"Rangers! Move out!" The thumping of crow's feet immediately ruined any quiet Tyron had, he gripped Longclaw with all his might, he could nearly feel the blood draining out of his left hand's fingers as the cold ravaged his bare fingers, it was cold today, but the sun beat down on the snow, making it near impossible to see. Tyron looked around to make sure nobody had been left behind, seeing an arrow of five or six black cloaks behind him. Normally the Lord Commander didn't go ranging, but something felt too important for him to stay home.

"Looking for something m'lord?" The soft voice of Howland Forrester drew Tyron's head to his right. Riding upon a black steed, sat the bearded first ranger, he was tall and lean, with a large nose and narrow eyes, he was smiling, in a nurturing way. The left corner of Tyron's mouth lifted up, and his eyes narrowed. "No... No, I'm fine." Tyron shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his right hand. Forrester's smile disappeared, and he held out a hand, putting it softly on Tyron's right shoulder. "Calm yourself Tyron, it'll be fine, just a few missing wildlings." Tyron pushed Howland's hand off, it was warmer then he'd thought. "That's not what I'm worried about." Tyron looked at Howland, the younger ranger's eyebrows up and mouth slightly agape, as if he were about to say something. "I'm worried about the ones the survivor reported, blue eyes and pale skin, unkillable, you know what this means?" Howland looked down at the ground slowly, sighing. "Wights." Tyron leant back, letting his body become less tense. "We're nearly there." He said, turning to look at Howland, and shooting him a grin. "It'll be fi-" Tyron was interrupted by a yell, a screech, and another, and another, and another. Tyron looked forwards, his heart beating a million miles a minute, and his eyes wide like a newborn babe. He saw dark treeless woods, with a cloaked figure standing in the center.

The figure turned slowly, awkwardly, like it was fighting every movement. It's eyes were bright blue, like the blackwater in the summer, and it's body pale like snow in the North. Tyron looked, dumbfounded for a second, before the figure was hit by an arrow and burst into flames. Tyron looked to his right, seeing Forrester holding a bow, he looked back at Tyron, his face one of confusion. "They're real, they're back!" He leapt from his horse, kneeling for a second, putting his bow on his back, and in one smooth motion, drawing his blade. Tyron sighed, before lifting his foot over his horse, standing on the saddle for a second, before dropping, touching the cold snow on his hands. As he stood, he drew the sword from his back, gripping it with both hands. He turned, and saw that the other rangers had already done so, Tyron turned back, to see Forrester examining the still burning wight, poking it with his sword, standing completely upright. Then, his body tensed, and he drove his sword into the wight's head, letting out a roar as he did so. Lifting his blade out of the dead man's skull, he stared at it for a second longer, before walking back towards Tyron, looking back at the corpse a few times as he did. Tyron held his hand out, and Forrester nearly ran into it. Tyron looked at him for a second before yelling out to the rangers. "Leave the horses, they'll just slow us down, light your torches, we head into that forest, and kill anything we see." The men yelled out "AYE!" Except for Forrester, who looked like he was afraid, before turning back, he was shaking, Tyron noticed, his sword never pointing at the same place twice.

The rangers entered the forest, slowly spreading out to cover all angles. Tyron looked around, nothing but rotting wood and snow, as usual. He made a noise of contentment, lifting his hand to signal them to turn back, and then a ranger screamed. The one who went right, the new one, the one who had just swore his vows. Tyron threw himself in that direction, spinning on his heels and coming to a stop face to face with another wight. It growled, it's voice sounding like choking and screaming at the same time. Tyron yelled, stepping back and drawing Longclaw. The beast walked briskly after him, not afraid of the weapon. Tyron hesitated, before thrusting forwards, his left foot in the same place it started, with his right nearly stepping on the Wight's toes. The blade inserted itself in the beast's head, entering through the jaw and coming out the back of the head. Tyron knew it wasn't dead, so he yanked the blade loose, turning once, before ripping the blade across the beast's neck, severing it's head. Tyron stood, his blade around his knees, the wight smashing into the ground, not wetly like humans, but hard, like a bag of ice. Tyron didn't waste a second, he pulled his blade up and ran towards the horses, yelling for the other rangers to do the same. He heard the screeches of wights and men behind him, but he didn't look back, for if he did, he would die.

Tyron ran past one last tree, leaving the forest, and into the full light of the sun, the horses stood ahead of him, whinnying in fear. One ran away, clopping through the snow quieter and quieter, the others remained, leaping off the ground and smashing the snow with their hooves. Howland was the only ranger to leave the woods, as he did, he grabbed a flagon of wine from his belt, throwing it on the ground, and then dropping his torch with it, a beautiful inferno erupted from the ground, overtaking the surrounding trees in an inferno of yellow and orange, a poem of destruction. Tyron gawked at the swirling flames one last time, turning back towards the horses, one of which Forrester had already mounted, and turned away from the forest, he looked at Tyron, a look of anger. "Get on a horse Tyron! We have to go!" His words were drowned out by collapsing trees. Tyron nodded, striding over to the closest horse. He gripped it's reins, only to hear a noise like cracking ice. Turning back, Tyron saw the body of a ranger, his lifeblood leaving his throat, melting the snow beneath him. Over him, stood a mummified beast, blue skin, too tight for his bones, and piercing blue eyes, wearing blue armor, which reflected the sun into the air, and wielding a sword of ice. Tyron was overtaken by fear, but was shaken into reality by what he held in his hand. Dragonsteel. Tyron bit his lip, turning towards Forrester, and giving him a forced smile. Howland shook his head no after a second, trying to climb off of his horse. Tyron grinned, before yelling suddenly. "COME BACK ONLY IF YOU WANT DEATH!" His voice spooking all of the horses away, one carrying the First Ranger. Tyron turned towards the Walker, teeth shown and eyebrows down. "You aim to wipe out everything Jon Snow worked towards, humanity and all it's sins, all the bad deeds and murderers, all the gamblers and losers, I hate them, I hate every fiber of their being, but... No matter how much I hate them..." Tyron gripped his sword tightly. "I HATE YOU WORSE!" Tyron gripped his sword in both hands, screaming at the top of his lungs, burning his throat with dryness, and running towards the Walker. The Walker stood unmoving. Tyron ran still faster, still screaming. The walker didn't move. He came into range, stopping on his left foot, and carrying all of his momentum into one huge swing, a crescent over his head, aiming to cut the Walker in two, shoulder to hip. The Walker dodged expertly, as he expected. Longclaw slammed into the ground, but Tyron didn't stop, turning towards the Walker, and thrusting forwards. His blade connected with the Walker's ice sword, shattering it into pieces. The walker's mouth went wide, and then a sword speared right through it. The Walker collapsed into ice, and Tyron stood, legs spread wide, and his sword pointed in the direction of the wall.

Tyron panted, more out of fear then exhaustion. "If it's just me who can kill them, we still lose, it pains me, but I need Crakehall." Tyron spoke to himself because his mind was too busy to think. "I killed one, but there's hundreds to go." Tyron slid his feet together, and holstered his sword. "Better get walking then." Just as he began, a voice interrupted him. "You won't have to." Tyron spun on his heels, and to his right, was the First Ranger. "I told you to leave." Tyron said, angrily. Forrester grinned, showing his well kept teeth. "I couldn't, watching was much more fun." Tyron closed his eyes, allowing himself respite to just think. He opened his eyes slowly, and responded. "I'm writing to Lord Crakehall once we get back, we're going to need another pretty sword."

To the insipid Lord Tyget Crakehall,

It pains me to say this, but your aid is required beyond the Wall, Others ride again, and Dragonsteel is needed, you wield one of the few blades on this earth, I am begging you, join the Watchmen with your army, then return to your petty squabbles, as Stannis Baratheon once said, save the realm to win the throne, not win the throne to save the realm.

Your old friend, "Brynn"

Tyget sat, alone in his study at Crakehall, a short strip of paper in his hands. He read the message over and over again digesting it's content and the one claiming to have sent it. He had ordered the page who brought it to him to leave as soon as he had opened the damn thing, and must have sat there reading it for half an hour...

"To the inspired lord Crakehall", Tyget supposed it was forgivable he had addressed him as lord and not king, "It pains me to say this, but your aid is required beyond the wall, others ride again,", a frightening thought, it had been a mere few generations since Daenarys Targaryen had driven then back, but the nights watch were a superstitious bunch, "and Dragonsteel is needed, you wield one of the few blades on this earth,", he put the note down a moment, looking down to Widow's Wail propped against the desk, he picked the blade up, drawing ir, examining the veins of red and black running down its length before re-sheathing the garishly ornamented sword... even so he had killed men with that blade, "I am begging you, join the watchmen with your army, then return to your petty squabbles, as Stannis Baratheon once said, save the realm to win the throne, not win the throne to save the realm.", the Lord commander seemed to have forgotten Stannis Baratheon failed to attain the throne and was killed by the returning Targaryen's, not a good example if he wanted Tyget's help, "Your old friend, "Brynn", ... that one is what had really put Tyget on edge... Brynn? The bastards half brother sired by Tybolt Lannister? He had been killed by the Boltons... though the way the closing was written suggested otherwise.

Brynn had been a mere boy when their father had discovered his parentage. Tyget had thought the move to have the lad killed was foolish, having a Lannister in service to House Crakehall would have been quite the boon, but his oaf of a father had sent him to the Boltons with Tybolt all the same. He supposed none of that mattered now... apparently he had lived and become lord commander of the nights watch... very interesting. He stared at the message a bit longer before finally setting it down and picking his own quill and parchment. He set to writing his reply,

To the Lord commander of the nights watch,

In response to your request it regrets me to inform you that I am unable to acquiesce to your request at this time. Though such a 'petty squabble' as a war for the throne may be to you, I cannot simply March my Bannermen north to the wall, as my lands will be burned behind us by the traitors and usurpers who claim the tho throne for themselves. Similarly I cannot supply you with Window's Wail as the blade shall not leave my side, and I shall not journey to the wall while my enemies consolidate their own claims to the throne.

However, I can provide you with something. If you send a representative to Casterly Rock I will have him supplied with his pick of both it's dungeons and those of Crakehall castle, you may have as many prisoners as you want. I will also allow a small detachment of 50 of my own men to accompany him and those prisoners he takes to the wall, though they will not take the black they will be under your command. With them also I offer enough steel for armor and weapons to supply all the watchmen you have, though your representative must bring with him an estimate of your numbers. I hope this is enough to hold for now.

If this is Brynn... know that it was not I who sentenced you to death, my fool father was the one to pass that sentence. You would have been far more useful hear than at the wall. After I take the Iron throne in promise you, I will march all the armies of the seven kingdoms to the wall myself.

If you ever must send a message to me again, you will address me as your king.

King Tyget Crakehall, Lord of the seven kingdoms

Lord Crakehal sealed the letter with his personal seal, calling his page back to him and instructing the boy to take the letter to the rookery and have it sent to castle black, and that no one was to open it.

Tyget sighed as he returned to his study, taking his glass of wine from the table and moving to the balcony, surveying Crakehall castle beneath him. He could see the Banners of some of the lords already at his gates, answering his summons... he really was going to war. He drank deeply from his glass before setting on the bannister... soon he would have meet with the lords of the westerlands to discuss strategy as they would need to move soon, if they could take kings landing before anyone else Tyget's claim would hold stronger. He returned inside, replaced Widow's Wail at his hip, and made his way to his council chamber where the lords would no doubt be waiting for him.

The sun shone over the white towering walls of Highgarden, the Mander flowing by as it had permanently done so for the last millenia, and the odd cloud dotting on the horizon, sometimes coming closer and then drifting off into the distance. The concentric defences were distinctly what gave the Reach it's flavour- each white wall taller and thicker as you went in, the thorn bushes of the Briar Maze themselves a point that both acted as a ramshackle flower market and a defensive structure in it's own right. Within the innermost circle, towers, fountains, statues as well as the majority of the nobility could be found, the majority of the markets and peasant housing sprawling between the concentric layers and on the outskirts of the mighty castle walls. The air did not feel thick, like King's Landing, it felt clean, it felt like you were in the midst of the literal personification that the Tyrells' rose had brought. Vines sprawled across the buildings' limestone façades, and beyond the Great Hall of Highgarden, in the higher towers, were the ruling family's vast chambers, in the Southern Tower that overlooked the Mander, and beyond that, the great plain, only broken up by hills towards the coast.

Within the courtyard, near Garland's quarters of residence and adjacent to a pair of oak trees, a couple of men could be seen sparring, both in full plate, using dulled blades. Garland watched on from a set of exterior stone stairs going up the white stone wall, wearing his white and green tunic, his typical complexion still showing, his hair kept long and his beard kept well kept, predominantly offering a lion's mane of hair around his chin. Alerie looked over to him, as she walked up onto the stairs, looking up at her elder brother.
"You always watch the sparring at this time of day, it's like you want to get involved." She said, smirking as Garland shrugged, looking across the courtyard, the sprawling castle filled.
"I often do. Just not today. I don't feel like fighting. I still can't believe Aegon's dead. We were friends, I remember going on hunting trips with him, having feasts, drinking merrily. And now he's gone. We're going to be going back to King's Landing within two days, it's a long carriage ride. And I will need to make sure whoever succeeds him is ready. Daenys was not his sucessor, Aegon told me that much. He had it written in his will, that the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne is another Targaryen, that is not Daenys."
"Well, then who is? Are you telling me there is no Targaryen out there? That madman can't take power."
"There is, I am certain of it. Aerys should be, but nobody has seen him...we have to assume he was killed by Daenys. But whoever is left, he, or she should now know she is to inherrit. No doubt the Queen already has that person in mind." He added, Alerie, nodding.
"By the Seven, Garland. We'll get through this. The air here seems to clear my head." The reassuring sister said, as Garland looked over.

"Remember that man, that you said you loved back in Ashford? On the way back?" Garland said, chuckling a little, as Alerie laughed, her mind already at work.
"I remember him...I don't stumble into what almost becomes a drunk tumble that often, brother. But you..."
"You always seem to get out of your own problems by stating mine. You always were the cunning one."
"And it's why we're here. Those men down there, they look good. Fighting, that is."
"I could take them. Easily. Even in my form. You have to look beyond, Alerie. There are so many men that you would love in King's Landing. I recently met a Dornishman by the name of Olivar Martell, a fourth brother to the Dornish Prince. You would adore him, they call him the "Peregrine", so good is his spear-throwing skill. His falconry is terrible, mind you."
"Oh, come on, I want something better than a spear-thrower, brother. There are so many of those in King's Landing anyway." She said, giggling, as Garland couldn't help but crack a smile, laughing at his sister's joke. She was the only person he knew would say it. He was never interested in her like the Targaryens frequently were interested in their sisters, or rather, how a couple of Lannisters had been once.
"Perhaps, but you know this full well. I am yet to find a beautiful woman, to make my own in marriage. There are so many here...well, you know that when a woman offers herself, you cannot say no, right?" Garland said, chuckling, Alerie completely used to his nature when he was like this.

"Yet you know a minor marriage is not worthy of yourself, not from within The Reach, plenty as they are. You have enough of a reputation, all those women with your bastards. If you weren't so fucking handsome and bloody charming to all these women who would die just to have a go with the Young Rose's spear, I bet we wouldn't have to worry about your succession, and all the awkward letters to King Aegon that would follow begging for their legitimacy. I guess it is better left like this, Garland. Perhaps we shall attend this funeral, and you can find yourself a noblewoman worthy of your type, perhaps that is what you should do. Take your mind off it, as terrible as it is, we have to deal with our future." Alerie said, her mood changing almost throughout the sentence, as she looked back at the spar, watching one man be kicked onto the floor and surrounded, as Garland turned to her again, a little in shock.
"This is my friend and our beloved King, Alerie! We are going to mourn for him, it would be terrible to do to be hunting for a lady to seduce!"
"And? Whenever are you going to meet any other women from a Great House on any other occasion? You and your seduction, there's plenty out there and yet all I ever said was for you to charm one. I hear Jesmyn Tully is one of the most beautiful girls, from what my handmaiden has told me. And anyway, you don't have to fuck everything that moves, you fool." She added, giggling, as Garland could only give a terrible, guilty chuckle back.
"I swear, I'd have killed you if you weren't my sister."
"Oh, and you'd have probably had sex with me if you weren't too. We're not fucking Lannisters. Or Targaryens for that matter." Alerie retorted, as Garland nodded, looking across, changing the topic once more as he saw another spar pick up, as he looked at his own longsword. Unsheathing it a little, he inspected the blade, before putting it back.

"Poor Rickard. If he's becoming a Maester, then who knows what will be of him. He is missing out on what I do. Poor lad."
"He is doing what he wants, Garland. Just let him be."
"Perhaps. He's returning from Oldtown today, I will have to tell him the news. He'll be so sad, I remember how Aegon and him got on."
"We have those memories, Garland. But we cannot let them pin us down. Focus ahead, stop dwelling on it. The Queen she will be a good Regent. We will go back, I will come with you, and we will sort this out. Your job will be important. Focus on who matters now, if we have to assert ourselves in the capital to make sure that nobody has any foolish ideas."
"Agreed. No doubt, The Reach is going to play a part in what happens next. We need to hold our own, and I do not wish to stand aside. We will go back, and do what we must. I feel it could be too late, if the other Lords are the way they are."
"And not us?"
"We are loyal to the Targaryens, Alerie. Like my uncle, his father before him, and his father before him. And okay, maybe even his father too. We are their best servants, and while that fool Daerys still lives, we have to try and salvage some sanity from their family. And if not, we will look after it, until the right one comes. There are many pretenders, yet if it's something in our blood, it's that the Tyrells know what they want."

Garland's observation was interrupted, as the noise of a soldier's boots could be heard coming up the stairs.
"M'lord! We have recieved a man at the gates, he says he has a package to deliver! He was told that you were to see it before anyone else!" Garland looked down to the guardsman, clad in his chain mail with a sallet helmet, looking over at the two of them.
"Tell him we will take his package, and tell him to wait in the gatehouse."

------------------------------------------------------

Opening the box, Garland almost felt ill, as he saw what he had to see. Alerie recoiled a little as well, but seemed less shocked than Garland was, as they peered in. The Queen's head was inside. He had spoken to her merely a week ago, then left for Highgarden once more, in his departure, hearing of the death of Aegon X upon his arrival in Highgarden two days ago by Raven. Right now, he did not know what to feel. Aegon had given Garland leave, to see his family once more, but now, Garland did not know what to feel. It was bad enough he was dead, now it was his wife? He felt like what he had said earlier, it was imploding on him. The Queen Dowager, dead. Now, what was going to be left in King's Landing....he just didn't want to think about it. And he was staring into her dead, cold eyes, her white hair a little touched by the blood inside the box, her neck completely severed, lacerated and cut rough. It was horrid, simply disgusting to see, and the most savage thing he wanted to find. Looking within the box, he saw a hand-written note, scribbled on a piece of a Maester's paper. The message read simply:
"You're all next."

Garland looked at Alerie, shutting the box as quickly as he opened it for just a moment, barely able to even look into the dead Queen's eyes.
"No. This can't be happening." Garland said, as Alerie gulped, opening it once more.
"She was murdered Garland, and they sent it to us for a reason....." She said, a single tear running down her cheek, as she shook her head.
"The Queen was a good woman, she liked us, and...now this?! Whoever did this, wanted us to know. I suspect someone from King's Landing wants us to be afraid. Daenys was next to inherit. Only he would do something as twisted as this. That bastard." She simply said, her tongue angry, as Garland nodded, in agreement. He knew exactly what it meant, it was a declaration of insanity. Garland always knew this was hell, but two people were now dead, and Aegon has been suspected to have been poisoned by his brother. This almost seemed to support that Daenys had finally and completely lost the plot.
"Nobody on the council would have done this...only Daenys. It has to be. It's nobody else. Those feelings he had for me...it's as if he's saying he wants me to know most of all that he did it. Our King first, now her. He wanted them both dead. He's sick..." Garland added, as Alerie looked over at him, nodding solemnly and adjusting her dress a little, as Garland gulped.
"We need to call a council of our own. Alerie, leave this one to me, go and speak with Rickard when he comes back and meet with me this evening, we will talk then. Cancel the trip back to King's Landing. We are staying put for now, we need to make a course of action on what we do about this. Aegon's funeral will have to wait. We need to find out what is going on, before our heads end up in boxes. And that fucking courier...let me see how I feel." Garland added, looking out as he jogged out of the stony room within the gate, his hand on his swordhilt as he walked out of the room, leaving Alerie with the Queen Dowager's head.

Moving out of the Gatehouse, and to the gate, where two of the men looked at the courier, Garland could only offer a wrothful face to present to this lowborn scum. His tunic was worn, and whilst he wore riding boots, he did not look like anything noble. He was scum, from the very bottom of Flea Bottom. He smelled it too. Garland looked him over, the Tyrell barely even phased by the sight before him, fuming. He was a resilient man, but few things snapped him like that had. And he wanted to vent it onto the messenger.
"What in Seven Hells have you brought us! You brought the head of your Queen to my castle!"
"I don't know, I was only told to bring you this box, I swear it on my life!"
"Who made you do this!" Garland roared, pulling his sword from his hilt, plucking the longsword against the man's throat, aware that while it wasn't the most subtle of things to do, even he knew how well a sword worked in putting the point across, quite literally.
"I was given it in a tavern in King's Landing, and told to give it to Lord Garland, without question and with those specific words by a man in a brown cloak, I have ridden for three days and not told a soul what it was about, I swear it, I swear it by the Gods!" He said, as Garland shook his head.
"You delivered me the head of your Queen. Now kneel. KNEEL!" He added, angry as he looked down. He exhaled, looking over as he put his sword against the man's throat, just looking at him as he looked up into Garland's eyes.

"I'm a merciful person. You will be allowed to go. But I want to know you shall not do such a deed again. If you come with another head, I will make sure yours is sent back...are we understood?"
"Yes, my lord! I won't do it again!"
"Good. Now leave. Your message has been received. If some fucking man tells you that you did a good job, tell him that he does not have very long to wait for my response." He said, the man turning as the guards half dragged him past the half-lowered gate, as Garland looked across to the guard that remained. He felt cynical, just somehow detached in some ways, just completely at an odd with what had happened.
"Thank you for that. Be ready for any more visitors, this might be a long day if we start seeing more bits of our Queen come in. For both our sakes, let us hope that was all they wanted us to see. They'll fucking pay."

-----

The Council Hall was a busy one, as Garland sat at it's head, looking across. The council ranged from a number of minor lords, nobles and other figures in the Reach that Garland wanted by his side. It was responsible for running The Reach in Garland's absence, and considering the huge logistical challenge that had proved, it seemed that with what Lords were here, an agreement could be made on how to continue, Garland knowing he would never make a decision without some councel beforehand.
"We've received more word, my Lord. It has the seal of the Crakehalls." Ser Harland said, the Knight not a council member, but called in, after receiving word that the council had been informed of before the council would begin. The Hall was large, and the white walls reflected the sunlight well, the candles lighting the area well off this white limestone.
"Please, if you could read the message. I feel it will give us some information on what the Westerlands want, at this terrible time." Garland simply said, as the man across the hall began reading.
"It goes:
"I, Lord Tyget Crakehall, Warden of the west and head of House Crakehall, hereby claim the Iron throne as mine by blood. With the death of Aegon X and his heir apparent's disownment, I am heir to the throne by my great uncles wife, Alyssa Targaryen, as he sired no heirs. I hereby declare myself King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm. I denounce any and all other claimants as traitors and usurpers, and call all those loyal to the true heir to rally to my side and bend the knee. I will root out the false heir Daenys Targaryen and sit upon the Iron throne.

King Tyget Crakehall, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

The room fell silent, as Garland looked across, letting the calm fill, as he heard murmurs.
"King Tyget?" Garland simply said, as the Knight nodded, Ser Harland speeaking up over the great table.
"Those were the words."
"Well....Tyget seems to know how to fabricate a claim. He wishes to pursue the Iron Throne without any due just cause. Thank you, Ser Harland, you may leave." Garland added, as the Knight turned out of the room, Garland looking across to the other council members, one turning to him. It was Lord Arthur Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, and one of Garland's trusted advisers, being his Master of Coin for The Reach. The old man looked over, a little in disbelief.
"He declared himself King. The man is bold, but foolish. A letter like that, to take us away from any action. If he intends to kill Daenys, then perhaps his cause is just. But we know there are still Targaryens out there that would be willing to lay stake to his claim." Lord Redwyne said, as Garland nodded, murmuring across the table.

"But Aerys is dead, and we have no idea who else is left! Could it not be that we've got nobody to claim this throne?" Another voice added, the Master of Ships on the far end, Ser Garrett, a Knight from Oldtown, suggesting otherwise to Redwyne's words.
"Aerys we THINK is dead, that boy is possibly alive. If he is, he must be found, if he is not, then we must look around for whatever Targaryen heirs there are left, along any branches, be it in Westeros or not. But Ser Garrett is correct. If there is no heir then the Kingdoms will fall to the rest of the Houses. It has been assumed Aerys would take control, or Aegon would have children before this war emerged. With the death of the Queen, the number of Targaryens showing their faces in King's Landing will be non existent, no doubt. Leaving us."
"And what of Crakehall's words? Surely, we must be careful, my lord." Ser Alesander said, the man from House Tarly as one of Garland's most senior military staff, here to attend this meeting in place of Lord Belgrave Tarly, of whom was currently in The Arbor, working with Lord Redwyne's men.

"Whatever happens, he is going to be mustering troops and marching on King's Landing, right now. If he gets there, he will murder anyone he thinks is harbouring Targaryen blood. He will want people like me back on the Council, he would be a fool not to realize otherwise. Yet he's going to sit on that chair, and either expect us to bend the knee, or kill him. I assume he thinks by doing the former right now, he's going to be already getting our response. Rally the banners of Tumbleton. If he wants to play his rhetoric, then I wish to respond. If he does not back down, then we will march for King's Landing."
"Are you sure such an action is wise, my lord? Would it not be better that we consider that Crakehall may be a better successor than Daenys? Even if it is in a connection that he states, perhaps it is true." Redwyne asked, Garland aware that he had to make a bold claim, and that inside, the rest of these Lords would know exactly why he was doing it.
"We have been left no choice. Five generations ago, Lord Mace Tyrell was being told that the High Septon would have his son and daughter imprisoned and left to the fate of the Seven, or rather, his Lannister supporters. That did not happen because of his intervention and Lannister insanity of what the Septry is. Crakehall wants to claim the Iron Throne, and just like the Lannisters, he knows that if he stands unopposed, he can follow his threat through. If we must risk a war, then so be it. Crakehall is overconfident, when the rest of the Seven Kingdoms hear of this, they will want to support the Targeryen dynasty, whomever minor it will be that we have to find, but definitely not this Lord Tyget Crakehall, of his upstart dynasty. Even if Daenys is insane, and we cannot have him as a sucessor, we must find someone who can. These are not the Seven Kingdoms any of us would want, to be ruled by some Westerman!" Garland said, clearing his throat with some water as he then spoke once more.

"Willas Tyrell, my brother, will command the City Watch for the moment being, his authority will allow him to do so, and I will write to him immediately saying that he has the Hand's authority...so Crakehall will be forced to siege if he wants to get inside. We will send a force of 10,000 Reachmen from Lord Tumbleton's retinue to King's Landing, and Willas will lead this force. If this..."King" Crakehall has 50,000 Westermen following him, then we know what will happen. I do not wish to go to war. But we have a duty to fulfil. If at the very least, the other Lords follow our lead, we have a chance at preventing this ambitious Westerman from usurping a throne that is not his. Daenys or not, we must preserve the Seven Kingdoms, lest we stand idle and let a man who knows nothing of being King take it from a dynasty that has been with us for several centuries. Daenys is running, and he knows he is a dead man, I wish for him to be brought to Trial for his actions. It is better to put him on display for all to see, to receive the Seven's justice. Our threats will scare him more than any other Lord Paramount's, and he knows it full well. If I know Lord Jullon Tully enough, he's not someone to side with Crakehall, not unless provoked. So we will have to play our game carefully." Garland said, as he looked across, Ser Alesander looking a little disagreed, but such was the point of councils such as these.
"How do we know? All it will require is the Riverlands to provide backing, or the Stormlands...and then what about the small Lords of the Crownlands? Surely, they would just detest our presence?"

"It is a risk we must take, Alesander. Otherwise, we will have a King Tyget that isn't a falsehood, but a reality. Raise Tumbleton's banners. If the next Raven that comes in tells us that Crakehall has attacked our men, I will require ALL our banners to be raised. Before winter comes, we will need our men to have defeated whatever forces he may throw at us, and ensure we have forged an alliance with at least one other Great House, whoever they may be. Once we have King's Landing secure, then we will think about where we lie."
"What if we do what he did? Put...put yourself on the throne, Garland?" Another voice called out, this being across the table, and this being an important one. Lord Loras Hightower-Tyrell, the house born of a marriage of Lady Hightower and Gregor's uncle, Luther, was among the most senior advisors, in his mid-30s but in charge of the Oldtown Lordship, and his own Hand, looking after The Reach in Garland's absence. The murmoring went on, everyone aware that saying such a thing was treason...and that Garland was far, far too young to stomach that. Robert Baratheon had been older, but a twenty-one year old Lord, as King of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and First Men...such a feat would be difficult to justify, and somehow, Garland didn't know how to respond to that. It was a big ask, and it felt to him that even as if he had just gotten to grips with being the Lord Paramount, this had to happen. Right now, he had a chance that would not repeat, and he knew that whilst he could not give a confident response, he could say what he knew of.
"There is nothing to stop us. We cannot decide on our course of action just yet, we have no idea who is left in King's Landing. In five days, the whole world has changed, so perhaps we will return to find a new world. I may know someone who would be able to rule, myself, you can speak freely if you think I would be a good King, but I know that Willas Tyrell would be our best candidate for the Iron Throne. If the situation demands it...we will place a Rose on the Throne. Aegon would have wanted one of us, not that Westerman scum. I am sure you know I am aware of who we are. But The Reach has a place to make Kings. And if we have to...we will make our own one when nobody does." Garland said, grit coming through in his voice at the end, as the council murmured louder, and louder. They had much to still discuss.

----

Drafting a letter in his chambers, Garland wrote slow and simple, but knew he had much to communicate. A Maester would make copies of this, and send to all the other Lords Paramount, reaching them in a couple of days, to perhaps a week for Lord Stark. It was a veiled threat, but a clear one, a warm signal for those who suppoted the Targaryens, and a stark warning for those others. He was even thinking of writing to House Tully, knowing that Jullon Tully could have a daughter that would be worthy of himself, if what Alerie said earlier was right. She normally was about these things, she was just like that. Garland even knew it, he was a sharp thorn, but Alerie, she was smart indeed, always one step ahead in any conversation, casual or not. He had to write another to Willas afterwards; he had gone over it in his head, and decided that Willas was best serving the Reach now, rather than the Kingsguard- with no King TO serve, he would be appropriately placed in charge of the City Guard, and his own command would be enough. The Commander of the Guard would be given leave, and Willas would take over, and if not, then Garland had made it clear- by any means needed, remove the Commander's influence with whatever method best appropriate. Garland could only guess that King's Landing was collapsing under the weight of no King, and no direct control that ran the cogs, the man at the top gone and several dead nobles later, meaning that whoever was on the Small Council and left in the capital would be key to keeping the machinery running.

Someone like him had to be there, but it was too dangerous, considering that the Crakehalls were potentially moving to King's Landing with a force of their own. He had decided that he would return to King's Landing, once Lord Crakehall had backed off, or if not, he would arrive with as many men as he could, numbering over 55,000 of who he decided he would commit to a straight battle in the Crownlands on the Roseroad heading into King's Landing, to then sally into the city. Numbers would prove useful, and on a semi-arid plain, Garland knew that it would be easy to win a battle with just numbers on it's own. Garland was a sharp fellow, and knew military strategy had to be bold sometimes- such an action would leave The Reach exposed in a relative manner, leaving 15,000 to defend the northern frontier of The Reach, or at the very least, be far weaker than any force fighting in King's Landing. But by reinforcing King's Landing, the axis of the Seven Kingdoms, and sacrificing a couple of his northern vassals in the Reach temporarily to Westerman attacks would be worthwhile, if it meant he could deny that false Lord his alleged King status. It would be all it would take, and even if the other Kingdoms disagreed, whoever had King's Landing, would win the war, siege or no siege. And mercenaries could always bulk up whatever forces he did not have, with what contacts Lord Loras had, it would be easy to achieve. Finishing his letter, he read it back to himself.

"To the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms,

In the aftermath of the death of Aegon Targaryen, tenth of his name, I write to ask for your appeasement, in these terrible times. The death of the Queen, by the suspected hand of Daenys Targaryen, of whom has been disinherited of his heirdom by the King's will, results that there is a need for peace in the Kingdom in a succession crisis such as this, and a renewed meeting of the Small Council in King's Landing. I, as Hand of the King to the deceased Aegon, will restore order to the Crownlands and King's Landing, and provisionally instate a military Reachman force to keep the peace within the city itself in the absence of a King, until the correct Targaryen heir is found. Any hostile actions against any men of the Reach will be met with hard consequences, and any self-titled claimants to the throne beyond the Targaryen dynasty will be met with hostility in response. At this current time, I act as Regent to the Iron Throne, and I ask for your patience, to continue to serve the crown of the Targaryen dynasty with due honour.

Signed,

Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Paramount of The Reach, Warden of the South, Hand of the King to Aegon X Targaryen"

----------------------------------------------

Putting it back, he heard a knocking on his door, as he saw another guard come through, after giving a simple "Yes" to clear him into the chamber.
"My Lord, there is a Yunkish woman at the gate, she states that she is of the Noble Family, Zo Zaaraq. She seeks an audience with you, regarding mercenaries, she mentioned they were slaves."
"Fine. She better be worth my time, we're at the eve of war, and if she has a few hundred mercenaries, I don't care. Those slaves better be as good as if not better than the Unsullied." Garland replied, thinking it over. It would be useful to have a foreign contact, and coincidences like this did happen, he reminded himself. Like how Aegon and then the Queen were so suddenly dead, the Seven let the brewing of war and the sheer inertia to attract foreign mercenaries to the fray. It would be useful, if Garland felt like bolstering his forces on the western coastline, in addition to the planned strategy he had considered prior, so it was worth his time, even for a few minutes. And a Yunkish beauty would be a nice evening to spend time with. Ah, the benefits of being a bachelor, Garland reminded himself. When you were dashing, you could act like a bastard, and nobody would notice. It was a good thing his chivalry was only something he wore on his armour and with his sword, and outside of that, he could have the pleasure he could. Before getting married, he said to himself.
"She is also asking for a place to find food and rest, following travel up the Mander."
"Unless she's a whale, I think we can accommodate for an exotic guest." Garland replied, standing up as he put the letter into his safekeep, locking it as he headed out, still wearing his tunic as earlier, always being a reminder that Garland was willing to pay very, very large sums of money for clothing like this. The guest he would meet, he realized he could not have been further from the truth.

(I genuinely apologise for how long this post was, it has so, so much content to cover, that it was impossible to fit in. Everything from box, to mail, to actually developing Garland and Alerie's characters out. Next post will definitely see a little more of Alerie, and a little more of Rickard and Willas.)

Jullon was sat upon the balcony overlooking Red Fork along with flowing rivers behind that belonged in his domain. The day was peaceful and was the first time it hadn't rained in weeks, bathing in the morning sun with his spouse Avya who was slowly working on a needlepoint for her future grandchild, that is if Jullon would let their children marry because his standards were far too high. Ever since his ancestors, the paramount lords of The Riverlands has been very particular on who they'd marry, however, with King Aegon X death things were to get complicated quickly. For now though the sun, the sun and his wife with burnt bacon and light brown beer to mellow the salt.

Crunching the crisp bacon, the message Lord Crakehal had sent wouldn't be the last. The view of his realm often gave him clarity to think, weighing out the consequences of siding with Westerlands. However, even though it been centuries since the Westerlands betrayal it still clung to his decision on to support Tyget's claim.

"Seem's you've decided to stay out for now?" Avya spoke still working on her needlepoint, she seeming to know Jullon's every thought. But rightfully so since she'd been married to him since she'd been just over fifteen years of age.

"Yes, though it'll be criticized. We need to keep the peace for now. The Riverlands are the place that bleeds the most, I would see them peaceful if the seven would allow it." Exhaling a sigh as the page came back in with secondary message. This time from the young lord of The Reach Garland Tyrell. Two raven's in one day concerning the same matter at hand, it was shaping to be an exasperating day. Taking the scroll from his page, waving him lazily. Jullon furrowed his brow looking down at the small message, rereading it twice before leaning his head back, watching the rushing rivers. "This is really quite a mess. Ink and parchment." Snapping for his scribe. He was going to try and stay neutral, his realm had bled enough in the past for all the seven. He wanted to prevent any future bloodshed at least on his lands.







"Make sure to give these to Maester Almon. See that they're delivered with haste." Returning the scribbled parchment to the page for delivery. Jullon wanted to at least enjoy the rest of his day in peace before the chaotic plunge into the world of war, politics and intruige was to ensue.

Bodies lay strewn on the deck, their blood being washed away by the rain, thunder crackled, and waves ravaged the boat. Kneeling in the middle of it, was a youth, covered head-to-toe, in caked-on blood. The darkness which covered his face was quelled by the lightning, his eyes wide open, staring at the bodies. The teen whimpered, holding his hands to his knees, his tears washed away by the rain. He was the lucky one.

"Targaryen..." The youth yelped, leaping to his feet.
"Join us... join your family." A raspy voice whispered to him. He looked around, his breath heavy, before he turned, towards the bodies.

They smiled at him, laughing in a choir of pleasure, it slowly turned into one of screams and agony. The youth held his hands over his ears, but the screams overcame him, it evolved into a horrifying screech, one of flame and brimstone, a dragon's screech.

"Carry him..." A voice in the youth's head

"Save him..." A regal voice

"Drogon." Aegon's voice

The dragon slammed into the deck, growling, fire spewing from his mouth. The youth screamed in terror, he ran towards the wooden cabin door behind him, slamming his fists into it, and yelling for help. He stopped suddenly, as he heard breaths mixed with growls behind him. He turned towards the beast, and it stood before him, Drogon, the first dragon in the Seven Kingdoms in over a hundred years. He was huge, he rivaled the boat itself in size, but it wasn't sinking beneath his weight, with every flap of his black leathery wings, water around the boat collapsed in on itself. He was growling, with every breath he growled, his growls soft however, like a cat's purr. The youth realized something, the dragon was comforting him. His teary purple eyes opened, and he cautiously walked towards the dragon. It growled at him angrily as he approached, but didn't attack, instead putting his tail where the youth had stood. It was beckoning him to walk forwards, so he did. The youth stopped right under the dragon's mouth, and the dragon proceeded to carefully pick the youth up in his mouth. The youth was terrified, teeth to his right, and teeth to his left, but Drogon made sure not to hurt him. Then Drogon took flight.

The boat was pushed down hard, the water around it collapsing and forming a hole in the water, before burying it in it's depths.

Raindrops hit the youth's face so hard they felt like rocks, he looked down towards the sea, to see the boat that had done this, a huge boat, two sails, it flew a flag with a symbol the boy knew all too well.

A Red Dragon.

---

Daenys looked on in shock, his brother's dragon had just appeared in front of him, snatching away what was rightfully his. He turned, his face contorted and purple with rage, he approached his Kingsguard, wearing black cloaks because White ones are hard to find. Daenys stood a foot away from his Lord Commander, Gregory Blackwater. Daenys turned his body as to point to the ship, or where it used to be, while letting his face relax.

"THE HELL WAS THAT!?" He yelled out, his voice cracking as he did. Blackwater's face remained unchanged.
"I believe that is what smallfolk call, 'Getting fucked' m'lord." The men giggled slightly. Daenys turned away, red with anger and embarrassment.
"They succeeded, he got away, Aegon planned for this all along..." Daenys' face crunched together.
"I had Aegon tutoring him, he wasn't allowed to show him off to the kingdom, he tried to, and I took him away..." Daenys' voice grew in intensity with every word.
"He plotted this, he knew this would happen." Daenys pounded the ground with all his might, succeeding in hurting his hand.
"He was Aegon's, never mine, he was his son. Apparently he wanted to "save him from me", save him from what?! I'm perfect! He's mine! All of it should be mine! I will have it all!" Daenys slammed the ground over and over again.
"I AM THE KING, MY SON WILL DO AS I SAY!" Daenys returned to his feet, his face purple with rage.
"AERYS IS MINE! NOT YOURS AEGON! YOU HEAR ME! I WILL TAKE HIM BACK, AND THEN KILL ALL YOU MADE! YOUR HONOR GOT YOU TO THE GRAVE, AND NOW I'LL BURY THE REST OF IT!" Aerys continued to fly away.
"I AM KING DAENYS TARGARYEN, LEADER OF THE ANDALS AND THE FIRST MEN, GUARDIAN OF THE FLAME OF CIVILIZATION, I WILL KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THE LOYALIST BASTARDS, STARTING WITH TYRELL! I CANNOT WAIT TO DISEMBOWEL HIM AND RAPE HIS BROTHER, I WILL DO THE SAME TO THE REST OF THEM, TAKING MY THRONE, MY DIGNITY, AND MY SON!" Daenys' face was beet red, and his every movement was so exaggerated it nearly shook the boat.
"I WILL PUNISH THE WHOLE LAND! AND IT WILL BE COVERED WITH FIRE AND BLOOD!"

---

"Aerys Targaryen is safe, hidden away in Drogon's lair, as to Aegon's last wishes. We will protect the young king as if he were our own." Aegon's kingsguard (sans Willas Tyrell) stood, their white armor standing out against the darkness of the night, swearing an oath to a statue of Baelor the Blessed.
"For the future of the realm." The men thrust their swords together above their heads, Drogon roaring as lightning struck the island.

“Gone,
gone,
gone are the days…”

The morose song of his yet younger sibling faintly drifted through, but with the door firmly shut, the whispery scratching of the quill to paper put it out of his mind. The sound came through the open window, but did not linger past what was welcome. Arecel hadn’t been taking the death of the King well for the past few days, and had taken to playing her instrument at her window in a melancholic fashion...or else directly in front of the door of his quarters. Much of the same after his father passed on. Troubling, but such behavior mattered little to him, not after receiving that messages from Lords Paramount, Tyget Crakehall and Garland Tyrell. Of course there would be time later to pay their respects to the fallen good king, but not now. The Queen Dowager was dead, so soon after the King. Daenys Targaryen was in the perfect spot to be a suspect of such things, but not all of the facts seemed to come to light, so judgement on this matter was reserved. But only just.

Candlelight coming from just his right, warmly bathing the paper in light as the heat off it warmed the side of his hand in a way that was not unpleasant. The wide window to his left, it had been left open after the the ravens, letting a thin chilly air roll through along with much cooler light. There had been no real confusion as to why they made it to his window rather than the rookery with Maester Sringer, as his window had markings left from when he first started training his personal falcons. That would need to be sorted out at another time. Without lifting his head, the familiar sound of wing flaps, the shadows in the natural flickered over the table, the particular ‘caw’…a, of course, a black feather drifting lazily onto the parchment. Bringing his free left hand up to his mouth, a clean forefinger and thumb between his lips, Ellion gave a sharp whistle without stopping the writing with his right hand.

With the falcons off and no longer heckling the young raven, the black bird hopped along the frame of the window, before entered into the room. Another letter to receive. Tearing icy eyes off the parchment on the desk, the quill previously in hand was now set down by the ink well, and pinching the message from the raven's led, the bird took off as he unfurled the piece. The lord gave himself a moment to reread the contents before letting out a breath through his nose. The piece of paper was set out beside the earlier received messages. Picking up the quill and setting back into writing return messages of his own, another piece of paper was brought out. The last message was a half lengthier than the others, but that would hardly be a hindrance. Finishing them up, Lord Arryn rose from the sturdy wood chair, going over to stand before the window.

Clean, chilling winds, mountains stretching to hide their points beneath the clouds, a view of the low valley...and a long drop. Bringing his thumb and forefinger to his mouth once more, he let out a keen whistle. But a few breaths later, great wingspans, proud and powerful birds of prey, a pity that ravens were the more common bird to use. Only three might sit at the window at any given moment, but that was the right number. It took only a moment to secure each message to a different bird, and sending them off. With the sun shining upon his face, Ellion watched the great raptors till they were nothing more than distant shapes in the sky, a hand adjusting the sleeve of his doublet. Arryn had not bothered signing any of the messages; the Lords Paramount should recognize one of his well-trained Vale falcons by sight.

"Lord Tyget perhaps we have moved to quickly-", lord Hawthorne was quickly cut off by Merlon Banefort, "He is your king! You will address him as your grace Hawthorne, he is no mere lord any longer.", lord Hawthorne just sighed, and turned back to King Tyget, "Your grace, perhaps we have moved to quickly... you declared for the throne before any other could! How do we know who our opponents are?". Every lord of the westerlands who could be there was sat around the massive oak table in the council room of Crakehall. The walls, like most of Crakehall castle, were like muddy blood in color, dark and muted. From the walls lavish tapestries were hung and several massive stain glass windows allowed the light of the late afternoon sun to come streaming in. Most all the lords there, around 48 men, were in full plate, all in the Crakehall style, similar in appearance to the Lannister armor of old, but brown in color and shaped more to reflect a boar than a lion, making them ever so slightly thicker. At the head sat King Tyget, no armor on but Widow's Wail was at his waist, wearing a lavish tunic, his figers covered in rings. He was flanked by two men in bright golden armor, their yellow cloaks behind them. These were the first two men of Tyget's kingsguard, Ser Terrance Payne and Ser Willem Falwell, and he preferred gold and yellow to the white of classical kingsguard. Their armor was far more ornate, clearly well wrought and expensive, their high browned helmets were sculpted to resemble a scaled boar, representing Tyget's Targaryen ancestry. "Lord Hawthorne is right your grace, why is it you so quickly claimed the throne? We do not yet know which other lords will claim, or i-, the elderly lord Lefford ceased speaking as he saw his Kings hand held up, the room silent until Tyget cleared his throat, "That is precisely the reason why I have claimed so early, I wish to see who is willing to oppose me. I have no doubt had I waited a myriad of houses would have made claims, both true and false, but that does not help me. Now only houses that consider themselves able to stand against me will still make a claim, thereby I root out my most powerful opponents. It also gives my claim credence in being the first. Now, I'll have no more bickering over the speed of my claim, it does not matter, what DOES matter is how we intend to take Kings landing and place me on my rightful throne." Heather looked around the room at his assembled lords, most were around his age but several were younger and a few, like Lefford, who were quite a bit older than he. They sat in silence as the gravity of their situation dawned upon them, and suddenly the room exploded. Lords began bickering over all sorts of strategies and ideas, far more than Tyget could keep track of. He sighed, and was about to call for quiet when his page again arrived, two notes in hand. Tyget took both, the seals of Tyrell and Tully were present, he opened the Tyrell's message first, and scowled. He handed it to Ser Willem and cleared his throat. When this was ignored by the many arguing lords he made a more serious attempt, "QUIET", he shouted in his commanding voice, all at once silencing the assembled lords again, "It appears Lord Garland Tyrell has given me an answer, read it Ser Willem.", the large Ser Willem Falwell unfolded the letter and began to read.

"To the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms,

In the aftermath of the death of Aegon Targaryen, tenth of his name, I write to ask for your appeasement, in these terrible times. The death of the Queen, by the suspected hand of Daenys Targaryen, of whom has been disinherited of his heirdom by the King's will, results that there is a need for peace in the Kingdom in a succession crisis such as this, and a renewed meeting of the Small Council in King's Landing. I, as Hand of the King to the deceased Aegon, will restore order to the Crownlands and King's Landing, and provisionally instate a military Reachman force to keep the peace within the city itself in the absence of a King, until the correct Targaryen heir is found. Any hostile actions against any men of the Reach will be met with hard consequences, and any self-titled claimants to the throne beyond the Targaryen dynasty will be met with hostility in response. At this current time, I act as Regent to the Iron Throne, and I ask for your patience, to continue to serve the crown of the Targaryen dynasty with due honour.

Signed,

Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Paramount of The Reach, Warden of the South, Hand of the King to Aegon X Targaryen"

The room remained quiet, several of the lords taking sips of their wine, before finally Lord Lancel Lorch spoke up, "So... the Tyrell's challenge your claim?" the young blonde man was not particularly intelligent, and Tyget sighed, "Yes, my first opponent has shown their face... it is largely unsurprising, I expected the young Hand to disregard my claim, he most likely believes it is fabricated. It does not matter, he will bend the knee or I will destroy him and take the Reach for myself.", several lords shared worried looks, lord Hawthorne speaking again, "Your grace... they have the largest army in the seven kingdoms... and... they are nearly as wealthy as you are and...", Tyget glared at the man, silencing him, "Yes, and the Tully's control the Riverlands and the Greyjoys have the biggest fleet and the sun rises in the east, stating facts does not help us Lord Hawthorne. The Tyrells also give us a useful out in this letter, if we do not directly engage their men they will not bring us to war. They intend to not be the agressors, giving us a more secure journney to Kings landing.", he watched his Lords as they muttered amongst themselves about the danger the Tyrell's presented, and what their odds of victory were should they meet in open war. Tyget let it go for a few minutes, before clearing his throat and regaining their attention, "Now, as for our strategy, I intend to take all 50,000 of our men with me to Kings Landing, I doubt the Tyrells are bold enough to attack our lands without provocation. Most of our fleet will remain here in order to deter Iron born raiding in our absence, save 20 of our best ships which will sail to Kings landing, giving the reach a wide birth so the Tyrell's cannot claim invasion and attack us. I want scouts sent right away and the ships gone before morning. Split our scouts into two parties, one to secure the road to Kings Landing, and thee other to the Reach. I want to kow what the Tyrells are doing, I do not believe Lord Garland is a man to speak without acting on his words, if we are lucky and our scouts are skilled we will be able outmaneuver them. I intend to march before dawn, we will waist no time. I will take objections now, speak now or take it to the grave.", Tyget waited but recieved no objections, good. "Very well, now leave me rooms have been prepared, have your levies prepared to march before dawn."

The lords filed out quickly, all tired from their rides to Crakehall. Once they were al gone Tyget dropped his head into his hands and sighed deeply, he had hoped the Tyrell's would not react so quickly... but it was to late to worry now.He looked up, and saw his glass was empty, he called his page to fill it. Tyget didn't inherit much of his father's, aside from the House that is,but one thing he did inherit was a deep love for wine. After taking a long drink, he turned back to his page, "Bring me pen and parchment boy, enough for three letters.", the page nodded with a simple "Yes your Grace" before quickly leaving the room to fetch what was asked. Tyget turned to his Kingsguard, "Out, guard the door, these letters are not for your eyes.", the men nodded, and left the room, closing the door behind them. The page returned with what was requested, then left again at Tyget's request. The self proclaimed King of Westeros had three letters to write, one to
jullon Tully, one to his cousin in Kings Landing Kevan Crakehall the Master of Arms, and one to Garland Tyrell. Each letter was planned, calculated and measured, some honeyed with words and others more serious, altogether at his finish, he had little time to summon the last man he would need to before he slept.
-----



His letter to his cousin was simple, it simply informed him of his coming and that he expected the gates of Kings landing to open without siege((I may write this one later but it is essentially to myself so...))


----

The notes to Jullon and Garland were given to Ravens, but the letter to his cousing needed to be more... personal. He gave it to his fastest loyal rider, Ser Jon Broom, and instructed he bring it to Kevan as soon as possible, to show it only to him and no one else, no matteer what.

Once this was all done, Tyget went ooff to rest, knowing soon he would march onn kings Landing, and claim the throne owed to him by blood.

Jehrillia Zo Zaaraq's enormous girth was spread across the silken cushions that were dotted across her litter, as a harem of slaves struggles beneath her, the litter's wooden polls bearing down on their tanned shoulders.

Vherick, her most trusted bodyguard, sat across from her, his ghostly helmet obscuring his features. The helmet was deathly pale, with a necrotic tinge to it, giving it a complexion which made it look as though it had been crafted of bone. Perhaps it had been crafted of bone?

"What do you know of this 'Highgarden'?" Jehrillia asked in her honeyed voice, stroking a long tress of dark hair.

"A city of flowers," Vherick croaked, his voice muffled by the helmet "boasting some soldiers of note."

The litter shook and thudded as they pressed on, bouncing over the dirt roads below.

Jehrillia's fat, greasy hand closed around her goblet, as she took a hearty swig of Ghiscari wine, splashing some of the yellowish vintage over her gigantic chest.

"My sister uses to whisper to me about the men of the Reach," Jehrillia smirked, her tongue sweeping across her plump lips "and the women, too."

"There's no woman, nor man, half as much fun as a girl from Asahai." Vherick chuckled, his laughter escaping his mask in an echoey rasp.

"I brought myself one of those perfumed pleasure girls from Lys for my name day," Jehrillia bragged "she certainly knew how to use her fingers."

"Highgarden lies before us, your Exaltedness!" A booming, accented voice drifted in through the litter's flapping veil, as the slaves ever-so-gently lowered Jehrillia to the ground.

The enormous Easterner heaved herself out of her seat, her strained knee-joints popping loudly.

"Let us meet this Lord Tyrell, then."

Tyron Lannister sat at a wooden table, his room darkened by night. He sat at the table looking through his paperwork, skimming forcefully through every letter, the crinkling of paper the only sound he heard other then the soft crackling of the fire.

The noise of waving wings informed Tyron of a raven's arrival, and sure enough, at his window there was a raven, a message tied to it's leg. Tyron stretched, leaning back into his chair, before pushing it backwards, with force enough to knock it over with a crash. Tyron walked, his head before his legs, exhausted, to the window. The black raven sat there, it's chest out and shoulders back, as if reminding Tyron to do the same, which Tyron did, a satisfying crack sounding out, and then Tyron's relieved sigh, this getting old business was really... getting old.

The raven twisted it's head over it's leg, and in a millisecond, it's head was back where it started. Tyron sighed, he used to be that fast. He slowly grabbed and took the message from the crow's mouth, the paper feeling soft in his hands. He gave the crow a soft pat on the head, before turning away and stomping into the middle of the room. He removed the Crakehall seal, and opened the envelope, to reveal a furled up letter.

Unfurling the message, Tyron swallowed, he felt like this was going to be bad. Holding it open with both hands, Tyron read what it had to say, it was Crakehall of course, long-winded and arrogant, saying he was king of the Seven, Tyron spit, threaten a member of the Night's watch? Pointless, he wasn't king, he'd never be. Upon reading that Crakehall wasn't coming, he felt his stomach drop to his shoes, but the next few sentences helped a bit, an envoy, for 50 well trained Crakehalls along with possible assassins or other professional criminals, helpful, but not enough to stop an other, it'd do for now he guessed.

Tyron re-furled the letter, shoving it into a pocket, before stomping over to his table, feeling more awake than ever. He grabbed his chair's nearest leg, pulling it back up into position, then flopping down into it, so hard it nearly collapsed under his weight. He grabbed an empty piece of paper, throwing many others onto the ground in the process, grabbed a feather, dipped it in ink, and began writing.



That'd do it, short and to the point, something Crakehall didn't understand. Just as Tyron finished putting the envelope in an envelope, there came the sound of hail at his window. Hail? That's odd, Tyron looked at the window skeptically, before standing up slowly, taking a crouched posture. He grabbed longclaw from under the table, drawing it and dropping the sheath. He walked up to the window, opening it slowly, to see a single man, standing in the middle of the watch's camp, no one seemed to be around except for him. The man looked at Tyron, and Tyron recognized his smug smile and large nose, Daron Mormont, a former ranger who deserted, though he was never caught.

"Daron." Tyron yelled down, not angrily or anything, just to get his attention.
"Hello lord Tyron, it is great to see your babe's face, always about to cry, aren't you?" His high-pitched voice made Tyron angry to listen to it.
"Save it Mormont, what are you here for?"
"Why is anyone here? To eat, sleep, and fuck, too bad you lost the chance at the third."
"I lost it by circumstance, you lost it by being an ugly brotherfucker."
"Oh, comparing me to the mad queen are we now?"
"No, I'm comparing you to Daenys Targaryen."
"Ey! Daenys is a handsome man!"
"Aye, but he'd rather take himself to bed than you."
Back and forth they went like this, until eventually Daron rolled his eyes and said what he came here for.
"Listen Tanner..." Tanner had become a worse insult then Bastard to a bastard, as it meant that your father was a dirty peasant.
"I'm here to tell you what Daenys asked me to, apparently he thinks you'd make a good Lord Paramount, personally I don't get what he sees, maybe he sees some of himself in you, maybe he wants to fuck!" Daron laughed, his shrill cackling laugh that sounded like he was breathing through a straw.
"He wants you to join us, ride against the rest of 'em, and maybe you'll lose your virginity." Daron laughed, he could laugh all night, but what he didn't know is that Tyron wasn't a virgin.
"Anyways, you can fight against snarks and bumpkins, or fight in a war that matters."

Tyron held his hand to his chin, pretending to formulate an answer, though he knew what he was going to say.
"A war that matters? A war to claim who has the biggest balls most likely. You have your petty fights over who's the greatest king in the castle, tell your lord this; I refuse, and I will not join no matter how many envoys you send, you fight your own army into the ground, I'll handle saving your worthless arse."

Daron looked unamused, he held up his nose and furrowed his brow.
"You'll pay for this." Tyron smiled.
"Remember our vows brother? Since you have not, let me summarize, no wife, no kids, no interfering in southern affairs, and they shall not interfere in ours. You seem to have forgotten the last one." Moran Yronwood, who had been standing behind a tent the whole time, cleared his throat, he towered over Daron. Daron looked one last time at Tyron, pleading with his eyes. Tyron simply smiled.
"Kill him."

And so he did.

The stone towers of Pyke stood defiant against the battering of the sea wind, silhouetted against the blazing light of the setting sun. Mighty waves rose and fell, crashing against the pillars of rock from which the castle sprouted. From his solar in the outermost tower of Castle Pyke, Talron Greyjoy sat listening to the songs of the sea. The howling wind, the roaring waves, it was the best kind of song. The air was cold and salty, and the dim fire crackling away in the grand stone fireplace did little to warm the room. The King of the Iron Islands stood at the head of a long oak table, upon which a large map was spread. His silver hair was tied back away from his face, and his deep brown eyes scanned furiously over the Seven Kingdoms.

Talron cast his mind back to that morning, when a thrall had woken him from his sleep. She was a pretty thing, with pale blue eyes and flowing black hair. She had come from the rookery. A raven had come, bearing the sigil of House Crakehall. Lord Tyget had ambition, for that Talron could not fault the man. But to claim the Iron Throne? To do so was, in itself, suicide, but to do so with such a weak claim and bran all others as traitors and usurpers? This Lord Crakehall was either incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish. Perhaps even both. Nevertheless, Talron could not care. The Greyjoys of the Iron Islands were at war with the Starks of the North, and the petty squabbles of these Southron Lords could not interest him less. "Thrall!" The heavy wooden doors creaked open and a timid young man entered the hall. "Fetch coals for the fire, and summon my brother Valorion. And be quick about it."

"Yes, my King." The boy bowed deep; Talron had trained him well. "Also, your Grace, the Lord Jakkon has landed at Lordsport. He rides for Pyke as we speak, and should arrive before nightfall."

"Very good. When he arrives, have him sent to me. Immediately."

"As you wish, your Grace." The boy turned and hurried away, his bare feet patting softly on the cold, hard stones of the floor. Talron's solar was a drab room, to be sure. Every surface was a monotonous grey, comprised of rough stones that barely tessellated. On one wall stood the massive, ornate oak doors that led to the rest of the tower, while on the opposite wall was a grand fireplace. The Greyjoy banner rested proudly on every wall, and Talron's war table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by simple wooden chairs.

Talron took his seat at the head of the table, surveying the positions of his fleets. Valorion had only recently returned to Pyke, and Jakkon had only just been recalled. Malron was still pillaging the Stony Shore, and Nalara had just been sent to rally the citizens of Cape Kraken to the Greyjoy cause. The war was going much better than Talron had anticipated. The Starks had grown too content with their power, ruling from their grand castle of Winterfell. Now, the Kraken had risen forth from the seas, ready to drown the Northmen in their own contempt.

The doors opened again, and Talron craned his neck. It was his thrall, with a pot of fresh coals. He scurried over to the fire, and emptied the small black rocks onto the dying embers. He prodded at the fire until it lit up again, reinvigorated. Talron thanked the boy. He knew he didn't have to, but there was nothing to say he could not. Talron sat in silence, watching the sharp tongues of fire dance among the shadows of the solar. The moon was beginning to peak now, and Talron was still waiting. It was not long, however, before the doors flew open with a woosh and crashed into the door with a tremendous crack. "Brother." Valorion Greyjoy strode into the room. The iron boots of his armor smacked against the stone floor, and the sound resonated throughout the entire solar, drowning out the crash of the waves for an instant.

Talron stood and the two men embraced. In the moonlight it would have been easy to mistake one for the other, were it not for one being dressed in plate armor and the other in simple clothes. "I apologize for making you wait. There were more... pressing matters to attend to."

"I understand, Valorion. It is good to see you again, brother. Please, have a seat." The pair sat at Talron's war table. "Can I get you anything? Something to eat, some wine perhaps?"

"Fuck wine, I want ale. And meat. You've become so royal, brother. Before you were King you would never have offered wine."

"My new position has forced me to change, Valorion." Talron summoned his thrall, and sent for ale and fish. "Jakkon should be with us shortly."

"Good! It will be nice to see him again." The pair sat deep in small talk, delighted to be back in one another's company. The pair had always been close, and the more time they spent apart, the closer they seemed to become. It was not long before the thud of Jakkon's footsteps could be heard down the hall. Yet again the doors were thrown open, and the third Greyjoy brother strode in. Both Valorion and Talron stood to embrace their little brother. The serving boy arrived in the midst of the reunion, delivering ale to each of the three. Each took their seat.

"Perhaps now you'd like to tell me why you've summoned me back to Pyke, brother. The Westerlands are ripe raiding grounds."

"Consider yourself lucky, Jakkon, you'd be treading on the toes of the self-proclaimed King Crakehall." All three laughed, and Talron explained the letter he had received.

"Well, he's got balls, that's for sure."

"Indeed. Yet we have more important matters at hand."

"The North?"

"The North. We are moving, Valorion. Nalara sails for Cape Kraken, and Malron still plagues the Stony Shore. Yet it is you two who will deal the first real blow." Talron directed their attention to the map sprawled out on the table.

"Okay then, Talron. What's the plan?"

"You, Jakkon, will take your twenty ships and twenty from the Iron Fleet. Sail for Torrhen's Square and lay waste to Lord Tallhart's lands. Lead him from his castle, and slaughter them. Don't take the Castle, however. Once you have destroyed House Tallhart, return to the sea where they cannot follow, and make for the Stony Shore to group up from Malron."

"Destroy House Tallhart?"

"Lord Stark rules such a large domain purely on the loyalty of his bannermen. When they realize that he cannot protect them, their loyalty will dissipate quickly." A large smile split accross Jakkon's face and he nodded. "As for you, Valorion. Take what remains of the Iron Fleet and sail for Bear Island." Both of Talron's brothers fell silent.

"Talron... House Mormont is an ancient and powerful House... are you sure this is wise?"

"Perhaps. Yet, when House Mormont falls, the Starks will have no choice but to rise from their Castle. The only way to retake the Island is by sea, and once we lure the Northmen into the waters, the mighty Kraken will feed the Direwolf to the Drowned God."

"And if the Starks don't retaliate?"

"Then their bannermen's loyalty will waver. Why should they fight for a Lord that won't fight for them? And they won't. Besides. Mormont Keep is quite the prize. Our dominion will have expanded, even if only by a single island. Soon enough, the Northmen will finally rise against us. And when they do, we will be ready."

"A good plan, Talron. If, of course it works."

"Of course it will work. We are Ironborn, brother. No Northman can hope to match us. The North will fall, and we will rise to claim it."

"Indeed we will, brothers. Jakkon, Valorion, you strike out as two tentacles of the mighty Kraken. Ensure the job is done." The three brothers stood, and Jakkon and Valorion left the solar side by side, set to ready their fleets at first light. The name 'Greyjoy' would once again be feared throughout Westeros. In time, none would be able to resist the might of the Kraken.

Walking down the steps out, he looked over at the guard once more. Guards to the Lord Paramount of the Reach all wore a similar uniform of a chain mail and plate armour, with a green backdrop on the emblazoned material, it seeming as if they were an ex. Whilst a Reach Knight could be expected to wear armour that was as beautiful as it was functional, these were simply for function, nothing elegant or beautifully designed in comparison. The guard was one of many that Garland recognized, just too many for him to remember the names of, they always changed and were always cycled through, as they came into service or retired, seeking the coin of what employment would be for them. It was a high amount- more than a soldier could normally expect in an army of the Reach.
"So, tell me more about this lady, who is with her, guards."
"She has her own guard detail, my lord. One wears a mask, he appears dangerous. A small number of slaves are with her, I believe she was carried."
"Up that incline? Well, I expect to see some dead slaves, they'd be exhausted. I could never approve of slavery. Well, not unless it was paid for. Which technically, makes it legal in the Seven Kingdoms. Paid service, in exchange for coin. Those Yunkish may do things differently, but it works." Garland said, chuckling a little to the thought of her being carried, the guard nodding as he replied.
"Aye, M'Lord. She is down here." The guard replied, as they turned from the corridor, heading down the next set of stairs, and back into the open courtyard, by the stairs that they had been observing the fighting from earlier. The gatehouse of the inner gate came into view, as Garland saw what he could have sworn was not a young lady of Yunkai, but a she-bear of gluttony.

Seeing the Yunkish Lady, Garland's face almost dropped. How? This woman could not exist. She was so slothful, so massive in her girth, it seemed preposterous. Her dress barely seemed to even cover up her enormous chest, nor her stomach, sticking out like a barrel. Walking out by the inner gate, her entourage around her, as mysterious as could be, he could tell that this woman was not some insignificant noble, the dozen or so, if not more slaves that had carried her looking exhausted, but obedient to their Lady. The masked guard, closest to her side wore a helmet that revealed nothing of him, but the guard must have stood as tall as Garland, and he knew he was a fairly tall man for Westeros. He had to speak, he said to himself mentally, if he didn't, he was going to end up staring, and he knew that the longer he didn't say a word, the more likely someone would say something completely inappropriate.
"My Lady. I am Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South, Hand of the King to the passed away King Aegon Targeryen, Tenth of his Name. It is a pleasure to meet you, Jehrilla Zo Zaaraq. I hear you have mercenaries to offer, and I wish to listen to your words. We may have different customs in the lands of The Reach, but if you wish, we can do this over some wine and some bread, in the Council Hall. You must be exhausted after your long journey....your slaves can find accommodation in the tents of the Briar Maze."

--------

In the chambers, Alerie looked out from the balcony with Rickard, the short lad standing, his cane holding him up as Alerie kept him close. They looked over the evening sky of the Reach, the distant horizon seeing a setting sun, sinking over the hills with it's orange glow, the gentle light that came from below in the lower tiers of the castle, alongside the distant candles on riverboats in the Mander already setting quie a scene. She had to grow up quickly, because Rickard had lost his mother and father when he was very young, just like herself when they died, years ago. He was not a young boy any longer, but he was still young, and would still not have come of age until two more years. Even Alerie knew that whilst she was almost coming to her 18th year, and Garland to his 22nd, they still seemed old, forcibly so, compared to Rickard. Young deaths did that, when their parents died, first Moryn, then Elinor. It was a terrible thing, death, but she knew she had to look after family, hold it together where she could. Lyanna was looking after him, but sometimes, Alerie knew she had to talk to Rickard, at least remind him that his older sister still loved him very much. He seemed saddened, after being told the news about Aegon; it hadn't reached him as he came back from Oldtown, spending a few days with his head in books, reading and reading again. Looking down at him, Alerie wiped a tear from Rickard's cheek, smiling.
"It's okay, Rickard. It's done now, he is at rest. We cannot do anything about it."
"But why, sister? He was such a good man, why did they poison him?" He asked, his voice croaking a little, more saddened than angered by it all.
"We don't know yet, Rickard. But me and Garland are going to find out who did it, and we'll have them in chains.
"But what if it's a Targaryen? Wouldn't they want to kill you too?"
"I promise you, Rickard. We'll do whatever it takes. Aegon was a good man, but if we have to kill that bastard...then we will." She said, looking across on the dark plains, thinking to herself. She adjusted her dress a little, the fabric gentle on her kind skin, being a very unrevealing attire for her standards, showing little of her bust.
"Remember our words, Rickard."
"Yes, we're Growing Strong, I know Alerie..." He said quickly, before being interrupted, Alerie smiling.
"See, you're a clever lad. So do as our words say, Rickard. Just grow strong, past this. We always do."

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Flea Bottom, King's Landing



King's Landing was a hostile place, but for Willas, it felt like a place that he felt he knew the corners to. Flea Bottom may have felt like a ragged sewer, but here, was the place. He did not wear his helmet, his grey scratched Kingsguard armor with any markings etched off, Willas aware that the white shine had long faded from this suit of armour.
"Ser Maxwell, have the men surround the tavern. Nobody leaves. Darren Celtigar is a man I expect to argue, maybe agree if he sees sense...but if I kill him, the rest of his men should bend the knee. They're confused, and unaware."
"Agreed, Willas. They're going to, I know the City Watch don't like Celtigar, not after he cut their food ration again. I've heard rumours. Are you willing to shed blood?"
"I wouldn't have gotten you and the men in armor if I didn't. Lord Garland said any means needed. So long as it doesn't piss off whoever is in The Red Keep, and the city's peace is maintained, they will have to accept the replacement of their new Commander. Otherwise...well, the Tumbletons will be here before they realize."
"Aye, Ser." Ser Maxwell was a man of Tumbleton himself, standing at six feet, he wore a suit of Reach-produced plate, his steel feet clattering as the rest of the Retinue followed. It had made a scene, but nobody was stopping them in Flea Bottom, peasants weren't throwing stones or cow dung, they were watching.

The night had descended in it's entirety, as he walked through the tavern's door, filled with men of the City Watch, most drinking, but still in their armor, the golden chainmail, here after what was probably a routine sweep through Flea Bottom and followed by a drink for the men on a night like tonight where the Commander had decided it was his time to get drunk. Willas wore full plate, and as did his retinue, the Reachmen awaiting a figure like Darren to sit up and notice him first. His men fanned in, as he walked forwards, the Tavern's bard going quiet, as Willas cleared his throat.

Darren Celtigar looked across, the Commander staring at Willas's imposing frame, taking it in. He looked worried, but drunk enough to put on a bold response to the ex-Kingsguarder's face.
"Commander Celtigar, I am sure you know of me."
"Oh, it is the missing Ser Willas Tyrell, traitor to the Kingsguard, and now, here to show off his fancy armour!" He replied, chuckling as he shook his head, looking across at Willas, some of the other men taking him in with another look.
"The King is dead, and as his Queen. I serve the Hand, and I am here to see you for that reason. I have an order, handwritten by Lord Garland Tyrell, Hand of the King. It is as follows, that you are to stand down, that you will assist me in my new duty as Commander of the City Watch. If you do not, you are disobeying a direct order from the Hand of the King, or your current Regent. Ser Maxwell has it to hand. Read it." He said, as Ser Maxwell presented it, the small note clearly writing that it was for Darren Celtigar, Commander of the Goldcloaks, King's Landing's city and municipal guard, to stand aside in place of Ser Willas Tyrell, in order to better secure the city in the favour of a Targaryen sucession crisis. It was clearly worded, and every single man was taking a different opinion. Since the King was dead, people were frightened, and some had the thought in their mind already. Who would come in, and that their commander had either done great things for them, and that this was a meddler, or that Willas Tyrell could at least take better care. Plus, they couldn't argue with a Hand's command, some saw it at that face value. Darren laughed, as the stout Crownlander looked over at him, shaking his head.
"The King is dead, Tyrell! Your hand serves nobody!"
"And who do you serve? Stand down, or I will gut you where you stand!" Willas barked, his voice authorative and not backing down. He had done this before. He wasn't too old for this shit, but sometimes, it felt like this was only more dangerous because he knew he was outnumbered, and relying on a confidence in the Watch's respect for higher-ups.
"Oh really? I serve this city, you serve some distant Lord! Go on then, do it, you honourable fuck! Put that pike in my throat, and these men will kill you!" He heard, as Willas chuckled, swinging the steel Poleaxe off his back, the Commander already after a couple drinks, and too cocky. It was not going to end well, as he only realized that Willas was not making a bluff. Taking his axe from off the table, the Valyrian Steel shined, as Willas was already going forward, with a sharp jab up to his throat.

Swinging his axe, he blocked Willas's jab with the axe's handle, the strong Commander throwing Willas back a little, as he realized what had happened. Willas was not a fool with this weapon, and he had wanted him to show his weapon, to at least expose himself a little more before he took him out. He may have been a Commander, but he had already drunk, and his men were not close enough to stop him, not without breaking into a fight without the other retinue that the Tyrell had in this tavern. Willas had played his game well. He turned the hook, and the axe was plucked from his bare hands, as he then left him completely exposed, the Valyrian Steel bouncing off the wood by Willas's feet.

By the time that he had begun to pull his sword from his hilt, the Tyrell had rammed the Poleaxe clean through his skull, thrusting him upward so much force was thrown into the Poleaxe, Willas aware that if the man was sober, he would have had a hell of a fight on his hands. But he didn't, he was like this, and what a fool at a time like this. When he had to be most vigilant, a former Kingsguard could walk in and snatch the life from his veins. They were well trained, but against a Kingsguarder, even such as Willas, he could strike faster and harder than they could anticipate, and Willas's mind was wired, clear. He didn't care. Blood sprayed for a moment, giving a thin film across his vambraces and gauntlets, as he pushed the Pole in deeper.

The Commander of the City Guard now had blood pouring from his impaled mouth, as Willas withdrew the Poleaxe's most pointy end, the two handed weapon capable in his hands as his drunken friend slumbered over and pulled his sword, receiving a sharp kick from the Reachman, flying onto the floor with his pint, as the others screamed, terrified, some yelling back and drawing swords. Others watched on, other guardsmen, looking at Willas as he looked across, lowering his weapon and raising his tone of voice, even more than before.
"Hand's orders! The Hand is your Regent, and if you fail to obey his orders, I will have you imprisoned or killed! You now serve me as your new Commander of the City Watch, and Commander Celtigar was relieved of his duties by me, right now! We are here to keep the peace, rather than let men like Celtigar serve his own interests, it is written here that we serve our Hand! I will not repeat myself!" He yelled over the noise in the Tavern, as one of the men looked across, Maxwell held the parchment high, from Garland's raven. He was never the best at putting himself across easily, but he knew the men got the message. They would die if they fought back, and already, there was division in the room. The air felt thick with it.
"Seven Hells, fuck you!" One man screamed across the hall, as one of Willas's men turned to him, watching him draw a sword, as another turned to him, a City Guard, and in turn, pulled his sword, turning to the loyal man. The watchman then threw himself forward and stabbed the other expelative-giving watcher, before another stood up, drawing. Suddenly, what felt like the greatest standoff cracked, as the room became filled with people drawing swords and either getting murdered, or hacked to bits. It appeared that the greatest number were actually with Willas, perhaps seeing that with their Commander dead, they had enough reason to stop whatever else was stirring. At least 40 men were inside, and considering that Willas had entered with barely 15 of his 20-strong retinue,

The scene descended into anarchy, as Willas led the rabble that were left, walking out the Tavern with signifcantly more blood over his armor than he had entered it with, men following him, be they Tyrell or City Watch.
"Spread the word, the City Guard serves Ser Willas Tyrell....If they disobey, then put them to the sword!" He yelled, as his men fanned out, Willas already able to make a note to two of the Lieutenants, unaware of their specific names, but aware that they followed him. Men of his retinue followed, as Willas turned back to Ser Maxwell, nodding.
"Take that group and head through the city...let us get the point across now before we have to have people wake up to this. It's going to be a long night. Spare them if you have to, but take no prisoners if you can't. Disloyalty is a sign of rebellion." He said, pointing his Poleaxe, as he looked back at a group of watchmen, knowing that they had to move. They seemed confused, demoralized, unaware.
"I promise you, your service will be rewarded. For now, we enforce the Hand's command."

It barely took an hour, but through Flea Bottom and then, through the other boroughs of the city, it had begun, going into the the night as the City Guard was thrown into chaos. The night was yet young, and what had started as hell in one Tavern spread, becoming something that went into the core of the City Watch, the Goldcloaks' ranks changed and moving to different allegiances. The news spread, and Goldcloaks were splintering like flies, Lieutenants, Captains, all of it's men thrown into disfigured mess as it began to turn into bloody conflict. Men were waken to be told to serve or die, or to join a revolt. It was street fighting, ambushing, men having their throats slit, like a group of thugs on the streets, and the people awake were being pushed out of the way. Nobody identified anyone, and yet those who opposed stood out clear, finding that they would be killed for their defiance, against the new order that was posted. Many accepted it. Those who did not, were either fought and killed, or running away, throwing their armour down before they got murdered for a mere guard role. The Purge had ended as quickly as it begun, as groups of Goldcloaks made their move, killing who they had to, decimating the men that did not accept Willas's new command.

It was needlessly bloody, but it had achieved his aims. By the middle of the night, the City Guard had been thinned out, almost a sixth of it's capability either dismissed or killed outright, Goldcloaks killing Goldcloaks, spreading the written message that Willas had presented. In the Red Keep, they were still asleep, or perhaps waking up to the new dawn that sat outside. Most importantly of all, the gates had been locked down. Willas's first command was a simple one. The Roseroad Gate would remain open, to Tumbleton forces, expected in a day and a half, as opposed to the expected Crakehall forces within four to six, and highly expected were they to be beaten back if the Reachman force hardened itself into the city. 10,000 could hold a force five times it's size, for a few weeks, if the whole city was utillized. Willas had not trained for that eventuality, but he knew that King's Landing had undergone siege many a time, and that while direct assault was ballsy, and could work, holding the city and waiting a siege would be surely the best move. That would be, only if the Crakehalls didn't break in. Willas could guess this ruse could only last a week, before the City Guard either had another internal revolt, or even worse, some other Lord got involved. Any marching forces that were not Tyrell were to be repelled, and that would be extremely difficult. He had at best, 1,500 men now loyal to the new order. 50,000 could be coming to knock on the door, and if they had Siege Equipment, they would not be afraid about mounting the walls and murdering everyone. The Tyrell hoped that it would be enough however, and would be just as Garland said. It was his chance. What would come of this, he did not know, and it would be up to the Lords to find out. He was not here to do diplomacy, he was here to do what he did best. Fighting. Garland would smooth it over, as would the other Lords, when they informed the rest of the Crownlands' Lordships of the hostile takeover that had taken place tonight.

------------

Sitting inside the Barrack, with a fireplace behind, still wearing his bloodied armour, he wrote, looking across the room to Ser Maxwell after finishing the letter.

The message simply read:

"We have control. I command the City Watch, we are awaiting your imposed force to arrive, in order to keep the peace within the city.

Signed, Ser Willas Tyrell, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing."

Reading it over, he nodded, clearing his throat before he spoke.

"Mount your horse, and ride. Do not stop until you reach our banners, they'll be leaving Tumbleton in the morning in the morrow, and they will arrive for the day after. Go with Lord Tumbleton. If you are stopped, destroy the message. The Crakehall may be insane, but even if they try and intercept you, they will not be able to relay it back to their main forces."
"Understood, Ser. Don't let this place fall apart, those Goldcloaks are low in morale, you'll need to bolster them somehow."
"Leave it to me. We do this for the Reach, Maxwell. Do not forget."

Tyget was awakened by his squire, shouting through his door, "Your Grace? Your army stands ready to march." Tyget sat up in his bed, looking at the still dark sky out his window. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, yawning before his reply, "Yes yes, good. Ready my armor... I'll be out shortly, I expect it to be prepared for me.", Tyget stood, stooping as he did. He grunted as he forced his back straight, a loud pop sounding. He repeated the process for his other limbs and neck... old bones and loud cracks. He rubbed his neck, groaning as he heard his wife, "So... your... your really doing it Tyget? Your marching to Kings Landing?", Tyget turned to Leonette, his wife younger than him by ten years. She was quite beautiful, a Tyrell in every way, and more than one man considered her wasted on the sloemn and older lord Tyget. Tyget personally agreed with most of them, she had deserved some handsome and charming lord, but had been married to Tyget at seventeen. He had always done his best to make her happy, and by and large it had worked, she certainly loved him more than when they had first met, and Tyget was happy with that.He sighed, "Yes my dear, the throne awaits me. I cannot let it slide away from me now... I may also ride against your famliy, as you know.", he moved to her side of the bed and took her hand in his, "You must write to your father, he is lord of one of the Tyrell's cadet houses, please, maybe he can talk sense into your cousin. The last thing I want is a rain marked with needless bloodshed, which is why if he rides against I will not make it needless." he let her hand fall and moved to his dresser, removing a simple tunic and breeches, even at this early hour a King must not prance about in his knickers. Once dressing he looked once more at his wife, smiling at her, something the man rarely did, "Soon my dear, you will not be a lords wife, you will be queen. I swear to you, I will win my throne, and you will sit at my side.", Leonette stood from the bed and walked to her husband, kissing him lightly, "I wish only for you to return to me darling... do not die for an iron chair.", her hand held to his face, Tyget responded simply, "I do not intend to.", before turning and leaving out the door to their room, making his way to the arming room. There his squire, one Loras Banefort, began to armor the King. His armor was like that of all his lords, based on the old Lannister armor but with several key differences. For one, the color was not red ringed with gold but a dark brown with the borders of the plate picked out in dull gold. A key difference in his armor from his vassals were the glaring faces of boars picked out on the shoulders, much like the armor worn by Tywin or his sons but boars rather than lions. The helmet was styled differently from the Lannister base, the arch at the top was still horizontal, but the face mask had less of a forward snout than that of the Lannisters, giving the feeling of a glaring boar than a lion. His gorget was picked out in cold, another angry boar forming at its center. As the armor was being placed, Ser Terrance Payne and Ser Willem Falwell entered the room, Tyget looking to their entrance, "Ser Terrance, Fetch my son here. Make certain he is prepared to march.", Payne bowed to Tyget and left thhe room, leaving Falwell, Tyget and his squire, "Tell me honestly Falwell, do you think you could beat Wilas Tyrell in a duel? Or Garland perhaps?", Ser Falwell looked to the air, thinking his answer carefully, tapping his rapier Talon's hilt, "Hmmm... I think on a good day I could kill Wilas, maybe, but it would be hard fought. Garland? Oh easily your grace, he is good, but the water dance would tear him to pieces.", Falwell smiled in his mischevious way, he was not a kind man and enjoyed imagining himself skewering Garland through the belly in his mind. Tyget grunted, "Good, I may need you to. You and Payne are my best swords, aside from perhaps my son, but I'll not risk his life oon Tyrell's, speaking of my son,", Tyget stepped off the small pedestal he'd been on, now in full battle plate, a golden-yellow sash wrapped around his waist to denote his place amongst lords. Ser Payne entered, followed closely by Ser Tywin Crakehall, Tyget's only male heir. He looked to his son, this his squire and Kingsguard, "Leave us.", they obeyed, shuffling out quickly. Tyget looked at his son, the boy clearly took after his mother, so much so he looked more Tyrell than Crakehall. His long curly brown hair fell to just below the tops of his ears, his face refined and free of scars or blemishes or facia hair, though he had Tyget's gray eyes so he knew the boy was his. Like his father Tywin was in his full plate, his blade at his side and his helmet underneath his arm, a pround smile on his face, Tyget was unimpressed, "Wipe that stupid smile off your face, you look like a damn fool. Your in armor, your a knight what am I supposed to applaud your coming?", the smile disappeared quickly as Tyget moved to poor two glasses of wine, Tywin spoke up now, "Father why did you need to see me? Should we not already be at the gates ridding to meet up with our banners to march? You wanted to be off before sunrise correct?". Tyget shook his head, turning and handing a glass of wine to his son, "Its important you know this before we leave, and you are to tell no one, not until I say you can. If all goes according to my plan, before this war is over and I have beaten back the Tyrells, you will wed one of Jullon Tully's daughters,", he held a hand up to stifle his sons objection, and Tywin's mouth closed before any words could leave it, "It is not up for discussion, I am simply telling you now. When Jullon Tully accepts my offer, which if he has any sense at all he WILL, you will wed one of his daughters. They are both beautiful, they are both of age, they are both eligible and you will marry one of them. I don't care what you want, I don't care what your opinion on the matter is, it IS happening.", he looked at his son, seeing the boy scowl in disapointment, "Look at me Tywin, do you know who were named for? I know I have told you.", Tywin ldropped his scowl, simply frowning now, "...Tywin Lannister...", he said grudgingly, "Thats right, Tywin Lannister Warden of the west. Do you know what Tywin did? He sired heirs, he was hand of the king, he was the richest amn in Westeros. Do you know what Tywin Lannister did not do?", Tyget set his wine down, and looked his son in the eyes, "Tywin Lannister DID NOT fuck men, and he did not marry men. YOU will not marry men, you WILL marry one of the Tully girls, you WILL sire heirs, and one day you WILL be king. Now... get out of my sight, ride to our banners. I will join you after I have told your youngest sister goodbye.", Tywin Crakehall turned and left, stomping angrily down the halls of Crakehall castle. Tygrt sighed, downed his wine, picked up his helmet and strolled calmly out of the armoring room, his kingsguard falling in behind him.

Leona Crakehall awoke to a start as she heard her door open. She looked to the open doorway, it was pictchblack except for the candle in the hand of the one who had entered her room, "Father!", she jumped out of her bed and ran over to Tyget, hugging his legs, feeling the unyielding armor of his legs. She backed away surprised, and now saw that her father was fully armored, and her face grew saddened, "Your leaving... *sniff* Why do ou have to go? Can't you send uncle Martyn go wwithout you?", Martyn Crakehall was lord of House Crakehall of Casterly Rock, another of Tyget's cousins. Tyget siighed and walked over to Leona's bed, setting the candle on her table and motioning her to come to his side. She obeyed, and now he could see her face... she looked so much like his mother, more than any of his children, "A king must lead his people little one, I cannot simply tell my vassals what to do, I must lead them.", he sat on her bed, it creaked under the weight of his armor, he picked up ten year old Leona and sat her next to him, putting his arm around her, "Someday, when your older, you will understand why I must go now. Do not worry, I will see you again, and when I do you wont just be my little princess, you'll be the princes of all the seven kingdoms, and I will be the king.", she looked up at him, her gray eyes watering somewhat, "B-but I thought you were already king... everyone calls you King or your grace... why do you need to leave if everyone already calls you king?", Tyget smiled at the young girl, brushing her black hair out of her eyes, "Only westermen call me king, the rest of the Seven kingdoms don't yet, I must make them understand that I am their king too, or they will disobey me and the Kingdoms will fall apart, and men will fall upon one another and kill eachother, sow death among the land. I must stop that from happening, so I must leave... do not worry little princess, I will see you again. Soon, we will live in Kings Landing, and I can show you the great skulls of the dragons, and perhaps a living one even.", Leona's eyes brightened at that, "Really father? Honest?", Tyget chuckled and kissed his daughter on the forehead, "Of course, now, get back to bed. I have to go and you have lessons in the morning, I love you little princess, and I will see you again soon.", he stood up from the bed, taking the candle and leaving, shutting the door behind him. In the lit hallway he blew out the candle, and looked to his Kingsguard, "Come, we ride for Kings Landing.", and together, they made their way to the stables, mouted their horses, and set off to join Tyget's Vassals, marching to war.

---------------------------------------------

Kevan Crakehall was furious, his morning had been exponentially less pleasant than Tyget's. He had awoken to his Estate being heavily guarded by his men, more so than he had commanded. Upon questioning the captain of his house guard, Kevan discovered that none other than Wilas Tyrell, traitor to the Kingsgauard, had reappeared in Kings Landing last night... and had then proceeded to slaugter a sixth of then Gold cloaks, including the captain of the city watch, and claimed Regency of Kings Landing. Now he, Barriston Lannett his house guard captian, and five more of his guards were marching their way to the red keep where he was certian the new "lord regent" was lounging in the throne room. As they walked he witnessed the aftermath of the night before, the streets were littered with the dead, Goldcloaks dragging the bodies of dead comrades out of gutters and off the street, the gutters ran with blood still drying from the slaughter. He almost gagged several times. He, and his entire retinue, were armed and armored in their Crakehall livery, Kevan now believing that Wilas intended him harm, after all his cousin had already claimed the throne by blood himself. After what felt like hours of trudging past scenes of violence, the small group made it to the red keep.

Kevan burst into the throne room, his face red with anger and his hazel eyes glaring from his skull, "I demand to know what the fuck has happened, who in the gods damned Seven kingdoms gives Wilas Tyrell, a traitor to his vows as Kingsguard, regency of Kings Landing! And FURTHERMORE who gave the right to a SLAUGHTER of a sixth of the Goldcloaks! I demand to know why the hell a traitor has been allowed to murder the commander and claim the Goldcloaks for himself!", Ser Kevan Crakehall was an impatient man, and he expected an answer from whoever the hell could answer him as soon as possible.

Daenys Targaryen was pissed, not normal pissed, but drunk man shitting his pants pissed. His son was taken from him by the kingsguard, he underestimated their loyalty to Aegon, bunch of dogs, sitting at his grave and starving to death. He'd spit on them if he had one of them... oh wait...

Daenys gave the man a kick to the ribs, throwing all his pent up aggresion at his brother into it. The man groaned, coughing from within the black bag placed over his head, he collapsed, if not for the two kingsguardsmen holding him up, Harrold Royce and Patereck, Royce was a traitor to House Royce, he fled his father's service to join Daenys, because in his own words; "The Master of Whisperers needs a guard, doesn't he?". Patereck was the captain of the ship they were sailing on, he'd been an old friend at the Red Keep, taking Daenys on rides around the Blackwater, he remembered one trip where they were set upon by pirates, trying to take the young prince for ransom, Daenys offered to give them a "favor" in exchange for his life, the simpletons nearly took him up on it too, but Paterick snuck up behind from below deck, and choked the leader of the group out with a piece of rope. The others tried to get behind him to stab at Paterick, but eventually, they just started trying to stab through the leader, once their swords were stuck in the man's flesh, his screams of agony prevented by the rope against his voice-box, Paterick pushed the man forwards, sending a bunch of pirates to the deck with a thud, he then drew a knife and stabbed the lot of 'em. He was a surprisingly formidable fighter for a merchant sailor, years of climbing had left him agile and with strong grip, his body toned to the point of absurdity, yet unscarred, unlike the "Handsome" knights he was usually stuck with, something Daenys very much enjoyed.

But enough about Paterick, this loyalist scum had been trying to sneak supplies from the Reach, from one of the plotters, too bad Daenys was still at sea. They shot all the men on his boat, including the loyalist himself, his arrow wound still dripping blood softly onto the wood below.
"Sorry, did that hurt?" Daenys said mockingly
"I'll be sure to make the next one more enjoyable for you." The man coughed, the arrow had hit him in the chest, it was a wonder he was still alive.
"You'll never have Aerys." The man painfully gasped out, his breath turning into a raspy cough. Daenys chuckled softly, oh how he loved this part.
"Take the hood off." Paterick nodded, placing a gauntleted hand on the man's face, lifting it to reveal a young man, the youngest member of the kingsguard, Harry Mallister, "The Young Blade". The arrow had pierced his lung, that much was clear from the gallons of blood leaving his nose and mouth, his face a deathly whitish pink. Daenys smiled and crouched down, resting his hands on his knees.
"Poor, poor, dying man, why doth thou suffer so? Why not thee Stranger taketh thine life in an instant." Daenys was having a little too much fun with this. Mallister however, wasn't
"I'm dying already, try not to kill me out of embarrassment for you, my prince." He tried to laugh, but it degenerated into a coughing fit, spitting up half a lung onto the wood floor.

Daenys smiled, slowly moving a hand behind Mallister's head, feeling his soft hair, he came in closer, his head at the young man's ear.
"It's too bad to see a strapping young lad like yourself die in such a horrible way, I'll give you nightshade, you'll die sleeping, just tell me where my son is." Daenys whispered in the young lad's ear, smiling the whole time.
"I'd rather die bleeding then tell you, Renly!" He then bit at Daenys, gripping his ear in his teeth, the pain was secondary to the shock, he yelled out, and the guards yanked Mallister away, along with a chunk of Daenys' left ear. Daenys was not amused to say the least.

---

A few hours later

---

"Honestly Mallister, I'm surprised you're still alive." Daenys threw an apple up and down in his hand, hitting things was hard work. Mallister looked up at him, ever paler, with fresh blood running down his now bare chest. He was a fine specimen, large pectorals and visible abdominal muscles, though the hole in his chest ruined that, along with the flayed left arm and the missing manhood, the eyes were the last to go, he screamed like a babe as they came out.
"There's nothing more you can do to me, you wouldn't risk killing me." Daenys laughed, a cackling laugh, he hated it, though changing it would ruin his many disguises.
"You're wrong Mallister, I'm torturing you for fun! I know all I need to know." Daenys said as if it were a relief to the both of them.
"I know how to impersonate you." Mallister's mouth widened, and his eyebrows shot down, if he had eyes, it's be a look of angry shock.
"They'd never believe you." He said, still defiant after all the pain. Daenys walked closer, making sure to stomp so that the blind man would know where he was.
"They will, I know they will." Daenys held out a hand to his front, and from a cloth sheath, Paterick drew a knife, Mallister didn't even know it was there.
"I would like to talk, but..." The sound of steel against bone, as Daenys' blade scraped across Mallister's spine, he did it calmly, like he was spreading butter on bread, slitting Mallister's throat like a pig. Mallister's eyes went wide, and he gasped for air that wasn't coming, blood shot all over the room, onto Daenys' favorite shirt.
"You seem to be a bit preoccupied at the moment, ta ta Mallister!" Daenys dropped the knife to the floor, and waved even though he knew Mallister couldn't see him.

The last thing Mallister would have seen as his vision went blurry, was Daenys, picking up his white cloak, and then the sound of sword through air. His head rolled across the bloody ground, as his body collapsed to the side, a proud knight, slain in an instant. Daenys giggled, knighthood, what a concept.

It was the verdant beauty of the Reach which entranced Jehrillia. Even as she made her way to the castle's gates, the sweet fragrance of a hundred thousand flowers rested in the air. The Yunkish woman's own rich perfumes were lost in the myriad of enchanted scents, as the smell of pollen washed over her.

The white stone walls of Highgarden were a stark contrast to the yellow brick enormity of Yunkai, and mud and grass stood in place of dirt and sand.

Jehrillia had her own gardens within the House of Zaaraq's villa, but they were a mere barren shadow of Highgarden's gorgeous tranquillity.

She smiled politely as the man who called himself 'Lord Paramount' welcomed her, after he was done staring at her dress-clad form.

"Greetings from the Wise Masters of Yunaki, Lord Tyrell," she cooed in her creamy sing-song voice "my journey was indeed draining, and some wine would be most welcome. Also, I have yet to sample the cuisine of the Reach."

Jehrillia extended one ring-clad hand, and two strapping male slaves, built like oxes and dressed in nothing but loincloths', stepped forwards from her entourage, carrying a great ceramic jug between them.

"Ghiscari yellow grape wine, from the vineyards of Essos." Jehrillia explained with a slick grin.

"A gift for our gracious host."

The obese easterner's flabby legs quivered as she stood before Garland.

Her gigantic body was squeezed into a tunic-like dress of brass scales, which exposed her wobbling thighs and the lower role of her pale stomach. Gold clasps were fastened around her raven tresses, and purple powder was painted across her lips and beneath her eyes.

Her fat toes were slid into sandals with silver buckles, and jewellery which jangled with each slight movement covered her jiggling form.

"Shall we proceed to this Council Hall, Lord Tyrell?" She asked "I'm eager to begin our business together."

Riverrun
Seban's trek through the halls was quick, his steps were quiet. Carrying out his father's order without delay to Maester Luvin. He didn't know what his father's plan was, but it did revolve around Lord Crakehal's claim to the throne and the army he'd raised to take King landing. He'd heard that much but was the man so vain to openly declare for throne and just try and take it out right. According to his history lesson's the Baratheon brother that had openly revolted and laid claim to the throne and had lost their lives in the process. And while he did have a legitimate claim to the throne, it was far too quick to declare. Least in his mind. The minds of old men were a fickle thing though and best not to question their motives, at least, his father's.

Pushing the tower door to find old Luvin busy with several tomes, skimming through the contents for some unknown reason. Seban wouldn't presume to ask him but only to deliver his father's order. Leaning back Maester Luvin pushed back his oak chair, creaking as the frail man leaned back.

"Ah, Seban, dare I ask what warrants this visit?" Strangely the elderly man of seventy knew what the visit meant. Scratching at his snow-colored beard, looking at the young heir with curiosity.

"Father wants ten thousand men raised at Harrenhal pending threat of war. Lord Blackwood is to take the command of the force until my arrival to the ruins. And this messages to Lord Crakehal." Exhaling a slight breath, seeing the wine at the maester table, pulling his chair close.

"May I?." Maester Luvin nodded to the heir. In turn, Seban poured a cup looking to the man who'd been as important as his father now as he was in his youth. Taking a sip before he looked back to the maester. "How much blood do you think will be spilt in this war for this damnable chair." He didn't want to know, but it was best to be prepared for the bloodshed that was to fall in Lord Tyget's conquest for the throne. Drinking the rest of Dornish wine before Seban had put down his goblet to listen.

"I cannot say, but the wars lords wage to be kings are often bloody and long. Your father is wise though, he'll choose the best course of action. He always does."

Nodding once to Maester Luvin as the answer settled. "I have an army to lead." Seban exhalling a breath, pushing himself from the spare chair in Luvin's chamber. A long ride was ahead of him, knowing it would lead him to war. Playing his father's game, trusting his instinct as the 'Old Fish' was never usually wrong about such things.



Approaching the Bloody Gate

Artor newly annoited as knight was on his first task set about by his father to the Vale. Auburn hair wisping in winds as his foxhide cloak subtly fluttered in the breeze. A retinue of ten men also followed the second son of Jullon Tully to the Vale of Arryn. In hopes of forging a mutual alliance that both great men could could utilize for a security of both their corners of the realm. More for his father's sake though, hoping that he could reforge the old Tully-Arryn alliance. Seeing as both great houses have held each other in high regard and have bennefited in such unions.

Exhaling a slight breath though as it largely depended on Lord Ellion's current temperment and how open in terms of marriage he is to such a union. Keeping his mount focused as the rugged rocky out crops started pushing further in on the small group, forcing the young fishes entourage closer together. But what wasn't expected was the large group of armed men at the bloody gate.

"What buisness do you have in the Vale." The guard over the Bloody Gates shouted out.

"I'm Artor Tully, Second son of Lord Paramount Jullon Tully. I come bearing a missive to the Lord of the Vale." Holding out the scroll of blue wax, the Tully fish pressed into the parchment. Ensuring that it was of the Riverlands.

The stone almost seemed black, with the windowless darkness overwhelming, even stifling the warm light from the scented candles. There may have been rats, the source of the absent skittering in the shadows, but one would not say for certain. There was a rough wood table to the side, though almost pointedly devoid of tools or implements that could come to rest on it fittingly. And in the center of the room, there was a man on a sturdy woman chair, and a woman kneeling before him…

“How is the water? Come on, don’t be troubling…let me see?” Driving her hands into the first pail of water, the chunks of ice thunked dully at the wood as she reached to the feet. Cold, like a carcass, but still alive as the man bound to the seat, which was bolted to the floor. It wasn’t entirely numb either, turning her face up to see the man’s eye widen at her off touch, fingers stroking along the wrinkles of the water soaked toes. If she had not told him outright of her intent to spill his guts, is the water wasn’t freezing…this might have been strangely erotic, having a dark haired beauty wash one’s feet…

Bound, but why was he gagged, if she intended some form of interrogation? Why soak his feet in cold water? Pulling her hand from the water to scoot forward, the woman quite suddenly rested her head on the man’s knee, her black hair spilled along his leg like ink, and letting out a sigh like a child might when in the comfortable presence of an attentive parent, “You are a traitor, Jarak Pryor. Trying to steal a Lady from her home, and away with you to serve the wrong heir to the throne. I know you helped Harrold Royce leave before you were caught…I know…”

Making a breathy sound, her lips grazed the material of his trousers, and the heat of her breath seeped through, “Such disgrace…so.much…” Pulling herself away, she gave him a small finger wave, returning her attentions back to his submerged feet. Long strands of hair tucked behind an ear, hand pulling a pale, cold foot to rest on the edge of the pail…the woman giggling quiet, as if afraid to wake something, as she reached under the skirts of her dress. She pulled out a dagger, blade shining and hilt made of some sort of bone. Humming, as she touched the side of the man’s foot, held the dagger, heard him screaming into his gag…

Tracing her finger along a particularly interesting wrinkle of the cold foot, “Each wrinkle had a tale to tell. Not many would care to know what I do, that this foot had been soaking for almost a day, taken care not to blacken at the ice…I can like this,” Bringing the dagger to the start of the wrinkled skin, she sliced along, skinning the smell section slowly, “I like smooth flesh better…but the rends once this warms, dries...they will be most interesting as well…”

Bloody Gate

With little difficulty, the usual falcon had been found at it's perch. Wrapping a piece of leather around the scroll and holding it out, at first the bird seemed as if to just perch on the length of it, but after a moment it's wings spread meaningfully before it was let to go off on it's own. From the Bloody Gate to the Eyrie in a fraction of the time a raven might, still, for a while they had been left waiting. The same one returned with a much shorter message, and the gate was raised for the Tully entourage. The blue and silver Arryn banners on the structure flapped as some of the stillness was broken by a fae wind. Though not all were familiar with the Vale, it did seem quite noticeable with the numbers…guarded. Five hundred was the number to hold the gate easily; any army coming at the gate in full force would be like try to stick one’s finger in a meat grinder.

There were even some soldiers patrolling the road in the Vale, and passage widen but still narrow. Midway through, a lone rider on a horse would ride out to them. A woman with long black hair…the dark blue skirts of her dress fluttered in the wind, and the matching petticoat seemed warm enough, the colors recognizably represented her House. Her head was raised high, though eyes shied away from others in a demure fashion, she seemed to be curious, “I bid you good day, my lord. I am...Arecel Stone, here to welcome you to the Vale.” Turning her horse around, her back to them, to lead them, “It would please me if you would follow along to the Eyrie. You must be parched, hungry, tired…ale, fresh valley fruit, bread and salt have been prepared.”

Gerald was home. It'd be around nine years since he last set foot in the Westerlands.

Honestly there wasn't much he missed.

It was just so boring down here, it was always a light shade of Orange no matter where you went. It didn't compliment his green eyes, not very much did. He was always an oddball, born last, he found a friend in Brynn, but in return Brynn was cold and rude, once he was taken away, Gerald drifted from the rest of his family, he entertained himself by traveling the riverlands, joining a mercenary group and learning to fight. After that, Gerald joined the nights watch, nobody cared, Tyget was busy learning to rule, and his father was half in the grave already. He met Brynn again, who went by Tyron now, he told Gerald that he never liked him, coldly, and then commanded him to clean the privy, he'd never forgiven Tyron. Now they sent him back to secure some men, why they trusted him, Gerald didn't know.

"Ey, Gerald, a host of Crakehall men is straight ahead, they look pissed." Gerald had already seen them, he was just wondering why they were there.
"Thanks Poxy, I could never have seen them." Gerald replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Poxy looked at him with a tilted head, like a dumb dog. Poxy was an orphan, raised by the brothers of the watch, when he was young a pox scarred his face, as they didn't know his name, Poxy had to do. He was also dumb as a giant with a sword stuck in his head.
Gerald sighed before slowing his speech and explaining himself.
"I could see the army, Poxy, I didn't need that." Poxy frowned, before smiling again.
"Maybe they'll sing us a song, welcome us, like Lords do." He smiled with eyes closed, a look he did often. Gerald rolled his eyes.
"No Poxy, they won't." He said, gripping the reins of his horse.
"Though my brother would be happy to sing to you if you asked nicely." He said, a devious grin appearing on his face. Poxy smiled, a gullible smile.
"Your brother's a bard?" A bard of battle maybe. Gerald thought to himself, giggling at the thought.
"No, but he tries, it may sound like yelling, but smile and clap." Gerald's face went red, and he held a fist to his mouth to prevent from laughing, curse his quick wit, it'd get him killed someday he knew, but for now this was too funny. Poxy laughed out loud, rubbing a gauntlet through his shoulder length brown hair.
"Man, you really believe me that gullible? I've heard of your brother, he'd have me killed in an instant if I tried that." Gerald's eyebrows went up, he didn't expect Poxy to be that smart, he had only heard of Poxy's stupidity, he'd never met him face to face until going out on this mission, apparently he drank a tankard of wine because the others told him it was magic, perhaps a lie?

Finally a Crakehall soldier noticed them, he was holding up the banner, a brown boar, a proud beast, quick to attack without provocation, similar to Tyget, Gerald had to smile at the comparison. The soldier walked out into the ground between the crows and the camp, planting his spear in the ground and saluting.
"Prince Gerald, it's been too long, I assume you'd like to speak to King Tyget." Prince? Gerald didn't know why, but he liked that.
"'King' Tyget is hopped up on his own power, tell him to stop this nonsense, and to meet me as an equal, as a brother, not a king." Poxy gave Gerald a supporting frown, nodding his head as he did, and turning to the guard.
"Tell him we're black brothers, not his servants, so we expect to be treated as guests." Gerald had to stay frowning, to appear intimidating, though his five-foot-nothing frame ruined that illusion, but he was surprised at Poxy's boldness. The soldier nodded and walked back into camp.

---

A minute later

---

The soldier returned, accompanied by a few more of them, walking in two single file lines, they stopped, stomping loudly in their metal boots. They backed away to the left and right, and a man rode between them, Gerald couldn't help but clap, a soldier gave him a look that said "Don't do that", Gerald didn't care, what was he gonna do? Beat him up?

Riding in on a horse, was obviously one of the captains of this base. though Gerald couldn't recognize the man, he was certainly old, quite large for an old man too.
"Gerald Crakehall." The man's voice was deep and gravelly, and Gerald felt like this was the kind of voice an old hero would have. Gerald shrugged, and climbed off of his horse, his black cloak billowing behind him. He felt so short, a trait of the Crakehalls, there was a reason they were compared to boars.
"Here." Gerald responded. The captain looked like a Tywin Lannister type, unable to smile and simply looking through everyone.
"You come to bring men, yet dare insult my king? I should cut you asunder for this... In fact..." He climbed off of his horse, drawing a blade. Gerald was shocked, he wasn't expecting a fight, but he quickly collected himself, he'd killed men much more experienced then this old man could hope to be.
"I will." He said, quietly. Gerald laughed out loud.
"Cocky now aren't we old man? Well then..." He drew his sword, and he heard Poxy doing the same.
"Let me show you the power of the watch!" He ran forwards, with Poxy running behind.

Winter is coming.

The Stark words played over and over in her mind as she watched the thick snowflakes flutter down from a steel grey sky. Ellaine smiled gently when a few of those flakes brushed over her warm cheeks and nose.

More like winter is upon us, she thought while she glanced around the courtyard. Great drifts slanted up against the surrounding walls even higher than the already ankle deep snow that covered the ground. She pulled her grey wool cloak tighter around her shoulders and felt the softness of the thick white fur that lined it brush against the exposed skin of her neck. They were Stark colors, grey and white. Colors she was always proud to display, although the gown she wore was a deep peridot that matched her Mormont eyes almost perfectly.

A middling woman of almost five and thirty, Ellaine may be a Stark, but her look was all Mormont, after her mother. Creamy skin, coarse black hair, and deep crystalline eyes only enhanced her natural and undeniable beauty. Yet that beauty was often subdued, for her clear eyes were constantly tinged with sadness and the corners of her lovely mouth almost never turned up into a smile. Only in moments of sheer contentedness, moments like these, where she could forget the heartbreaking reality she lived in nearly every day that her true radiance shown through in one of her smiles.

Enjoying her lightheartedness, Ellaine walked around the curve of the library tower in the direction of the kitchens. The noises of her home, Winterfell, danced around her like a comforting melody. It filled her with memories of a childhood spent chasing butterflies, weaving crowns of daisies with her good friend Clara, and reading tales of knights and their lady loves under the shaded trees of Bear Island. Ellaine had been born a child of summer, born in the spring, but living so far north meant that she was more than familiar with snowfalls and stormy weather. But the days of late had become much shorter, the nights colder, and wind had a particular bite to it that she had never felt before.

"Lady Ellaine!"

She turned her head towards the deep voice that called to her and allowed another small smile. Farlen, the kennel master at Winterfell, trudged forward through the snow wearing a grin that he seemed to only save for her. Directly at his heels was her direwolf, Gale. Her grey fur looked freshly groomed and bore no trace of the elements that continued to pile up all around them. Like her owner, Gale possessed a quiet grace and refinement. For a beast she had impeccable manners, which was why Farlen tolerated her presence in the kennels from time to time.

"My lady, I thought I would ensure your guardian's safe return," Farlen gave a short bow of his head before reaching up – for Gale was the size of a pony – and patting her shoulder. “That, and Lord Rickard asks for your presence in his solarium. He wishes to speak with you about the upcoming tourney.”

Ellaine's laughter was light but full, and rang like tinkling bells through the icy air. "I doubt very much that Gale is in need of any protection. I will be with our Lord momentarily."

"As you say, my lady. Out enjoying the snow, I see," he observed jovially. Gale padded over to her side and licked her hand. Her tongue was warm and wet, the roughness a contrast to Ellaine’s skin, but she welcomed the contact.

"Yes. And the peace and quiet, while it lasts." She tried not to frown.

Farlen noticed the switch in her demeanor and his eyes became sad, his smile falling from his lips. Ellaine ignored his pitying gaze and inclined her head towards him slightly. "Good day, Farlen," she whispered before gliding away, Gale at her side.

She knew she had been short with him and she honestly felt badly for it. But she knew that if she told him what she really felt about what her lord husband, Rickard Stark, was troubled that it would draw more questions that she was too personal and too depressing to answer. And she wasn't prepared to discuss those feelings with anyone, let alone the kennel master. Not that her predicament was a secret here in Winterfell. Dwelling on that fact only darkened her mood further.

The grey curtain walls of Winterfell rose about her, broken by the round crested towers. According to her husband, the Winterfell of the Five Kings had been much tinier. Now it rose as a grim reminder over the tundra of the North, as if challenging the Ironborn, or its own nobles to try to tear it down. The winds returned stronger, harsher. The horses spooked in the stables. This place was a three hundred year old grave - and she was willingly living there. It still terrified people.

She made her way back into the central keep, passing off her winter furs to the first servant she laid eyes on. The journey to her husband’s study was not a long one and Ellaine knew the route well after all these years. The torch sconces burned bright, adding to the scant warmth the castle trapped.

It was to her surprise as she stepped into the hall to find the door locked, a single knight standing guard before it.

"My lady, you look a true northern vision."

Ellaine turned slightly and saw her husband slip from the shadows in the stairwell at the end of the hall. A smirk came to her face unbidden when she saw how startled the young knight who stood guarding the Solarium door became at his sudden appearance. Rickard ginned widely.

"I have come to escort you to your chambers, my lady." Rickard offered his arm in a playful gesture of chivalry. She took his arm, dismissing the flustered knight at his door. Rickard threw a neutral stare after the knight, before leaning in close to his wife. “Completely useless that one is. Didn’t even check to see if your Lord Husband was in the room before he stood post. Then I watched him pick the filth from his nose and scratch his arse till you arrived. I think he’s a Whitehill boy.”

Ellain had to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back her mirth. “Why Lord Stark, I could never go with such a man who would dismiss his bannermen so easily! I may have to reconsider your offer.”

"I shall await your response eagerly, my lady. But see that you do not keep me waiting too long." With a smile he turned on his heel and strode away, pulling her along with him.

“Such a brazen rogue, pulling me from my lord’s summons!”

"Well, he certainly thinks highly of himself," Rickard remarked drily.

"He's vile," Ellaine said before she could think to stop herself. Her hand immediately shot to her mouth and she looked around her, afraid someone had heard besides them. When Rickard began to laugh uproariously she glared at him.

"This one sees people for who they truly are, I think," her husband jested, as he wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. "The Old Ones save us all then, for we are doomed,” a rare full smile that Ellaine could not return.

Rickard walked across their room and added more wood to the dying fire as Ellaine flitted about lighting candles and lamps. The room was soon bathed in a warm orange glow as the wood hissed and popped merrily in the hearth.

“This isn’t about the tourney, is it?” she braved at last.

There was a faint snuffling the door, before Gale and her sire, Keen, Rodrick’s own direwolf came padding into the room. Ever watchful, ever protective, they took their rest across the door's entrance way. As quiet as his own master, Keen warily watched the shuttered windows with an intelligence that betrayed its more bestial form.

"There are always wild things lurking about when we least expect it. We are never truly alone," the Warden reminded her as he began to disrobe. She knew better than to trust that none of the other Lords had no spies about this great castle, even though it was not theirs to command.
She would not put it past her Lord Brother either.

“I wary the man who threatens this ones pups. They will be shorter a throat for it.”

"She does not have that kind of nature. She is too gentle," Ellaine disagreed as she stroked Gale's head.

"She is her mistress in animal form," Rickard concluded with a knowing nod. He gave the bitch a scratch behind the ear that she seemed to enjoy greatly. "She keeps her secrets much as you do, but her act as the tame bear belying her nature as the worried wolf," he murmured around a smile.

"I cannot help it," she confided quietly, looking around again. “It has been four months. I know not if he is well, if he is alive…”

"Guard yourself only when we are in public. I pray that you will always feel free to tell me exactly what you think. I find it extremely refreshing, if not highly entertaining at times." Rickard did not even try to dodge her hand when it struck out at his arm, lightly.

“Out with it, before the suspense turns my hairs as white as the mountains.”

Rickard's worried glance towards the chamber door confirmed her thoughts.

“Another of your secrets then?” Ellaine asked with no small degree of irritation. Rickard offered a bitter smile in reply, the man gesturing towards their bed where four pieces of parchment in tight script lay spread across. Messages brought by ravens. "By this time next week, all the realm will know."

“The King and Queen-?” she stopped her tongue just in time, the first of the parchment dropping from her fingers in shock. There was no knowing whose ears listened against the door. Rickard nodded gravely, and Ellaine snatched up the remaining messages.

A Crakehal rebellion.

A Tyrell host to seize Kings Landing.

A tremendous fleet of longships spotted up the coast of Cape Kraken.

The messages found themselves quickly burned in their bedroom hearth, knowing full well they had been memorized by their intended. Rickard sat upon their bed, fingers folded across his lips as he glared in concentration at a map of the North against a far wall.

“Bring him home,” she whispered sharply. Rickard could only shake his great shaggy head.

“Even if I knew where he was, I could no-“

"RICKARD!" Ellaine shouted suddenly as she watched her husband go pale. The sudden fury of the Mormonts was something to behold, but nothing compared to the storm that raged inside of her when her eldest cub in danger. That was nothing next to the words she uttered next. “And the timbers groaned, River wind softly moaned,” she reminded him sternly.

Her husband was silent for a few moments, before nodding in assent. “I’ll write the ravens tonight. It has been six score years since the Patrol was last gathered. With war upon the Kingdoms… the rangers may need to march behind their First in force.”

It took a few moments before Ellain came over and placed herself across his lap. A contented sigh escaped him as she ran her fingers through his hair. They stayed in silence a while before Rickard could speak his fears.

“Do you trust me?” Rickard asked her from behind.

She looked up at him. “With my life.”

“My love, it is not your life I ask you to entrust with me but that of our children.”

"Do not tell me what scheme runs through your mind. I cannot promise you will leave this room with your manhood were I too know." Ellaine kissed his brow and rested her smooth cheek on his bearded one.

"If there was another way," he started to say, but could not finish. There was no use in bemoaning what will be.

"First a mediocre harvest, now a southern war. Gods be good, how will be feed everyone and still be able to last the winter?" Ellaine worried aloud. "And Tomin is to marry Elwen Glover when she flowers, but that could be anytime now as she is three and ten."

"So young yet," Rickard mused. "Compared to Tomin who is nearly twenty."

"Yes, my love, but she will grow. Say prayers they both grow more before they wed," Ellaine said around a small smile.

"My prayers are of a different nature." His tone was serious again. He ran a hand through his tangled mane, frowning in thought.

"Wait until it is Evan we must make a match for," Rickard bemoaned with a tired sigh. Their youngest took as well to the idea of ruling Winterfell as his older brother did. What he would do for sons that actually wanted his titles.

"May the Southron Seven save us all when that day comes. I do not think the Old Gods will hear my prayers over his objections," he replied wearily, but Ellaine laughed warmly and kissed his cheek.

"We will need to make haste with our responses," Ellaine murmured against his cheek. “If the Ironborn do sail-“

“Fetch me my quill and ink,” The Lord of House Stark had eyes only for the fireplace where the messages had been long since reduced to ash. “And they will meet their God soon enough.”

King Tyget was on his horse, galloping through the camp at speed, his Kingsguard mounted and riding to either side of him. The sounds of combat rang from the front of the camp, and Tyget was lucky enough to have been close when the sounds began. He and the Kingsguard rounded a final tent, a rather unexpected sight playing out before them. Three Crakehall men dead before a pair of... crows... one of which was engaging the captain of this detachment. Tyget almost ordered his Kinngsguard to kill everyone involved, but instead shouted a different order, "STAND DOWN!", the Crakehall men immediately turned to their King, the captain taking a sword hilt to the jaw from one of the crows and being dashed to the ground. Tyget looked at his men and the crows, his helmet was on but the fury was writ on what of his face could be seen, "What is the meaning of this? Explain crows."
Gerald looked up from the captain, his frown being replaced with a wide grin, and he stood straight, his sword being put back into his sheath, beckoning for Poxy to do the same, he gave a questioning glance, before complying. Gerald removed his cloak, it fell to the ground in a heap, allowing his face to be seen more easily, he was surprised he hadn't removed it earlier, though these "Warriors" barely held a candle to two crows, and the cape proved useful in distracting the fools, they were like lambs to the slaughter, though the captain provided a little fun. Nevermind that, his brother was present, it was time for a reunion.
"Hello brother, it's been a while hasn't it? I think it was something like nine years or so, nine years that you spent making yourself richer, that I don't mind, what I do mind is you wasting our time on a war so pointless it boggles my mind, I've seen first-hand what is up there, and you need to join us, there won't be a kingdom to come back to if you don't." Gerald pointed at his brother.
"Remove that helm! I want to see your face when I speak to a traitor to our family's good name!" He said, getting angrier and angrier with every word. Poxy simply clasped his hands together in front of his thighs, and whistled.
Tyget sat on his horse, unmoving as his brother finished speaking, before dismounting the beast, Ser Payne and Falwell following suit without an order ever being given. He turned to Gerald, stalking towards the smaller man slowly, unlatching his helmet as he did, before removing it and dropping to the ground, coming to stand right before his crow brother. "It is a sad day, when a crow deems himself worthy to judge a King. And if anyone in our family is a traitor its you Gerald, running off to join the crows when our bastard Lannister half brother was exiled there.", before even the crow could react Tyget had drawn Widow's Wail and had it at Geralds throat. Ser Payne and Falwell again drew their own blades just as fast, both moving to the side of their king and facing Poxy. For a moment it seemed like Tyget would skewer the crow then and there, before he began to chuckle. Such a rasping sound it was, as if his voice had not been used this way for many a year, and was a terrible thing. His men looked at their King quite confused, but it was the old captain who spoke up, "Y- your Grace? The cr-", Tyget turned and swiftly kicked the downed man in the gut, doubling him over, "Quiet you lowborn imbecile, you would dare attack a crow in the camp of your king? Get out of my sight you disgusting farmhand, go and clean yourself up... and get these bodies out of my sight NOW!", the men scrambled to do as they were bid, Tyget returning his blade to its sheathe and walking to Gerald, offering his hand, "We have much to discuss brother, but I'd rather not do so here. Follow me to my tent, you and your... comrade will be given wine and food.", he said before turning and moving to his tent, expecting to be followed.
Gerald looked on as his brother left, frowning, he hadn't expected it to go that way, but it turned out well, surprisingly.
"Are we really following him? How do we know he's not just going to slay us for killing his men?" Poxy chimed in, his eyes focusing on the many archers posted on the walls. Gerald turned to him, smiling and crossing his arms.
"Because I know Tyget, he pretends to be cold, but he's more emotional then he seems." The words surprised Gerald as they exited his mouth, to be honest, he barely believed them himself. Poxy didn't look satisfied, planting his arms akimbo and walking slowly past Gerald's right shoulder.
"And why does that make you think he won't kill us? He obviously blames you for leaving his court, and he thinks very little of me from what I can tell." He said, turning back towards Gerald. Gerald was confused, he thought Poxy to be stupid, brave to a stupid extent, not cautious and more a thinking man, the rangers obviously smoked too much of whatever plants they found on their rangings. But Gerald had to consider what Poxy had to say, he hadn't seen his brother in nearly a decade, an his first response was... confusing to say the least.
"...Seven hells, you're right, he's obviously not happy with me, and you're just a lowborn..." Poxy's face twisted in anger, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to be shut down by Gerald's thoughts.
"...Well, even if he is planning to kill me, it wouldn't bode well for his reputation, and a candidate to sit the Iron Throne needs a good reputation, so I say we follow him, no matter how arrogant and self-serving he is." Poxy looked skeptical for a second, before grudgingly shrugging and giving his close-eyed smile.
"Maybe he'll finally give us that song we were promised!" Gerald rubbed his forehead, frowning under his gauntlet.
"No, no he won't, and I never promised anything." Gerald turned away, and walked towards the tent, Poxy frowned, putting his head down and walking after him, kicking stones as he did. Gerald walked quickly, nearly bumping into a few soldiers on the way, eventually he saw his brother ahead, and he called after him, moving to a jog.
"By the Seven, how do you walk so fast? It's like racing a Dornish sand steed!" He slowed to a walk as he neared his brother, breathing more heavily than before.
Tyget's smile had disappeared now, his neutral stare back on his face as he neterd his tent, his brother panting next to him from having to run to catch up with the King. He turned to his Kingsguard, simply waving them outside as Poxy entered the tent, panting a bit less than Gerald but panting nonetheless, "If the rest of the Nights watch is as out of shape as you two I may as well hand the wall to the wildlings. Sit.", as he gave the command he gestured to the heavy Ironwood table surrounded by oak chairs. He walked to a smaller table with several glasses and a cask of wine, filling all three and placing two before his brother and the other crow, 'You'll find this Dornish wine superior to watever swill you drink up at the wall, I swear it by the old gods and the new.", he smiled before seeing the crows were still apprehensive. He sighed, and downed his entire glass, giving the two a look, and moving back to the cask to re-fill it, "It's not poisoned. If I wanted you two dead I'd have had Falwell skewerd you Gerald and Payne cut off your friends head. Now drink your damn wine and sit down.", the King moved to his own seat, pulling a quill and parchment to him as he sat down,
"I know your here for what I promised,", as he talked he began to quickly write something on the parchment, before handing it to Gerald, "Take this writ to Casterly rock, and then Crakehall. They'll provide the steel and men I promised. Now, with that out of the way, I would like first hand accounts of what is happening at the wall, and how our half brother, all bastard Brynn is. How did he become the Lord commander anyway?", Tyget sat straight faced across from where he expected Gerald to sit.
Gerald looked at his brother, pursing his lips and sitting in the chair, it was surprisingly comfortable. He took a swig of the wine, soft and delicious, just how he liked it.
"Well, there's not much of a story to that, Brynn went up north, lost his hair, read some books, boom, lord commander. He also doesn't go by Brynn anymore, he prefers Tyron, apparently it better represents his Lannister heritage or some bullshit." He took another swig, as he did, Poxy unbuckled his cloak, hanging it over his chair and sitting down.
"They call me Poxy by the way, 'cause my face is fucked." He chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair and downing the wine. Gerald leant over the table, resting his head on his fist.
"Right now the Watch has around 25 thousand men, not enough to stop the North, never mind the walkers, an-"
In the midst of his entence Tyegt's squire Banefort burst through the tent flaps, two letters in his hand, "Ravens arrived your grace, two letters.", the boy placed them on the table before Tyget who simply nodded and waved the boy out. Looking down at the two letters he saw the seals of Tully and Stark, two letters he had been awaiting with bated breath. He would move to open the Tully letter first, glancing at Gerald, "Please continue, 25 thousand aye? Better than the time of the five kings at least.", as he began to read the Tully letter.
Gerald looked on, with a concerned look on his face, taking a sip of the wine, and continuing.
"Aye, 25 thousand, most of 'em haven't even said their vows yet, a batch came in when Aegon put down that revolt in Flea Bottom, some can hold swords, others'd be better holding hoes and scraping horse shit off the walls." Poxy interrupted, holding out a hand and signaling for more wine. Gerald elbowed him, you shouldn't ask for more than you're given at a meeting, it's bad manners, though Poxy'd never been at a real meeting. Gerald cleared his throat, placing a fist to it as he did.
"We're grateful for any help we can get, though I'd be happy for you to put down your ambitions for just a second and come slay ice-beasts with us, it'll be just like when you used to spar with Brynn, and I sat in the castle watching, woefully unable to join in, of course it won't be just like that, it'll have more of me shitting my pant-"
As Gerald had been talking Tyget had been reading the Tully note, finishing the short letter before Gerald so eloquently mentioned horse shit and had picked up the letter from house Stark, not pausing as he listed to Gerald and ignored his low born friend. At first the letter was dissapointing, seeming to suggest Lord Rickard would remain neutral, until the phrase, "A neutrality I am loathe, but able to break", catching Tygets attention... it would hold it the rest of the letter. As he read Tyget's face twisted into a scowl, slowly but surely rage filled his eyes until his brother brought up more shit, and Tyget stood growling, drew Widow's Wail and slammed it point first into the table. The thick Ironwood, the strongest wood in all seven kingdoms, didn't stop the blade until it was embedded up to its middle in the table. Tyget picked up his wine, downed it, and slammed the glass into the table shattering it, a shout escaping his throat, "HE WANTS MY DAUGHTER AND MY BLADE DOES HE! MAYBE I SHOULD MARCH MY MEN NORTH AND-", he growled again and wrenched his sword from the table, now pacing angrily in his tent, before fixing Gerald with a look that could kill a deer with ferocity alone, and pointed at the letter, "Read that letter! Out loud!"
When Tyget yelled out and slammed the table, Poxy had fallen out of his chair in shock, he moved to stand, but upon seeing the King's rage, he remained where he was. Gerald was simply annoyed by the outburst, he'd had some things he wanted to say that he couldn't now. Tyget told Gerald to read the letter, and he complied, giving a crooked eyebrow to his brother as he did, as if to question his brother's reaction.
"I doubt that was neccessary brother, it's just a letter, let's see here..." The crinkling of paper in Gerald's hands filled the tent. He held a finger to his temple as he read, forgetting for a second that it was supposed to be out loud.
"Oh, sorry, let's see here...'Lord Tyget Crakehall, Warden and Lord Paramount of the West,
I write this to inform you that I do not acknowledge any claim you possess over the Iron Throne or the Seven Kingdoms. It is entitled to you by neither lineage nor inheritance, especially with the brother of the King still alive. Nor do I acknowledge the claim of Daenys, for the Tyrells claim to sieze the throne for the 'true Targaryean heir'. Not too bad, just not joining you, didn't realize not having a few men angered you. Now... Neutrality, loathed, Seven hells, this man is wordy, you could cut out a whole paragraph of this and not lose any... Gods... This man is mad!... This is not an alliance, this is Stark asking for your lands and your birthright! The ironborn? Why would we commit men to his fight?... Alright." Gerald gripped the letter in both hands and ripped it asunder, tearing it into many fine pieces. He shot to his feet, leaning over and pointing at the other letter.
"If that other letter is half as mad as this one then we have more pulp for our mills, Stark is sending an ultimatum, he has his sword back, he has a stable kingdom, and yet he asks for all that you have, all that we have! I may be a brother of the watch, but even I'd spit on Stark as he passed me, I wish I had more words to describe how... infuriating this letter is... I should gather all the brothers originally from the west and ride south!... No... That's mad... But... I'd...Hmm" Gerald slumped back into his chair and became lost in his thoughts again.
Tyget's knuckles turned white he as he gripped Widow's wail and listened to the letter again, Stark was a damn mad man for sure... he asked not only for Tyget's own blade, and for his men to march back to Lannisport and abandon their march to Kings Landing, all of that he may have been able to stomach. But then, he had the GALL to ask for his ten year old daughter as what amounted to a HOSTAGE and then wed her to his son... Tyget truly did have half a mind to march on the north... but then he breathed deeply several times... surprised by his brothers concern on the affairs of his house.
He sheathed his blade and turned slowly to his brother, before looking at Poxy, "Ser Payne, Ser Falwell,", both Kingsguard stepped into the tent, blades sheathed, "Seize the common crow.", before either brother could react Payne and Falwell had Poxy in a vice, holding him up and unable to break their hold,
Tyget raised his hand to tell Gerald to remain seated, "Do not rise Gerald... I have an offer for you.",
Tyget leaned on the table, looking his brother in the eyes, "I am the true king of the seven Kingdoms... do you know what power that grants me? I may pardon any man of any crime, revoke any oaths, break any bonds of any man in my Kingdom... clearly you were not made for the Nights watch... your a Crakehall, the West is in your blood. Let me release you from your oaths, right here, right now. Let me make you a Carkehall again, and you can lead my army to Kings landing. The Norths support is... to important to simply refuse Stark, but I have no intention of allowing the Tyrells to strengthen their hold on the throne... I will need a man here, to lead my army while I crush the Iron born and negotiate with Lord Stark. I know your more skilled at strategy than my hopeless son and I'd rather have family leading my army than any lord... so, what do you say? How about you return to your family? And become the brother of the King."
Gerald reacted to the kingsguard detaining the other crow by standing up slightly, then sitting back down when asked, he listened to the King's proposal with his finger on his temple, frowning and yet not dismissing it. Upon the end of the king's speech, Poxy yelled out angrily.
"You fools! You'll die screaming! I'll be sure of it!" He struggled against the kingsguard, getting a few kicks and punches as he did, he didn't stop trying, no matter how much he was punished. Gerald held out a hand, signalling him to stop, Poxy did, barring his teeth angrily, Gerald stood up, as proud as a lord, and began to speak.
"I will, but, on a few conditions, firstly, you will release Poxy, and he will be the one to bring your men to the wall, if he tells of my betrayal, order them to kill him." He looked at Poxy as he said that, and Poxy's face crunched into a grimace.
"BOLTON! YOU ARE WORSE THAN ANYONE IN THE WATCH, YOU ARE A FREY! YOU ARE A TRAITOR! AND I WILL CUT YOU LIMB FROM LI-" Falwell pulled back a gauntleted fist, slamming it into the young crow's face, knocking out a tooth. Falwell then lifted him up, preventing him from doubling over.
"You'll speak more correctly to a lord crow, bastard!" Poxy hung his head, bleeding from his mouth, and moaning pitifully. Gerald looked at the young crow, pity visible on his face.
"My second condition, two hundred stags, if I do not get them within the week, I'll leave, and try my meddle in the warzone. My third condition, I will be called Prince, and will be your heir if your son happens to fall in battle." He then held his hand over the table, offering it to Tyget.
"Deal?"
Tyget smiled, chuckling a bit more in his raspy way, "Two hundred stags? Brother youve been at the wall to long, a Crakehall wont take a shit for less than 200 gold dragons! You'll have the wealth of your family, and an army to lead!", his smile dissapeard as he approached Poxy, looking the man in the eyes, "Poxy right? You will take this writ to the Castellans of Casterly Rock and Crakehall castle. They will give you steel enough for 25,000 men, and you will take your pick of our dungeons. 50 of my men will accompany you, if anyone asks you are the only crow the lord commander sent. When you return to the wall, you will tell lord commander Tyron Lannister that Gerald was slain in a bandit attack along the road. If you do not do any of the things I just told you to, my men will cut you down, and the wall gets nothing. If you ever try to tell the lord commander, my men will cut you down, cut him down, and take control of the nights watch... do I make myself clear Poxy?", he would then step back, and wave his hand to signal Poxy be released. As they did the Kingsguard stepped back and drew their blades, in case he tried something stupid.
Poxy held the body parts that the guardsmen had gripped tightly, before nodding and speaking to the King
"You make yourself very clear M'lord, not a word to anybody, I swear it on my vows... on my life I mean." He crouched down, sore from the beating he got, spitting out blood from his missing tooth. Gerald looked at Poxy, pitying the young man, before walking over, crouching next to him, and telling him a few words of wisdom.
"It'll be fine, just as you do everything he told you to, got it? He said, in a tone that he often used around children. Poxy nodded several times in quick succession, a weak little weasil in a scary place, he'd no actions to make that didn't involve him being a traitor in some way, and Gerald nearly felt bad.
Nearly. Gerald turned to the King, putting a hand on his chin.
"As I am a member of the royal family, I'd assume that gives me the ability to order your kingsguard, as such, Falwell! Payne! Haul this crow to the stables, make sure he follows orders." Gerald turned away as he gave the order, the kingsguards looked at eachother, shrugged, and dragged the young crow out of the tent. His face one of fear and confusion, before the tent closed off his face. Gerald turned back to the king, sitting back down.
"I'm sorry that I sent them away, but we both know how safe we really are." He said quietly, giving his brother a smile.
"So, any other plans before we wrap this up?" He inquired, placing his hands on the table, and finishing the last swig of that wine.
Tyget nodded to his brother, "Just a few parts of my plan... though this has changed things considerably. I will ride first to Lannisport with 15,000 of our men, leaving you 35,000, more than enough to take Kings Landing. I will then ride to Crakehall and...", Tyget gripped his sword hard again, before letting his useless rage subside, "Prepare my daughter for... *sigh* for wardenship to Lord Stark and marriage to his son.", Tyget slumped in his chair, he had expected to allow his daughter to choose her own husband... though that luxury had just been taken from her... he snapped at his squire, who had walked in following the Kingsguards exit, to fill a second glass. Once he had it, he downed it before continuing.
"My son, who may get along better with you, though I expect you'll be as disapointed as I when...", he snapped at Banefort again, who hurriedly left the tent, "When you learn of his... tastes. You and he will march to Harrenhal, where my son will break off with 2,000 men and meet Jullon Tully's son and his 10,000 Rivermen. If my son is as charming with Lord Tully as he is with everyone else I believe the Riverlands will join with you by the time you reach Kings landing. If our cousin Kevan is able to do what he must, the gates will be open for you. Slaughter any Tumbelton who does not throw his blade down at your coming, and try to not kill Wilas if you can avoid it." Tyget stood now, looking his newly reinstated brother in the eyes, "I'll officially break your vows in the morning, in front of our vassals. For now... go get some real damn clothes on, and get rid of that filthy crow garb. I'll have armor for you tomorrow. Now, rest, you rode a long way and alot has chaged for you Prince Gerald.", Tyget looked at Ser Payne who had just returned, and motioned for him to take Gerald to his own tent. After they were gone Tyget filled his glass again and downed it... he couldn't get his daughter out of his mind... maybe she'd like the north... she always talked about how she liked the direwolves... Tyget felt the tears and wiped them away, he was King damnit, a King wept for no one... But he did anyways.

King Daenys Targaryen: Dropping all Pretenses

As the hot liquid dripped on his wound, Daenys grimaced, it was helping him, but it hurt none the less.
"Seven hells that burns!" Daenys complained. The maester laughed, a soft chuckle, continuing to drip the liquid onto the wound.
"It's stopping infection M'lord, you're lucky you got to me so soon." He said, not concerned at all with what was happening. Daenys wasn't happy, his plan had failed and his son was still missing, and he got a pretty nasty cut as a result. The maester walked to the right, looking to get a tool of some kind.
"So m'lord, what is your next move?" He said, while looking through the many metal tools at his disposal. Daenys thought about this question, what was his next move? Things had certainly changed, his spies in the Westerlands had reported of Tyget Crakehall's brother, a crow, travelling to the Crakehall host, and not returning to the wall alongside the other crow who travelled with him, some suggested murder, but Daenys knew well enough that was not the answer, kinslaying is a fool's way out... the hypocrisy of that statement was not lost on him. He suspected Gerald Crakehall of being a deserter to the Watch, though he had no solid evidence, for now, Tyrell had to die, he was the most powerful loyalist, the one who was making the biggest move, so, his next move was to kill him.

How to do so however, was a difficult problem.

"My good maester, my plans for the future involve killing Lord Tyrell, he is my most dangerous opponent, and with his death, the Tyrell power block will collapse in on itself, how I do that is a question I have yet to answer." The maester stopped rummaging through the tools for a second, holding a hand to his long black beard and stroking it.
"I have a suggestion." He said, his baritone nearly shaking the walls. Daenys pushed himself up with his left arm, the one that hadn't been injured, he looked at the maester's tall frame, frowning.
"And what is that?" he asked, quietly just in case any spies were listening. The maester turned back, planting his hands together behind his back and walking to the foot of Daenys' sickbed. He leant over and suggested an answer.
"Enter his household, kill him from within, make sure house Tyrell never recovers." Daenys couldn't help but feel like the maester was being insincere, he'd been in Tyrell lands for half his life, forging his links, why would he betray them? Then, Daenys' face lit up, and a wide grin appeared on his face.
"Finish the treatment, I have work to do." The maester stood back up, walking back over to his tools, and grabbing some bandages. He walked back over, tenderly placing Daenys' arm over his chest, and wrapping the bandages over his shoulder. His right arm was now immobile, but he still had his left.
"Try not to move it too much, and avoid straining yourself." The maester said, a hand on his beard, he then offered Daenys a hand. Daenys looked at the man for a second, before gripping his hand at the wrist, and pulling himself to his feet.

The maester nodded, walking over to his tools, and beginning to collect them. Daenys looked around the room, noticing a scalpel on the bed's nightstand, he grinned, taking it, and stomping over to the maester. He placed the blade to the maester's neck, laughing as he did, the maester stood still, not seeming afraid.
"I'm being a maester today." Daenys laughed pushing the knife closer and closer to the man's throat, he sighed, dropping his tools onto the table.
"You just don't get it, do you Daenys? The killing, the nonstop killing, it'll lead you down the path to failure, like Bolton and those who came after." Daenys' smile disappeared, and he felt his teeth clench inside of his mouth, he pushed the cold blade ever closer to the maester's throat.
"What do you know? You treat wounds and act as a midwife, you don't understand Westerosi politics!" He said, shoving the maester around as he said his piece. The maester sighed again, dropping his head a bit.
"I know enough about you to understand that this will hurt." He then proceeded to elbow Daenys' injured arm, the pain was immediate and powerful, like if he had just received the wound.

It was painful enough to force Daenys to drop the scalpel. He fell to one knee gripping his injured arm tightly and gasping.
"The archmaester was right about you, you're a monster who cares not about others. I should have killed you the second I was assigned to your service. Now you pay." Daenys looked up, to see the maester standing over him. He shot up and yelled, throwing a punch at the maester's face. He simply fell to the left, effortlessly avoiding the blow.

Shit

The maester put a hand on Daenys' shoulder, pushing down while also placing a leg behind Daenys' own legs. Daenys crashed into the floor head first, his vision blurred and he felt lightheaded. He tried to stumble back onto his feet, only to meet a kick to the chest, slamming back into the oak floor.
"Yell for your guards! I'll toss them out the window, I'll kill them with a finger! My knowledge of the human body means I know exactly what to do to end it's motion, the only reason you still live is because I'd rather see you suffer." Daenys chuckled to himself at this boast, he was perfectly aware of what was happening, he just had to wait for his chance. The maester was not pleased with this chuckle, kneeling and grasping his long, clammy fingers around Daenys' neck.
"Am I a joke to you? Do you feel like you're winning? What's so funny to you?" Amongst his gasps, Daenys found a way to respond, chuckling with what breath he had, and looking into the maester's dull, brown eyes.
"My victory is what is funny." As the maester held his throat, Daenys used his free hand to gouge his thumb into the maester's right eye. As blood left his eye, the maester screamed and stood back up, his eye felling out of his socket and rolling along the ground. He slammed into the table that held his tools, knocking them onto the floor, a clanging noise filling the room. As a result of all the noise, two kingsguard kicked down the door, swords drawn.

Upon seeing the King on the floor with blood on his face, and an eyeless maester on the table near the far side of the room, the guards stomped around the king, who looked up to watch what was unfolding. The guardsmen proceeded to lean the maester over the table, stabbing him repeatedly until he stopped struggling. His blood ran along the floor, stopping right around Daenys' face. He looked at this, smiled, and pushed himself off of the floor, gripping his stomach due to the bruising it had received from the maester's kick. He stood up fully, coughing a bit, before speaking.

"Dispose of the body, and clean the cloak, I'll be using it."

---

Later that night

---

Daenys walked through Bloodstone, a pirate town filled with unsavory characters and rats, both the human kind and the animal kind, the buildings on either side of him collapsing due to poor upkeep, and the road filled with missing stones and large rocks blocking the way. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, leaving it a very pleasant night, though the smell of shit in the gutters and bodies in the alleys wafted over Daenys' nose every time the breeze washed over.

As a result of his fight, Daenys had to use a cane, he had badly sprained his ankle when he fell, though he would be without the cane in a matter of weeks, his arm however, had been badly damaged by a blow from Artys Velaryon, he had tried to impersonate young Mallister, but Valaryon saw through it, and gripped the blade of his sword and swung the pommel into his arm, denting Mallister's armor, cutting open the arm, and breaking the bone. It'd take months to recover, though he would be able to use the arm again. He had a huge sack of gold hanging off of his side, pretty much all he owned.

"Targaryen!" Daenys looked to his right immediately, his face crunched into a frown. He saw a small man wearing a green hood and black clothes below it. Daenys hobbled over, his cane filling the night with a tapping noise.
"You are the assassin I asked for, correct?" The assassin nodded, his body language closed off and small, though Daenys knew he was more dangerous than he put on. He smiled, moved to cross his arms, realized his error, and slapped his cane into his injured arm, he grimaced, dropping the cane and rubbing the arm. He turned his head back to the assassin, only to see a peasant, looking at him with a look of confusion. Daenys frowned, confused, he decided to test something, he turned his head away, and looked back, now he saw the assassin again. He leant on his cane, brow furrowed.
"Gold." The assassin said, in a voice cold as ice. Daenys' eyes widened, he nodded quickle, turned and untied the small rope on the sack, it was really heavy on his arm, but he held it eventually, he held it out, only to see the assassin had changed again, now he was a red-haired pirate, his cloak laying at his feet, wearing the black clothes, revealing his well toned arms. Daenys looked at the man's biceps for a moment too long, before snapping back into reality, and hobbling forwards, caneless, making him walk slower, his arm fully extended. Suddenly the purse was gone, Daenys didn't even see the assassin take it, he looked into his hand to be sure it was gone, and it was.
He looked back at the assassin, to see him wearing his cloak again, strands of blue hair leaving the hood as he weighed the sack, tossing it around in his hands before nodding and hanging it over his shoulder.
"Kill Garland Tyrell's maester." Daenys said, trying his hardest to sound intimidating, despite the fear that he felt. The assassin nodded once more, placing a hand on his blade.
"It's been a pleasure." The man said, all of a sudden, a thump came from behind Daenys, he looked behind him, to see nothing unusual, he looked back at the assassin, only to not see him. He frowned confusedly, crouching down and grabbing his cane.

"Damn Braavosi." He complained, before picking himself up, and tapping away.