[color=ed1c24][h1][center]The Lion In [color=Black]Black[/color][/center][/h1][/color]

The sound of armored steps filled the air, hundreds of crows walking in preparation, wildlings had been sighted across the gorge, an attack was just around the corner, thankfully, the detachment Tyron had sent to collect men had returned, the sound of horse hooves beckoning their arrival.

Tyron stood leaning against the fence that signified the beginning of Castle Black, the cold on his back had been ignored, as the cold on his bald head was definitely worse.

On a red stallion sat Poxy, one of the rangers, surrounded by around fifty Crakehall men, most in red, but one in shining red and white, also riding behind Poxy, barely visible, was a chain of handcuffed men, chained together, and brought forwards by the Crakehall in red and white. There was no Gerald Crakehall however, which worried Tyron, the man was rebellious, and often overestimated himself, despite that, he was one of the best rangers they had, his swordsmanship was among the best in the watch, he was one of the candidates for Master-at-Arms.

Tyron pushed himself off of the wall, walking over to the front of the group, Longclaw shifting in it's sheath. He stopped, and looked up the horse to Poxy's face. The young lad was skinny as a twig, his face was long and more chin than anything else, and his mop of blond hair didn't make him look any better. Tyron raised one eyebrow, and crossed his arms.
"Where's Gerald?" Poxy frowned, raising his hands limply. One of the soldiers glared at Tyron, climbing off his horse and gripping his blade. Tyron laughed out loud, walking right up into the soldier's face.
"Are you threatening me boy? I was killing people while you were shoveling pig shit in Lannisport, don't threaten me!" The soldier stood up tall, his hand still on his blade, his mouth in a sort of angry pout. He didn't move. Then Poxy put a finger up and spoke in his weasely voice.
"Normally you greet your guest, but hey, you're the Lord Commander." A soldier from the back of the procession laughed.
"Not for long." He could be heard whispering. 

Now, Tyron usually didn't like being disrespected, but this was beyond that, this was a threat. Tyron chuckled internally, he had no problem showing these soldiers who they were dealing with. Tyron turned his eyes back to Poxy, striding back towards Castle Black, the snow crunching in a satisfying way under his feet. He turned back towards the group, waving them in to the camp. The men began to walk in, the man in red and white and Tyron shared a glare, before he rode into camp.

After all the criminals had been assigned to the recruit barracks, and the soldiers given a section in the ranger barracks, Tyron brought Poxy into his office, to speak to him about Gerald's fate. The door creaked open, and Poxy pushed through, his thin arms looking thinner when fully extended. Following behind him came the red and white Crakehall soldier, Tyron glared at him from behind his hands, which he was resting his head on. Treason was their goal, the soldier was trying to kill him, he knew that, and now he was alone, except for Poxy, but they'd probably blackmailed him or threatened him or something. Tyron wondered why he didn't have guards outside after finding out about this.

Poxy walked up to Tyron, kneeling and then standing back up after a second or two. Tyron leant back in his chair, his left hand massaging his temple.
"So, where's Gerald?" Tyron asked, angrily. He wanted an answer. Poxy jumped in place. Then he collected himself, cringing with closed eyes.
"He's... dead... bandits killed him on our way to Casterly Rock." Tyron "hmm"ed in recognition, before standing up, and walking to the closed window behind him with hands together behind his back.
"Why don't I believe you?" Tyron asked, his suspicions raised by the attempted treason and Poxy hesitating far longer than necessary. Tyron opened the window, and as he did, he heard the stomping of heavy boots, looking back, he saw the soldier with his blade drawn giving a face of anger and frustration.
"He's dead Hill! Accept that!" As he said 'Hill', Poxy's eyes shot open, and Tyron's eyes closed. He sighed through his nose.

"Hill eh?" The soldier stopped in his tracks, and tilted his head in Tyron's direction like a confused bitch.
"I AM NOT A BASTARD!" Tyron suddenly yelled, drawing his blade in one swift motion, rushing past Poxy and throwing his blade in a crescent towards the soldier's head. The soldier groaned in surprise, but managed to throw his sword up in time, it visibly shifted under Longclaw's force. The two pushed their swords together for a second, the soldier grunting under the force, then he yelled out, pushing Longclaw to his right, following up with a rightwards swing. Tyron quickly recovered from his sword being thrown to one side, grabbing it with both arms, he looked right at his opponent, who dragged the sword through the air towards him. He stepped back with his left foot, letting the sword slap pointlessly into Longclaw with a clang. Longclaw went towards his left hip, and Tyron thrust his right foot forwards, swinging the Valyrian steel diagonally upwards. The soldier moved to block, but Tyron stopped the swing, bringing the point of the sword down, and then swinging horizontally, it connected with the soldier's lower left leg, severing his left foot and sending him tumbling head under heels to the ground, his armor slammed into the wood floor with a 'WHAP!'. Tyron placed the point of his blade under the soldier's chin.

The soldier looked up, grimacing in pain, only to see bloodied valyrian steel at his throat. Tyron smiled, turning his head towards Poxy.
"Time to make an example, ready the block." Poxy nodded, and left the room. Tyron walked over to the soldier's right, still pointing his blade at his neck. He looked down at the soldier's right hand, no longer gripping his blade, which was about an inch away, Tyron put his foot over it, sliding it in the direction of his desk. A brother entered the room quietly, placing the soldier's arm over his head, and lifting him to his feet. Tyron kept his sword pointed squarely at the man's throat as they walked, down from his room, and into the center of the camp.

The brother laid the soldier down in a kneel, his helmeted head resting on the wood block, blood oozing from his new stump. Tyron circled the man, gripping his helmet, and yanking it off. The soldier had trimmed blonde hair, and no facial hair to speak of, his head was squat and square, and it almost appeared like he had no neck. A few brothers around the square stopped doing their tasks, and gathered around, before long, everyone in Castle Black had gathered in a crowd. Tyron looked away from the soldier, holding his chin up and addressing the crowd.
"Now, this man has been sentenced to death, for the unspeakable crime of trying to bring the watch to heel. We crows all know that the Watch isn't a mangy mutt to be controlled, the Watch is the only line of defense against forces beyond the Wall, and we will not bend to southron threats or aggression!" Crows cheered, a loud "Aye!" that could be heard echoing against the Wall for years to come. While the Crakehall soldiers stayed quiet, gawking at their defeated leader.
"I am a Lannister, and a Lannister avenges any slight against his family! And now that my family is dead and gone, my only family is the watch, and as such!" He paused to allow for another cheer. 
"I will pay my debts to you by slaying this fool! And to those of you who sympathize! You'd better back down before you share his fate!" He raised his arms, one with sword in hand, and yelled out the last sentence with all his might. He was met by a cheer from the watchmen.

Tyron turned back to the soldier, who glared at him in his last moments, his lifeblood freezing as it left his body. Tyron then gripped his sword in both hands and brought it over his head, the crowd cheering loudly. He then threw his entire body down, the sound of flesh being separated from bone filling the air. The soldier's head rolled off of the block and into the snow, burying itself in a large snowbank. The stump gushed blood along the ground, the white ground that was now going red, red, like the Raynes, and their blood as Tywin Lannister killed every last one of them. Tyron pulled the blade loose from the block, cleaning it with his hand, and then sheathing it.
"Prepare yourselves, the wildlings attack on the morrow, we must prepare."