Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The wind picked up something fierce, a hefty billowing of cloaks and coats despite the clear skies. The man with the Grandmaster's chain shuffled to a stop between the river bed and the line of silent sentinel pines marking the edge of the Haunted Forest, milky eyes turning towards her.

Sansa stopped by his side and flicked her gaze down to the snow, smelling of something old and not quite gone before the man wearing Pycell's skin kneeled and splayed his arms wide. A ragged breath later the wind was picking up again, and Sansa fastened a bit of errant red hair back behind her hood as Lady sniffed the ground delicately; an incongruous sight for a dire wolf that now towered over most ponies.

"Here," said Pycelle as he gazed up at her, still kneeling on the snow, not a trace of a shiver in his form. Sansa could feel it too, the Song warbled by the tiniest margin, a pinched scream within an orchestra of presence.

"Here!" she shouted, waving her wrist in a circle. The group of men trailing behind her spread out in a burst of motion, a racket of axes and shovels and clinking chainmail; Guardsmen from north and south digging out snow and hard earth with picks and shovels. Sansa and Pycelle walked the invisible line, a centurion with a ribbon tied spear following behind. They stood by the side of the incipient dig site, dead blue skies threatened by white clouds along the northern horizon. "Here," said Sansa.

The centurion's gaze rested on her a second beyond what was necessary, and then he rammed the spear butt first into the snow. "Start digging! Wheelbarrows at the front!"

"Another mammoth?" she asked Pycelle as the centurion trundled away, Lady laying down daintily on the snow.

Pycelle stood eerily still, milky white eyes half lidded. "Perhaps."

Sansa examined the bend in the river. It seemed like a good location for something; Joffrey would've called it good clean lines of approach, a defensible position. Sansa thought it made for a rather beautiful clearing; the snow crusted treetops were a fitting contrast to the half frozen eddies of the river lazily making their way south. It didn't feel like a mammoth.

"I'm thinking burial mound," she said. A solemn place for final rest. Perhaps her ancestors of ages past had thought it would help? Restless sights worked restless wills.

"If you say so, Your Grace. Your gaze's much more focused than mine." Possessed Pycelle's distracted flattery felt more genuine than even the most colorful of platitudes ever uttered by the real deal's, a fact that said a lot about both the old Grandmaester and the secretive Archmaester pulling his strings. Now literally as well as figuratively. The wind and the huff and puff of working men lent a private air to their little slope by the trees near the dig site; the vast expanses Beyond-the-Wall gave off a claustrophobic weight entirely suited to secrets uttered before a storm.

"Tell me, Marwyn," she said, "Did this counter-conspiracy of yours ever take direct action?"

Pycelle's milky gaze fell on her, "You ask if we ever murdered on behalf of magic?"

"Your words."

"Not since the Rebellion."

Such interesting contrasts. Earnest directness and oblique references. Archmaester Marwyn made for a professionally delicious enigma. "Who were the targets?"

"The conspiracy itself, of course," Marwyn said with a feline grin thoroughly at odds with Pycelle's face. "They'd grown careless. By the time of Robert's Rebellion magic was thought to have been slayed so thoroughly that any greater effort would've been considered a waste. Petty conjurers and fire-eaters would be allowed in the Citadels shining new world, if only grudgingly." Marwyn's eyes flicked to the grey horizon, its blanket presence covering the northern skies like a solid ceiling now growing closer. "Would an ant sooner stop an avalanche."

"They scaled down?"

Marwyn nodded, "A handful of Maesters and the odd Archmaester to 'keep the watch' so to speak. A far cry from the coin and influence that poisoned the Targaryen dragons over decades."

Must have made them an easy target.

The thought of the ever-helpful Maesters serving a hidden purpose beyond their oaths of non-intervention would've scared half the nobility in Westeros to death. Sansa found it hard to be surprised. She'd seen people sacrifice much more than the perpetual weight of a chain and come through with their ambition unscarred. Or stoked, even.

Sansa pursed her lips, "Did they have a hand in The Dance of Dragons?"

"Not exactly," said Marwyn, "You could say the Dance was what formed the conspiracy." He chuckled with dry heaves, "Magic had been frowned upon here in the Citadel since Aegon crossed the sea, but it was the Dance that provided both the impetus and the opportunity for grumblings to turn into whispers."

"And council to deceit," she said.

"And remedies to poison, wise Queen."

Sansa remembered the destruction unleashed by Daenerys' dragons in King's Landing across two different lives; hundreds of thousands burnt to a crisp in a matter of hours as the skies turned black with the ashes of the dead. Though her dreams were far less troubled than Joffrey's, sometimes she still awoke with the scent of the dying city clogging her nostrils.

A war waged on dragoback, she thought, countless towns and farmsteads laid to waste as Targeryen pretenders fight for the throne. She'd ordered Daenerys' assassination for far less, it would've been the height of hypocrisy to condemn the Maesters for reaching the same conclusions about magic itself. "I can't fault their motives, though their conclusions leave a lot to be desired."

Pycelle's smile turned mirthless as he returned to his patch of snow, brushing hands over it like caressing a dead lover. "Correlation does not equal causation. The most elementary of errors, mercilessly beaten out of overeager novices since the days of our founding." He shrugged, "Citadel politics tends to dull even the most gifted of minds, flipping sound principles upside down and turning the most inane ramblings into words of wisdom."

He has the heart of a teacher, Sansa realized. Beneath all the layers of intrigue and paranoia that had seen his faction survive and it's polar opposite die, Archmaester Marwyn spoke with the conviction of a man with a burning truth to share. Joff will take to the man instantly. "Is that why you secluded yourself in your studies?"

He didn't say a word at that, returning eyes to the approaching clouds.

Sansa let the silence lie, surveying the men's progress. A hefty mound of snow and dirt had sprung from the perimeter of stakes, the ground yielding beneath the furious pace of the dig crew. Mostly guardsmen with their ever-handy 'guardrakes' Joffrey considered the best invention since lemon pie, though she could spot the odd wildling here and there working for coin. Half of them were probably taking Mance's too, by the way they tracked her every move.

"They weren't the first ones to think magic sprung from dragons," she said after a moment. Nor the last. Pyat Pree and the House of the Undying were but another link in that endless chain that whispered hope to the hearts of the mighty. What was left of them at least.

"Most of the conspiracy disbanded after Summerhall destroyed what eggs the Targeryen had left, their mission accomplished but for a few to stomp the embers out," said Marwyn.

"But not yours." That was clear enough, judging by the manpower Marwyn had brought with him.

He brushed a speck of snow caught by Pycelle's beard, watching it fly away under the strong winds. "But not mine."

"How did you manage it?"

Pycelle craned his neck up as he closed his eyes, "By being more paranoid than them, a luxury our smaller numbers afforded us. It also helped that we felt no need to strike against the conspiracy's actions. Though we knew not about the true source of magic, we knew enough to tell the dragons were merely vessels of it, not creators."

"Steadily depleting vessels at that," said Sansa. Makes sense for the faction with the actual maegi. According to Marwyn, precious few Maesters with Valyrian steel links had joined the anti-magic conspiracy, and the rest of them had been considered too crazy or inoffensive to bother with, especially in the higher levels where all the Archmaesters of Magic seemed to do was stare dejectedly at unlit glass candles. It appeared that Archmaester Marwyn was but the latest in a long line of fatally underestimated wielders of the Valyrian rod and mask. It had the makings of a good lie, she thought; a bumbling and inoffensive front that would've played all too well against the conspiracy's preconceptions about magic.

"What did your faction do then?"

"Preserve knowledge," he said, smiling again, "And wait for the time to strike."

Sansa grunted. One strike Marwyn had already hinted at; the one on the conspiracy's last members during the waning days of Robert's Rebellion. The Targeryen's grasp on the throne broken, the Pyromancers discredited and their leadership decimated… the anti-magic conspiracy must have been sitting back enjoying the spectacle, their guard at an all-time low and perfect for a well-executed strike from a foe they knew not, a blow strong enough to purge them root and stem. The other strike never happened, but Sansa suspected what it could've been. It would've been trivially easy for Marwyn to warg into Pycelle as he was doing now and poison the entire royal household, if her or Joffrey or Tommen or whoever was wielding the crown proved herself anathema to magic. It explained the odd subject matters Pycelle had been ordered to spy on by his master during the years.

Pure unbridled surprise was a rare emotion nowadays, and Sansa allowed herself to bask in its presence one more time. She wondered how the Archmaester's efforts fare across her lives…

Whatever balance Marwyn and his followers added to the forces of the living, it had been too little or too subtle to catch her or Joffrey's eye. It certainly would've made sense for them to operate discretely under rulers who still distrusted or dismissed magic; that meant all of them, with the possible exception of a Stannis who still trusted in Melissandre of Asshai and her shadow magic.

Luckily for Marwyn, the Queen of Westeros had been all too eager to welcome them into the fold; being a sorceress herself, she dared say her views on magic were enlightened enough. To their vague warnings of waxing magic and shadows Beyond-the-Wall, Sansa had responded with the truths of the Red Comet and the Cycle, her honesty and vast knowledge of the threat to come earning her the trust of Marwyn's little faction. There were not many of them; Valyrian-link wearing maesters who'd headed little shadow cabals parallel to the rest of the Citadel's structure, no more than a score or two. Most were guiding their own dig crews right now, working their way from the Wall northwards and greatly accelerating progress on this part of the grand plan.

"We found one!" called out a soldier.

"One here! Rotten structures too!"

"Three! Man-like!" called another one.

"A burrow," said Marwyn, dipping his head at her.

"Mammoths sleep more easily than men," she said.

"Burning pit here!" shouted the centurion in charge of the dig detail, "Pile 'em up! You know the drill people!"

Logging teams were already lighting up the pits as more and more corpses were excavated, their remains tossed to the fires as the ancient burial mound was torn open with no respect for the dead. None would be shown in turn, when the dead march on the Wall in due time. The fires reflected orange on the snow, silhouettes warbled by the flickering whims of the bonfires. The work was methodical but tinged by haste, an unnamable dread spurring the working shadows like a slave-master. In the south these very men would've grumbled and expected explanations behind the seemingly useless task, but out here there was not a single outburst, not a single look evaluating the chances the Queen had gone mad. They could all feel it, an amorphous doom hanging like a sword from a frayed string, vital preparations of a kind with those in the south, Seven Kingdoms morphing into One to receive something men knew not. Something ill-fitting. Something dark and terrible that smelled foul in the wind.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, looking north as Lady sniffed at the sky. The clouds looked heavier. Ill. She scratched her elegantly trimmed fur as they tried to name their unease.

Lady whined, and Sansa redoubled the petting. "I know, Lady. I know," she said, biting her lower lip. Those storms of ice and snow were becoming more and more frequent as the weeks passed by, and proving remarkably resistant to the Second Sight. Sansa didn't know if they were a work of the enemy or some sort of atmospheric phenomena unleashed by the approach of the Red Comet, but there was something about this one that set her teeth on edge.

The men were almost ready when Lyra's horse came into view. There had never been a strict hierarchy amongst the tightest core of her handmaidens, but here Beyond-the-Wall some unspoken consent had formed around the Mormont girl and the fearsome bear etched over her chestplate.

"What news, Lyra?" she said.

She gave Pycelle-Marwyn a dubious frown, then flicked a hand south. "Mance's at camp waiting for you. Seems like another row with the Night's Watch."

Sansa sighed. "Sir Brienne," she called out to her escort of the day, watching from a respectful distance away. "Bring us the horses would you? We're needed back at camp."

She gave her the salute of the Silver Knights before trotting away for the horses, past the line of guardsmen drinking the river's cold water in tiny sips lest they freeze their own throats solid. Crystalized snowberries still clung to stubborn thistles, beady red leaves half-shy and gazing sunwards. Was the Comet close now? It hanged above her mind like a Yi-Tish lantern, some days faraway like autumn breeze; others close to her cheek like a searing sun.

It felt restless today, it's gaze like heatstroke at noon.

Brienne returned with four horses and Sir Hendry Bracken in tow. "Nothing around the perimeter, Your Grace," said the short and stout knight. "Not even a half-starved fox."

"They're smarter than we two-legs, good sir," said Sansa, mounting up.

"More clouds rushing in from the north-east," said Sir Brienne, her horse turning in two little circles before she shushed it a well-placed hand. "Looks like a storm."

"Get everyone back to camp," said Sansa, "And let's see what the Free Folk have to say."

The five of them rode south, following the river. They were a few hour's ride away from the Wall and yet still it loomed large over the horizon like a long drawn curtain. If anything was capable of stopping the grey clouds consuming the northern skies, the Wall looked like it.

"Do the storms call out in fair Tarth as well?"

"Your Grace?" said Brienne, their horses chucking away snow with mighty plows as they followed the serpent-like tracks south.

"Do they howl like they do here?" said Sansa.

Brienne leaned back on her horse, silver cape fluttering under another breeze. "Sometimes, Your Grace."

Sansa guided her horse around a bigger mound, dead leaves trapped by the building snow before they could fly away. "Do they sound violent to you?" she said.

Brienne opened her mouth as if to answer immediately, but the gently falling snow fogged her breath. "No," she said after a while. "They were –are- big and mighty things. But…"

"Not like this?" said Pycelle, his voice rasping like sandpaper.

Brienne shook her head, looking back over her shoulder and the oppressively grey ceiling.

"Stop spooking the earnest silvers," said Lyra, jutting her chin at Sansa. "Me, Sansa dearest? I'm all too happy for a runny blizzard to cozy a fire against." She winked at the Queen, "And many a warm brave guardsman to keep us shy maidens safe."

Sir Hendry cracked up, against his will by the looks of it. "Lyra!" said Sansa, hiding a chuckle with a sleeve as Sir Brienne turned the color of baked tomatoes. Even Pycelle-Marwyn had a lopsided grin that was too long.

"The North loosens up my tongue," she said, "What's a poor bear do with so much snow?"

"Shush you," said Sansa, "You're supposed to be used to all this."

Lyra rolled her eyes, hips swaying restlessly as her horse plowed through another snowbank. "Not this," she said, "No one's comfortable in this but those tame wildlings of yours."

Marwyn spoke up with uncharacteristic force, "You're certainly doing better than some other, frailer flowers, my lady of Mormont."

Lyra just shook her head, ignoring the possessed Grandmaester with a grimace.

Smoke rose past the next bend as they cleared a line of struggling birches, the scent of men and sweat barely clinging past the chill. They had made good time to the camp, nestled within another river bend and surrounded by trenches and palisades. A considerable fraction of the Third Regiment had made a home out of the clearing, using the stout trunks of the Haunted Forrest to apply everything they'd finished learning almost six months ago. Pit traps and communication trenches lined the approach before turning into log parapets and crossbow nests, red-faced scouts standing up and saluting in haste.

Guards called out from watchtowers and gates swung open as they rode past the palisade and into the encampment, ordered rows of tents and pavilions channeling their horses to the center as men moved about with purpose.

I hope I don't have a rebellion in my hands, Sansa thought. It had become an alarmingly common train of thought these past few weeks.

-: PD :-

The southron flower was good at what she did, he wouldn't deny it. Mance had been wined, dined, treated, and even confided upon all in little less than two hours. While outside in the snow her petals shriveled and died, inside a tent with a hearty fire going Lady Maergery of House Tyrell seemed in her element, never a need untended or a secret kept. All in the service of her liege, no doubt, a fact that didn't keep Mance from enjoying her company or her generously tight bodice. Good courtiers swindled you without you noticing it; great ones did it and made you thank them for the privilege.

Still, all pleasantries must come to an end, and he found himself having weathered the experience with his secrets relatively unscathed as the Lady Maergery opened the tent flap and announced Queen Sansa. Thenn princesses had been surprisingly adept at what the south called 'the game', and he had not been without practice in that front.

"Mance. A pleasure, as always," said the Queen.

"As to me, Your Grace," said Mance, bowing respectfully. Here, hidden beyond the eyes of most, they sat like old allies around a small round table as Maergery served them cups of Tyroshi pear brandy, the better to ward off the cold.

"What's this I hear about a hanging?" asked the Queen.

"Some idiotic row over one of Moletown's wenches," said Mance, not bothering to hide a sigh. Some things never changed. "Free Folk were killed. One of Harma's."

"I'm guessing this gets better," said Sansa, taking a sip from her silver goblet.

"The brother from the 'Watch that did the deed. Two of Harma's folk cut his throat before the Old Bear could intervene. Now Mormont wants to hang them both, says he'll have a mutiny otherwise." He didn't have to elaborate further.

"And you have to stop him else the Free Folk will revolt just as quick," said Sansa. They shared a long suffered look.

"Your presence would be appreciated back at the Wall," said Mance, tipping his goblet, "And your judgment."

Sansa nodded wearily before they set out to hammer a compromise, Maergery listening attentively like a pupil at the side of her teacher. It wouldn't be the first time the Queen's attention was diverted back to the simmering tensions around the Wall. The deal they'd brokered out mere months ago still had the Northern Lords on the edge of rebellion, despite the many, many concessions the Crown had given them in exchange for settling the Free Folk. Negotiations had been fierce, cut-throat to the point even the Lord of Bones had been impressed. The Free Folk had been spread out between homesteads around the Neck, the Gift, and the western shores of the North in clumps too small to threaten the region's integrity in the long term, but even that had left the 'kneelers' on the edge of rebellion.

Even months after the fact and showered with coin and influence by the Crown, pacifying the lords had turned into a full-time job for the Hand, and Mance's own end of the deal had scarcely fared better. Unfortunately for the Queen, sending in the Giantsbane to bust skulls until the dissenters agreed would not have works so well on her people.

At least me and mine are up front about their grousing, thought Mance. Most of the time.

"Lord Karstark still giving you trouble?" the Queen asked him. My Queen now. Best get used to it.

"Not much by now. He's thick as thieves with Roose Bolton nowadays, and sometimes almost as quiet."

Sansa frowned, "Something will have to be done."

Mance shivered. Something indeed.

They kept up the discussion, though it looked like both of Harma's boys would spend the rest of the year sweeping snow out of the Wall's battlements. He wasn't sure he'd prefer that outcome compared to a hanging, at least the latter didn't have a chance of freezing your cock off. Mance shrugged, at least it'll settle Harma's chieftains. The Old Bear wouldn't complain much either, it was free labor for some of the most dangerous work up there.

He took the opportunity to examine his nominal Queen once more, careful blue eyes edged by grey, snowfox pelt hugged close to the neck as a direwolf howled outside. She was a skilled negotiator, equally at home with bluntness or coyness. But then again, Mance was no mewling babe either. More unnerving by far was the way she'd taken to threat of Walkers in the Night. Mance had expected many things out of his warnings to the South; shock, derision, fear. But an army already fortifying the Wall? Never.

Her tame flower drunk it all in as they negotiated, mind whirling behind those lively green eyes as she poured in the brandy without prompting. There was a play of the Magnar Queen's making there, though the same could be said of almost everything around her. Bet she's trying to foist her on Robb Stark's bed, thought Mance. The young heir of the North had been seated right beside the southern flower, back during the feast in Castle Black. His knowledge of the deeper south was rusty with age, but Lady Maergery's House must be rich indeed going by the sight of her dress.

Sansa stopped speaking all of a sudden, something catching in her throat. She craned her head to the side, hands gripping the table white.

"My Queen?" said Maergery.

A direwolf howled outside, a long deeply held thrum which rattled Mance's chest like a war drum. Sansa's eyes snapped to the entrance as the warged Maester burst in, his breath freezing.

"I know," she said before he could speak up, standing up and almost running out the tent. Mance was already on his feet, following her outside against a hellish wind buffeting the small fort from the north. The cold wind skimmed over the camp, a jagged many-fingered hand stabbing past skin and bone. It felt familiar.

The three of them and her two Silver escorts followed her through clusters of camp-followers and off-duty guardsmen, her steps faltering sometimes only to pick up again, zeroing in on some unknowable thing as the direwolf howled again, this time closer.

"Your Grace?" said one of the sentries around the big pit. It sloped down for several steps before revealing a half-buried mammoth surrounded by a dig crew hard at work, picks and shovels marking a steady rythm. Off-duty soldiers jeered at the workers as they passed the time on the timbered railing surrounding the pit, while another group sat with a bunch of Free Folk under a half-tent with a lit brazier, some sort of dice game by the looks of the table. They better not cheat and force me to come back again. He'd grown to like the presence of the Wall on his back again, especially during times like this.

The Queen seemed as if in a trance, staring at the mammoth with eyes disbelieving. Lady was down there, growling at the frozen bones.

"What's going on?" said Mance, a dread certainty clutching him harder than the grip on his sword. He'd lived through this wind before. Still dreamt about it, gripped in nightmares no Free Folk ever laughed at no matter how shrill the screams in the night.

"It's too soon," she said, faint shivers running up and down her back. "Too soon," she whispered.

The warged Maester seemed caught in the grips of ecstasy, milky eyes wide as he gazed up at the storm clouds running over the horizon like a charging Shadowcat. They were closer now. "I never thought… I… Such power…" His eyes drifted downwards as if coming down from scented herbs, down to the form of the half-buried Mammoth. It was stirring.

Sansa shoved the staring guardsman aside, sliding down the muddy slope as the dig crew turned to look at her. One of them stumbled back, muttering in confusion as the bag of bones they'd been digging up shook. Mance looked on, paralyzed as the bones crackled and snapped into movement, whispers turning into shouts as the thing called out; a wheezing trumpeting erupted from deep within the shuffling corpse.

"It's alive!" screamed one of the guardsmen as the thing slowly tore its legs out of mud and snow, a lumbering giant amongst men rising from the pit with tusks that gleamed under dead skies.

"No," said Sansa, a hand under its jaw. Something rippled over the surface of the awakening bones, something heavy that bored a pit in Mance's stomach. It was gone just as quick, the mammoth crumbling like a sack of spilled radishes.

The silence around the pit was deafening, rushing blood hammering Mance's ears. He realized he'd taken his sword out.

"Sansa?!" called out the legate now by Mance's side, gazing down the pit.

"Olyvar," said the Queen, "It's them."

Color drained from the legate's iron face, voice tight as he grabbed the guardsman by his side, "Man the walls and bar the gate."

"Sir?!" said the soldier.

"Now!" roared Olyvar, raising his voice as he gazed all around him, "Sound the bells! To arms Third Regiment!"

The silence's death was sudden. Like a coiled spring the guardsmen erupted into frenzy all around Mance, hollering for bolts and halberds as shallow bells began ringing like mad. Legate Olyvar was giving orders as fast as he could give them, sending runners and tribunes running in all directions. "Where?" he asked Sansa as she climbed the pit.

"North-east," she said, turning to face the dig crews, "Hack it apart! Leave no bone whole!" They didn't need to be told twice after what they'd seen, tearing the corpse apart under a rain of blows.

"They used the storm for cover," mused the maester, "They grasp tactics."

"And ambushes," said Mance. The Free Folk knew that much. "If it's really them they'll try to swarm us quickly and be gone with the corpses by nightfall."

"Sansa," said Olyvar, "The Great Council is still a year away at least. The men don't know-"

"We'll have to make due." She seemed thoughtful for a moment, "It can't be a whole army or we would've seen them sooner. By scout or Second Sight," she said as she gazed at the maester.

"A raiding party?" asked Olyvar, but he shook his head as soon as he'd spoken. "More than that, but less than an army," said Olyvar.

"Strike force," said Mance. He didn't like the smell of this.

Sansa frowned. She placed a hand on his pauldron, "You've trained them well, Olyvar. Trained them for the true war. Go hold the walls and show the men what it'll take to win the war to come."

He took a deep breath, putting a hand over hers, "Thank you." In a moment the boy was gone again, replaced by the legate. "I'll see to the defense."

"What could they possibly want from us? A few dug up barrows shouldn't merit this kind of retaliation," said Mance. Not even evacuating the Frostfangs had mustered this kind of response, he thought as he gazed at the approaching snowstorm covering the forest.

"I think they have something very much in mind," said the warged-man, milky eyes fixing on Sansa, "What's the single most dangerous threat to their plans for the south?"

Sansa looked troubled, "They shouldn't be exercising this kind of initiative. Not so soon." She cursed as they walked amongst the scrambling men, "Maergery, send a raven to Castle Black. Tell them we're under attack and to send what riders they can."

The southern flower looked pale, blinking against the freezing dew stuck on her eyelashes, "Under attack from what?"

"Walkers," said Mance. Quick thinking on the Queen's part; if their enemy proved too numerous then the only relief that would get here in time were the Lord Hand's cavalry still stationed around Castle Black or patrolling the Gift. But the Hand's in the Dreadfort right now, he thought a moment later. Who would rally the lords now?

Maergery shivered, looking at him in disbelief. She made a sharp contrast to the silver knights who'd arrived just now armed and armored for battle; they greeted his statement not with surprise but with stoic nods. Interesting…

"I'll explain later," said the Queen, "For now do as I've said."

She curtsied quickly before running for the fort's rookery, and almost crashed against a messenger running the opposite way. "My Queen!" he shouted, breathing raggedly, "News from King's Landing!"

"Now of all times," she said, grabbing both small scrolls and opening the first one. "This one's late. The autumn storms must have slowed the raven…" she trailed off as she read the missive, "She can't… I would've seen…" shock gave way to dismay as she held one hand tight to her mouth. "Lancel… that mad bitch!" She tore the second one open, eyes frenzied as she read it once, twice, and then three times.

Mance shivered at the thought of what could shake the Queen when the dead could not, the characteristic twang of loosed bolts coming from the pallisade. "My Queen?" said Sir Brienne, grasping her arm lightly, "Are you alright?"

Sansa crumpled the letter in her hand, a hysterical chuckle bubbling up from her throat before dying just as swiftly. Perhaps for the first time since he'd met her, Mance saw horror in his Queen's eyes. "Gods damn you Joff…" she whispered as the shredded missive blew away with the wind, "Of course it had to be fucking Harrenhal."

-: PD :-