Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

"The septons have gone mad," whispered Habart.

"What did you find?" Randyll asked his man.

"Septon Kyle's out there. Saw the King's battle against Drogon." He swallowed, still coming to grips with the notion, "It must have been quite the spectacle, because the man came out convinced King Joffrey is the living embodiment of both the Warrior and the Father. Some mangled sermon about twin virtues but a single soul." He shrugged apologetically; Habart was no theologian.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was absolutely filled with the nobility of Westeros, though the noise should've been considerably louder. Everyone was expectant. It was official; tomorrow would be the day. "And what did the Most Devout have to say of this heresy? Has word reached Oldtown and back?"

"My lord, Septon Kyle is one of the Most Devout. He was visiting Gulltown when the King sent out the call for a Septon to officiate the trial by combat." Habart lifted his shoulder with a helpless expression, "The smallfolk out there are eatin' it up. And not just them." His voice lowered to a whisper, "Lord Darry was on his knees by the front of the crowd. He even spoke after Septon Kyle's sermon."

Not just the septons then. "The whole world has gone mad," said Randyll, leaning on the table. Kings possessed by the will of the Seven and dragons slain under royal legions. He shuddered to think what the rest of the night would uncover. Not every Septon had lost his head though; Habart told him some of the newer arrivals were debating Septon Kyle vigorously every night and to great spectacle; most of it flew over their audience's head though. Theology. Worst than the Maesters, thought Randyll. "Thank you. See what else you can glean."

Habart bowed before walking out the hall, leaving him near the middle of the great sea of tables and benches now festooned with food and wine. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was crowded with them, and lords and ladies filled almost the entire hall from royal dais to the double doors at the back. Dickon had done an adequate job of securing their position. Still solidly near the other Reachlords, but close enough to the Stormlander contingent that he could hear some of their mutterings. Good enough for a Marcher Lord, he thought as Mace shot him an ill-concealed glance. Clearly, his direct liege had hoped he would sit this one out. Randyll snorted, returning the glance with narrowed eyes. The Reach already made for a poor showing, what with the Ashfords and the Fossoways leaving the Council before it even began, the death of their knights clouding their minds to the idiocy of missing such an event. Even the fucking squids had enough sense to stay, he thought. Rodrick Harlaw had a better head than most -for an Ironborn- and he seemed to be the one keeping that group together… with the Queen's help perhaps. Rumor had it those two were meeting frequently. Rumor also had it that Balon Greyjoy was rattling his lungs out somewhere in a solar, promising hideous torture to any maester foolish enough to get near. Perhaps the islands will have a new Lord Paramount soon enough?

Dickon shuffled by his side. "Father, I think I saw Samwell a while ago."

"Oh? Where?"

He nodded at a set of stairs near the Dornish contingent, "I think he was wearing armor," he said with a bewildered smile, "Think we could talk to him?"

Randyll scowled. "Later."

He nodded, not questioning him further. Somehow, Randyll wished he did.

Lord Eldon Estermont was seated on the table right beside him; the old lord leaned over to clasp his back. "Take a breath Randyll. Two feasts from now you'll be as good as new." Him and the Turtle Lord had fought at the Battle of the Bells, and Renly's frequent tourneys at Storm's End had seen them clash lances ever since.

"We soldier on," he said, Eldon returning the grim smile. He took a lackluster bite from a spiced chicken wing, rich with garlic and pepper. He took another reluctant bite. The servants kept the plates and bowls constantly full, but Randyll didn't have much appetite even though he admitted the cook was worthy of Highgarden.

"Rumor has it the King talked to you a couple of hours ago," said Eldon.

"That spread fast."

"You know how it is. And now more than ever."

Randyll snorted.

"Come on Tarly, is it true he has a pet lion guarding him at all times?"

"I thought it was common knowledge."

"Hm." Estermont tilted his head from side to side, "Kind of. Some swear by it, a few even claiming he rode it to battle against…" he wiggled his eyebrows at the dais. "That." Drogon's skeleton lay perched over the gathering like some malicious raven, all sharp angles hanging from the walls by thick ropes. Below it was the royal dais, holding a long table where the Lord Hand and other notables ate their meal, though the two thrones were empty. One was made of finely carved ebonwood, the other of swords melted together. The Iron Throne had been transported from King's Landing just for the occasion. Randyll still remembered the old Targeryen tradition of mounting the skulls of their dragons in the throne room; Robert hid them, but his son had added one to the collection… by bringing it down with his bare hands. It made for potent symbolism, the one language the lords of this land understood to the bone. Dragonslayer. He could hear the awed whispers around him, even from lords who must have been feasting under the bloody thing for weeks.

"It's true alright. Bigger than a pony."

"Amazing." Eldon frowned, "Perhaps the armor then… no, that's too much, even for the King."

Armor? Randyll didn't press, not wanting to seem completely clueless. He shifted his gaze to the group of Essosi instead. Lord Renly -Master of Ambassadors and Lord of Storm's End- flew effortlessly from group to group, keeping the magnates and diplomats of the Free Cities content with banter and attention. "What the hells could the King want from them?" It would be terribly awkward for King Joffrey to announce the invasion of a Free City with the magisters dining right in front of him.

"The King's just buttering them up for another deal. I wouldn't worry about it too much." Eldon snorted, "All they want is more trade, and the King has them leashed with it."

"That leaves the question of what the King wants with us though." Randyll was already sick of the mystery, he couldn't imagine staying here -stewing in rumor- for two weeks waiting for the truth. No wonder the food is so good.

"Whatever it is, they know more than we," Eldon said, tilting his head at the cluster of tables by the other side, near the front of the dais. Northern furs and beards just as thick, still foamy with drops of ale. Grim and downing their tankards as if there were no tomorrow, the lords of the North kept to themselves. Randyll scratched his chin, watching the centrally positioned table within the group; like a command tent surrounded by palisades.

"Who's the one in the middle?" he asked Eldon. He recognized the Greatjon by his side, making for an almost comical sight as he refilled the young man's tankard with a jug barely bigger than his hands. On the other he had a Manderly, keeping watch over the hall as he took a polite sip from a wine cup. The one they guarded had a warrior's frame, lean and stocky like old Hoster had been in his youth, and the reddish-brown hair only deepened the similarities. A leather eye-patch covered his left eye, leaving just one blue gaze that pierced nothing at all. Randyll recognized that stare all too well.

"The One-Eyed Wolf," said Eldon, taking a sip from his own cup. "Robb. Lord Stark's first born. He was involved in some battle in the Far North, though the northeners have been surprisingly tight lipped about it."

A brief stab of jealousy tickled Randyll before he squashed it ruthlessly. "There's war in the air, mark my words," he said. Might it be the wildlings we'll be fighting against? It didn't seem likely; last he'd heard the Queen had them eating from the palm of her hand, some of them settling the land near the Neck. He turned to ask Dickon's opinion on this, but found his son distracted by Lord Beesbury's daughter, sending wink after wink at him from the other table. He sighed, looking at his own cup of Arbor Gold and downing it before he stood up. The feast was picking up speed, and what he had to do would brook no delaying.

"Judging by that look you'll be bringing war to someone soon enough," said Eldon, tipping his cup.

"I only wish," said Randyll, "My compliments to Lady Telise." Eldon's wife was busy by the other side of the table, but she nodded back at the courtesy. Randyll had to skirt around the Dornish tables, where Oberyn Martell was playing some sort of knife game with his fingers and those of the wench he called paramour. Polite applause followed the end of the show, and he used the opportunity to reach the flight of stairs by the other side. A fat lump had taken his leave through here.

-: PD :-

Randyll was unsurprised to learn nothing had truly changed about his eldest son. The furs wrapped around Samwell made him seem even more of a walrus; a walrus nestled against a fire and pouring over a mantle of books splayed haphazardly over a table. The light of the candles framed Samwell's pudgy face with sallow hues; he whispered under his breath as he traced words with a finger, squinting at one chicken scrawl or the other and not even noticing his own father. Randyll closed the door behind him with a bang, and Samwell was up from his chair in an instant, placing a leg against the table as if ready to tip it over.

"Father?"

"… Samwell," said Randyll, wrenching his hand away from his sword's pommel. He didn't know what he saw, but for an instant he'd nearly drawn his sword. He gazed at his son more carefully, but his eyes held nothing but the same doe-eyed stare that had so irked Randyll out of his mind back at Horn Hill.

"… I was starting to wonder if you'd make it," said his son as he sat again. He kept examining his books as if he were not even there, "The Reachlords were getting worried."

"Shows how little they know," said Randyll. He didn't take a seat, eying the bookcases lining the walls instead. The sight tore open an old wound, and he found himself scowling at his son. "The King seems pleased with your service."

"He's appreciated my skills." Eyes flicked up at him, then back to the old, worn parchment on the table. The unlike you was left unsaid.

"It's good you've helped your House's standing. Despite your flaws."

"Thank you, Father. Your acknowledgment fills my heart with pride." Randyll was unsettled. Uncanny. The only thing he could compare the feeling to was when he stared at Snatcher before he cut the dog's own throat. The tumors had left the hound's flesh uneven, his silhouette malformed. Familiar and not at the same time. "If the sight of me makes you want to puke, I'd appreciate you spared the books," said Samwell, still staring at the old parchment. His lips were drawn into a tight line.

Randyll's scowl grew, "You should've taken the black," he said. "Then you wouldn't be here… flaunting our House's shame to the lords of the Seven Kingdom!"

The parchment crumpled in his hands. "Our House's shame?"

"Ours!" he shouted, his fists itching to meet that weak pudgy flesh, "You've found your happiness here, haven't you? Moldering with your books as you shame us with every breath?!" Randyll was breathing harshly and he didn't know quite why, there was something about Samwell tearing at his self control like a whirlwind of blades.

Samwell had grown red, but not with shame. Randyll blinked. Anger. "You want to know what your shame amounts to, you old fool?" He slammed a hand over to a nearby book on the table, a heavy one with a silver sword and a red star on its cover. He opened it a third of the way, finding the page instantly, "On the sixteenth day of the third month," read Samwell, "Did arrive Lord Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon, Horn Hill joining the ranks of the Great Council." He slammed the book closed, "That's it! That's what history will remember of you, shame and all!" He gave him an ugly smile, "I hope it was all worth it."

This is not supposed to go this way, Randyll realized. That's why he was so out of it. He barged in, startled his son. Found he still had a shred of hope for him, hopelessly buried as he tried and failed to make him grow a spine. Samwell cowered further and further, until he was left whispering and nodding assent to everything Randyll said before he shook his head in disgust and left. Sometimes he left a sobbing wreck, others a shivering coward. Not now. The thought stunned him out of it for a bit, and he chewed on nothing at all as he gathered his thoughts. "I've spoken with the King," he said in an even tone. "He'll recognize Dickon as heir to Horn Hill."

That made his son leave his precious parchment. He looked up at him with the slightest shimmer in the corner of his eyes. He nodded minutely, bobbing his head like a simpleton as his voice turned soft. "Okay then," said Samwell, breathing in as he blinked again. "Alright," he said as he looked down, caressing the parchment like a doll. "That's finally settled then. I wish him luck."

A lightning strike of fury tore at Randyll from top to bottom; a searing flush of rage forcing his body into action. He smashed his fists against the table, shredding the parchment out of those pudgy hands, "Won't you even fight for your own birthright?!" he roared in his face.

The table flew aside and a steel clamp closed on Randyll's neck. His son bellowed deeply as hefted him up one handed, bodily tossing him to one of the bookcases with the force of a bear. He smashed against it and slid to the floor, his back thundering in agony as the wooden shelves and the books pummeled him from above like winter hale. Samwell was by his side instantly, lifting him up with a silent grunt and hammering him against the top of the table. Randyll tried to jerk free from his son's vicious grasp but it was like tearing at iron, his pale eyes now alight with unthinking fury. Wrestling was a matter of life and death for a knight, and Samwell demonstrated the skill of a veteran as he batted aside his attempts to escape with almost contemptuous ease, head butting him in the nose for good measure. Randyll was blinded by the pain exploding from his nose, but he could feel the momentum of another charge as his son swiveled with unstoppable strength and they ran across the room, roaring his lungs out as they smashed into another bookcase with a deafening crack, books and parchment flying everywhere as the thing collapsed around them.

Randyll took shuddering breaths, transfixed by the hazy fury in his son's eyes. Spiders of pain crawled all over his back and head as his son kept him pinned against the remains of the bookshelf, both their forms now draped in pieces of parchment. Slowly, the haze dissipated, and Randyll found his voice. He squinted in pain. "All those years. Where were you?"

"Dead." Samwell was breathing harshly, "You killed me. Beating after beating. Jape after jape."

"No," said Randyll.

"Cruelty after cruelty," whispered Sam. "You killed me before you got to know me."

"No," he said, choked by something far more vicious than even his son's grip, something cold and rusty.

"All you know is how to destroy. Even your own vicious dreams."

Randyll blinked, feeling something wet crawling down his cheek.

Sam paled, squinting his eyes tight before he snarled savagely. "Get out."

"No!" shouted Randyll, holding on to his hands. A sick terror was flooding his veins, a sinking realization as his son dragged him to the door.

"Out!" roared Samwell, tossing him out the door. He closed it with a bang, leaving him a heap on the floor of the hallway. There, alone and ravaged by pain, Randyll wished his son had finished the job. He stared at his hands as an empty void settled on his chest; a spreading realization of some hidden dread he couldn't name. He'd failed. Tears splashed on his hands, though he knew not why. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. One after the other they fell from his cheeks, a steady trickle like blood out of a wound. He couldn't control it, could not even name it, but he knew he'd failed. Utterly. Finally.

Always the commander, his mind took refuge in the familiar, and realized.

He lost the war he'd spent his life fighting.

-: PD :-