Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

"Make way! Make way for the Lord of Horn Hill!" said Habart, pushing his horse on anyone who didn't react fast enough. Randyll Tarly surveyed the landscape from above the small hill, nestled in the middle of his retinue with his son Dickon as they rode for the enormous castle in the distance.

"I've never seen so many people cluttering the roads like this," said Dickon, the grip on his reins growing lax as he stared at the eternal line of lords, knights and smallfolk lining the Kingsroad. The traffic jam didn't seem to stop until it reached mighty Harrenhal, a distant black mouth devouring peoplewhole by the gently lapping waters of the God's Eye.

"Tighten that grip, Dickon. I'll not have you falling off your horse now," he said.

"Yes Father."

"And keep your back straight. You are the heir to Horn Hill, not some hedge knight leaving the thickets for a tourney."

"… Yes Father," said Dickon, looking away as he straighten over the saddle.

Still uncomfortable. True, it was far from being official, but the lord of the seat in question should have a say on where it would fall after his death, should he not? Hopefully the King will seal what should by all rights be common sense. The thought of Samwell as Lord of Horn Hill was enough to give him nightmares, and Lord Randyll Tarly was not a man easily scared. Bad enough if the boy were unable to render aid to his liege on the battlefield, the most basic of duties a bannermen could be asked of. But no, it was the thought of an army storming Horn Hill's walls and laying their hands on the women that terrified him; the lord of the keep nowhere to be found as morale flagged and men broke. It wasn't only shame that had driven Lord Randyll to expel his first born son out of his own home, though that there had been aplenty. No, it had been fear of what would come to his house once himself and his reputation was no longer there to protect it. Fear had been the straw that made the shame unbearable.

"Fish! Salmon fresh from the God's Eye!" shouted a smallfolk as he accosted his armsmen with smelly wares. "Eels and Elvers to feed your hounds m'lord!"

Another one butted in, a woman balancing two trays precariously with both hands, "Don't listen to him good lord! I've got meaty, salted pikes straight from Maidenpool carried by fast donkeys!"

"Oy! I was here first!" said the other, his armsmen pushing them aside non too gently and tripping the woman facefirst on the floor. She lifted a grime encrusted face, ready to shout some obscenity before she quailed beneath Lord Tarly's gaze.

"This is a madhouse," he said as they rode on, trying to banish the scowl now tilting his mouth.

"Too right m'lord. Too right," said Habert, "Riverlander' folk are quick to slip the leash with a weak hand holding the reins."

Randyll snorted, "I wouldn't call the King holding that castle a weak hand," he said as he pointed at Harrenhal with a chin. One could accuse King Joffrey of many things, but weak was not one of them, though the same couldn't be said of the Tully's. If even a quarter of the tales reaching the Reach were true then the Baratheon dynasty had never been stronger. 'New Ways' or not, King Joffrey's will over the Seven Kingdoms had only grown with each passing month… and every battle won. "What do you think, Dickon?"

"Hm?" His son had been eying another fishwoman's daughter, a busty lass with a wide smile. "Oh," he said, paling under his gaze, "Uh, King Joffrey…"

"Educated lords should have an opinion of these things," said Lord Tarly, grounding out the words.

"Yes!" said Dickon, "He's certainly won the love of the smallfolk," he added dubiously.

"An opinion, son. Not a fact." Even a simpleton could've said as much after seeing the diligent mills and workshops lining the roads and rivers all the way to King's Landing.

"Oh. He's shown discipline. And honor. I think he's shown the cut of a worthy King," he said.

Randyll sighted. Those had been the exact same words he'd used to describe the King back in Horn Hill, not a month ago.

The cacophony only grew as the dark castle expanded to cover more of the landscape, the road absolutely lined with mobile stalls and wagons selling all manner of goods upon the travelers. "Is that furniture?" The words escaped Lord Randyll before he realized it. Unfortunately, the two boys hollering atop the old table heard him too.

"Oh! We've got just the thing for you m'lord!" hollered one.

"Good clean oak, not this dirty thing," said the other.

"Pick up the pace, would you Habart?" said Randyll, "I'd like to reach Harrenhal before nightfall if at all possible."

"Of course, my lord," said his captain of the guard, spurring his horse onward. "Make way! Make way damn you!"

The pace picked up marginally after that, though it was a slow crawl to Harrenhal. Harrenhal. The fate of Kingdoms had been decided there once again, but why call for all the Lords of Westeros after the fact? Perhaps the rumors are true, he thought, regretting for a moment his decision to leave Talla home. If Queen Sansa was infertile, then by the laws of gods and men King Joffrey would be in his right to seek a new spouse… Randyll shook his head, dismissing the thought. Great Councils were affairs of lords and knights, not women who couldn't even be counted on making the trip whole. A far lesser rumor, whispered halfheartedly, was that the King's wounds were fatal and that he was seeking to secure Tommen's succession before the rot took him. Randyll had dismissed them though; if the King wasn't dead yet then it was unlikely he would die now. He harrumphed as he settled a chafing pauldron, At least those hadn't been about demons in the Beyond-the-Wall. Some of Horn Hill's more gullible folk had taken the rumor from itinerant traders; the Queen had encountered ice demons in the Far North and that all of Westeros were now being called to battle. He shook his head at the stupidity of the commons before realizing they had stopped.

"What's the matter now?" he said with another sigh, riding forward to the tip of his retinue with Dickon in tow.

"Broken axel," said Habert, adjusting his coat as the wind blew stronger. The days were turning colder as of late. White Ravens were probably not all that far behind. The four-wheeled wagon had been carrying kegs before spilling half the ale over the freshly cobbled road, one of the wheels breaking and leaving the whole thing blocking the road. Between the stalls, the men pushing the wagon, and the detritus of countless smallfolk eking out a living on the sides of the road there was scarcely a place to squeeze a hound through.

"Make way for the lord of Horn Hill!" said Dickon, frowning at the wagon.

"Calm your horses m'lords," called out one of the men as he turned, "Me and the boys we'll put this' to the side and let you through in no time." Randyll noticed the man was wearing half-plate, a scarlet 'IV' on a silver colored tabard. Twin scarlet wings had been painted at each side of the 'IV', and unlike his brethren his helmet held a trio of white goose feathers aloft. It gave the man a certain elegance while keeping clear of the eyes, and when talking about battle ornaments one could do a lot worse. It was one way of telling Mace Tyrell had never seen real battle; the peacock feathers adorning his pauldrons would have seen him blinded and slain before the crows got to circling. So this is King Joffrey's vaunted Royal Guard. He was intrigued, noting how the men held themselves as they surrounded the wagon. Shoulders back and reacting to their orders with haste, though the odd huff or knowing smile was not absent. Veterans, these. "Push!" called out their leader -a centurion, I think they're called- and the men worked as one, joining strengths as they pushed the broken wagon slowly to one side. It creaked before settling an inch in the right direction and the men huffed for air. This was going to take a while.

Habart scowled, "There'd be enough space for us if they just stood aside."

Dickon clearly shared the sentiment, tapping his harness until he gave up and hollered with something that resembled a command voice. Randyll's lessons had not all rebounded on that thick skull of his. "Alright you lot! Time's over and you're blocking a lord's way. Now stand aside before you get run over!"

Randyll tightened his lips, but he couldn't chastise his son here. Command voice or not, patience was not a lesson he'd understood yet. One of the soldiers turned and made gesture at Dickon, "Piss off little lord! We're working here!" he said. The others laughed, Dickon incredulous as he turned a dangerous shade of red. The smallfolk of Horn Hill were not like this.

"Oy Jev, I think he's going to cry!" said another one, raucous laughter following as they pushed again.

"That's enough!" said the Centurion, "Anyone mouths off again and they'll be on ceremonial duty till next month!" He gave an apologetic nod to Randyll, one he gave back with gritted teeth, "Now push!" Harrenhal couldn't come fast enough.

Dickon drew his sword. Habart and his men -good, loyal armsmen that they were- drew with him in a chorus of steel. His son's face was disfigured by rage and shame as he pointed it at the smallfolk who'd mouthed off, "Move aside now! I won't warn you twice!"

An eerie silence descended upon the road, setting Randyll's back on edge before he could tell Habart to stand down. He'd been drilling the men to treat Dickon as if he were himself, and if the lord of the house drew steel then his guard better follow through; he couldn't undo all that progress for the sake of some self entitled smallfolk mercenary. The people around the road shuffled back, the centurion turning to face them fully. He eyed Dickon and the armsmen before his gaze settled on Randyll, hand on the pommel of the sword on his belt. This man had seen slaughter. "The boy is clearly a fresh arrival," he said, "You're all welcome to out waterskins while you wait, you must be thirsty."

Dickon strained forward, "Are you deaf you idiot?! I-"

"Dickon. Quiet," said Randyll, staring at the centurion. They outnumbered the guardsmen, but there was no fear in their eyes as they pressed hands to handaxes, the broken axle forgotten. Two by the side of the wagon were near enough the piled halberds that they would get them in time for any confrontation. He'd been given an out, but Randyll felt his jaw clenching as he gazed at the stubborn lot. "I am not from the Riverlands but from the Reach," he said the former with a barely repressed scowl, "But it is my understanding of the law that should a lord require it, smallfolk are to clear road or river as quickly as possible if found blocking the path." He pointed a chin at a section of the road, "If you all press aside we shall be able to pass and all will be forgotten."

The smallfolk whispered urgently at that, some of them wincing as they shuffled back again. Randyll felt he was missing something as the centurion took another step forward, the white feathers shivering under another gust of autumn wind. Any trace of congeniality was gone from his gaze, pure grey steel boring up at him, "I am not from the Reach, my lord. But I am from Westeros, and I know the law. You've drawn steel on the King's Fist. Do not make that mistake twice."

Dickon guffawed, "The King-"

"The King will have ya' hanged you stupid cocksucker!" hollered someone from the crowd.

"Aye!" said another one, "Those are Bloody Fourths! No one but the Crown has right of way over the Dragonslayers!"

Randyll blinked eying the tabard again. All of them had scarlet wings painted over their tabards, giving flight to their 'IV's. The crowd was growing rowdier, the smallfolk clustering closer, "Bet he's another rapist like that Ashford fuck!" shouted a woman.

"We stood fer' the King when Dragons flew 'nd now they come to order us about?!"

"That's enough!" shouted the centurion, turning around, "I didn't see any of you grabbing steel to bring down Rhaegal!" The crowd rippled, people muttering under their breath and looking at their feet. He shook his head, "Not that you needed to. That's why you feed and arm us. That's what the Guard's for. Now go about your business." He turned to the guardsmen, "And you lot! Did I mention the words 'stop pushing!?'"

"No ser!" they chorused.

"Then why aren't you pushing?!" That got them back into action like a crossbow bolt, slamming into the wagon with renewed force.

"Hear that Dickon? That's command in his voice," said Randyll, looking around the dispersing crowd warily. There'd almost been a riot just now. What the hells… maybe there's a weak hand around here after all. "And for the light of the Seven, sheath your sword son," he whispered harshly, "All of you."

"Sorry my lord," said Harbert, his men following suit.

Randyll decided to lead his wayward son by example, sitting aloof on his horse and staring straight ahead, waiting patiently. It was not often that he cursed Horn Hill's distance form the Crownlands, but it was clear something very distinct had been brewing in Central Westeros these past few years, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The centurion walked their way after a while of shoving and cursing, offering a wineskin up at Randyll. Good man, he thought grudgingly, taking a polite swig. Strange laws or not, this could've all ended lot worse if not for the man's battle awareness. He nodded at him, "Thank you, centurion..?"

"Toyle," he said, giving him a discrete nod as well. One sword recognizes another… The centurion eyed him a moment longer before speaking again, "Word of advice, m'lord?"

Randyll nodded, keeping the frown off his face as he stared from atop his charger.

"Tread carefully around here," he said as he lowered his voice, "The Antlered Lion's restless. He's gearing up for something mighty big, and may the Seven have mercy on whoever stands in his way. 'Cause no one else will."

Randyll shivered lightly, pinpricks on his back as the wind blew again, carrying seagull trills and red weirwood leaves from the God's Eye, "Something big?"

"Aye," said Toyle. He looked behind him to the pushing soldiers, and up at the ragged castle perched beside the lake. "The older hands say they've seen him like that before, and it always means one thing." He looked up at Randyll again, "War."

War? "Against who? There's no one left insane enough to contest the throne."

Toyle shrugged, "Your guess' as good as mine. Then again, the Mistwalkers aren't right in the head." He shook his head, "Crazy Firsts."

Randyll looked up at the billowing clouds dark with the weight of rain as they gathered from the North. "Why tell me this?"

"Because your reputation precedes you, m'lord Tarly," he said with a small tilt of the head, "And if war it is then I'd rather have you by my side."

Randyll grunted noncommittally. Thinking of this man as a knight rather than a smallfolk mercenary helped ground him in the conversation. He eyed the painted crimson wings on his tabard, "It's true then?"

Toyle looked at his tabard and then back at him, "True enough. Look up before going through the gatehouse." The soldiers had finished at last, and they hollered for the centurion as they gave out a small cheer, the owner handing them one of the unbroken casks as a reward. "Alright then. Better get back before they open it on duty," said Toyle, nodding at Randyll. He lowered his voice, "Remember what I told you, m'lord," he said as he gave Dickon a side glance, "And keep your blood close. Don't let them out to play."

The way he said the last word left Randyll frowning, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means this isn't your land. This is Kingdom land," he said as if it all made sense. "I've heard nothing but praise for Horn Hill, but still. Make sure your household is on its best behavior m'lord, or else some of them might end up dancing with the dragon."

Toyle marched away after that cryptic warning, the road blissfully clear as a mild rain scrambled some of the foot traffic. "Dickon, Halbert. Look alive," he said as he spurred his horse forward. Time to find out what's this all about.

-: PD :-