Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The line tensed, something desperate shaking it in circles before it snapped entirely, the rest of the fishing rod whipping up straight again with a thwack. Joffrey changed the wooden reel, the procedure reminding him of Jhala's sandy beaches . The Trident kept up its constant murmur as he worked, its muddy banks alive with the chirping of beady-eyed beetles and pot-bellied frogs lazing about under the morning sun's kiss.

The marching boots behind him did their best to mar the peace and quiet though, keeping up their constant shuffle as he sat down on a bed of straw. That lockstep waddle hadn't stopped for the last half-hour.

"Uncle, won't you sit?" said Joffrey.

"Yes. Yes! Why shouldn't I sit?!" Tyrion said it as if it were the best idea in the world, one that had just occurred to him, "Perhaps you could teach me, oh Fisher King. I'd make a good piece of bait at least!"

Joffrey smiled, but the chuckle didn't rise up. "I'd like to, one of these days," he said, checking the other fishing rod by a nest of stones, its string lax as the currents swayed it lightly. No catch there.

Joffrey settled back on the straw, staring at the bubbling currents close to the banks. They turned swifter closer to the center of the river, though you wouldn't tell by the looks of it. Though on the surface the Trident seemed placid enough, down below its currents were of such strength they could carry a drowning man as far as the God's Eye without a gulp of fresh air. "We've done what we could. What else is to worry about?" he said as he leaned back, using a mossy rock as a back rest. Stray clouds bathed in the light of dawn as they sailed their way east; a red day.

"One of the transcendent wisdoms of rebirth, I suppose?"

Joffrey snorted, "I guess you could say that."

Tyrion huffed as he finally sat by his side, hands tapping his thighs. "I need another drink," he said as he eyed his empty wineskin mournfully, "Might as well sit down, Sandor. And share while you're at it."

Sandor sat by Joffrey's other side, mail and plate clinking as he struggled to find a comfortable position at the tip of a mean-looking rock. At Tyrion's meaningful glare he threw him his wineskin like a leather ball.

Tyrion grunted under the impact, a muffled "Thank you," coming from his direction before he gulped down half the thing in one fell swoop. Joffrey snatched it away before he could finish the job.

"Uncle, be responsible would you?"

"Responsible?!" He spluttered specks of wine all over Joffrey, "That's a bit rich, don't you think? Richer than my lord father's privy I say."

Joffrey frowned, looked at the wineskin. He shrugged before taking a big gulp himself, hoping it would quell the steadily widening pit at the base of his stomach. Truth was, Joffrey wished he were as calm as his uncle thought him to be.

They passed the while circling the wine, the fishing rods silent but for the river's gentle murmur. Joffrey took a deep breath, tracing the eddies carrying wide leafs both red and green. Like ships they sailed with the currents, circling and tumbling into temporary squadrons, great fleets of nature sailing for the Narrow Sea at the far end of their journey. The gnarled oaks that lined the Trident waved their branches at the sky, spilling more passengers unto the river as they trembled under a sneaking wind that sneaked past the senses. It was hard to notice it at first, but once you put your finger on it that constant breeze turned impossible to ignore, a niggling reminder caressing the skin. Autumn's Kiss, the smallfolk of the Riverlands called it.

"It means something to you," said Tyrion, staring at the leaves as if trying to work out a puzzle. He tapped the muddy banks idly, "This place."

Sandor grunted agreement.

"What makes you say that?"

"We stopped here on the way back south. One of the few days you didn't lead the Guard on training." He shrugged, "You stared at it the whole day instead. Lancel…" he trailed off, "He joked it was your seventh squad."

Lancel. The name was like a cold dagger slipping unseen. Only a couple of seconds did one notice the wound.

Joffrey picked at his hands, cleaning bits of dirt from his fingers, "I suppose it does."

The silence turned from companionable to expectant. On a normal day they might have glimpsed fishermen plying their trade, or ferrymen punting their way south with barges filled with grain. Alas news had spread far and wide, of the challenge given and the challenge accepted. Far from clustering near the site to decide the future of Westeros, the smallfolk had fled instead. Riverlanders had developed a nose for avoiding trouble; it would've been hard not to, with your land put to the torch in one war or the other for the past three millennia.

Tyrion broke first. "What great insights has it bestowed upon you then, nephew? What blessed wisdom can you share with us mortals?" he said with the beginnings of a smirk. His nonchalance lay betrayed by the way he stared at the swirling waters, the faint tremor of his legs. "These are blessed waters, right?" he turned to Sandor, "The God's Eye is pretty blessed, or so I'm told."

"It'd be blessed if we were downriver from there," said the Hound, sniffing loudly. "Not that you'd tell," he said before turning to Joffrey. "Spill it."

Joffrey sighed. It was hard to express, like painting a canvass with only water. Strange that something so trivial compared to the Long Night and the Purple seemed a hundred times harder to put into words. "This place. It's a lodestone. A fixture," he said, frowning at the currents.

The shrick of whetstone against steel drew Joffrey left. "I'm not following," said Sandor, eyes on his blade as he sharpened it again.

"Nymeria bit my arm here," he said, grasping a bit of mud, "During my very first life. I'd taken to pummeling some butcher's boy and Arya's direwolf jumped in to defend them. Mycah, I think he was called."

Tyrion's brow shot up, "You don't remember the name of Ibb's greatest trade-monger but you remember the name of some butcher's kid you once took a stick at?"

"It was a blade," he said before shaking his head, "And that's not the point." The river kept apace, the multitude of fish ignoring his fishing rods with frustrating consistency. Joke was on them though, most would be caught by the nets near Riversteel. "Sansa almost drowned here once, did I tell you that?"

Sandor scoffed, "Past these shallows? What'd she do? Dunk herself in?"

Joffrey smiled, "She kind of did." He breathed with the old memories, the sun's kiss and the Trident's freezing grasp that pulled him down no matter how hard he dragged Sansa towards the banks. How could he feel nostalgic about times filled with angst and uncertainty, the time of a boy struggling to accept the task ahead of him.

"So, the river's dangerous. Suppose's some wisdom in that," said Tyrion, tilting his head from side to side, "Very old wisdom. Practically nothing new."

Joffrey chuckled, the brooding weight somehow lighter for a moment, "We planned here, later on. Hatched the seeds of a hundred plans. Kissed a lot too, and hid in the brambles when Arya came snooping." One of the fishing rods tensed again, but was gone before Joffrey even moved, "Here, I think, was the place where I felt I could break away from the curse."

"The Purple?" said the Hound.

"No. Myself." He patted the mud, uncaring of the soil on his shins, "It was here where the Starks peeked at my true self for the first time… The first truly hideous nightmares caught steam around here as well, fear of wolves, of the north, death, of never ending pain." He huffed; those fears seemed so distant now that the fate of the Seven Kingdoms balanced on a string. A string which would be cut today, one way or the another. "Later on I spent afternoons talking about mountains with you Uncle, or training with Sandor," he said as he smiled at the Hound. The echo of what might be called an answering smirk lay on his face, and the sight brought joy like few things had in Joffrey's many lives. "Every time I changed, this place remained the same. A mirage with a thousand memories. A crossroads. Some temporal resting place on the never-ending road to change, to being."

Joffrey stretched forward and washed his hands in the waters, "A thousand Aryas playing around with that butcher's boy. All asking me the same question."

Sandor looked thoughtful, his burnt face lopsided. "'Who are you?'" he said at the same time as Joffrey. The Hound's eyes lay half lidded, his words slow to come. "I've never lived more than this life," he said, though at Joffrey's pout he relented, "And remembered any of it at least. But for me it was always that fucking brazier."

They stayed quiet, Sandor's mouth twitching as if wrestling with itself, "Everyday that damned brazier. The servants never lit it again, must have pitied me or some shite." He spat the words slowly, "Gregor never minded the cold, but looking back I'd rather they'd lit it every night."

"Better to face the real deal than shadows out of nightmares," said Tyrion. He closed his eyes, hand over his forehead as he breathed slowly. "I wish Uncle Gerion were here."

"You'll see him again," said Joffrey, the wind picking up as the oaks spilled their bounty in a whirlwind of red and yellow.

"Maybe," he said, dawn's early light now covering the river in full, the leaves reflecting back its gaze.

Jon emerged from the path behind them, his horse's hooves squelching against the mud. Joffrey turned to look at him and found his legate's gaze somber. "She'll be here soon," he said, "A semaphore station on Crackclaw Point spotted her flying north-west."

"It's time then," he said as he stood up, dusting away the bits of mud clinging to the comfortable riding leathers, the fishing rods forgotten. They managed to get on the horses and unto the Kingsroad before Tyrion couldn't hold it together any longer.

"Nephew, must you do this?"

Joffrey smiled grimly at him, the leaves riding with them as they cantered down the Kingsroad. "We've had this argument a thousand times."

"Madness," said his uncle, "Complete and utter madness. Just to be clear, you are with me on this one, right Clegane?"

Sandor grunted affirmatively.

"Thought so. And you Jon?"

A rare snarl escaped the legate's icy façade. "That crazy bitch killed Lancel. I say we open up with the stagrams as soon as she lands," he said before shrugging, "If she lands."

"She'll land," said Joffrey, "I'm not sure how far gone she's this time, but Daenerys always had a thing for symbolisms. A face-off against the Usurper's Spawn right in the middle of Harren's Folly?" He grunted with mirth he did not feel, "It must be tickling her Targeryen sensibilities silly." He aimed a chin at Tyrion, "Come on uncle, think about this rationally."

Tyrion looked at him mulishly. He'd repeated that request a hundred times both in the Small Council Chambers and in the occasional tavern; by now it set his uncle talking almost automatically. "I suppose it's also tempting from a practical point of view," he said grudgingly, the road following the river. "Why spend months burning keeps and villages when you can get the throne quickly instead." He raised his hands quickly as if defending himself, "Still a terrible, terrible idea."

"So the birds keep telling me," Joffrey said, keeping an eye to the finches flying overhead from branch to branch. He could tell when Sansa got his letter by the way a dozen woodpeckers had taken to battering his skull in the middle of the night. Joffrey smiled despite himself. The rebuke had been clear as day, but he wasn't backing away from this. It was a decent plan with a real chance of success. Definitely not his craziest one.

He frowned as he remembered the frenzied charge out of the Dawn Fort. That had been much more riskier than this. Hadn't it? Carcosa as well… He still wasn't sure that module had been worth the sacrifice, though he guessed he'd find out the answer to that soon enough.

They rode past another bend in the river, a clearing in the copse of strong-stemmed oaks revealing the ailing silhouette of Harrenhal. Scarred by dragonfire once already, its great towers seemed to lean precariously despite their great weight, hemmed in place by imposing black walls which were in turn dotted by tinier towers. The morning sun cast it's façade in orange, a ill-suited color to the soot-black castle, biggest of the Riverlands' Great Keeps.

"So, she'll land," said Jon, the God's Eye growing bigger as they approached both lake and keep from the north. The wind rippled it's surface, weirwood leaves circling in whirlwinds of red and confusing the leaping trout to no end. "Why aren't we flooding the courtyard with fire again?"

"It would break parley," said Joffrey.

"Parley?" Sandor's snort was monstrous. "Who the hells cares about parley?"

A subtle thrumming was itching its way up and down Joffrey as they rode for the gate, a sea of pins pressing against his gut and radiating outwards. Joffrey took a deep breath, swallowing the sticky sensation, "I want to speak to her first. There's a chance we could put those dragons to use against the Walkers this time." Joffrey kept going before the collective wave of scoffs could unseat him from his horse, "I know, I know. More importantly, there's factors at play we don't understand yet. For one, how the hells did she escape Sansa's sight? I don't fancy a surprise mid-duel."

"The world's pretty huge," Tyrion said as if explaining it to a child, "Dothraki hordes numbering in the thousands have pulled similar feats, why not two dragons flying high enough to be confused for birds?"

"Maybe," said Joffrey, weighting distance and rumor, all the various factors at work except for that which had tripped him so many times. "She survived within the Red Wastes somehow, and without Sansa's knowledge." And you didn't see how hard she searched, how intense her scrutiny. Her many portals had glittered like kaleidoscopes, so many different vistas cycling so fast, so many places watched for at once. Besides, hadn't Sansa told him there was something clouding her sight within the Red Wastes themselves? "There must be someone else in play. Or something."

Some of the Yellow Emperor's workings reportedly had the surviving members of the House of the Undying wincing in dread, but none of those had touched the Red Wastes, at least as far as Sansa knew. The Undying themselves were a non-factor after the Great Fire, and Asshai was keeping its eyes well to the north. But then who?

Could they have gotten to her? The dread in Joffrey's stomach grew. Could she have listened for the silence and not the song?

He shook his head clear, trying to dispel the growing anxiety. Never before had he feared death as much as when they rode past the looming gates of Harrenhal, it's portcullis a serrated maw with little longships for teeth. At least back in Carcosa, when impatience overrode good sense, he'd been with his wife. How would she fare if he were to fall here?

He imagined that war as he nodded at the few guardsmen in plain sight, the cave-like gatehouse stretching on and on and on until they were back under the sun again, Harren's ruined courtyard bigger than a small town by the other side. One dragon Sansa could manage, assuming she got as close as possible without getting burnt to ash. Two dragons at the same time… maybe. Joffrey shook his head. Even then, without himself the weapon that was the Purple would be impossible to activate.

Moonlight neighed as they cleared a few scattered supply wagons from the Guard, all empty. Joffrey had to keep a tight grip on the reigns, to keep the canter stately instead of panicked else this whole endeavor might collapse as everyone broke and ran. Keep it steady, he thought, searching for the elusive peace he'd brushed near the Trident in what already felt like hours ago. Instead he kept seeing Sansa's burnt body, the Red Keep drowning in the dead before she set it on fire. She'd keep the Kingdoms together, he thought. That she would. His fierce and brave Sansa, drawing out the Long Night and reaping a bloody toll on the Walkers; she'd be a legend as bright as the Night Lion and the Maiden-made-of-Light… if anyone were left to remember. A deep sigh escaped him, Moonlight trying to speed up again as he reigned the horse back.

It would never amount to more than a doomed rearguard action, for without both parts of the Purple and its Connector, the power at the source of the Red Comet could not be contested.

"Madness," Tyrion said again, eyeing the many pieces of rubble strewn about the courtyard, some of them bigger than a carriage. The Guard siegemen had done just as he'd commanded, collapsing one of Harrenhall's five great towers unto the courtyard itself and spewing its stony guts everywhere. The enormous stone bricks made for broken terrain; perfect for covering a fast-moving attacker against a bigger opponent.

"I've done it before," Joffrey said as they cleared the stables and the deserted smithy, riding for the cluster of nobles waiting expectantly near the middle of the grand courtyard. He forced himself to breathe regularly, at a rhythm with the waves of the Sunset Sea so far beyond, moving like titan dunes made of water and seaweed.

"What, in Valyria?" Tyrion scoffed, "Because that worked out so well."

"The Red Keep too," he said, voice quieter.

"Indeed, and you got mauled so badly you would've bled to death if Viserion hadn't roasted your guts for you."

Joffrey grimaced, "It wasn't so bad."

"Those were your words," said Sandor.

"Look," he said as he reigned in his horse. They stopped around him, their faces tight and grave. Sandor hadn't lifted a hand from his pommel since they'd left the river bank, eyes fixed on him at all times. Jon was trying so hard to copy Ned's icy façade Joffrey feared his face would crack in half, his legion plate quivering in fear or anger or both. The most gut wrenching was Tyrion's; lips tight but eyes watery. Joffrey had never before seen him like this, one swift breeze away from shattering like glass. His uncle looked like on the edge of tears.

The sight was like a punch in the gut, bittersweet so sharp it left him blinking as fast as he could. They cared about him. Him. Not the King. Not the Crown. Joffrey. Just Joffrey. Let Westeros burn as they hoped for a lucky arrow; anything but seeing their friend burnt alive before their very eyes. So long had Joffrey chased that sight, that dream, to look at his friends and see love reflected back never again to be undone. To know that death or glory, during his final life Joffrey Baratheon was not alone.

They won't forget me this time, he realized. Were he to die today or next year or in a hundred more, they would not forget him.

He cleared his throat, the pinpricks subsiding as he smiled at them. "Thank you."

He didn't know what they saw in his eyes, but it seemed to deflate them altogether, grim smiles and shaken heads aplenty. Sandor spoke up first. "Fine. But don't prance around; you go in for the kill and you do it fast." The burnt half of his face shifted, "And mind your footwork," he added lowly.

Joffrey cleared his throat. "I will."

Jon slammed a gauntlet on Joffrey's shoulder, the big silver 'IV' on his tabard shining under the sun now peaking over Harrenhall's jagged crenellations. His friend had grown broad-shouldered over the past few years, the Guard molding him as he did it. "He's right, don't piss around. The real war is still ahead of us." He took a deep breath, teeth gritted tight, "Blood and Mud, Joff. Show her the meaning of those words."

"I will," he said as he held him.

"Just give the signal and we'll all show her," Jon said. His legate rode away, barking orders at the two guardsmen by one of the many smaller, nameless towers which dotted the walls. He dismounted and disappeared through it soon afterwards, the guardsmen following close behind. Just imagining the chaos and the casualties made Joffrey ill, but such was the calculus of war. If he had to sacrifice a thousand men to bring down even a single dragon, then it would still be an immeasurably good trade. I just hope I don't have to.

"Don't you dare leave your 'duty' on us," said Tyrion, eyes red though not a single tear tracked down his cheek, "Or I swear I'll find some way into that Purple of yours and swing right around to smack you in the head."

"I don't doubt it, uncle," said Joffrey, voice growing ragged.

There was nothing left to be said, and so they rode down the huge courtyard, deserted but for the few soldiers on the walls and the cluster of witnesses by the shade of a half-tent. "My Lords. My Ladies," he said as he dismounted, the vast array of noble blood bowing or curtsying. First he greeted Lady Sheylla Whent, who'd put the castle at his disposal for surprisingly few bribes. 'This cursed land took everything from me,' she'd said. 'Just give me a keep by the sea and it's all yours.' A refreshingly direct take, one Joffrey had every intention to fulfill… though that rested on his survival today.

He sighed again, feeling cold despite the sun and the running breeze. Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident was next, visibly anxious and wanting to be anywhere but here. Most Riverlander nobility shared the sentiment, including not quite a few former Targeryen loyalists who'd made themselves surprisingly useful today, the better to give legitimacy to the proceedings. Lord Darry was the coldest of the bunch, though he kept his hopes well hidden under a veil of courtesy.

"Quite strange to see the fate of a kingdom decided by a duel, Your Grace," said Edmure, fidgeting with his scabbard. Vance's and Piper's kept their council a little less circumspect, muttering between themselves until they gazed up in alarm, the shadow a passing cloud's and not a dragon's. Joffrey didn't blame Edmure or his own Riverlander loyalists; of all the rebel lords Hoster Tully had been the most egregious in his treason, raising his banners against Aerys not out of honor or betrayal but two marriages to other Lords Paramounts. A reconquest could only fare poorly for the Tully's and their allies.

"Better than seeing Riverrun end like Dragonstone, my lord," said Joffrey.

Quite a few Valelords had ridden with him on the way back from the Vale, intent on not missing a potentially cataclysmic shift in Westerosi politics. Crownlanders too, as well as the odd fidgeting Stormlander. Most attempts at conversation were stilted enough, the wind muting them most often than not. What use was to scheme when the very crown of the Seven Kingdoms could change heads this day? They weren't any happier with the arrangement than Joffrey was, but they freely admitted it was better than seeing how many Dragonstones Daenerys could pull off before a ballista took her down.

Slowly at first, Joffrey found himself drifting, their words indistinct as he listened for the Song. He kneeled on the compacted earth, lordly eyes burning on his back as he settled his breathing to an even rhythm, Lancel's face coming and going through his mind's eyes as he grasped dirt tight. Did he suffer overmuch? Was he caught in the fire that engulfed Dragonstone town or did the dragons handle him personally?

Breathe. The wind shivered, bringing autumn leaves that skittered against skin and leather. How soon till that turned to snow? Horses whined by the stables, sensing something of the gathering anxiety, the sun's glare torn by the many shaped shadows of Harren's Folly. The bubbling inside his belly solidified into a dead weight that was familiar indeed, duty and purpose coalesced, fear and fury mingling unsure. I can do it, he thought, the stilted conversations around him dying out completely as the wind blew again. He was unsure how much of a grip she had on the dragons, how cautious or reckless they'd be, but he was sure he could kill it. He'd grown surprisingly adept at slaying all manner of life during his long journey, and half-grown dragons would not stop him. Not now.

His breaths turned deeper still, bits of steam drifting away as he settled into a half-lotus position, the Song whispering with every speck of sunlight, every blink and sigh. Even were she to break parley at her own defeat, Jon and his boys could handle the remaining dragon before it could wreck too terrible a toll, of that Joffrey was sure. They wouldn't break, his legions of Blood and Mud, not now when clouds gathered north and even common laborers could feel the tiniest smidgen of the Song on a quiet sundown by the docks.

He would not fail here; he could not afford to. Not if he wanted mankind to survive the Long Night.

"There they are," whispered Tyrion, dread and awe mingling in his voice. A deep roar scoured the plains, rebounding within Harrenhal's great walls. Daenerys had arrived.

The Song scuttled into foreboding, beat unsteady, breath held back as Joffrey did likewise. Not frenzied but expectant; a fulcrum approached. He knew then Daenerys would not attack immediately, eyes opening to twin figures circling the skies, their menacing circuits descending with each lap. "Steady," said the Hound, quieting the nobles like a century of guardsmen, "Steady now," he said again, probably biting off more than one expletive at the end.

The thought brought a smile to his face, a sight that seemed to calm them further as he stood up and the dragons soared over Harrenhal's walls. A black-spiked dragon the size of a small house landed about fifteen paces away, big plumes of dust ratcheting up its sides as its tail swung back and forth. He heard a choked scream, the nobles startling back.

"Stand firm, Lords of the Seven Kingdoms!" said Joffrey, not moving an inch as he stared Drogon in the eye. The dragon reared back, wary, neither cowed nor defiant as it waited for its mistress' command. Rhaegal didn't land, it's green-and-bronze wingspan keeping to the skies as it circled Harrenhal in a sort of over watch. Coincidence, or tactical acumen on Daenerys' part?

The Scourge of Dragonstone was like a wraith in the flesh, pale and haggard and sporting a number of scars. She held her back straight with an easy sway, empty eyes traversing the gathering nobles until they settled on Joffrey's. Like a porcelain doll come to life, her lax features sharpened, Drogon's hair-raising growl making a few of the witnesses stumble back.

I created this, Joffrey thought, matching her gaze and surprised not to find a trace of the usual screeching madness. Instead it was the opposite, a heavy blanket that had wrapped Daenerys so tight she'd suffocated without realizing it.

"I received your letter," she said with a voice devoid of emotion.

Joffrey eyed the empty battlements by the walls surrounding the grand courtyard. One signal and all hell would break loose, but doing so would leave the troops exposed to Rhaegal's fiery retaliation. He couldn't afford a change of plans yet.

I started this, I can end it, he thought, an itch between his shoulderblades crawling up and down. "I'm glad you came," he said, "The Seven Kingdoms need not suffer again for the feud between our Houses."

She nodded at that, "A trial by combat would certainly speed up what needs to be done," she said, gaze wandering north, "We've but little time before it turns Cold. So Cold."

"The rumors are true," whispered Lord Royce, "She's as mad as her father."

"Quiet!" said Sandor.

Joffrey tilted his head, the weight behind the word unmistakable. "The cold?" he said, mouth heavy, "You speak of the White Walkers?"

She nodded again, ignoring the rest of the nobles like reeds in the wind, "Cold beyond words. Their eyes made of red light." She said it almost pityingly, Drogon restless under her frail weight.

It was as if a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped on Joffrey's head. "You know of the war to come?" he said, taking a step forward, "You knew of Night's return and…" he trailed off, frowning in confusion as plots of dragons and alliances tangled in his head, "You burn the living under dragonfire. You bring war to the whole realm." Joffrey couldn't understand, if somehow Daenerys knew, then why the hells was she doing this? Better to join the fight and save what she wanted to conquer, or hells at least wait until the end and stab the victor in the back! Was it all a negotiation tactic? "Why?" he said.

"Because it is the only way," she said as the itch spread to Joffrey's spine, his gaze drifting to her right where the Song twisted in little knots. "We can't win, you must realize that," she said kindly, as if explaining it to a frightened child, "We can only safeguard our souls, our bodies under the breath of life."

"The breath of life?" muttered Joffrey, a sinking feeling in his gut.

"The breath that wards the cold and runs to ash. The breath that purifies. The breath that saves." She said it with the conviction of a zealot, the lone truth in a universe filled with lies.

Tyrion got it first. "Fire," he whispered.

A snarl escaping Sandor as he took his sword halfway out of its scabbard. Drogon roared in turn, Joffrey holding up a palm in the air.

"Hold!" he said, still staring at Daenerys. She hadn't moved an inch, petrified eyelashes blinking slowly at him. What the hells happened in the Red Wastes? There was a piece he was still missing, understanding at the tip of his fingers for all that the gulf seemed enormous. And what the hells is that to her side? Nothing was there under the sun's gaze, but the Song of Existence did not lie, its parting beats disheveled and unsettled around it. "Fire," he said before somebody could lose his nerve, mind racing through her tilted speech and her dead demeanor. He'd come here expecting curses or screams before battle in earnest, not this. "You mean what you did to Dragonstone?"

"Only by fire's cleansing light will we deny them full victory," she said approvingly, "When I win this trial I will see that the Crown does what it must; every sept a pyre of salvation, every city cleansed by dragonflame. Not even charred bones will remain for Them to wear."

"Seven above…" said Lord Darry, the whispers among the witnesses running rampant and even Sandor's blandishments incapable of stopping them.

"What happened to you?" whispered Joffrey.

Anger did not mar her features, only dead stillness, "Your poisoned bolts killed me," she said, "And then I saw their crystal face with red eyes like singing void." Here she turned somber still, an eerie echo of a pout on her lips, like a fish dying slowly, "But she brought me back. She whispered prophecy in my ear, pleading of Ice and Fire before she gave up life of her own." A grim smile, "You see her too."

By now the presence was impossible to ignore, and Joffrey fixed his eyes on the twisting melody as he took a deep breath and grounded himself in the Song that was. He would not be deceived. He'd seen the skein of reality under the Purple Pillars, he would see. "Maegi," Joffrey realized, the currents of the Song briefly turning visible as he unwound the knot, a specter of a screaming woman, half masked and half burned. Blades were drawn by the Valelords, the septon he'd brought to officiate the trial spouting off exorcisms with a shrilly voice as the air beside Daenerys shimmered like a dust storm in the Beyond.

"My faithful Quaithe," Daenerys said as she looked at the waning shadow, rage and pity mingling in her face, "Always with her vague warnings… but there were no more riddles after Qarth. She hid my body, breathed life into it again. Told me I was destined to save everyone." A maniacal glint lit Daenerys' eyes for the first time even as her face turned doll-like again, like a candle sputtering against the wind. The shadow by her side was like a mirage, a masked woman half torn into nothingness screaming only silence, a specter like the Ghost of High Hearth or an imprint like Stygai-in-the-Shadow or perhaps just an echo in time like a groove in the Song; Joffrey could not tell. "She gave me everything," said Daenerys, "Life for life, truth for secret."

"There is another way," Joffrey heard himself say, ice clutching his throat, "Forget the omens and the prophecies. Forget their silenced terror. We can beat them; with fire and steel, dragonglass and dragonfire. We can build something better than a funeral pyre to receive them with!" Joffrey took another step forward, hands into fists, "Daenerys listen to me. I've seen their crystal gaze as well. Their silent presence which drowns and chokes. They can be killed!"

She shook her head like a terrier with a rat, the shade thrashing in agony as well and disappearing like so much wind. "I saw them!" screamed Daenerys, "We need to burn! We need to burn before they take us! Burn them all! Burn them all!!!"

Joffrey startled back at the sudden shift, Drogon wheezing in pain as Daenerys convulsed atop it. He could feel Jon nearby, seconds away from starting a battle as the lords raised their voices in alarm. Rhaegal's still flying at high altitude; one enfilade fire-run will set off the walls like a tinderbox. Before he could either call on Jon to hold, or charge into Drogon's teeth himself, Daenerys stilled herself. In a second she was just like she'd arrived, dead faced and straight backed, staring at them without emotion.

Could he have done different? Enlisted her aid somehow without sparking rebellion or madness? The question that had haunted his mind this past life seemed possessed with a life of its own right now.

Should I've killed her personally? Burned her body just to be sure? He banished the thoughts as he barked back to the witnesses; lord and knights, ladies and retainers on the edge of scattering to the four winds and doubtlessly setting Drogon's instincts afire. The septon was on his knees, bubbling a whispered prayer, Lady Whent sheet-white with fear. "Hold still damn you!" he said, "We're under parley here!" He turned to the Scourge of Dragonstone, "Are we not, Princess Daenerys?"

She gave him a deep nod, "I hereby accept your offer to resolve our conflicting claims," she said like a lady holding court, "Trial by combat, for the right of the Iron Throne."

Joffrey nodded decisively, the time of doubts well and truly over. Those that wished to live through the horrors to come needed Daenerys dead. "I will fight for myself, no champion shall represent me." He gazed back at his lords; perhaps one of them would have offered to fight for the prospective Queen, but after what they'd seen of her just now… "I spoke with the witnesses gathered here before you arrived. Should any knight or lord wish to fight for you I will swear on my honor not to retaliate unjustly on either kith or kin…"

Joffrey trailed off as Daenerys shook her head like a crazed hound again, not making a single sound before settling her dead gaze back on Joffrey, "You slew all who would fight for me. I will represent myself." Drogon roared the challenge, leaving no doubt as to what Daenerys considered 'herself'. Not that Joffrey had expected otherwise.

"What?! Against a dragon!?" shouted Lord Langward, knights and lords speaking over themselves. The outrage was palpable, even if it was tinged by a sort of hysterical fear that was just now dawning on most nobles present. What if Aegon the First had been mad as a cow? What if King Aerys had had dragons at his beck and call?

"Drogon is as much a part of me as I am of him," said Daenerys, eyes still on Joffrey's, "Take the offer or leave it, spawn of the Usurper. I do not mind the alternative."

"I see," said Joffrey, a sneer fresh on his lips. He could imagine that alternative all too well; King's Landing and most great keeps had enough artillery to hold back a non-suicidal Daenerys, his contingencies had seen to that, but the rural smallfolk that made up the brunt of Westeros' population would burn. How many towns and harvest fields could she burn before Sansa made her way south or a lucky bolt caught Drogon in the eye?

"Very well then," he said. Beyond mad hopes and idle dreams, this was what he'd planned on facing since he'd sent her the offer, shortly after news of Dragonstone reached him. He would not fail. I can't. "Let Septon Kyle bless the Trial under the sight of gods and men, and then we can begin."

"Your Grace!" said Edmure, "You can't be serious about this- this travesty!"

"I am," he said as he turned to the Lord Paramount, the Blackfish holding an iron firm hand on his shoulder but not uttering a word; by the glaze in his eyes it was clear he thought the same as his nephew, just doing a better job of keeping it in. And likely planning on dragging him away at the first sign of dragonfire. Joffrey was honestly surprised by the mad bravery within the young Lord Paramount's eyes. Other witnesses were doing their best in trying to scuttle away, inching from the shade of the half-tent in the direction of the stables, a better showing than those still frozen in shock or dismay. To his credit, the other de-facto Lord Paramount present was not one of them. Lord Yohn Royce was still as a statue, only his hand flexing mechanically over the pommel of his sword as his eyes swept the deserted battlements and his lips uttered silently, likely counting how many men could the King have stashed in the towers. He'd made the right choice naming him Warden of the East.

"End the parley and let us withdraw, Your Grace!" said Edmure, "Let the mad bitch come to our walls, we'll take them down with arrows and ballistae!"

"I rather fancy my chances here, my lord," Joffrey said, keeping an eye on Daenerys as Drogon roared again, the sound rebounding within the grand courtyard. Edmure stared at him as if he'd gone as mad as Daenerys.

"Better than a man alone against that!" he said, voice quivering in the end.

Joffrey smiled grimly at them, "Best witness from atop the walls. For your own sakes." Most of them scattered at that, to the walls and some to the stables, Tyrion listlessly dragged away by Sandor as Lord Royce called for the Vale knights to follow him. Were those longbow strings that hung on their belts? Good man.

Septon Kyle raised his voice, calling out for the Father's judgment stern and strong as the half-tent was left empty, the Song at a beat with his intonations.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry I had to do it," said Joffrey.

"Mother kind and loving, give us your mercy and compassion…"

She tilted her head, "That's not exactly an apology."

"It had to be done. Else you would've turned Westeros into ashes right before it needed its strength the most." He hesitated for a moment, "I saw it."

She blinked, a bitter smile upon her lips, "That doesn't seem to have worked out for you."

Joffrey sneered, flexing his sword hand slowly as his heartbeat took off. For all that he'd hated the red and its lust for blood, throughout his lives he'd come to know it as intimately as the Purple. He called to it, the unstoppable fury and the joy of killing both shackled to greater purpose. "Tell me, how did Legate Lancel Lannister die?"

The septon droned on, more pleading than entreating, "Warrior brave and strong, lend us courage in our time of woes…"

"He charged Drogon before being burned to ashes."

Joffrey nodded deeply, his breathing at ease, "They won't have his body then."

She held his gaze, and for a rare moment they shared understanding. The Septon's voice trailed off as Joffrey exhaled again, the patterns of the Purple like etchings on his mind. "Good luck, Your Grace," the septon whispered before scattering as well, but Joffrey was already deep within the Purple, a waking meditation as the Song thrummed like a chorus of a thousand people, the courtyard a Great Sept harnessing the voices of all who could listen.

He eyed his hands as he let the Purple flow according to the patterns he'd found in Carcosa, one of the lost modules sundered from his self before humanity had crawled over the surface of this world. It had showed how to harness the essence of the Purple outside of the vessel, outside of the soul. 'Of course the first thing you thought of was armor.' He smiled as he could almost hear his wife's voice, gauntlets made of fractals forming over his hands, lines of Purple twisting over themselves without end until they were no longer a mirage but a real physical thing that covered his hand like a scaled glove. He didn't stop there.

He wove the Purple following the rhythm of the Song, bringing into existence that which was within. Gauntlets turned to vambraces made of sharp angles, vambraces to pauldrons crisscrossed with copperish green as he breathed again. The heart-thumping thrum of the Purple reverberated over his chest, an ominous drone that formed a chestplate made of the void between the stars, a hole in reality through which stars could be glimpsed in the distance. Blues and reds and sharp yellows the color of dawn, tiny specks of other worlds that seemed to lend scale to the black void, giving it the weight of truth that whispered in the mind; this is existence, this is our cosmos. This is what I fight for, thought Joffrey.

The weight of the thought accelerated the spread of the armor, solidifying the not-quite-metal over his body. A helmet vaguely shaped like a snarling lion covered his head, its sharp teeth guarding his face, sharp antlers made of dark light adorning its top. Greaves with knee guards etched in the likeness of the Dawn Fort screamed to life, their tears of flame lined with Purple as they spilled over his shins into plates of solid darkness, black boots of void-metal woven by fractals. Joffrey hadn't controlled the exact shape of it as he released the energies of his soul; it'd seemed to have taken a will of its own, a suit of armor made out of a thousand different lives, a hundred different battles where he'd spilled blood and tears trying to protect. Trying to find his way. He was Joffrey.

He came out of the trance like waking up from a dream, Brightroar piercing the ground as he slowly squeezed the hilt in his hands. He hefted the shimmering sword of Valyrian steel in his hands, a roar not of Drogon's making echoing within Harrenhal's walls. Stars' breath thrummed over Joffrey's shoulder as he turned and grasped rune-shaped fur, mounting atop his old companion, his reflection through the Purple. Scarred and sporting claws speckled with blood, the silver lion stood undaunted as he faced Drogon's massive bulk, black against silver.

Daenerys lay transfixed by the sight, "That is… that is not-"

"Stars is as much a part of me as I am of him," he said, the weight of his armor deceptive, light as a feather's for all it's dense-looking angles, "After this is done I will summon a Great Council. All the lords and all the smallfolk of the land will know of the threat to come. We will resist. We will fight to the last man woman and child."

"No," said Daenerys, the whisper like agony. After all she'd been through, hope corroded her worse than any poison, unleashed choking despair that widened her eyes in horror. "NO!" she screamed, "DRACARYS!!!"

Stars erupted into movement with a great loping gait, a powerful all-bodied burst of speed whose shadow burned under a torrent of hell-fire as Joffrey ducked close and they dashed sideways. The pressure behind Drogon's fire-breath felt muffled under his helmet, a hissing scream that seared rocks and turned the tent to ash in seconds. They dashed atop one of the fallen stone bricks nearer Drogon as that torrent chased them, Stars yowling like a shadowcat as he leapt at the black dragon with outstretched claws. Joffrey felt his stomach drop over the long leap even as they crossed the distance in the blink of an eye. He swung down with brutal force, Brightroar screaming through the air as he tried to cut Daenerys is half and he slashed something solid, blood flying up.

Claws bit into Drogon's flank like chisels on a mountain, arresting their fall into a bloody slide down the dragon's other side before they smacked into the ground and rolled like a single boulder. Joffrey shook his head as Stars regained his footing, Brightroar dripping blood. He cursed when he saw Daenerys unharmed, a long gash torn on Drogon's flesh behind her. She didn't say a word as her dragon charged them like a black wall, roaring in pained frenzy.

"Come on Stars!" he shouted, the silver lion sprinting between fallen bricks and dug trenches. They made use of Drogon's blind spots, avoiding its searing fire as they run and leapt between obstacles, maximizing time under cover and only closing in for a strike. Twice Drogon paid the price, his flanks bloody as they struck like raptors screeching out of the jungle, but the black-scaled monster was unafraid of using its great bulk to its advantage. Joffrey ducked low as a wing almost knocked him out from his mount, the air behind the blow buffeting him hard. Brightroar tore a bloody gash in retaliation as he rammed the sword upwards, tearing a jagged hole in Drogon's wing, but he realized the distraction far too late. Drogon's tail slammed into his chest of glinting stars, sending him tumbling away like a stray catapult shot. He'd underestimated her.

The world spun without end as Harrenhal's jagged silhouette melded with the sky, black and blue and black and blue like maidens painting in the Silver Keep before his back exploded in pain and it all grounded to a halt. He took short rasping breaths as he tried to stand up, using the stone brick he'd crashed against for support as he tried to blink everything back into focus again. Worse than Tyrion's Westerland Blend, he thought, searching for Brightroar like a drunk in the dark as he realized he wasn't a mess of fractured bones. Even after all his lives, the Purple's power still surprised him. What other modules could I've found. Works so mighty yet still not enough to stop the Cold Night. He managed to blink the world into focus again, the sheen of pain abating to reveal a smudge of leaping black.

He skipped away with a breathless scream, the earth making him lose his feet again as it bounced under Drogon's massive impact right next to him. He manifested Brightroar before the beast could turn, the purple-golden fractals still crisscrossing into being when he rammed them into the dragon's flank right under the wing-joint.

Drogon's pained roar deafened him, but he could still hear Daenerys screaming her lungs out as she thrashed over the beast. Between his sword's pommel and Drogon's spikes he managed to climb the beast's side even as it coiled back its sinuous neck, blood-red flames trickling from its maw. It opened to reveal an inferno which clipped Joffrey's legs, spinning him upwards and almost making him fall down the other side, everything below his waist painfully hot.

End it. End it quickly, he thought in a frenzy. He stumbled upright atop Drogon, Daenerys scuttling back from him and almost reaching the dragon's head, dead eyes appraising him. He shouted a war cry as he tried to reach her, coming out gurgled as he struggled to navigate the sea of shifting black scales. He was surprised by the coppery scent at the back if his mouth. Not invulnerable then. He licked his lips, tasting twin rivulets of blood crawling from the corners of his mouth. Pity, that would've been useful.

"Fly Drogon!" screamed Daenerys "Sōvēs! Sōvēs!!!" The beast took one massive jump, then another as it stretched its wings in midair and its tail threw Stars away with a clean blow.

"No," grunted Joffrey, Brightroar tasting Drogon's spine as he brought it down in a two handed stab. The dragon screeched as it flew across Harren's Courtyard, its neck twisting like a broken hose and spilling fire in circles. Joffrey deepened the wound, kneeling as he shoved it down to the hilt, Drogon's call turning rasp like tearing leather.

Joffrey lost his grip as they crashed into the base of one of Harrenhal's four great towers, crouching into a water-dancing roll as he reached the ground with a muffled omph. He had to take out Drogon first so the men inside had a fighting chance against Rhaegal, but he had to do it quick before they tore up the whole keep. Drogon had to die now.

He completed a second roll just in time to avoid one of Drogon's paws, Brightroar singing through the air as he tore off two of its claws with a roared battlecry, blood and crushed stone blinding him as it rained down like dew all around him, a shadow rearing out the corner of his eye. Drogon struck out like a coiled whip, serrated maw shutting around his waist like a steel clamp before he could do more than swipe his face. Teeth screeched over Purple plate, a horrific whine of bone against soul that wormed its way into Joffrey's skull, a nail-biting resonance that grew and grew as the dragon reared back and he felt himself rise up. Joffrey couldn't move, he could hardly breathe under the massive pressure trying to crack him apart, hands closing on air as he screamed. Drogon held him aloft like some sort of trophy, the strength of its jaw unstoppable as multiple sharp cracks thrumming within his soul and daggers pierced his chest.

"Caw!"

"No!" screamed Daenerys.

The pressure petered off, eyes groggy as he looked around him. Drogon was still holding him up in the air like a cat with a prized bird, its legs dead and only its torn wings supporting the dragon's weight. Its eyes were fixed on something up in the tower, the same thing that had Daenerys locked in a rictus of dread and fear.

The raven perched atop the tower shivered, settling its plumage back in order. "Caw!"

"Stop!" screamed Daenerys, covering her head with both arms as she rocked back, "Raven! Raven!!!"

Joffrey grabbed one of Drogon's spikes just above the eye, spitting a long glob of blood from on high. "Thank you, dear," he whispered before ramming Brightroar through Drogon's eye socket as far as it could go.

The enormous black dragon startled under the blow, swaying dizzily as smoke came out its throat reeking of flesh and sulfur. It collapsed sideways, its jaw slack as Joffrey slipped with a hefty spat of blood and saliva.

He lay there on the ground, staring up at the Widow's Tower and its melted stone façade, base half-crumbled under Drogon's fearsome impact. To stand up now seemed a task more colossal than the war itself, an impossible feat of legend fit for Bran the Builder or Hugor Seven-Hills. Come on. He thought he could hear a whisper, "Come on, Joff."

Joffrey turned, putting a knee under him. He blinked slowly as he gazed at the small holes through his chestplate made of soulstuff, distant stars mixed with his own blood. He couldn't die. Not now. He found his feet, somehow standing straight as he saw Daenerys. She was still atop Drogon's back, listless as she gazed at its pierced head. She was in pain, blinking desperately as if trying to cry though no tear fell down her bruised cheeks.

She lifted her eyes as he limped towards her, dragging Brightroar behind him. She smiled as she tilted her head, relief buffeting her face.

"Don't," whispered the twisted knot in the Song, Quaithe's frail form almost nothing as it hugged Daenerys from behind.

"Yes," whispered the mad princess, raising her arms wide as Rhaegal finally left it's over watch atop the sky, landing behind her like a falling star with a maw filled with fire. Joffrey jumped forward as he heard the distant shouts of tribunes and centurions, covering himself completely behind Drogon's body before-

"DRACARYS!!!" Daenerys roared as if in the midst of religious ecstasy, her arms held up as Rhaegal unleashed a pressurized firestorm whose hiss left Joffrey deaf. Her silhouette burst into flames like tinder, the sky replaced with a fiery ceiling as her charred husk slammed against the tower now under the thrumming pressure of Rhaegal's breath. Joffrey tried to find cover from that world of searing flames, scurrying under Drogon's carcass as far as he could, eyeing the base of the tower behind him in dread.

Centuries of neglect and the fury of the last of the Targeryen's finished what Aegon had started, the tower melting slowly into its base before tilting over Joffrey. It toppled like a sand castle, bricks and support beams coming apart under the tower's own weight, the rain of debris blotting the sun. He heard Sansa scream before Harren's Folly came crashing down upon him.

-: PD :-