Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The pale Braavosi nodded at her point with a polite smile. He was wearing an elegantly trimmed purple coat held to his chest by twin clasps of lapis lazuli, the gems deepening his sapphire gaze as he lifted his head with that relaxed almost-indolence that so irked the Pentoshi. "Then we are in agreement, Your Grace."

Sansa nodded with that very same indulgence, their walk through the Silver Keep's walls taking them around the restored basilica of the former Dragonpit. The plaza by the main entrance was now filled with queuing smallfolk waiting for their turn, withstanding the sun's glare with the ease of long practice and the ambivalently helpful winds of autumn. They went in groups to speak under the stalls manned by Guard officers and guild foremen, quills scribbling down names and former occupations. The Silver Keep was more than the former Dragonpit; it was a network of buildings connected by second-story hallways and open aired parks, crowning Rhaeny's Hill in constant activity. It was always hiring.

Master Dyonnis cleared his throat, "As to the other matter, I'm afraid the Bank must decline. To allow foreign ships into the Purple Harbor would be a dark mark on the Sealord's record."

Sansa gave him a noncommittal smile as her thoughts raced. The third loan in as many years had been a great coup for Westeros, but for every lowered interest rate Envoy Dyonnis had ruthlessly extracted a concession.

Though always with a pleasant smile, Sansa thought. Like a Master Braavo at the height of his skill, every parry was aggressively placed, serving to deepen momentum and multiply opportunities. It was funny her people so often disdained commerce, for it shared a lot with the frenzied betting that followed tourneys like fleas off a dog's back. The only thing that changed was the stakes; the merest stumble could mean hundreds of thousands of golden dragons.

One more concession… should she press for it? A quay in the Purple Harbor for the Royal Trading Company would not only revolutionize their access to the invaluable Braavosi market itself, but also open all sorts of doors throughout their sphere of influence. Pentos, Lorath, Ibben, Morosh… The legitimacy alone would see them hauling more cargo than they had ships for.

Sansa guided their leisurely walk towards the Hall itself, the basilica looming large as Guardsmen from the Third Regiment made space for her. They'd been filling the plaza quite steadily throughout the past few hours, drifting in from all around the city as their leave came to an end, most of them still searching for their kit stowed in the secondary buildings now haunted by the shrieks of vengeful quartermasters. "My Queen," said one of them as they held the great oaken doors open and they entered what most everyone referred to as the Silver Hall.

She filled the silence with small talk as they repositioned for the next blow and they walked through the physical symbol of Westeros' new age, Dyonnis' gaze missing nothing. The unstructured watercolors on canvass of Together looked as majestic as always, all the souls of her people represented in the steely poise of that disparate group of individuals; maidens, soldiers, farmers, craftsmen and more all with their backs to the viewer, gazing at the dawn sun that barely peeked over the gently rolling hills of some nameless valley that couldn't be called anything but Westeros.

"Do you like the changes?" she asked the Envoy.

"I never saw the old dragonpit, so I cannot say," said Dyonnis, face up as he examined the round, massive inner hall, "Though I must admit there's something familiar to it all."

Grainy itchiness ran through her veins, scarred reflexes anxious and confused. She sighed a second later, hiding it with a smile as she forced herself to relax. Dyonnis should've felt proud if he'd known, though she doubted getting compared to an Assahi Blood Matriarch would've felt like a compliment to the man. No matter the means, he'd draw gold from the tiniest wound just as swiftly as Calinnia would drain a blood harem slave dry.

"I would find it strange if you wouldn't," she said after a moment, examining the upper reaches of the Hall. The light bathed down from the stained glass windows, depicting various scenes from laboring farmers to massed knights, ladies of the court playing a panoply of instruments. Half Great Sept, half forum, the Silver Hall was filled with prayer of a different sort, one now acutely familiar to Sansa; the buzz of people busy with purpose.

"Ahh." Dyonnis smiled as he realized, "We'd been wondering where all those architects had gone."

"There's much in vision we share with the Secret City," said Sansa, her eyes trailing the geometrical columns in the daeryan pattern that cluttered much of Braavos. "And much more yet to come if fate allows it." She'd never really cared for the style, but it did temper rather splendidly the more colorful traditions of the South. They went well together.

Dyonnis gave her a deeper nod. I'll have to decide soon, now or never.

Scribes and runners crossed the hall constantly, servicing the great bureaucracy that kept expanding day and night. They strolled past a group of village aeldermen leaning forward on their seats, skepticism long giving way to fascination as the man in front demonstrated the seed drill to yet another crowd. The manufactories still couldn't satisfy the monstrous demand that had sprung up for the simple devices, though Joffrey had insisted the Crown kept paying for both the lodgings and the round-trip of any village leader interested enough in learning the 'New Ways' of the capital. Yet another snowball turning into an avalanche as the treasury thinned and productivity soared.

Yes, she decided as she sent a surreptitious look at the Envoy. He regarded her coolly, hand on the plain iron ring that crowned his index finger with more power than that of many petty kings'. We can't stop. The only way is forward, she thought. Have to be both forceful and delicate with this. The loans already struck would keep the Crown afloat for at least another year, but they'd need free access to the Shivering Sea markets to climb back from the red once production met demand within central Westeros. The continent was huge and filled with both the population and the resources to become an economic juggernaut even if the rest of the world were to disappear; a chilling possibility their advisors had unwittingly used as a rhetorical flourish... The Maesters of the Yellow Gold had practically formed a small council under Tyrion's lead, and her good-uncle's ways had been soon to percolate down the ranks.

The only way is forward. Uttered by the members of the 'Golden Council' (as Joffrey had taken to calling it, much to Tyrion's glee) the words took an edge of desperate religious pleading. Westeros needed that access.

She led Dyonnis through the northern forum, the better to hammer him with the imported Volantene balustrade as they climbed the stairs. Let him simmer on that, she thought as the man raked his eyes along every step, sniffing in veiled disdain that was for Sansa's benefit only. A simple reply to a simple message: go to the competition if you want, we are Braavos.

Ineffective, but worth it, she thought, smothering a chuckle with the ease of long practice. Braavosi had lugubrious disdain down to an art form.

Resources Westeros had to spare. The problem was how to tap into those resources that lay beyond the regional ports and the conveniently navigable tributaries of the Trident. While Sansa had been chipping away at the legal and political obstacles for quite a while now, the simple truth was that three years in power was still far too little time for the needed infrastructure to sprung up. Road networks and expanded canals were slow moving projects, even with Joffrey throwing Guard manpower at them as fast as he could train it. No, it would be a few years yet before they could tap into the full potential of their Kingdom.

Until that day, they'd need foreign markets or risk choking their rapidly expanding industry.

"While such access to the Braavosi sphere brings risks, there's also opportunities to be exploited," she said.

Dyonnis arched an eyebrow, the Braavo uncommitted to the next bout.

"The entrance of another major player into the northern markets would expand prospective supply considerably," she said wistfully, "Perhaps even save the Sealord a headache or two."

His eyes narrowed and then swiftly returned to pleasant interest; she'd drawn blood. "If only. For every one struck down two more take its place. A usual state of affairs." Dyonnis was surprised, the parry sloppy as they left the stairs behind and leaned on an indoor balcony.

When the parry is weak, batter it down, her husband had whispered once; perhaps not too far away from Envoy Dyonnis' own house in the Secret City.

"Quite," she said, "Though in this case the relief would be well merited. Monopolies are such tedious affairs, don't you think? Weighting down the cogs of commerce and, well, who knows." She shrugged, "Perhaps even giving ideas to those involved."

She could see Dyonnis restructuring his mental model of her in real time, blue eyes stilled as the negligent grip on his iron ring turned white. She felt flattered, this was only the second time he'd done so in three years.

"Ideas that run oh so very against the Braavosi grain," she said as she twisted the blade without mercy; a professional like Dyonnis would understand. "We Westerosi have always known that too much coin can give man a… propensity for ideas considered beyond their station." She set off down the stairs by the other end of the indoor balcony, letting Dyonnis chew on that as his serenely-forced walking speed couldn't quite reach her side, leaving him half a step behind.

And why not? Who is to say the great wealth even now flowing into Marelos Hartios' coffers would not further appetite his renowned greed? Dominance of a single trade route could be enough to make a man a merchant prince; what then did half a dozen of them tied together in a single Sea make? A Merchant King, perhaps. What's the price of a coup in the Secret City? Sansa reckoned that was a question which both the Sealord and the Iron Bank didn't want answered. Dyonnis stiffened as she voiced those deepest of fears at the heart of every Braavosi; that the slanders of their enemies were to be proven correct, all the freedom and all the civility but a veil for naked ambition no better than that of their Valyrian rivals.

"The situation surrounding Master Marelos' northern acquisitions is being taken care of, I assure you," he said, voice clipped.

"I'm sure it is," she agreed easily, lingering by the Forum located within the eastern wing of the Silver Keep; a slightly lowered space with the form of a rectangle, and with plenty of steps for passerby's to sit. The endless torrent of acolytes who'd followed their Maesters from the Citadel had taken to using the Forum as a verbal sparring ground of sorts, which often made for free entertainment for the occasional visitor with a mind enough to follow. No matter the disagreement though they always ganged up on the poor apprentices from the Alchemist's Guild… those brave enough to show at least. Spectators agreed such verbal abuse should constitute murder.

She followed the debate with half an ear; something about different models of crop yields. Fortunately, the Maester with the Yellow Gold chain watching discreetly from behind one of the daeryan pillars seemed wise enough to copy when the discussion entered the realms of abstract mathematics. She smiled or shook her head at the appropriate times, one of the acolytes throwing his hands up and stomping off to 'further consult Maester Haedyn's work'. The Forum grew unfortunately silent, acolytes and apprentices giving her discreet looks. Those who had been waiting for their chance to debate stayed seated.

Sansa sighed. It felt alien, growing estranged from smallfolk and noble alike as their 'legend' grew. Putting her in a pedestal. Joffrey had it even worse, especially after the Sinking of the Sword and the awed rumors it had unleashed, but then again he'd lived through something similar several times before. She moved on, hesitant murmurs trickling back to life behind her. The sheer weight behind their preparations were throwing shade; worried whispers and wild rumors that spread like weeds. The mighty fist of the Royal Guard. The water-wheels and smokestacks of industry spreading through the Trident like brushfire. City shipyards laying down new keels as fast as the old ones left the harbor. Granaries filled to the brim even as extensions were built with royal coin.

The Kingdom was evidently preparing itself for the greatest war waged in living memory… but what enemy could be so terrible?

The silence within their own conversation grew strained until Envoy Dyonnis cleared his throat. "There have been some unfortunate complications, that I will not deny," he said, "We would be interested in hearing your thoughts regarding it."

Sansa didn't miss the 'We'. Negotiations were now open.

"I am not well versed in matters of coin," she lied with a twitch of her nose, so blatantly that Dyonnis couldn't help but give up a most un-Braavosi snort. "But to my understating a monopoly is based on the stranglehold of the goods provided. Which in Master Marelos' case means the resources of the Shivering Sea."

"That is so," said Dyonnis, fidgeting absentmindedly with his clasp of lapis lazuli.

"What then if access to the bounty of both the North and the Far North were to be barred to his captains? All the shoreline of this continent from the Haunted Forest to White Harbor blocked to his enterprises."

Dyonnis' hand stilled on his clasp, gripping it tight, "Such an act of blatant favoritism would be unthinkable," he said.

"Unthinkable for the authorities of the Secret City, mayhaps," she said. "However, such an act would hardly be out of character for us barbaroi, would it not?"

Dyonnis blinked, eyes glazed over as he ran through the implications. "You have the means?"

"Envoy Dyonnis," she said as she turned to him fully, tilting her head away even as she leaned closer, "My husband commands one of the largest fleets in the Narrow Sea while the people of this continent chant his name in the streets. My Father rules the North entire, and the Manderly's of White Harbor are his loyal vassals. As for the Far North, the army you saw outside has been wanting to stretch their legs for quite a while now." She took a deep breath as her eyes found his, "But most of all, I am Queen. If we decree the wealth of the North closed to the likes of Marelos, it will be so."

Envoy Dyonnis searched for the truth in her gaze. "I dare say the Iron Bank was unprepared for the next generation of nobility in the Sunset Lands." He gave her an eerie smile, "Let's talk details then, Queen Sansa."

The details proved lengthy indeed, and by the time she came out of the basilica the Third Regiment of the Royal Guard had already assembled on the plaza, formed up in blocks of shimmering steel under the late afternoon sun. Maergery regaled her with a flustered smile as she joined her along the steps, as if that had been her intent all along. "Prince Tommen was never here, was he?"

Sansa hid a snort, though not the mirth. "He's in the Vale with Joffrey right now," she said, and unlikely to return soon too. Setting the Vale in order was a chore compared to the many pressing tasks requiring their attention, but ensuring that corner of Westeros toed the line come the War for Dawn would save a lot of headaches for all involved.

"I see," said Maergery, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile.

You really do. Sansa shouldn't have been surprised, Maergery knew futility when she saw it. We'll see if the message gets to Mace. She'd been of one mind with Joffrey on this; Maergery was not going to sink Tyrell thorns into the Heir Apparent. That meant, of course, giving the Tyrells another bone as both a consolation prize and a way into the dynastic alliance formed by most of Westeros at this juncture.

Which ties this neatly together, she thought. She regarded the assembled Guardsmen with their banners and hornblowers, halberds and drums. The crossbowmen carried wide tower shields on their backs, a tool they'd probably make plenty of use of in the months to come, though probably not against the enemy they were expecting.

"Proceed, Legate," she told Olyvar. He looked menacing in his full plate, though he'd long ago left his halberd for a Legate's sword. He gave her a quick nod and turned to address those assembled. It was uncanny how close they mimicked Joffrey's demeanor.

"Third Regiment," he said, and thousands of men straightened further still, a rumble of steel resounding within the low walls. "A wildling host numbering in the tens of thousands marches on the Wall, threatening to put our land to the torch!" He took a deep breath as he his gaze swept the ranks, his stride measured as he walked between his command staff standing on one side and the soldiers on the other; drums, flags, and officer's swords arrayed against the long necks of service halberds and the menacing covered wagons of the Strike Cohort. "Guardsmen of Westeros! What will we bring them!?"

"Blood and Mud!" they roared. They were almost the greenest of regiments, surpassed only by the still-training recruits of the Fourth, but what they lacked in experience they made up in enthusiasm; they'd joined after the by-now mythical victories of the Battle in the Mist and the Sinking of the Sword, their veteran trainers feeding them eagerly with tales and fervor. They were anxious to join such exalted legacy, to win a cognomen of their own even if their King would probably sit this one out.

They'll have to make due with just me, Sansa thought, and despite her best efforts a whimsical smile shone through her lips. She wondered how would the wildlings react to an offer of parley from the Queen of the Kneelers herself, of the line of the old Magnars of Winter? The Guardsmen turned about promptly as they followed the instructions of the centurions and the Cohorts started marching out. Sansa would join them the next evening, when they rendezvoused with the First and Second Regiments out past Brindlewood. Over thirty thousand professional soldiers would march north.

"Say, Maergery," she said with the air of a sudden idea, "Would you mind accompanying me for some of the trip North? We'd have all the time in the world to talk."

Maergery's smile was equal parts irritated and admiring. After all, to have the ear of the Queen for a month uninterrupted was a golden opportunity to push for the interests of her house. Sansa could see the calculation behind those wide brown eyes of her, trying to find the trap. If she'd found it, she'd considered it well worth the gain. "I'd be pleased to, Your Grace," she said with a small curtsy, their eyes meeting for a moment.

-: PD :-

She stayed up till late that night, searching for Daenerys through the Second Sight. It was an old habit she had trouble letting go, the vast expanse of the Red Wastes now familiar to her eyes. The trail had gone cold months after the assassination attempt, when she'd found Viserion's cream-colored carcass rotting under the shade of a nameless ruin. Still she searched for her, trying to get some sense of finality from it all. She felt she owed that to Daenerys, to witness the exiled Princess' own body dead in the sands and truly see what they'd ordered done. Not an apology… but perhaps an acknowledgment of sorts.

A knock on the cellar's door startled her, and she let the visions dissipate before calling out.

"Grandmaester Pycelle for you, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan as he peeked in.

At this hour? The Grandmaester had been steadily sidelined from power by the various Maester Committees the Crown had established during the past few years, and his influence had correspondingly waned even amongst those of his order. Pycelle hadn't been happy about that, to say the least, and Tyrion's quips about the matter hadn't helped either. "Let him in," she said.

The Grandmaester massaged his hands as he shuffled into the room, nodding at Ser Barristan before closing the door. The frail act did not fool Sansa in the slightest, but she was surprised by the smell of fear wafting from him.

"Queen Sansa," he said, nodding deeply as he hid his shaking hands within the folds of his robe, eyes feverishly darting around the room.

"Grandmaester. A strange hour for a visit," she said, leaning back on her chair as Lady perked up by her side, sniffing the air. She could smell the trace of Spicemilk in the Grandmaester's fingers… had Pycelle been scraping the bottom of his stash? His addiction to the potent stimulant was a double edged sword, and quick to betrayal when consumption was cut.

"It is indeed, hm, Your Grace," he said, thick drops of sweat lining his crown, "I'm afraid this is a most urgent m-matter."

Her skin tingled, Lady's fur standing on edge as she realized Pycelle was undergoing withdrawal. His chain was being pulled. "Your hidden master has cut off your supply," she said, her smile relaxed as she stilled within and the shadows around the room leaned towards her. His Citadel patrons –whoever they were- were forcing him to do this. "This must be urgent, then," she said as Lady rose to her full, terrifying height.

Two masters, Joffrey had told her, one hiding under the shadow of the other. And she was certain it wasn't Tywin's orders Pycelle was following right now.

Pycelle turned even paler, blinking in shock, "You knew? How"- he shook his head -"No, no matter." He took a deep breath, regret creeping up his voice, "I didn't want to. I really didn't- ah!" He held his temple with a trembling hand, "He wants to meet! He wants to meet you, Your Grace," he said as he tried to avoid Lady's gaze.

Meet? "If he wants to talk with me, he is more than welcome to do so," she said carefully, trying to pinpoint the wrongness creeping into the room.

Pycelle stuttered into silence as Lady growled and the shadows flickered. Sansa reared back in shock, the chair tumbling behind her as Pycelle clutched his head in pain. His moan was long and low, but when he straightened his eyes were as white as milk. "Well met, Queen Sansa," he said in an even tone, the shaking all but gone.

Sansa's question died in her throat, her mind open to the Second Sight as she saw beyond the Grandmaester. A mask and rod and ring, their pale surface reflecting Sansa's own face back at her with a burnished glint as a candle shined bright. They were made of Valyrian steel.

"Archmaester Marwyn," she said, "I should've known."

Pycelle bowed in admiration. "Your shadow trails long indeed. We've much to discuss, Your Grace," he said with a smile that was all yellowed teeth.

-: PD :-