, as one of the animals, for they were no Guardsmen, spat a glob of blood to the ground. He raised his head shakily, his swollen and broken face almost hiding his eyes.

"Legate Rykker," the Commander said, turning precisely to his left, still as straight as steel as he gazed at the leader of the Bronze.

The Legate looked at him, before his gaze went downwards, considering the big stone in the Commander's hand.

The Legate seemed to gaze at it for a long moment, or perhaps just a second, before grabbing it. He strode towards the last living animal, his gaze fixed as the bloodied man looked up.

"Please… mercy…" moaned Darlan of Fleabottom.

Legate Rykker held his hand high, and then smashed the rock against the man's head. Twice. Three times as the rain cleaned the blood pouring from his skull. Four times until a crunch resounded throughout the clearing. When it had once sounded sickening, to Gorryl it now felt as if the world had clicked back to its rightful place.

The Legate walked, no, marched back to the line, different from the man that had walked in the opposite direction but thirty seconds ago. He returned to his place by the Commander's side, placing his hands at his back and standing still.

"Guardsmen of the First Regiment!" suddenly roared the Commander, "Marching Formation! Back to Camp!" he ordered, the command carried down by Centurions with burning eyes and Serjeants with sure motions.

"11th Auxiliary! Marching Formation!" roared Gorryl's Serjeant. He didn't look back when the Regiment marched away, his motions sure and his steps synchronized with that of his comrades, the crows already circling overhead despite the rain as they closed in on the now abandoned bodies.

-: PD :-