Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Three years, thought Maergery. How much could a kingdom change in three years?

"Stay still," said her cousin, threading the last brooch at the back of her dress, "Almost done."

"Thank you, Elinor," said Margery, pondering that question. Almost three years with the power of a crown, a blip in the timescale of dynasties, and yet even living in the capital for that stretch of time had left her bewildered to the breadth of the change brewing within.

"Eyes on the present, granddaughter of mine," said Olenna, walking around her with an appraising look. "Leave the last clasp open," she ordered her cousin.

Elinor let loose a bit, the dress growing lax around her chest by the slightest margin.

"Better," said Olenna, crossing her arms. "Now go see if you can make that oaf of my son happy, and watch your step!"

She knew her grandmother enough to know she wasn't speaking about the long dress. "I will," she said, dipping her head with a knowing smile. Olenna nodded at that as well, the other message received. He'd trained her well, but not well enough Maergery could hide her exasperation from her keen eyes.

Meredyth Crane and her cousin Elinor would compose her retinue for the afternoon, and they assembled by her sides with smooth precision, well-dressed ladies in all the finery suited to the wealth and élan of the Reach. They walked through the Red Keep's interior, searching for their target with seemingly innocent questions. Sansa had hid their quarry well though, seeding rumors about the harbor, the Guard's training camps, even Riverrun; all false leads, she knew. The moment she'd lost sight of Tommen, she'd handed Sansa an enormous advantage.

Should've known that hunt was too good a bait, she mused. Not only the chance to go out hawking in what seemed like years, but to do it practically alone with Queen Sansa? A few hours alone with the busy Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had been too great an opportunity to let go. Alas, by the time they came back Tommen had 'disappeared'… mere days before her Father finally made up his mind about 'the lesser prize' and signaled the go ahead too. The fact that Sansa had not only baited her, but predicted Mace almost to the day as well had been tough to swallow.

Maergey sighed. The whole enterprise seemed futile; it was clear by now that the Crown would not let Tommen go ahead with a betrothal even if she somehow seduced the boy, a task which made Maergery feel ill the longer she pursued it… though she didn't know if it was because of the nature of the task or for the fact that she was failing miserably at it.

At least Father stopped with Joffrey. She shuddered. That had been a cringe worthy year, for all that Joffrey had withstood it in good grace. Sansa had not been quite as understanding… She scratched her arm, roughly where a suspiciously overeager hawk had dug its claws. I want her trainers…

Her and her handmaidens made it as far as the Outer Courtyard without any new information before Maergery stopped; it was time for a change of approach.

"I've an idea," she said as she saw a big group of Silver Knights practicing; they were mostly newer members, split into two's under the appraising eye of Ser Balon Swann. It was not the Master-At-Arms of the fearsome order that interested her though; it was rather the shortish, rotund form of their Chronicler, hunched over a couple of scrolls despite the clear daylight. "Spread out and search for rumors, he has to be in the city. We'll meet up by the gate in an hour." Her handmaidens nodded and departed with speedy grace.

She approached him alone, leaning on his outdoor desk with a negligent hand. "Good afternoon, Ser Samwell," she said.

A subtle red lit up his cheeks as he looked up at her and he cleared his throat, "Lady Maergery! What a surprise seeing- pleasant surprise that is. Seeing you here, I mean."

Cutely transparent, Maergery thought. She didn't suppress her genuine smile, letting it shine through as she blinked, which of course served to make Ser Samwell even more flustered. Truth and unfiltered emotion could be deadly weapons in the game, her grandmother had once told her.

"I was taking a stroll when I heard you all training. Is it alright if I watch?" Of course, for her grandmother more often than not that meant letting her disdain pour out unfiltered. Age will peel away the petals and leave only thorns, dear. She'd said it with that acceptant weariness that could only be glimpsed when they were alone, and it had been the first time Maergery had felt pity for her grandmother. It had not been a pleasant sensation.

"Y-yes, of course! Obviously," said Samwell, sitting up as he flicked the back of his quill towards the yard and the fighters making room for an unlikely duel. "You probably heard the so-called Darkstar boasting his lungs out," he said, a tolerant smirk on his lips.

So some of the Dornish houses are taking the bait, thought Maergery as she turned to the training yard. It was hard not to, she supposed, with all the exciting prospects the capital held for the young and not so young scions of Westeros willing to do as the Red Keep commanded. That's Ser Gerold Dayne, called the Darkstar, she thought, looking at the handsome youth with purple eyes and clean shaved face. Knight of High Hermitage, minor cadet branch of the Dayne's.

He'd just batted down another man about his age, a prospective squire now on the ground as the Darkstar shrugged. "That's all the vaunted Silver has? It seems the rumors ballooned on the hot air of the desert, Ser Balon," he said.

"Young Dorren also seeks the Silver," said Ser Balon, his eyebrows bent in a slightly disapproving frown, "You're both potential candidates, but only the King or the Lord Commander can invest the Silver."

Dayne sneered, "The King's in the Vale from what I've heard," he said, "And nobody knows where Ser Robar is. Why don't we settle it right now?"

"He does seem rather sure of himself," said Maergery.

Samwell snorted, "Most of them are. Before… well."

Before what? Sometimes the Silver Knights seemed to communicate beyond words.

He shook his head instead of finishing the thought. "We'll see if the King finds him suitable. It's not a light burden," he said, eyes lost for a moment before he looked up at her and blushed once more. He returned to his scribing post haste, dripping a bit of ink over the parchment as he cursed.

Maergery suppress a most un-lady like giggle, and leaned a bit on the desk, "You must have a lot of potential candidates nowadays. Tell me, is it true that Prince-?"

Ser Gerold was suddenly at her side, grabbing her hand delicately, "Why, I've seldom seen a flower as lovely as yourself, my lady," he said as he bowed and kissed her hand. Maergery demurred with thanks, retracting her hand and trying to find her footing again. She'd grown accustomed to appraising looks from an early age, learnt to use them to her benefit, but she didn't like the hungry glint in Ser Gerold's eyes.

Ser Samwell's eyes flicked up with uncanny swiftness. For a second the flustered scribe disappeared to reveal something else lurking below, then disappeared just as quickly as Maergery dipped her head at the compliment.

"Ser Balon is supervising, that leaves the other Silver Knight here," said Ser Gerold as he aimed a chin at Samwell , mirroring Maergery's pose but lending it weight, leaning on the desk and putting pressure on one of Samwell's books. "What say you, Gatecrasher?" he asked with a sardonic grin, "No doubt someone of your, stature"- he flicked a glance at the Chronicler's girth- "could carry out this vaunted test without a problem."

Samwell kept scribing, but the grip of his calloused hand on the quill grew terse. "Try your luck when the King returns," he said, voice strained.

Ser Gerold shrugged theatrically, "I think you've lost your way, my lady," he said as he grabbed her hand again, "Nothing here but boys swinging swords, I know of far more entertaining venues," he added with a smirk as he pulled her with practiced ease. Maergery smiled again as she snapped her hand discreetly away from his, but the denial did not stop the knight with the cruel smirk as he pivoted with the grace of a dancer, grabbing her other hand and laughing as if it'd been a joke. She was stunned speechless not only by the Darkstar's boldness but by the choreographed feel to it all, laughing over her polite dismissals and framing them as a girl's sly taunting. He made use of her silence swiftly, all but carrying her away from the table.

Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a way to let off the knight without insulting High Hermitage -or truth be told without drawing the slim dagger under her bodice- before the sound of torn parchment rang through the yard harsher than drawn steel. Maergery was struck to see Samwell's quill piercing the scroll he'd been so careful of before. "Fetch my warhammer," he told the squire who'd been thrashed by Ser Gerold, the flustered stutter gone. "Let's test you then, Darkstar. See if you can hold the pressure." From torn parchment to thrown gauntlet, Samwell's eyes had never left the other knight's.

-: PD :-

Maergery knew she was wasting her time by now; there were faster ways of finding her quarry right now, but she couldn't keep her eyes from the training yard as the prospective squires made space and two knights faced off. Ser Gerold had his longsword in an easy grip, a long smirk on his lips as paced languidly.

Ser Samwell had armored up; if he'd seemed wide before, now he was a great ball of steel, a slender two handed warhammer in his hands. The weapon seemed innocuously thin, with a single blunted spike and hammer on its head. The Chronicler of the Silver Knights seemed to be undergoing a transformation of sorts as he stomped into the training yard, eyes wavering between her and the Darkstar as something darker lurked within.

"Ready?" called Ser Balon, still unable to wipe the disapproving frown off his face. He'd conferred briefly with Ser Samwell, but to deny the bout would be a stain on both the Chronicler and their order, that much Maergery could infer. Men had their courtly intrigues as well, if often bloodier and more brutish.

The knights gave assent, and Ser Balon signaled the go-ahead.

"I've heard quite the tale about you," said Ser Gerold as he flicked his longsword with impressive flair, "Is it true that you crushed a man to so much pulp under that weight of yours?" He danced away from Samwell's swing, his sword probing left. "Of course the door must have helped, eh Gatecrasher?"

Samwell's strike was sluggish and halfhearted as he kept half an eye on her, straining to keep a dark thing buried somewhere deep, far away from prying eyes. The Darkstar's mocking was relentless, and he danced around Samwell like the Fool and his Pig which often entertained Highgarden's smallfolk after the autumn harvest. "Such prowess and skill, King Joffrey should disband his Guard in favor of three such as you. If he could fit them through the portcullis of course." His words extracted heftier scowls than the blows, and Samwell was soon red-faced and straining desperately against something, half his mind away from the fight as Ser Balon frowned and the Darkstar's dance turned faster, more dangerous, his strikes punishing. Maergery felt sick as one of Ser Gerold's blows left him limping, a crust of something vile in her throat. Samwell was doing this because of her, and all she could do was watch.

She winced as Samwell didn't parry in time and the longsword's impact rang across the courtyard like a bell. Her own wince must have rang louder, for Samwell turned in what he must have thought a discrete glance but to Maergery shone like a lighthouse, shame and frustration and restraint lining his gaze red. Their eyes locked, and her grip on the railing went white as she beheld the tempest within. He hated this; not only the Darkstar but the hammer itself. He hated it with his very soul, but he did it because he had to, every day. And this day, he'd done it for her.

It wouldn't have happened if the Darkstar had waited another second. If he'd been chivalrous, like in the books her handmaidens read to pass the afternoon. If he'd had but a shred of honor, if he'd waited until Samwell was facing him again.

The longsword's shadow interrupted their locked gaze, cutting across Samwell's face as the Darkstar prepared to swing from behind. Something broke loose inside Ser Samwell; it seized control in an instant, eyes widening as grey replaced red and his coiling body grew lax. Maergery couldn't help an indrawn squeak, a primal fear that wounded him harsher than any word or blow from the treacherous enemy at his back, though that too was subsumed in an instant.

Ser Samwell roared an unearthly scream as he spun and batted the sword aside like so much hay, charging the Darkstar like a bull. The surprised knight tried to pivot for another blow, but Samwell's hammer caught the blade and his shoulder clipped the Knight of High Hermitage, making him tumble. He recovered just in time to receive a flurry of strikes devoid of all grace, stabs and overarms mixed in a crazed tempo unlike any tourney she'd seen in Highgarden, a still accelerating thing that propelling Ser Samwell against his will.

She leaned forward on the railing as Ser Samwell pressured the Darkstar mercilessly, using his weight as a weapon. He smashed the Dornish against the railing next to her, their weapons locked for an instant as the Darkstar jabbed a fist on his face. Maergery was struck by the hysterical glint in Samwell's eyes, which twitched after the blow. His stare seemed to pierce Ser Gerold as his breath grew out of control and the cornered knight struck again with a strained shout.

The armored gauntlet might as well been rainwater. It only served to drench Samwell's soul further into the grip of the thing that held him. The Chronicler's great girth hid muscles underneath, and he lifted the Darkstar by the neck before he could strike a third time, tossing him to the ground with a mighty heave. The Knight of High Hermitage slammed against the dusty ground with an agonized grunt, and Ser Samwell was already atop him as he raised his hammer high.

"Samwell!" shouted Ser Balon.

He breathed without end, harsh huffs as he stared down at the Dornishman and he quivered for a second. She knew then with an absolute certainty that if the Darkstar twitched, Samwell would kill him. Her gasp at the realization managed to draw Samwell's gaze as Ser Balon's had not, and he tore his eyes away from her with great effort, chased by shame. He looked at Ser Balon for a moment before returning to the fallen knight.

"When the King returns," said the Chronicler, reluctantly lowering the warhammer.

-: PD :-

The Darkstar made a swift retreat after that, not saying a word as he collected his belongings and left the keep at a fast gallop. Maergery suspected he wouldn't be seen again, King or no King. The squires had murmured approvingly, whispering about the 'Gatecrasher' as one of them removed Samwell's armor. Ser Gerold had used it as an insult, but those boys whispered it in awe.

Samwell rested on a stool, wiping the sweat with a towel as he still kept a grip on the warhammer. He avoided her gaze as she approached. "My lady, I hope I- I'm sorry you- found this spectacle-" He grew redder still as his tongue tied itself.

Maergery couldn't find the words to soothe him, and her own shock at that fact made it worse. The pale fright had left his eyes almost completely, replaced by a timid side-look as she clasped her hands in front of him with a polite multipurpose smile. How to reconcile the painfully shy bookworm and the charging bull with haunted eyes?

Samwell filled the silence. "I'm- I'm sorry-"

"About what?" she said. It came out accusatory, and she winced.

"A-About scaring you."

"But you didn't," she blurted, and it was the worse lie she'd told in years.

He wanted to believe her, and deflated when he couldn't. His polite nod as he stood up stung Maergery more than she'd expected, and frustration welled within her belly. Everything was coming out wrong today. Damn the 'Darkstar'. Damn Sansa and her games. Damn Father and his ambition.

Her Grandmother would verbally skin her if she saw her right now. "Oh… That's… good," he said, tilting his head as if considering it, "I- I should get back to the Chronicle."

She didn't want to let him, the contrasts were too sharp. Too intriguing. Eyes on the prize, she remembered. She'd come here for other matters. She cleansed her head of both weariness and stupidity, becoming a lady in service of House Tyrell once more. "Do you think there'll be others like Ser Gerold in the coming weeks?"

"Possibly," he said with all the grace of a man jumping for a lifeline, voice rapidly gaining speed. "It's intriguing really. The order's prestige has been spreading through rumors, basically. Most of them carried by grain traders and the odd lord visiting the city. Archmaester Jelem compared it to the early renown of the Ninepenny Kings when-" He cut himself off, growing even redder under the afternoon sun. "Well you wouldn't mind that."

I wouldn't?

She supposed it wasn't expected of her, "Still, there must be a lot of important personages getting rejected," she said. The Game suddenly felt stale on her tongue.

He filled the silence quickly, "Oh, yes. Lord Brace- no, Prince Tommen was the highest of those I think. The boy was not hopeless, far from it, but the King gave the word."

"It must have hurt him a lot, to be sidelined by his brother thus." Her voice sounded monotonous to her ears.

"He was." Samwell gave an oddly deep sigh, "He moped quite a bit. Hopefully he's had a fun time with the printers so far. It would be better for him."

The Silver Keep.

"Of course," she muttered, almost squirming at Samwell's painful naiveness. Her handmaidens had been trawling for the Prince's whereabouts for days now without avail, and he had handed it so freely. Now she really had no excuse to remain here.

"Thank you, Sam," she said after a bit of small talk that tasted like ash, "I'll leave you to your Chronicle then."

Something in her words made Samwell blush like never before, but he managed a nod. Tongue-tied by a maiden when minutes before you almost killed a man. She couldn't make heads or tails of Ser Samwell Tarly.

There was a strange resistance within her as her handmaidens called for the horses, but she had to get on with the task and her duty to House Tyrell. They could not afford to be shut out of the dynastic alliance that bound more than half of Westeros by blood.

Maergery and her handmaidens made for Rhaenys' Hill in search of their quarry, to the dynastic symbol that had been erected out of the ruins of the old. She was halfway there when she realized why Sam had blushed.

"Maergery?" said Meredyth from her own horse.

"I'm fine," she said, her cheeks tingling.

-: PD :-