Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

This night had been long in the making, in some ways the culmination of a project more ambitious than any they'd ever taken before.

Though perhaps it should be called the beginning of one?

He and Sansa walked by the outskirts of the little sea of tents which had sprung up around one of the river bends. Parts of it were walled by great canvasses of art in varying styles, though there was a thematic thread subtly woven through them all. Indistinct figures holding up scythes and swords. The Mountains of the Moon dripping red under the afternoon sun. Smallfolk laborers frozen in superb detail as they raised a windmill.

They all spoke of something more. A spirit beyond the Guard and the self-styled Silver Knights, beyond the apprentices and the acolytes whose imaginations had been unleashed by Joffrey's inventions. A common thread to the energy which propelled the thousands of smallfolk laborers waking up every morning to pour their heart and soul into the Blackworks. Joffrey had to admit, the skill of Sansa's followers had increased by leaps and bounds these past few months.

"That one's my favorite," he said, pointing with his chin as Sansa smiled knowingly. It was a painting of King's Landing as if seen within a dream, its form indistinct, surreal almost. Its towers were too tall, it's people too numerous. And yet the crowded streets added a thread of color which spread like a spider web throughout the entire canvass, grounding it, adding weight to it.

Errant notes became full on songs as they made their way towards the center of the sea of tents, though they could scarcely hear it under the racket of laughs, bellows, and full-bellied singing. What had started as a worker camp had tonight turned into the feasting grounds for more than a thousand souls; soldiers, workers, young nobles who had come for the Hand's Tourney but had stayed beyond its end…

Ned had taken his leave a while ago, but Joffrey still felt wistfully light on his feet. He would have liked Ned to see this, but the man had just smiled and taken his leave.

"How did it go?" Sansa asked him.

"I called him Father."

"That'll make things awkward," she said with an impish smile, grabbing him by the waist as sapphire blue eyes drifted closer, warm breath tickling his neck.

Joffrey caressed her cheek, admiring her up close for a moment. "It runs in the family," he said. He smothered her chuckle with a kiss, their breaths intermingling.

"It's like you're searching for closure," she said when they separated, her voice subdued.

"And you're not?" He combed an errant lock of red hair, putting it in its place so he could keep admiring her. "I saw you teaching sword drills to Arya the other day. Think she'll do well in the shield wall?"

She grunted, "Point taken."

"I think it's natural. It's hard not to feel like an ill lord writing out his will when…" Joffrey trailed off. She knew.

The strong buzz of hundreds of voices echoed throughout the streets of the city of fabric, all coming from the central clearing like blood from a pulsing heart. Sansa leaned her head on his shoulder, pondering the weight of the unspoken words.

"It's getting closer," she whispered.

Joffrey sighed, embracing Sansa and pressing her against him. He could feel the gradual deceleration of the Red Comet deep in his bones, somewhere between his belly and his ribcage, a second of prescience when he took a deep breath. A second of eternity in the void between inhalation and exhalation.

"I wonder if that's how it feels to cross the stars," he said, "To leap across the void in body and soul."

It was a ponderous presence, a massive existence. It was easy to get lost in it. They breathed together, and even that great crystalline landscape was but a gnat against the blinding splendor of the sun. Joffrey felt for a second the massive weight not only of the Comet but of the earth itself. It pulled him towards it, and he fell with breathless speed. Like a boulder rolling down from some colossal mountain, great plumes of red arresting his fall in auroras of shifting shapes that defied the imagination.

Joffrey shuddered as he breathed out. "I…" He blinked slowly, feeling his wife's contours. Sansa. The drifting stars seemed so bright beyond the atmosphere, a sea awash in streaks of reds and blues, points of white and yellow glimmering within the void. He brought his mind back to the here and now, leaning back and gazing at her eyes. Those twin sapphire stars were all he needed. "It's slowing down. The year will be over soon…"

"Like bloody clockwork," Sansa said as she looked up, the first few stars glimmering overhead. She sighed as her gaze turned south, to the road back to King's Landing. "It's insane how petty it all seems. How nonsensical the whole game is under the light of a million stars."

"And how it will all end under the light of one," he said.

And it would end, one way or the other. Either mankind would go extinct, or man would rise to the challenge and be changed in the process. Change, thought Joffrey. That's the key. That's the essence.

"We should go," he said, holding out his elbow. "We'll need all the help we can get," he added, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Sansa grabbed it, and together they walked the rest of the way to the great clearing. The Guardsmen on duty saluted with firm thumps to the chest, servants nodding franticly as they carried small wheelbarrows filled with foodstuffs. Mandolins called out from the budding darkness as the sun hid completely, wandering bards strumming their instruments with great theatrical gestures as their partners sang long tunes.

The sea of long tables and benches were arrayed in concentric circles, but no formal sitting arrangements had been given to the attendees. They swirled and intermixed, the free flowing mead and food keeping a cheery and bemused air.

"There she is! Lady Sansa!" said one of the dozen maidens emerging from the crowds, "They're ready, but Lady Annila said we'd need more chairs if-" she stuttered to a halt when she saw Joffrey. "Oh, beg your pardon my Prince," she added with a curtsy.

The rest of the young ladies crowded around Sansa, curtsying as Joffrey waved it away. "It's quite alright. Tonight's not a night for formalities," he said, smiling as they started whispering in his wife's ear. Their dresses echoed Sansa's; vaguely petal-like fabrics which built on each other and wrapped the upper body. None of theirs was crowned by a brilliantly white pelt around the shoulders though, that was to the 'Northern Princess' what a crown was to a King.

"You look magnificent, Celyia. You'll be sure to draw young Wyll's eyes," said Sansa as she let Joffrey go, the others crowding around her and all but shoving him away.

Lady Celya blushed as she neared his wife, "Thank you. But about those chairs? The attendees far exceed the original list, and we're running short."

"There's a few extras by storage three, we'll use those," said Sansa, looking around her with a proud smile, "You've outdone yourselves, now let's go make this a night to remember."

They murmured excitedly at that. She turned and grabbed another maiden by the bare shoulder, explaining something as she waved her hand delicately, her thin golden bracelet glimmering under the moonlight. They laughed, and Sansa pointed at some distant table as she kept explaining.

The hemlines were extremely short, reaching just above the knee. The scandalous choice was contrasted by long leggings of a rather practical sort that covered the entirety of their legs, much like a tight set of trousers would. The people of King's Landing couldn't make up their minds regarding the whole ensemble, swinging between outrageously provocative and parochially quaint. The ambivalence seemed to fuel its widespread adoption, particularly amongst the youth caught in Sansa's ever expanding web of influence.

"And is it true about the singing competition?" one asked quickly, "I heard Tribune Tyrek gave a favor to Talia Forrester!" Vaguely scandalized gasps received the proclamation, and soon enough Sansa was guiding them away. She shot him an apologetic smile, and Joffrey waved goodbye. Dances and singing had become staples of Sansa's twice weekly gatherings, though not the only ones. She'd often take new maidens into the ranks of her handmaidens, drawing them in with weaving and painting competitions which had unleashed an untapped bounty of creativity. More and more of the girls had unwittingly become entangled with the administration of such events, helping Sansa organize feasts and balls such as this one. Some had even began helping out with the Blackworks.

He moved on, nodding at the servants who carried long rods tipped with flame, lighting up the lanterns tacked on to the poles that surrounded the area in rings. He greeted carousing knights and squires who'd stayed after the Hand's Tourney; they often stopped whatever they'd been doing in favor of listening to him with a sort of rapt attention that would have likely left their maesters green with envy.

He passed a table filled with Stormlander and Reacher knights and squires; boys and men who hadn't returned to their homes after the tourney for reasons they couldn't quite explain. Always waiting for one more lesson, one more night of companionship.

"Could you please repeat it one more time? The wrist is held down like this?" asked Hobar Redwyne, demonstrating with his arming sword. His silver cape fluttered as he turned, looking up at Joffrey, hopeful.

"Not quite, here," he said as he demonstrated, letting the movement flow naturally at a tenth of the speed, their eyes following his sword hand like moths to light. They hummed appreciably, squires and even knights years his senior commenting on the order of strikes. The little incident during the semi-finals had forever sealed in their minds the battle-prowess of the Silver Knight. "Remember not to drink too much, all the ladies will be watching later tonight," he said, earning considering nods from those present. "You're all good students, but let's try to keep the drunken bumbling to a minimum," he added with a smile.

"Silver Knights don't bumble, Ser Joffrey!" said Ser Robar Royce, "We're just realigning our momentum!" he called out, the rest grunting and whistling as they raised their mugs. In another time and another place he would have been called Ser Robar the Red, but tonight his cloak was silver.

"None of that now!" said Joffrey, slapping the young man on the back and jingling his pauldrons. Most of them were in armor; they'd adopted many of Joffrey's mannerisms within the weeks after the tourney. "You all better behave! If you're going to use my good name you might as well do it relatively sober!"

They jeered at him, and he ended up downing a tankard all the same. Their eyes glimmered under the torchlight, brief smiles as they chuckled and held each other's shoulders for another round, their short silver capes flowing like moonshadow. The camaraderie of the Silver Knights was a wholly different beast than that of the Guard. Less hierarchical; more a brotherhood than an army. Its abrupt formation had taken Joffrey by surprise, thought in hindsight it shouldn't have.

To be a true leader was a strange thing. By accepting the responsibility over his people; what he'd often called his burden, he'd also accepted a small piece of them all and made it his.

I underestimated the chivalry of Westeros, he thought as he looked at the Silver Knights, still wearing their individual heraldries even as they sported their silver capes with pride.

After the events of the Tourney of the Hand and his abrupt knighting, these squires and even knights had begged to train with him. He'd been happy to take them all, but he never imagined that the awe struck noble scions would have hung unto every ounce of attention freely given, desperate for more to the point where they'd start calling themselves after his knightly persona, waking up early every day to follow him in his morning armored run. They'd even taken to hunting and socializing together, sharing the tips and insights gleaned from their unofficial task master.

"We'll have our work cut out for us tomorrow, eh Ser Balon?" he said.

Ser Balon Swann chuckled, crossing his arms, "The usual then?"

"Nah. Let's give 'em the morning. They've earned it," he said. They'd been holding up remarkably well under Joffrey's ministrations, for highborn that is. Ser Balon had turned into a sort of unofficial Master-At-Arms for the equally unofficial order, and together they'd been running them ragged through heavy cavalry drills. The War for Dawn would need a special breed of knight, after all.

A Silver sort of Knight, thought Joffrey, hiding a snort. Ser Balon smiled curiously, but Joffrey just shook his head as he walked away.

Hilariously enough, it had been the whores of the Street of Silk which had originally coined the name, for the group had started to share even their brothel outings. The harsher Joffrey smacked them in the training yard, the mightier was the resulting fervor with which they listened. He was no Arthur Dayne, and yet the young knights and squires held him in equal esteem.

Joffrey turned, basking in the atmosphere around him. He thought he could see Tyrion in the distance, a keg of ale under one arm as he waddled like a Master Thief after a heist. He frowned when Tyrion reached a tent, its flap opening to reveal Lyra Mormont and Pocket of all people. They hushed each other as they dragged him inside, the unmistakably burnt face of Sandor peeking outside and looking both ways before closing the flap.

A hound, a northerner, a raider, and a dwarf inside a tent… It sounded like the beginnings of a joke.

Joffrey chuckled. I was fitting, for tonight was a night for beginnings. Great circles had formed organically around the tables and strewn benches, tankards being passed from one to the next as the sound of conversation grew.

The Song was exalted, almost turbulent. There was something in the air, he could feel it… change.

"I wonder what terrible deaths you plan for your enemies when your eyes go like that," said Renly, Ser Loras standing by his side.

Joffrey blinked. "Uncle, Ser Loras," he said, nodding to each. "Enjoying the feast?"

"I've… never seen anything like it. Take that as you will, nephew," said Renly.

That's really something coming from you, thought Joffrey, nodding at what he decided was a compliment.

"I wanted to thank you again," said Ser Loras, his voice low and unsure.

"You've already done so multiple times," said Joffrey. "You even forfeited the final! I'd say that's thanks enough." It really had been; Ser Loras was a superb rider, he might have carried the joust if he hadn't forfeited.

Loras looked at Renly, his long hair momentarily parting to reveal the long scar that ran from forehead to cheek to neck. Renly didn't have any answers though, staring at the mock-up saw the lumbermill workers had placed at the center of their table. The circular wooden blade served as a stand of sorts, holding up a big keg of ale from which the workers refilled their mugs every minute, inviting anyone who drifted close. They had reason to be proud; mill number eight had gone up earlier this week, ahead of schedule even.

Ser Loras sighed. "The last time didn't feel personal enough. I just…" He looked down, mulling his lips. "When Ser Gregor was over me with that two hander- you have to understand I couldn't- I had blood all over my face… I… I thought he'd killed me already."

"Don't serve yourself short, Loras. You have good reflexes," said Joffrey. "If you hadn't grabbed your shield as fast as you did you might as well have been."

"And if you hadn't stopped him right after then I'd be dead anyway. The way you fought him… it was over too fast for me to help," he said, a familiar emotion writ clear over his face. "Over before I could catch my breath. If only I'd stood up more quickly I could've-"

Joffrey grabbed Ser Loras' shoulder. He held his eyes as he thought, the words slow to come. "It's no use fretting over the past. All we can do is strive to be better." That's the truth that saved me. That's the truth that made me.

Loras nodded slowly, facing Renly for a moment until the Lord Paramount nodded back. "I'll remember that. Thank you again, my Prince," he said before walking away.

Renly remained, however. "You did the realm a favor by putting down that dog," he said, face inscrutable as he examined him.

Joffrey nodded cautiously. Ser Gregor's frenzy had taken him by complete surprise this time, and with the Hound out of King's Landing and protecting 'Prince Joffrey' there hadn't been anyone else to stop him in the few seconds they'd had. The fight had been short and brutal, a fierce melee as Robert roared outrage and the crowds shrieked.

"It was like working a sentinel pine. Only it wielded a two hander," he said as he shook his head. He'd seldom seen a human take so much concentrated punishment and keep going. His arming sword had tore through Gregor's armpit; he'd hammered the man's head no less than four times and yet still the Mountain had plowed into him like a battering ram, a titan of steel and rage that almost managed to split Joffrey apart. It had been a surreal reveal of the 'Silver Knight', that was to be sure. Taking off his helmet after Ser Loras conceded the final, standing over the corpse of the Mountain... Robert's face had been unforgettable, so at least there was that. It had been strange, being knighted on the spot.

"Like a sentinel pine…" Renly snorted, "You sound like you've actually logged one of those..." he trailed off, staring at him intently, "Hells, maybe you have. Those lumberjacks seemed absolutely convinced of your forestry knowledge." He seemed incredulous, his mouth moving unto the next sentence though no sound came of it.

Hells, he looks like he's going to faint, Joffrey thought as he raised a tentative arm towards him.

Renly batted it away, swinging his own arm around, "All of this," he said, finding his voice again. "Your 'Guard'. The new shipping fleet. The tourney… Sansa was right. You've really changed." Renly shook his head, frowning hard. "Why? What are you scheming? Speak honestly, nephew. What could have possibly changed you like this?"

"A dream and a vision, uncle. A vision where greed and ambition destroyed everything I cherished. A dream where I saw what this continent was capable of."

Renly was unconvinced, combing his hair with one hand as he stared at him like an unsolvable puzzle. "Your betrothed speaks sweetly of honors for me and the Stormlands, positions of strength and influence in your future court, but tell me nephew." He took a long breath, gazing at the wine cup in his hand before lifting his eyes and glaring at him. "What is it you really want?"

Joffrey placed his hands behind his back as he gazed at his uncle, marshaling his thoughts.

What I really want…

He sighed as he looked up at the stars, the buzz of a hundred conversations framed by the distant roar of the Blackwater. He made his way past the crowds clustering around little red-and-green serving carts, many of them smiths and workers, lumberjacks and constructors. Small windmills shorter than Joffrey but placed atop tables spun without end, bright sparks of color propelling their blades to great speeds and awing the crowds around them. The burnt smell of sulfur drifted past him as he stopped for a moment, hands on his hips as he took a second to admire the work of the Alchemist's Guild. They'd taken to firepowder like wildlings to iron, and already their experiments were yielding results.

Renly seemed content to let him wonder, gazing intently at him as he sipped from his cup. Many of his Guardsmen had settled on a group of tables almost in the middle of the circle, their halberds jammed into the ground around them like a forest of steel. Joffrey chuckled as they launched themselves into another drinking song, filled with banging mugs and full-bellied shouting. Like many of the Royal Guard's drinking songs, Guardsman Galv's Poor Sore Feet' was a choke-worthy tale filled with exaggerations, puns, ribbing, and that little grain of truth that gave strength to the theme behind it. On and on they went, keeping the tempo constant by the banging of their mugs.

'Ouch- he said! Ouch- oh no! I seem to-have! Misplaced my-foot!

'Ouch- he said! Ouch- oh no! Spin he-did! Tripped he-was!'

And on he-ran! And on he-went! His poor sore-feet! He left-behind!'

One of the Guardsmen stood over his chair. "Oh Guardsman Galv!" he shouted off-tempo and ahead of his peers "Watch out for-rought--" he was cut off by gauntleted hands which pulled him down, the rest of the soldiers struggling not to lose the beat.

'Oh Guardsman-Galv! Watch out for-rocks! Eyes in-front and halberd-forth!'

And on he-ran! And on he-went! His poor sore-feet! He left-behind!'

The song picked up speed and volume as it approached its end, soldiers standing up as they banged the table faster and faster.

'Try not-to-trip and spin-and-fall!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv watch out for-rocks!'

'Try not-to-trip and spin-and-fall!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv try-not to-trip'

'But if-you-do! But if-you-do!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv but if-you-do!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv you keep-in-front!'

'You-keep that halberd up-in-froooooooooooooont!!!'

They broke out into cheers, crashing their mugs together in one big toast as they hollered to the heavens. The Royal Guard was but one piece of the change, one piece of the movement he and Sansa were nurturing, and yet even now it connected itself to others. Smallfolk builders and laughing maidens carrying ledgers had also surrounded the table, the revelry contagious.

"I'm glad you're having fun, boys!" Joffrey said as he approached the table, "Though I must say that the only word Guardsman Galv got out before kissing our beautiful land was something akin to Ugh!"

"Commander!" they chanted, inebriation fighting against discipline before they melded into a bizarre compromise that saw them surround him from all sides, pressing mugs into his hands as they cheered.

"Now, now! I only need one!" said Joffrey as he took one of the mugs, "Guardsmen!" he bellowed.

They straightened, and Joffrey gazed at them intently. Many of them had just completed their training, the culmination of another batch of recruits. "I've been reviewing your performance, and well…" Joffrey trailed off, his gimlet eye making them straighten even more. A almost imperceptible smile grew on his lips, "You lot may be the clumsiest, slowest, and most disappointing bunch of Guardsmen I've ever seen, but at least you're-"

"FASTER THAN THE BLOODY WHEELHOUSE!!!" they roared, shaking each other in pride as Joffrey laughed out loud. They had never actually raced the Queens wheelhouse, in fact these men had carried out all of their training here in the Crownlands, but the Royal Guard was already filled with myth and tradition. They had raced –and beaten- the hated 'Wheelhouse Spirit', a construct far more ominous and perfidious than what the real thing had ever been; made of suffering and pain and unity just beyond reach. Red ribbons adorned their arms, and they wore them proudly.

Joffrey felt a surge of pride seize his throat as he gazed at them. Highborn and lowborn. Tall and small. Guardsmen. If he were to die fighting against the Others one last time, then he'd die surrounded by his dreams of Westeros. By what his homeland should have been.

By what it can be, his mind whispered.

The men inexplicably sensed his mood, giving him space as the cheers ebbed. "You can all feel it, can't you?" he asked of them.

They blinked, their faces those of men at the dawn of understanding. Joffrey closed his eyes as he breathed deep, the Comet still far away as it breezed through the void with crimson sails. He was focused on something much closer to the earth right now. It was somehow more powerful than even that eldritch being, more ponderous and more massive in weight than even the great cycle.

He opened his eyes and saw Lancel; his legate was smiling, confident. He understood.

"What we're building here," said Joffrey, "It's not just about soldiers and coin," he said, turning slowly so he could see the faces of all his men. He wanted them to understand. He wanted them to realize. "It's more than workers and industry. What we're really building here cannot be seen nor touched, but it can be felt."

Those on the table next to him had lowered their voices so they too could listen; it was filled with laborers and assorted workers from the city, the Crownlands, and beyond. "All of us here can feel it. This gateway between the old world and the new." His voice grew with his audience as he gave vent to feelings he'd spent lifetimes pondering.

"We're building it right here, all of us! A road out of the squalor and the drudgery, out of this destructive cycle that has kept us locked for three hundred years and more!" he said, the words coming out like a growl.

The smallfolk growled with him. "Hail Prince Joffrey!" shouted a coal hauler as he leaned on his table. "Fuck empty laws and promises! He's given us good work and fair wages! He's done more for us than a dozen Aegons!"

"He's given us food from his own table! He's given us tools so we can work without fear for our lives!" roared another one, emboldened as he stood up.

"That's nothing," said an old baker, his scarred face dauntless under the shadows and the bright sparks of the windmills. His low voice cut through the din of the crowd, and the people there turned to look at him with shock.

"I survived the Sack," he said, gaze travelling along the length of the table. "I saw my city waste away under the new King, same as the old King." He shook his head. "No. Work comes and goes. Coin comes and goes," said the baker, staring right at him with eyes devoid of fear. "But you gave us more than that, Prince Joffrey. You gave us hope, and for that I'll die beside you as hard as any high lord ever did."

He felt a kindred soul within the baker, a man scarred by the past but possessed of this bizarre, even frightening new thing. A thing he'd hold on to even if it meant death and oblivion.

"Hope," said Joffrey, holding the baker's eyes. He understood. "It's a strange thing, isn't it? It's not really something one can hold…" he trailed off as he turned, the crowds around him growing quiet. The Guardsmen by the other tables had quieted down, their banging tankards and marching songs giving way to eerie silence. The cheering knights and the laughing maidens lay quiet, his uncle Renly a frozen statue. Only the faint buzzing of the windmills could be heard throughout the entire clearing, spinning slowly now that their firepowder ran low.

"And yet you can taste it. You can feel it in the air like the morning after the storm. The growing certainty that we can build something that will last," he said, his voice rising as a smile broke out. It was curious. The certainty of his coming end energized him, made him feel like a boy again, exploring the seas of the world. "The dream that we can find a way out of stagnation. Out of the rules of old where people lived and died in squalor with no end in sight. The hope that we can build our own era of myth and legend!" he said, bringing his arms close and thumping his chest plate, "A time of awe and wonder as great as any Age of Heroes! As mighty and powerful as any Ancient Valyria! As learned and wise as any Empire of Dawn!"

The Song buffeted Joffrey like a wave, it was not quite a cheer; it was low and abrupt, unclear emotions and strange longings intertwined as his people rumbled. The dredges of King's Landing and the forgotten smallfolk of the Crownlands, wondering about certainties long held by their fathers and their father's fathers.

"The seeds have been laid, and this is but the beginning. You can feel it all around you!" he shouted, swinging his arm wide and enveloping the people and the tables, the river mills and the forges, the city and the realm. The people around him shouted assent, some nodding fiercely as others lifted up tankards with growls of pent up purpose. "The beginnings of something new. A path forward out of the mire, a road of industry and purpose where the only horizon is set by our skills and our dreams!!!"

They roared like lions, as hard as any troop he'd ever commanded. He could see the hope reflected in their eyes, their fervor invigorating him in turn. These were his people, turned for the first time into true companions against the end. For the first time Joffrey Baratheon would live or die with those he'd swore to protect, and the thought lifted his spirit like the sight of the Vale under his feet, chilly mountain air buffeting him against the top of the world.

"Can you feel it?! This beginning now taunting us. Daring us!" he said as he gazed at the lower nobility and the bastards cast aside. Third born sons and spare daughters starting to believe; people of set futures now starting to wonder. Their eyes followed him as if entranced, struggling to disbelieve the dream. The dream that seemed harder to achieve than even the end of the Cycle.

He felt as if in battle, limbs growing agitated as he started pacing, the crowd around him expanding yet again as more and more faces joined him under the moonlight. He turned to the table filled with Guardsmen. The soldiers and officers seemed to glare at him, stone-faces hiding a boiling exaltation that strained against their discipline- 'We're here' they seemed to say. 'We're with you' they whispered.

Joffrey felt a surge of pride as he gazed upon them, his white fists strong and stalwart. "An age of reforging! An age of strength in unity!" he said, and his legates gave out a wordless bellow. Jon, Willard, Olyvar, Lancel, Renfred, Tyrek, all of them and more. The Guard roared their lungs out as they slammed gauntleted hands against hard oak. It sounded like a rain of steel, like the legion's archers let loose on white wights. It spoke of a promise to fight and die for a future they had already seen and could thus never forget, the promise of becoming something more through shared purpose.

He caught Sansa's eyes as he turned. His wife had been trailed by a group of ladies and maidens, all wearing dresses of a kind, like little ducklings following their mother. In time that streak of practical fashion would be put to good use, along with the budding familiarity between highborn and lowborn. Who else but them were to administrate the great hospitals behind the frontlines, nursing fighting men back to strength and aiding overwhelmed Maesters with ledger and bonesaw? Men or women, all would be needed in the war to come. The war for the living. The War for Dawn.

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes alight with purpose. Joffrey breathed harshly as he turned again, seeking to encompass everyone within his field of vision, left hand firm on the pommel of his sword as his right rested between belt and hammer. His growing audience seemed hypnotized, servants and cooks clustering as they forgot their duties, Maesters and apprentices leaving discussions halfway as they neared closer. There were tabards around him, knights and squires of a hundred different houses whose colors under the moonlight seemed one and the same.

"An era where the vows of knighthood ring true," he said, voice growing soft. "An era where we are not killers at the bidding of ambition."

The crowd breathed with him in shock. Not only had he killed the Mountain, but he'd just denounced the perversion of knighthood he'd embodied. He'd all but denounced the ways of his grandfather, his tools and excuses.

It made this real. It made them understand this was not about a royal's ambition, but about them all. They said words were wind, but then what was a tempest if not winds upon winds building on each other until it was a whole fit to shake the earth itself?

"It's being born, right here, right now," he said as if it were a terrible secret. "Can't you feel it?" His voice was barely a whisper, "The beginning?" He smiled as he saw the first specks in the eyes of them all, that same glint he'd shared with Shah under the stars all those years ago, the same one that blazed from his wife's eyes when the Purple enveloped them for the last time. The certainty. The will.

And they felt it. One would have to be dead not to have felt it. "It's here. Within each and every one of us. Together…" his voice trailed off as his smile grew. The Song held its breath as the maidens did likewise, the knights gripping their pommels harshly as the Guardsmen straightening almost in unison, workers holding each other like a forest of proud oaks. The Maesters leaned forward, the silence unbearable as Sansa smiled proudly.

Their eyes glowed like dry kindling caught alight, the little flames under the great void, entranced as Joffrey nodded at Renly. This was his truth. This was what he wanted.

The Song reached its zenith, and Joffrey spoke the truth.

"Together we shall build a future the likes of which this world has never seen before. Together we shall be one kingdom. One people," he said, and they were.

His people rocked back, shock and wonder writ clear on their faces as they heard the Song. Joffrey didn't begrudge them the reaction; together they'd not just witnessed the birth of a new era, they'd created it. The Age of Unity. The Age of Purpose. The Age of Westeros.

They would all be protectors. They would all be watchers of stars.

-: PD :-