Lord Garland Tyrell

(A collab between kingkonrad and @Kingfisher )

The Council Hall was far less filled, now with bodyguards, both Garland's and Jehrilla's, as they entered, Garland letting her take it in, as the candles lit the limestone hall up, the sight of wine already on the table, his own Arbor.

The wine had been taken by one of Garland's guard, as he took a seat at the helm of the table, where he had addressed his Council earlier, motioning for Jehrilla to take a seat. Perhaps he had forgotten, because it still was a pinewood chair, and the chair was most definitely going to be

"I thank you for the Ghiscari, it will go excellently in my wine cellar. I intend to try it tomorrow, maybe even let Lord Redwyne compare it to his own. I will show you our Arbor Gold, it is a most excellent wine of The Reach. Something exotic, to your taste. From the same cup, I assume the same is customary in Yunkai." He added, as he looked over, one of Alerie's handmaidens still lingering within the hall, as he turned to her.

"Megga, fetch us two goblets." Garland commanded, aware that the girl, barely of nine years, would do as she was told from her Lady's brother, to get the wine down their throats. Taking two goblets, she brought them to the table, and barely lifting the keg, began to pour the wine into both, as Garland took his goblet after his guest had done so.

"I look forwards to sampling this Arbor Gold," Jehrilla said poiltely, as she glanced about the Council Room. She sat down heavily in the pinewood chair, feeling it creek and moan beneath her calossal weight. If it breaks, I'm sure he can afford a new one .

"Now, Lady Jehrilla, I wish to get down to business rapidly, owing to the fact that it has been an awfully long day for the both of us. I want to know, just how many men you have at your disposal. As you know, the Reach is the second largest Kingdom of the Seven Kingdoms, and has the largest army. As you may have heard, a King who claims ownership to the Iron Throne and the Kingdoms that follow in it's stead. His only problem, is us." Garland
"I assume this does not concern you, and indeed, it shall not. But I require your better men. I know it will cost. There are also other things I reqiure, but I will talk about it if what I hear piques my interest."

Sipping down his wine a little, he nodded, looking on as he listened to her, waiting before she finished.

"Thinking about it...the sun is coming in, we should think about perhaps getting some rest. This place is too large, how about having some food served in my quarters? We should talk on it more, we can leave our guards behind, let them wait outside. I would rather we spoke on matters without people watching us." Garland suggested, motioning across to Jehrilla, as he sat up in the wooden chair, looking over to see what she would think, before they did move on.

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An hour later, the night had come to far more, as now, Garland had drunken far more wine than he could ever anticipate and eaten far more, outmatched in both ways by Jehrilla, and perhaps, lost himself. It felt like the more he drunk, it happened. And he felt the feeling was mutual, after her long journey. In his chambers, he stared out of the balcony, before coming back in, sitting on his bed, the meal finished on the table across the room, made of three courses, each as bombastic as Garland would wish.

"Ah, we still have so much to talk about. My sister, you would get on so well with her. She is cunning too, if you have ever heard the stories of Margery Tyrell, then my aunt, Lyanna, says perhaps she is like her. I disagree, with those red locks, I can't begin to see the similarities. Us Roses are sharp." Garland said, as he looked over at her, a little lustingly, perhaps his drunk mind looking for too long. She was preposterous, her whole body, it seemed...wonderful? No. Not that....Garland tried to fight it. He had sex with many a Reachwoman, a maiden at a Tourney, who he saw in the crowd. He had loved, and left, one by one, across the Reach, outside of the Reach, in Highgarden, but all of them had one thing in common. They were Reachwomen, and when Garland was seen among the common folk, he was never one to not show the house's extravagance and "Young Rose" to be a person who ruled with sympathy. But Jehrilla...this couldn't be. It was not love. It was lust. And lust, lust was dangerous. But he was tipsy, and with enough Arbor already in his system, it was a thought.

"36,000 men," Jehrilla cooed in her non-chalant manner, as she popped a piece of fish into her expectant mouth "to answer your earlier question. I have 36,000 men at my disposal." The Yunkish lady was full of food and wine, yet the banquet had done little to placate her hunger. The rolls of her stomach spilled out beneath her, yet still she wished for more. She had earned the title 'The Ravenous'.

"But let us put the talk of buisness to one side, my lord Tyrell."

Jehrilla heaved herself up off of the spot where she had been lying, her belly swooping down and brushing against the chamber's stone floor. She was soft but firm, huge but glowing, flabby but sculpted.

"We Yunkish women have many talents," she declared, as she unfastened the straps on her dress "Allow yourself to sample them tonight."

The bronze scales on her shortly-cut garment clattered as they struck the floor. Jehrilla stood there, naked as her nameday, and spilling out in every direction, with her black tangles dancing across her pale skin.

She scooped a wine goblet up off of the bedside table, taking a heart swig, before belching loudly.

"What say you, Garland?"

Garland looked on, a little amused, as a smirk formed on his face.
"Well...diplomacy was your first talent, and those numbers, I like. And if you're a man Tyget Crakehall sent to kill me, or worse, Daenys Targaryen, then I guess I got the right executioner. Let us see your talents beyond the dip" He said, as he looked on, smirking in a manner that could only suggest one thing.

The Young Rose was going to take his mind off things, and in his mind, he felt like something had finally snapped into place into his mind. After all, there was nothing like sea, and the Yunkish woman did not seem like some common whore, she seemed to have a taste that suggested to Garland that she enjoyed the act of sex for pleasure, more so that she had come to the beautiful Garland Tyrell's court to see what this Young Rose was like in bed, so he added up to himself. The scene faded to black, as Garland slowly unbuttoned his tunic, dropping it onto the cold floor.

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(a kingkonrad and @agentmanatee collab)

Willas could only look over to Kevan, watching him enter with his six-man Retinue, the Master of Arms being an individual who Willas always knew was going to be angry. The Crakehall has been here for a good reason, the Tyrell could guess. Something to do with the fact that there were an awful lot of dead bodies, and instead of the Commander Celtigar, Ser Willas Tyrell was sitting in his quarters, by a fireplace, in this fine morning. Across the room, a couple of Reachmen were cleaning their swords, wiping the blood into a wooden bowl filled with water, keeping an eye on the meeting. Kevan was furious, that much he could see, but Willas knew how this would happen. It was almost how he was warned, and he felt indifferent to it.
"Ser Kevan, I'm hardly suprised to see you at this hour, not after last night. I have to apologise for the mess outside, it was never meant to be this different a change in Commander. But no matter. These are on the Hand's orders. You serve him just as I do." Willas merely said, stating his own facts right at the end, as he pulled the parchment out from across the wooden desk, sprawling it open with his gauntlet, looking over at Kevan.

"Commander Celtigar assaulted us when we presented this order. We acted in self-defense, and what happened last night was loyalist Watch finding people who did not listen to the Hand's command, and followed a dead Commander. Traitors to the Throne can't be taken, not in times like these, when there's so much paranoia, so much tension. King's Landing is in enough trouble as it is right now, and I suggest we work together if we want to stop the people of this city having to see more bloodshed. No doubt, we are the only two people with any military thought that have any real power left in this city, I am correct, Kevan?"

Kevan Crakehall wanted nothing more than to put his sword through Wilas Tyrell's smug face, but he knew even with six guards, one of them his captain, he'd be cut down. Instead he snatched up the parchment Wilas had laid on his table and began to read. He wasn't lying, it had the hands seal, and it was Garland's handwriting... but none of that mattered. Kevan ripped the paper to shreds in his gauntleted hands and turned back to Wilas, "You are a traitor to your oaths as Kingsguard, and the hand is your nephew, besides, without a King to name him regent the Hand has no power. But he will soon again, when the King arrives at our gates, and we let him in like loyal servants of the realm." Kevan leaned on Wilas's desk as he said this.

Willas looked across, shaking his head a little, as he leaned back a little in his chair. Tearing apart the document was a sad feature, but he felt that it was expendable, at this point. It just showed his wroth, and Willas didn't want to rise to it. He reminded himself, he had the power here, even if he didn't have more swords, he had more truths.
"We? You haven't the control. Out there, they follow the Hand. Your King isn't accepted throughout the Kingdoms yet, nor is he right here. My nephew is merely serving the Targaryen Crown, and it is the same with any sucession bout. When Robert Baratheon died, this process was the same one that Eddard Stark informed the Kingdoms of Joffrey's illegitamecy, before the man had his head taken from his shoulders. The Realm entered years of war, for that. Time must be taken. Perhaps the Hand will arrive and find your cousin to be the rightful King, perhaps not, that is not my concern, and I merely am here to make sure that his orders happen, disregarding what one of his fellow Council members considers. What happens, is his concern. Of ours? We merely are here to wait. And we are merely two puppets in a game that is far above our level. I will be honest with you, Kevan...I'm not afraid to die." Willas said, as he sat up a little once more, putting his hands on the table, clasping his hands.
"That's because I know who will be put to the sword when Lord Tyget walks into our capital. Ser Willas Tyrell will be at the top of his list, I always have been, I always will be, it is a danger he cannot risk. So I guess that this little order, it seems to be a reason to keep on going, to make sure you don't dream of serving a man who assumes so much. When your King arrives, he will find the gates shut. By the time you have written to this so, there's going to be a contingent of Reachmen inside King's Landing, the number of which even I haven't been informed of. But whatever happens, they are going to keep the peace. If I were you, I would be very careful." Willas added, as he pulled a drawer open, slipping some paper out, before giving a glance back at Kevan.
"So...your next move is? You're in armour, and Seven Hells, you've got six men in a room, including yourself, when there's just the three of us. It would be difficult, but possible to kill us. But tell me, is that beneficial to your King?" The Tyrell seemed to have a knowledge of King's Landing when he retorted, his confidence one that he knew would be playing Kevan, to the best of his knowledge. He was not the sharpest tool in the box, but he could state facts, and he knew that Kevan was going to have to accept that, he thought to himself, and he didn't feel under pressure. This was a stand-off, but he had the advantage, he had the chance to make Kevan truly rant. It felt strange, how he knew that no more blood would spill, it felt like something a fighter could understand. It was a rhetoric, everything was, Willas knew that this would not escalate. It was an empty threat, and Willas could have been here without his armour, had it not have been for the fact that it simply imposed some formality to this whole situation, as he cleared his throat, sipping down a little water from a pale.
"To the Realm? To anyone, even? Chances are, you'd wind up dead too, unless you think you can outfox Ser Aliser over there. We aren't fools, we're Knights of the Seven Kingdoms, by the Seven, that cannot change. So that wasn't your intention, this was a wrothful entrance. Just like anyone's would have been. Kevan...you won't be harmed in any of what is to follow. I will make sure of it, that if I need a man who can get me to talk to Tyget, you will be the first. The Lord Hand is reasonable. There'd be no reason to cast aside a Council member who was given power to help the realm in a time of it's need." Willas concluded, as he adjusted his posture a little, watching Kevan, resting his hands on the table, looking over at the guards for a moment, as he turned his eyes on Kevan Crakehall once more.

Kevan glared daggers at Wilas, his cool expression only pissing him off more. He pushed himself off the mans desk, "You may be Captain of the Watch in name, but we will see how many are still serving you when a Tyrell force comes to take their food and occupy their city and drink their wine. The Small lords won't stand for this Wilas, there WILL be blood in the streets again before your Reachmen even arrive, and it won't be me who the smallfolk want dead.", he turned and began to walk back to the door, stopping just short of the frame, speaking without even turning around, "A rushed army of Reachmen won't be able to keep the peace Wilas, you know that. When King Tyget arrives, you'd be wise to let him in... the Westermen army can restore order quickly... but I suppose I am not the captain of the watch.", Kevan left the barracks, his men following suite, he had a letter to write.

Willas looked on, watching him leave, as he stood up, looking across to Ser Alliser, as he heard his men leave.
"Ser Alliser, I do hope you're not the only person who has some sanity around here. I can understand why the job for Celtigar relied on taverns in Flea Bottom, now I think about it, when Crakehall is your equivalent in the Red Keep." Willas remarked, his wit a little weathered by King's Landing itself, a trait that it felt like the whole family had. It felt like it wasn't even a conversation worth winning, it felt like facts worth stating. Whatever he would write, whatever he would do, Willas felt like his bet was as well placed as Garland's. The Crakehalls would arrive with no siege equipment, and by that point, the Tumbletons would already be entrenched. Whatever number they brought, they could last a couple of weeks, and unless Kevan's cousin had naval superiority already in Blackwater Bay, two weeks sailing, if not more from Lannisport, he seriously doubted the Master of Arms's rhetoric. True desperation, that was what it was...because if this was what Kevan was selling in his anger, perhaps deep down, and unadmittedly, he knew his cousin did not have the capabilities to lay siege to this great city.
"Aye, Ser. There's at least a few more, but I understand how you feel."

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By the evening of the day following the "Night of the Goldcloak Blooding", the first men wearing green and gold were coming through, the Tumbleton forces disorganized, looking more like a Rabble. But a rabble they were not, when they were unified, merely flocking like sheep to their shepard right now to form up a garrison force.

The Reach had it's forces spread, but the force based in Tumbleton was a Retinue- a barrack, established not long after the Targaryen Invasion. Tyrell Retinues were semi-professional soldiers, and moreover, were not drawn only in war, but were active reservists in their own right, a move that perhaps echoed that of a Rhoynar army. The Reach was large, and it was so that Willas Tyrell (the Lame Lord, not the Kingsguard) who had made the decision to create pockets of concentrated forces, both at Tumbleton, and Torrentpeak, as a solution to keep the Reach's military prowess connected to it's political influences, no matter what a neighboring Lord may have thought about it. Of course, the military was spread across the whole of the Reach, when soldiers were needed to war. But the Tyrell Retinues, they were something greater than that, a thought made over a century ago. It was to counter the initial threat of the Westermen, Stormlanders, rogue Crownlanders and Dornishmen, from small border Lords to higher Princes or Lord Paramounts respectively, each retinue numbering from 5,000 to 10,000 easily accessible men, able to be mobilized first and foremost, both being tactically advantaged and disadvantaged, in that it was still not enough to hold any Lord's forces. They were not shock troops, but they were a mixture of Reach Knights, Pikes, Swords and Archers, assembled into a force that could be the first to either hold, attack or defend, and not much more. It was never significant, but for situations like this, it seemed perfect, Tumbleton itself already having that number of vassal houses that owed men to The Reach's service. Tumbleton was barely a full day's ride from King's Landing, and the Ravens could reach the House speedily, before it reached individual banners. To muster the whole 80,000 men, doing such an action would still require that process of writing, and gathering at a rally point- and two weeks would be the minimum of what it would take, spare a miracle. The Retinue had never been used in full force, but the rest of the Reach's forces were kept among the populace, in each individual vassal, and would almost always need to be called through a long-winded process. It was not instant, and perhaps the smaller size of the Westerlands benefited this, as the rally points were central and barely a day or two away- in the Reach, Highgarden was still a week's journey from Torrentpeak.

The Tyrell host entered through the gate, some on horseback, some on foot, out of the Kingswood and from the Roseroad into the Seven Kingdom's capital, threading inside. Willas watched from the gate, looking through as the men entered, fanning through. 1,500 City Watch were useful to him, but not loyal. These men, they would follow him, they would do as he ordered. It was as if he didn't need his title, now it had no need to it all. It could be stowed onto someone else, and this was something Willas was considering. Getting Ser Maxwell to take his title as Commander, and nobody would need to question it. Even the men would just see it as another Tyrell to follow, and that would mean no change, given it wouldn't be a forced substitution of a Commander. He thought about it, as he headed up the hill, followed by Ser Maxwell and Ser Alliser, mingling through the groups of Tyrell men that were already undergoing orders to group to their minor Vassal Lords and other Nobles, be they other Knights or other nobles, even Masters of cities.

He found Lord Owain Tumbleton, first of his name, the Lord looking over as he stopped his horse by an Inn nearer the top of the hill in King's Landing, overlooking the southern gate, and the sunset on the distance, setting towards where Willas knew the armies of the so-called King Tyget Crakehall would come from, in whatever number he had. Owain must have been about thirty years, and in his plate, looked fitting, though it was obvious he was not the General that this army deserved. He was no fighter, he seemed thin and not made of much at all, compared to Willas. Even in armor, the green, silver and grey distinctive Reach plate, thorns and his house's sigil etched into his armour, it seemed like he was dressing for occasion.
"Lord Tumbleton, I welcome you to King's Landing." Willas said, probably with the highest grin on his face he had since talking to Kevan.
"It is good to see you, Ser Willas. I hear you have broken your vows." Owain replied, the man heavily bearded, making Garland's lion mane seem tiny, his beard rushing from his chin, like a thick web, brown in it's nature. Willas laughed at it, amazed that it fit within his helmet, but knew this was not the time for humor.
"The King is dead. I no longer need to protect him. The City Watch will work with your men, they act on response. They are as much yours as they are mine, Lord Tumbleton." Willas replied, nodding as Owain dismounted his brown steed, coming down with a clank, as he took his two-handed sword and pike off the horse's saddle, the pike itself massive and purely a horseman's weapon.
"That is good to hear. Though I doubt they will be of use, you know full well how loyal these men are."
"Some, very. Others, probably deserting right now. There's been one or two small skirmishes, seems like the rumour mill is already producing fruits. But that is not longer our worry, with the retinue, they will work for our aims." Willas simply said, as Owain nodded, Willas looking across at the gate once more, the sight of more men entering, the bulk of the force, on the sunset that sat in the horizon.

"Kevan Crakehall is going mad, he's angry most of all, I suppose he wanted to obey his cousin's command, and is terrified he'll be murdered if Tyget ever gets a hold of him. But he is powerless...and it is better that he lives to squeal like the Boar he is, than to be another dead body, it is mutually beneficial, I think. How are the men?" Willas asked, as Owain nodded, looking out across on the Roseroad gate, and the road that could be seen winding up to the Inn.
"In good spirit, Willas. What is it you plan to do with my retinue? Are we expecting a Siege, as you say?"
"Indeed, just as expected. It seems like Kevan is towing the line, he thought the gates would be open for his so called "King". If he is thinking that will change, I will eat your beard."
"Hah, how you jest! You wouldn't dare, so you know what is on the line!" Owain joked, looking across as he took his two hander out, inspecting the blade over, the man clearly a little weighed down by such a heavy weapon. But Willas was right- he knew it wasn't going to change. He may have had his own retinue and guard, but right now, 10,000 men were moving in, and in any number that the Crakehall Retinue engaged those forces, they wouldn't last long, not at all.
"That is the point. Yes...but let us be serious here. Up to 50,000 men could approach our walls. With all gates sealed, the assistance of the City Watch, and the fact that it is unlikely they'll expect. Your men are going to play a vital role in that."
"My men are going to be hungry, thirsty and in need of accommodation if it drags out. 10,000 mouths are many to feed, in a city of what, almost half a million? It's an addition."
"Well, I know that there are barrack spaces that aren't going to be filled, as are some houses in Flea Bottom. Don't take what you want, but do what you have to do, set up tents and stay out of the way of the common folk. They don't deserve this, the Masters and Mayors will continue to go about their business, I will issue that command, they are to follow the rule of law as was imposed under Aegon X Targaryen, and no different, a siege is to be prepared for but businesses, commerce continues as usual, with the Harbour running it's trade as it has done contiuously. Any confrontations, and this siege will become far more difficult to endure. I assume you brought supplies for your forces, none the less."
"We were told to be ready to be sieged, so it is good to hear you confirm we're not going to sally out and try and beat them on the open field, the men marched hard to get here. We can last four weeks, then we are on the stores of King's Landing, whatever state Aegon left them in. So who knows." Owain said, as Willas nodded in response, shaking his head.
"That is long enough. Good." The Tyrell simply stated, as he looked on, then back up at the Red Keep, before then looking across at Owain, ordering one of his men to bring hay for his horse.
"I wouldn't go up there, to the Red Keep, Lord Tumbleton. There's a very confused and angry man that doesn't know reality when he sees the Rose in his City." Willas said to Owain, before looking out once more. Come the night, most of the men would be inside, and the gates would be locked shut, the largest city in Westeros, under the hand of the Rose, and preparing for the worst of assaults. Sieges. Where they would be waited to be starved, or filled with disease, until they capitulated. Willas could only guess that it would be difficult to get any voice out of the capital throughout, so he would have to write any last commands and send them by raven to Garland, before preparing for the long time ahead. No doubt, it would be a tough ordeal ahead. He had to tell Garland the Host was inside, that Kevan Crakehall was not happy, and that the atmosphere seemed to suggest that there would be conflict coming on the horizon- he wanted his nephew to not waste time, and make haste with whatever political maneuvers he was going to make.

Both sisters sat quietly within the main hall of Dragon's Rest. They looked at one another from across the table at which that were seated, still reeling from the news of the death of King Aegon X. Their Uncle, a good man, and a kind family member, had died under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps it was a wasting sickness, a bad fall, or worse, but whatever it was, the King was dead, and a true problem had arisen. Prince Daenys was disinherited from the Throne, as stated in the King's last will and testament. This left a bit of a problem for the Seven Kingdoms, as there was no longer a direct heir to the throne, a male heir that was not distantly related, and truth be told, a bit of a surprise, as both Rhaenyra and Baela, at least in their eyes, were the closet living relatives to the King, and by all rights, could possibly be next in line for the throne. Only to make matters worse, news had only just arrived of both Prince Daenys declaring himself King, and Lord Tyget Crakehall, a distant outlying branch of the Targaryen family tree, also naming himself King. it was indeed troubling news all around.

"Rhae, you must assert your claim to the throne... you, and you alone have the most rightful claim to our family's seat." Baela spoke to Rhaenyra, while toying with a ring upon her right hand. "You can not afford to sit any longer. The longer you wait, the harder and harder it will be for you to rightfully take the crown of our forefathers." Baela's voice was full of concern and earnest. She loved her elder sister, the two very close, and had shared all their life together. She would stand, walking over to the fireplace, where Lord's Mooton and Buckwell sat. A regional council had been called, and all the Lords, great and small, had come, to hear what the two princesses had to say. Each man had sworn oaths of loyalty to these two Targaryen's, and to the throne itself. But, without a rightful ruler, these men answered to Rhaenyra first, and to the Beala second.

"Baela, I appreciate your honesty, and your tenacity, but, I feel it is best that we tread carefully. Look at us, we are but a small piece of a greater whole. I mean not to offend, but, my loyal bannermen, we have but two, maybe three thousand soldiers between all of us. The Gold Cloaks can muster more men than we can. Even with our Dragons, we are still at a disadvantage. And I know, you all want me to just claim the throne, but, it is best to know who holds the capital, and who we can trust in the weeks and months to come." Rhaenyra stated plainly to her gathered banners and sister. She sighed, looking at a painting of her family when they all were alive. Rhaenyra shook her head, pushing away the thoughts of sadness within her, and turning back to her council.

"I have great faith in all of you. You have been loyal bannermen to my family for many years, and to me for these past three. It was by your own hands and wealth we were able to recover Dark Sister and Blackfyre, my family's fabled Valyrian Steel swords. It was with you that we have rebuilt our lands, from the roads that ensure swift and safe travel, to the canals that water our crops, the walls and towers of stone that guard our families and small folk, the few mines that generate our metals for coin and arms, and above all, the great nest that houses our Dragons. You have built so much, have earned great renown and honor by these feats. Trust me, and my sister, when we say that we will do what is best for all of us that sit here in this great hall. I believe in all of us." Rhaenyra spoke rousingly to her banners, to which all in attendance rose up and cheered, nodding their approval for their Dragon Princesses.

By the days end, three letters were prepared, written to the powerful Lords of the respective regions that could hold sway over the Iron Throne. The first was addressed to Lord Crakehall, the second to Lord Tyrell, and the last, to the Captain of Gold Cloaks in Kings Landing. Lord Crakehall was family, even if he was distantly related, and his help would surely be needed. The Tyrell's controlled the bread basket of the Kingdom, and they had been staunch loyalists to the Targaryen's for many years, and lastly, the Gold Cloaks were sworn to keep the peace, and to the Iron Throne. They would be able to tell Rhaenyra and Baela if the city was safe to enter, let alone visit. The two sisters worked together, with the input of their bannermen, to draft these letters, ensuring that they were appropriate and sent off to who they needed to be with.

"Have patience, this will be of use to us. We can ill afford to rush into this without knowing what lays before us all." Rhaenyra spoke to her sister, as they sent out the letters via ravens, and to gather their forces in the time it would take for the respective answers to return.

Jehrilla awoke with the haze of sleep clouding her eyes, as the sights and sounds of the world began to flicker into being. The dull throbbing of a hangover chewed away inside her head, but she knew that it would only take some water and a substantial breakfast before it cleared up.

Her already huge stomach was bloated with the festivities of the night before, and it took her a good few moments to roll over beneath its enormous weight.

That was when she noticed her sleeping companion.

Garland Tyrell’s flowing brown hair was cast out across the pillows as he slept, his muscular physique tight and firm. The Yunkai’i noblewoman could see the strong build that his many tourneys had earned him, cast in a bronze light beneath the glow of the chamber’s torches. She couldn’t help but grin at the undeniable handsomeness of last night’s conquest.

The sweet wines and meats of the night before sat heavily in the pale-skinned young woman’s gut, and she very much doubted that the Lord Tyrell wanted to be sharing a bed with her when nature took its course.

Laughing her shrill, snorty laugh, Jehrilla plopped heavily out of bed, her massive, naked form shaking as she landed on the cold stone floor. She snatched her dress up off of the sleeping rug and squeezing herself into it, causing her to break wind, much to her own amusement.

The bronze scales of her form-fitting garment jangled with each sow-like step she took, clanking as she slipped her silk slippers over her plump toes. Jehrilla padded, as quietly as an obese colossus in clinking metal scales could, her way out of the chamber, shutting the large wooden door behind her.

Turning on her heel, and grinning triumphantly, it was then that the Wise Master of Yunkai first met the Lady Alerie Tyrell.

The faceless man had taken his time, Highgarden was a lovely place, and it was fun to be there, he'd arrived a few days ago, he quickly felt the atmosphere of the place, it was a bustling area, tons of people, many nobles, a surprising amount of soldiers, not surprising because he didn't expect war to force raised levies, he'd just assumed that they'd be on their way to the Crownlands to secure Garland's claim.

Many doubt the speed at which a faceless man could cross a continent, it takes months for a normal man, a faceless man can make the same trip in weeks, mostly due to the complex webs they set up around the world, allowing one to travel even when he was sleeping, often the faceless man would fall asleep in a small town, then wake up in another Lord's lands.

He'd taken the face of a simple laborer, he had met the young man during a trip around the Castle, grabbing his shoulders and putting a knife to his throat, the young man pleaded for his life in a surprisingly deep voice, despite his small size and skinny arms. The faceless man wasn't here to kill peasants, he was here to kill a maester, so he shushed the boy, handed him a small coin, and sent him to Oldtown, he remembered the boy's confusion, he turned him around, grabbing him on the shoulders and telling him that he wouldn't be safe here.

The Faceless men needed a few more good assassins, telling the boy the passphrase would allow him safe passage to Braavos, after which, he'd be trained in their ways. He often did this on missions, something he enjoyed doing, though he seemed to have a keen eye at spotting those who would make good assassins, two of his recruits so far had been accepted into their ranks, so he was obviously doing something right.

After that, he took up the boy's job, serving wine to the lords and ladies, no matter how insipid. He now understood why the boy had fled so easily, he'd had to deal with Lord Garlan Tyrell. Gah! What a fool, it made the faceless man disappointed that he wasn't the one he was sent to kill, always banging on about how conflicted he was, not only was that infuriating, but it made his sister seem all the more competent in his shadow, she made the plans that mattered. Once, he climbed up the castle walls and listened to her conversations through closed shutters. Her plans nearly impressed him. Nearly.

Now he was just waiting on the opportunity to strike at the maester, he hadn't heard the man speak, though he'd heard around the court that he was an excellent healer, this made the faceless man a little upset, as the cripple needed someone to take good care of him, though after the maester was dead, it was likely that he'd be replaced with some babe-lover from the citadel. No matter the consequences of his actions, coin was coin, and the faceless man had to do what was asked of him.

The face he'd had to take had bothered him, a pointed chin and a mop of hair that rested itself right above his eyes, awful, he had someone from the town give it a trim, just so that no one would suspect the servant who's hair suddenly disappeared overnight.

He found Highgarden beautiful, but the one thing that he enjoyed about it most was Rickard Tyrell, the young cripple, he was shy, and the first few times the faceless man brought him things, the young man didn't speak to him, however, after a few days, he spoke up, apparently he trusted the faceless man enough to tell him what was within his head, a bad idea, but hey, he wasn't here to judge. After a few conversations, they discovered that they shared a cynical worldview, and that the young man's pursuit for knowledge was fueled by the faceless man's tales of the lands. Very few spied on the young man, so the faceless man decided to tell the young Tyrell of his identity.

He gulped, and opened the door to the young cripple's room.
"Young Tyrell, do you have time to converse?" The cripple had been sleeping, and as such, he twitched awake, looking directly at the faceless man, before rubbing his eyes and yawning.
They spoke for a bit, before the faceless man decided to reveal his identity.
"I have something to tell you, I owe you a great debt, for giving me a friend, something I've never had before, I know you have questions about how a servant your age has traveled the world, and your questions are founded, allow me to answer them." The faceless man closed the door behind him, and shifted his face, his chin shrinking, and his nose shortening, his cheekbones becoming less defined. After a second, Lord Garland Tyrell stood in the room, wearing the servant's garb. He smiled, walking over to the side of the boy's bed, and planting a coin in his hand.
"My young Lord, dear child, this coin is our symbol, the symbol of death, death eternal, Valar Morghulis, remember these words, young one, for we are all around you." He gave one last smile, before his face shifted back into the servant's face, he turned back one last time, speaking clearly and with a threatening tone,
"Do not tell your family of this meeting." and with that he left the room.

Why had he done that? Even he still didn't know that, normally you weren't supposed to do that, but the faceless man owed the child a great debt, he'd made his mission much easier, by telling the faceless man of the maester's favorite spots, one of them a balcony, an assassin's best friend. He'd often preformed little rebellions to the etiquette of the Faceless, small enough not to come back to bite him, but large enough to actually make a difference. It wasn't like the child would know what do do with this knowledge, but letting him know of their existence was a way of ensuring that the child did well later in life.

He turned a corner and froze, there stood the maester, looking out a window at the night sky. He grinned, it was the middle of the night, no one was around, and the maester was alone.

Opportunity had struck.

The faceless man quickly shot into a crouched posture, his right side towards the maester, he walked, light on his feet, towards him, crossing one foot over the other. He reached behind his back with his right hand, grabbing a knife, and drawing it loose slowly, it made no noise, it took an agonizingly long amount of time. He finally reached the maester, standing up fully, and grabbing the maester's shoulder, he spun him around and punched him in the face with his right hand.

The impact of the maester's nose on his fist was near cathartic, as was the satisfying pop he felt in his knuckles as the nose broke. The maester fell to the window, his head bouncing off of it, and then into the ground limply.

The faceless man shook his hand, it had hurt slightly, but that was beyond the point. He leant over, placing the maester over his shoulder. He slowly got up into a crouch, stopping to make sure he was balanced, then standing up fully.

He took the maester's unconscious form out of the castle, dressing the maester in armor from a sleeping guard, and shifting his face into that of the master-at-arms' lieutenant. He exited the castle, looking at one of the guards, square chinned and scarred, who looked back quizzically, the faceless man frowned.
"Training accident, bringing him back to the barracks, he'll be fine." The guard nodded, and the faceless man walked past.

He eventually met up with a short, stocky hunchback with quite an ugly face and quite muscular arms. The man looked at the body, and then at the faceless man, and crossed his arms.
"Valar Morghulis." He said, suspiciously.
"Valar Dohaeris." The faceless man responded. The hunchback nodded, and the faceless man set down the maester. The hunchback leant down, looking him over, then picked him up by the collar with one arm. He looked at the maester, his underbite making it hard to take him seriously.
"Looks like the Tyrells are having pork today." The faceless man frowned, the hunchback was a disposal specialist, he used to be a faceless man as well, but he crippled himself falling from a roof, so now he cooks for the Tyrells. It was a horrible thing to do, but it was easy, and it got rid of the evidence.

The faceless man frowned at the hunchback, before turning away, he looked back one last time, before walking away into the night.

Garland's eyes fluttered open a little, as he looked over. Garland was handsome, not just in his face, but he was well muscled, not obscenely, but like a Knight of the Reach was expected to, his brown hair past his shoulders, looking ordered, or in this rough and tumble situation, just blase as per his usual self. He felt like he couldn't move, he was entombed, trapped underneath something. What happened? His mind was awash, he had been tipsy, almost drunk, but tipsy enough to forget finer details. It was when he felt her weight roll a little onto him that he realized.

Looking over, he saw Jehrilla, stepping out of bed, completely naked, her huge masses of flesh shaking, revealing everything from her enormous buttocks to her fine curves, all along her body. But they weren't as Garland remembered them. She had weight, as she broke wind, Garland turning inside. He felt ill. His stomach pulled as he turned over in the bed, retching violently onto the stone floor, away from her sight, himself still completely stark naked. Alcohol, not shock, he said to himself. But he had done it. Of all the women...he had gone and had a tumble with a Yunkish whale!? It was shock, Garland said to himself. He would come to terms with it, and he almost felt proud of himself, albeit a little embarassed. The thoughts were blurred, he didn't know. He must have played with an awful lot of flesh, and she....she was like a master in the bed. It was as if she was like some whore in King's Landing, but far more elegant, playful. Garland felt it was a method that was so wonderful, if Alerie had been there, she would have had just as well as a time. He stopped being sick, as he sat up, her dressed form looking over, as she walked out of the door.
"Jehrilla..." He moaned, as he looked over, using the sheet to cover himself, lest he expose himself to a courtier that unexpectedly visit. The Young Rose didn't entirely know, but he felt that despite how shocked he was at all of this, it had been one of the best nights of his life, somehow. It was good to be the Lord of the Reach, he said to himself.

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

Alerie turned back, seeing Jehrilla's impressive stature come round, Alerie's hair beautifully maintained into a bun, a little flowing just past her neck, by her shoulders, it's burgandy-red color. She took in Jehrilla, with a distinctive smile on her face, welcoming almost. She seemed friendly, polite, agile on the surface, her beautiful face lit up, her appearance still at this time of the morning holding true.

"Lady Jehrilla, my brother has probably mentioned me already. I am Lady Alerie Tyrell, his younger sister. Wise Master, I wish to talk of matters that my brother did not." She added, as she looked over to the two guards outside the door, nodding to them, as Alerie looked over at Jehrilla.
"Let us head up the tower. It is a quiet place. It is a walk upward, but I know it well enough, you always hear people coming if they wish to interrupt you. I apologize if it is an effort, but I promise, there is good reason to our ascent." She added, looking over her enormous gluttony, beginning to already start walking up the steps, the golden sunshine emerging, the sunrise peaking over the distant mountains, far, far on the horizon. Jehrilla was gargantuan, and compared to Alerie, with her petite but beautiful, slender frame, her moderate bust poking through her beautifully kept dress, suited for the climes of The Reach, she knew it was a very different thing indeed. She didn't even want to know how tight those clasps were, it seemed like if they snapped, her body would richochet out, and the thought was sick in Alerie's head.

She was beautiful, however, and even Alerie wasn't too surprised that when drunk, Garland had decided to ride this foreign beauty like a Targaryen a dragon. She had a beautiful face, among the fat, and her sizable features dwarfed Alerie's, her own body one that at a fair, would make any single man of the Reach stare. Oh, men were always so easy to use, when you had to make them do anything for you. It was an impressive trait, and even at 17, Alerie was the master of making these.

"My brother thinks simple, he thinks of men, politics, and letter writing. He is sharp, but he is not sharp enough, Jehrilla. I wish for you to play a far bigger role, and I have heard rumours about you." She added, walking up the last few steps, knowing her Yunkish body must have been dying, going up this gradient, as Alerie led the way, through the illuminated chamber. Opening the door, she walked in, the small room having a pair of windows, letting in the sunlight fully, being one of the outstanding towers, the small space enough to be filled by just the two of them, comfortably. Maybe four or five, if Jehrilla's mass did not occupy it, as Alerie found a seat on a cushion, placed on top of a gentle rug.
"Now, Jehrilla of Zo Zaaraq. I consider that my brother's request is one we tend to avoid. He wishes to have men to bolster his forces, but even he knows, he cannot hire all of them for merely fighting a war." She said across to Jehrilla, smiling a little, as she looked out, then back at her.

"I hear your family is among the great Yunkish slavers, you are of a different culture to us, but I respect that you are good at what you do. There is a place where I think we may be able to find a mutually beneficial place for your slavers to sail. The Westerlands are going to be exposed, their fleets fighting the Iron Islanders, their armies either divided or concentrated on King's Landing. I will give you gold to have men raid the coastline, starting with Castle Crakehall itself. It shall have no marks of our payment, it shall be an attack that cannot be suspected. If your men can follow the coastline, they can take any man, woman, child that they wish for their service in Yunkai. Any non-noble or minor nobles, can be seized. If they dare attack any single vassal of The Reach, I shall have it ended, and I understand, slavers are difficult to control. We both know that, but if their attention can be kept, I shall make sure they are handsomely rewarded, as shall you. As I say, you will find men to bolster your cause, gold in your coffers, and a connection in The Reach that will give you many an advantage over the other patricians of the city. I will give you priorities in trade, and that we can trade more of our Arbor for your Ghiscari." She said, Alerie's words distinct and chosen, knowing full well what she was saying.

Sitting up, she walked up to Jehrilla, sitting by her side, taking in her huge girth, looking over, as she sat by her side, taking her in once more. Alerie adjusted her red hair, the sun shining over her beautiful figure, catching the gold in her dress. It shone bright, reflecting wonderfully among the green, with numerous designs of thorns emblazoned into the dress.
"You amaze me, Jehrilla. I know only one woman in The Reach who looks anything like you, but she is not as beautiful. I do not blame Garland for attempting his luck, and you must forgive my brother for his...charm. But he thought with his spear after he finished his simple negotiations. Mine are the reality that you came here for, Jehrilla. If you raid the Westerland coast by either indirect or direct means through your forces, and no trace is left to House Tyrell, I will see to it that you will leave The Reach with far more gold than you came here with. Your mercenaries will still be of use in training our men, and in immediate deployment to King's Landing. But if there is any offer that Crakehall suggests, consider that we can match it. He only has wealth in his gold mines. We have it in far, far more than just gold, we have it in a chance for yourself to pick the finest Westermen to enslave. And while no King or Queen sits on the Iron Throne, there will be no response declared upon your family."

-----------

Whilst Garland's sister and Jehrilla headed away, he had at least sobered up a little, and now sat with a jug of water. Maester Garth walked in, the Oldtown Maester looking barely a blemish over 50, as he looked over at Garland, who had only just gotten dressed into his tunic again, looking at the bed. He had made one hell of an effort, he thought to himself, as he slipped back into his boots, washing his face with a pale before turning to Garth again.
"Maester Garth, I need more parchment. There is a lot of papers to write. Tell me, where is Rickard? Anything" He said, looking across to him, Garland clearing his throat a little,
"Rickard is still reading, Lord Tyrell, he still reads as he does."
"Tell me a new tale, Garth. I have heard it....he is a good lad. I am happy your friends in Oldtown looked after him." He said, as Maester Garth looked over, nodding in agreement, knowing full well Rickard did have that potential. He was deep in his scholarly studies, and it would only be a matter of time till Garland would give him up, Garth thought to himself. The youngest of the Tyrell siblings would follow in his own steps, and learn of the world, perhaps serve in a court somewhere else as their trusted . Garth was a man of Hightower, not far at all, but he was well versed, and had traveled far and wide, that Garland knew.
"Well, I hear that from the Maesters of the North, the the climes are getting colder. That dare I speak the words of the Starks, Winter is Coming."
"I understand Winter, Garth, it is just a cold that means the peasants need to use their grain storage for. We always have it well, the snow is never terrible, and we merely spend months in our castles, by a fire, reading. That is how we have spent our winters. Now, fetch me some partchment." He added, as the Maester walked out of the room, Garland already looking at over what he had.

He began writing, already sitting down, pen in paper. He had to respond to the two Lords of the middleground, that patch of land that held between the Southern Kingdoms and the great expanse of The North, The Vale and The Riverlands. He opted to reply to the latter first, taking quill to parchment, as he began writing. There would be short letters, and longer ones, that he told himself.



Moving on, he picked up another parchment, wanting to take a little more time on this one, as he looked across the room, the falcon that sat perched in the window, watching inside rather than flying outside and hunting for rats and mice outside of the castle ground, almost expecting Garland to have something by now. The falcon's arrival had been one that didn't surprise him, yet did catch him off guard compared to the usual raven. No matter what Garland did, he had not been able to take it in his hand, it merely refused to even sit, it would hunt, and it would sit in his perch, and do nothing else, or it would scream and leave for an extended period. He didn't want to mess around with it, and Garland knew that Ellion's falcons were his by total and complete loyalty, knowing that as a fellow Falconer, he had a strong, strong connection with his birds. But enough with ornithology, Garland thought to himself, he had to write.



With that letter, Garland got up and headed to the window, looking out at the Peregrine, it's claws dug into the vine in his window, as he slipped the small parchment. The Falcon almost seemed to bark back at Garland, as the Falcon threw itself back, and caught flight, screaching as it left. It was hostile, and while it felt to Garland like it knew of his presence, he knew full well of his own master's, days and days flight away. Garland was keen on Falconry, but knew Ellion was a master, a living legend, so to speak. Willas Tyrell, the Lame Lord, was known to be among the greatest Falconers of his time, and whilst Garland knew it was something he wished to attempt, it would not be in his lifetime.

Sitting back down, he continued on, knowing he could finish writing his shorter letters now, with one to Lord Rickard Stark. Sometimes, Garland knew he wasn't the most polite in writing letters, but he felt that Rickard had that about him, that he could take Garland's edgier side in places, even if it wasn't obvious.





He cursed, feeling angry, wrothful throughout his whole letter. He hated doing this, but he had to do it, one way or another. The news had to be broken to this madman, and Garland could only tell that it was him who was doing it. He may have been conflicted, and perhaps, knew he was out of his depth. He had no experience of a war on this scale before, but he assumed he had to learn one way or another, or else he would never rise to be a Tyrell like his predecessors had been. And even if Tyget Crakehall was a calculating, cold and most of all, could be bold enough to follow up his threats, Garland only guessed that it would be the good of the realm that would make sure that men such as him did not succeed. From his own view, the family agreed, as would his vassal houses. As to writing to Lord Stark, he didn't need to give much- it was a shorter letter, and it had perhaps been something that he wanted to clear his mind of, just to let Rickard (Stark) know that he did not intend for anything more than what he had stated in his first declaration.

It was a personal touch, and he could only guess that The North would not want a war in the south, not if it meant that thousands could die. The North could not bleed once more, Garland guessed to himself. He had to write one more, this being the latest letter to have arrived, from someone who the Reach's Lord Paramount had not met for years and years, almost forgetting she was alive. Such a woman was someone he was glad to see was still alive, and her words rang true in his head. Perhaps this was the sign to prove he was right, that he had done the right thing, to wait and not simply take the Iron Throne himself. And of course, there was always benefit to be had for the family out of this, albeit this would be in the end game of the wars to come, should the need arise.



Passing the letters to Garth, he let him take it to the Rookery, to be delievered by the Ravens that sat in Hightower, as he exhaled once more. It had been an interesting morning, but for now, he had matters to attend to. Rhaenyra was someone Garland remembered from youth, but he knew she was a woman of confidence and capability, and would be ideally suited for the Throne. It was the perfect excuse, and he could already tell, it could mean war against the Crakehalls. He was tempted to call a Council, to rally the banners, and perhaps mobilize on the borders, just to give the effect. Wasteful, yes, but Garland could guess it could work in order to scare Tyget back.

----------

Willas too was writing, looking at the letter from Rhaenyra himself, in his own quarters. Taking his own quill, he began writing, aware it would cover most of the bases that would be needed for her knowledge.



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

Later that evening of that day, Rickard was as usual, in his room, his face in a book, this time reading more on the works of Mern III Gardener. An ancient King, a man who felt like he was millenia away from the current state of affairs, and Mern's face, as it was depicted in the book, reminded him almost of Gregor, his granddad. A weary man, an old man, but still maintaining those distinct traits. House Tyrell was directly descended from House Gardener, it had been a cadet branch, after all. Just like the Brightwaters were, they were Tyrells at heart, but their symbols were different, their whole identity felt changed. Putting the book back onto the table, he stood up once more, looking across at his bed. Maester Garth had left him for a while on his own, with a candle and a book, and it was bedtime reading that he liked. The tales of Kings and Queens of The Reach and the Seven Kingdoms, brave warriors, of dragons, of the winters of past. He loved learning, almost taking a . He slipped into his bed, slipping under a quilt as he put his head to rest on the goose-filled pillow, Rickard aware that rest came well to him on a night like tonight, where it was gently breezing.

The noise could be heard, as he saw the man come in, once more. It was terrifying each and every time, as he saw the man appear, the servant coming in. He spoke weird words, strange tongues, asked strange questions about Maester Garth, as Rickard sat up, looking across at the mysterious man. He had learned not to question him, it was like a bad dream, and just as he has asked, he had not told a single soul. He didn't feel it was right, even with what his brother and sister had told him, he knew it was not a Crakehall spy. It was far worse, but he knew that for that reason alone, he could not spread the news.

He spoke with him, but only realized what had happened as his face suddenly shifted, Rickard looking on.
"You're a....you're of the Faceless Men?" He enquired quietly, looking on in shock horror. It was his brother staring at him, but he knew it was a trick of the mind. Their faces were never real, he said to himself, they couldn't be. It was not his brother, playing some elaborate prank, this was real. His face had changed, mutated to that of Garland's, his distinctive beautiful features and hair, not that of the servant he had seen. Taking the coin into his hand, he stared. He knew what it was, but he didn't want to even dare say. The shifting once again left Rickard silent, as he watched on, quietly, not wanting to speak, or raise any sort of voice. It was mere shock, as he looked on, at the coin in his hand.

He looked on at the coin, just wondering what in Seven Hells was going on. He did not sleep, he did not move out of his bed, he could only stare at the coin. That man was a Faceless Man, he said to himself...and they murdered people! He had read about it, he had heard of their mystery, and he had never seen them....no, they couldn't! Rickard didn't want to exclaim. No, they weren't here for Garland...he said his family, Rickard's mind was racing. They wouldn't hurt brother or sister, would they? He couldn't tell them, he said to himself. He knew it was a sure-fire way to die, Valar Morgulis were words that he had once seen in a book...what did it mean? He had to remember hard, as he sat up, fanning his hand over the candle, placing the coin by it, it's distinctive markings and etchings saying all. He thought, once over. It was from a book on the Free Cities of Pentos, Lys, Tyrosh and Bravvos, he remembered to himself.

It was a phrase buried underneath the pages...what did it mean? He remembered to himself. Valar Dohearis, all men must serve...Valar Morghulis, all men must die. And in that coin, read the same words. They were the men of death, and for one single second, Rickard knew that even if he felt fear, he could not do anything now, not for his family. He shut his eyes, and squeezed the coin tight in his hand once more.

Talron had been staring at the map for so long that his eyes were beginning to ache. He was deep into the moonlight hours, straining his eyes through the flicker of a lonely candle. The castle slept, sunken into silence apart from the waves hurling themselves against the rocks. The cries of the wind were surprisingly absent. The fireplace was empty, the embers long dead and the coals burnt down to ash. Yet Talron still stood, leaning over the table and staring down at the image of Westeros before him.

The Iron Islands faced quite the challenge, it seemed. There were so many pieces of the puzzle, each hanging on another. Bear Island was just the start. Once Valorion had crushed House Mormont's men, he would be relying on hostages. It would not be pleasant. Any servants of the House, daughters or a wife that Lord Mormont may have, would be raped. The men would likely be butchered. Once Valorion had done his bloody work, Nalara would have more propaganda. The Starks let their Lords suffer, while their attackers enjoy impunity. Cape Kraken would quickly fall into Nalara's hands, and Talron had big plans for Cape Kraken.

A Kingdom away, Jakkon would be facing off against Lord Tallhart. Jakkon would slaughter them, he suspected. His brother had never been one for failure. Yet, it was not enough. Where two Lords fall, two more would rise. Torrhen's Square would need to be razed, or it would merely become a seat of power for another House. Should Bear Island come under siege, Talron expected that Valorion would raze the old wooden fort and make for the waves.

Yet the Greyjoys would not win this war alone. It was not possible; the North was too vast for such a small army to conquer, and the North would have allies no doubt. The obvious solution seemed to be to seek out allies of their own. Yet who would side with the King of the Iron Islands? He ha pillaged every Kingdom along the West Coast, excluding the Riverlands. They could be a useful ally against the North. Dorne was a world away, of no use to the Greyjoys. The Vale, perhaps. Yet, there was one who was stronger. Daenys Targaryen.

Talron grabbed his quill and ink. His withered hands worked at the parchments. Two letters. Talron read back over the words. The ink had run in places, so he wrote both out again, refining the wording. At last they were ready. The old King read the words aloud to himself, alone in his solar.



Talron folded the letters up and poured dark grey wax onto the front, before roughly stamping his sigil into it. His strategy was risky, of that he was certain. The risk was with supporting the claim of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her cousin Daenys had no support in the Seven Kingdoms, not even the backing of House Targaryen. Rhaenyra however was next in line after Daenys, and still had control over the Northern Crownlands, as well as the backing of numerous Houses accross Westeros. Supporting the Targaryen Princesses seemed a way to ensure some sort of support from the mainland.

Talron called for his thrall. It was a few minutes until the small dark-haired boy appeared, rubbing his eyes with his arm and rubbing his dirty face. His bare feet patted along the stone floor as he approached Talron. "Take these letters to the rookery. I want them sent at first light, understand?" The boy nodded and took the letters in both hands, staring at them curiously. He had a soft face, with long messy hair and dark brown eyes. He couldn't have been older than ten years. "Good. Thank you. When you're done head back to sleep. I won't be needing you again tonight." He smiled and nodded, turning and running off towards the rookery.

Talron stood from his chair and headed for his bed chamber. His body ached as he scaled the stony steps. They were uneven, and difficult to summit when he had to rely on a walking stick. Eventually, however, he reached the top, and entered the warmth of his chamber. Talron made a mental note to thank his thralls in the morning; a roaring fire crackled in the corner of the room, and the glorious warmth licked at his withered skin as he stripped and slid under the sheets.

Talron was exhausted. He had not slept well since becoming a King. As he lay in his bed, the room quiet and the castle asleep, his head was alive with thought. Was he doing the right thing here? The Targaryens had a history of being crazy. But the Iron Islands would not be able to stand alone should the Kingdoms unite against him. The Greyjoys would be brought to their knees. They needed allies. Unfortunately they had been raiding almost every Kingdom for the last fifty years, and they had few friends. All of these things would need to be considered for the Greyjoys to survive the coming war. As Talron lay in bed, trying to work everything out, however, he quickly found himself wrapped in the welcoming embrace of sleep.



Valorion Greyjoy stood at the bow of the Dark Valor, looking out accross the Murky water towards Bear Island. The shine of the moon reflected off the waves and illuminated both the ship decks and the miserable little landmass ahead. It was mostly hilly and forested. There was a small town near the coast, but the main attraction was Mormont Keep. It was a small wooden motte-and-bailey castle, stood near the northern shore. The wooden palisade looked half rotten, worn away by the humid sea air, and less than a dozen torches dotted the ramparts.

Valorion moved to the back of the mighty longship. It was a mighty vessel, boasting 100 oars and an enormous sail. The black material was adorned by the golden Kraken of House Greyjoy. The ship was symmetrical, like all Iron Island vessels, so that they were easily sailed both backwards and forwards. The hull consisted of several layers of overlapping wood, coated with a thick layer of tar, allowing the ship to maintain incredible maneuverability while also being strong enough to stand up in a fight against most Westerosi galleys. The prow of the ship was actually not of a Kraken; Valorion's brother Jakkon had sized that one for his ship, the Windbreaker. Valorion's ship instead boasted the maw of a mighty leviathan, lined with vicious fangs.

Valorion stood at the other end of his ship, looking out at his fleet. Near 80 longships had formed a crescent blockade around the Island, blocking the approach of any ship from the mainland. It was an incredible sight. The men of the Iron Islands sailed under their Lords' banner, and if they didn't belong to a Lord, then they had their own. Every Lord of the Iron Islands had at least a single ship representing them in the Iron Fleet. Just to look at it made Valorion swell with pride at his position as its captain. He saw the scythe of House Harlaw upon the sails of the Crestrunner, the warhorn of House Goodbrother on the sails of the Greydon's Glory and the bone hand of House Drumm on the sails of the Jade Vendetta. The tree of House Stonetree, the drowned man of House Sunderly, the leviathan of House Volmark and the lightning bolts of House Kenning. Yet there were some ships present that weren't of Ironborn origin. The Iron Islands had a reasonable number of captured Westerosi war galleys, as well as several Lyseni and Myrish galleys. Present was the Grim Whisper, a gargantuan Myrish galley under the captaincy of Darrias Harlaw, heir to House Harlaw. It was his father, Lord Meryn Harlaw, that had captured the ship and passed it on to his son. It was a formidable fleet, to be sure.

"Captain. Our men await your command." Valorion's first mate, one of Lord Drumm's sons named Harrik, had slipped up beside him while he was admiring his fleet. He was a young man, a little under twenty years, with wispy blonde hair and hazel eyes. He hadn't been with Valorion long but the veteran captain had quickly taken a shine to him. He turned to face the younger Ironborn, stood in his boiled leather with a sword at his hip.

"Very good. Ready the rowboats. I want the crew of this ship with me, and no one else. Once we take the keep, then the Island shall fall. But for now I only want thirty good men." Harrik nodded and scampered off along the deck, barking his captain's orders. The Ironborn made ready for the coming battle, giving their weapons a final sharpen and helping each other into their armor. Some painted their faces, others prayed to the Drowned God. Each had his own way of readying himself to kill. Valorion made his way to the middle of the ship, and his men gathered around. Silence quickly befell the ship as the Ironborn waited for their captain's words.

"So, here we are. Bear Island. Home of House Mormont." Valorion spat on the deck, producing chuckles from a few of the men. "The Northmen look down on us. They always have, and they always will. Well tonight, brothers, we show them the error of their ways." A wicked grin flashed accross his face. "The plan is simple. We row ashore, as quiet as possible. We kill the guards, and make for Lord Gregor's chambers. Once we have their Lord, we'll light a signal fire, and the rest of the fleet will come ashore." Valorion brandished his axe and pointed it at the keep. "I want every last one of these men dead. Can you do this, brothers?" A loud cheer went up. "When the sun rises, the North shall bathe in the blood of its people and every one of you will be father to another bastard. Now come on. We've got work to do."

The Ironborn cheered one last time and followed as Valorion led them to the rowboats. The sea wind roared back at them and the waves battered the hull of their small wooden boats. They were separated into four boats as they made for the shoreline, with only the light of the moon to aid them. They worked well, like a well oiled machine, as they glided over the waves. They made land under the cover of a small cliff, and hopped into the shallows. Together, the Ironborn hauled the boats up the shore to the base of the cliff, hiding them from sight. Valorion assigned five of his thirty men to watch the rowboats and create a signal fire, and led the others up the sand bank towards the castle.

They grouped up on the rear side of the castle, hidden in the shadows of the night. Using a grappling hook and rope, Valorion and three others scaled the walls and swept around the ramparts. Valorion killed three of the guards. He opened one man's throat with his own knife, and drove his axe into the skull of two more. With all twenty-five men on the ramparts, it would be difficult to be discrete. Valorion called for six men to man the wall by the front gate and ensure no one entered or left the castle. With nineteen more men at his disposal, Valorion assigned one in the place of the eight slaughtered guards, leaving him with eleven. The group split in two; Valorion would lead four men to Lord Gregor's quarters, while the other six would sweep the castle and clear it of guards.

Valorion led his men down the ramparts and around the back of the small castle on the hill. He had successfully separated the castle from the bailey bellow by capturing the gatehouse. For now, no one seemed to suspect a thing, and Valorion intended to keep it that way. He used the hooks again to scale the walls and enter through an entrance on the roof of the castle. There were no guards stationed up there, but from the looks of things there should have been. The Ironborn crept down the hall, until they saw what must have been Lord Gregor's quarters. Four armed guards stood outside, but they seemed relaxed and unaware - for this, Valorion was thankful.

He crept down the length of the narrow corridor towards the dozing guards, and they didn't spot him until he got about ten metres away. "Halt!" Valorion kept walking. "I said halt!" The guard moved his hand to his sword hilt, but it was too late. Valorion brandished an axe and savagely hacked at the guard's throat, ripping it open and spraying blood all over the Lord Captain's armor. The other three guards looked stunned and couldn't react quickly enough; Valorion buried his axe in one man's shoulder, and used his other hand to put his other axe several inches deep in another's face. The fourth guard dropped his weapon and begged mercy, but Valorion quickly silenced him with a swing for the man's face. He turned to face the large wooden doors. No doubt Gregor would have heard that.

As Valorion's iron boot smashed through the lock and flung the doors open, Gregor was just hauling himself from his bed. Two of Valorion's men charged forward and tackled him to the ground, each taking an arm and forcing him to his knees, while the other yanked his screaming wife from the bed by her hair. "Lord Gregor Mormont. I have to say, I'm disappointed." He was short and thin, with the scraggly beard and thin graying hair. "I expected the Lord of Bear Island to look a little more... fearsome." Valorion smiled evilly at the man on his knees before him. His wife was sniveling next to him. Valorion knelt down and put his face close to hers, running a hand along the side of her face.

"Hush now, my lady. You have nothing to fear from us. In fact, you should be grateful we came. I'm sure this old goat hasn't been keeping you satisfied... well, my men will fuck you good and proper, I promise you. If you've been bedding that for the last few years," he gestured at Lord Gregor, "you may even find that you enjoy it." He rose back to his feet. Gregor's wife was many years younger than him, with long flowing black hair and pretty blue eyes. Valorion concluded that she would be pregnant by sunrise. "Bind him," Valorion said, "and take him out to the gates. The Drowned God will be pleased with this sacrifice." Gregor's eyes filled with panic, but he remained silent as the Ironborn men bound his hand and feet, and dragged him harshly outside, while Valorion followed.

The small group made it out with no interference. Outside he found the six other men, with Lord Gregor's three children, cleaning their blades. As they stood atop the hill, Valorion looked down on the bailey below. Hundreds of row boats were reaching the shallows, and a tide of Ironborn raiders was cutting a swathe up the shore towards the castle bailey. They would tear it to the ground, Valorion knew, but he did not care. He had no intention of staying. Pyke was his home. He would raze the castle on the morrow and make sail for the Iron Islands, with an abundance of riches, thralls and salt wives. He could smell the salty sea air of home already.



Valorion stood on the beach where his men had made the shore the night before. The sea air was tainted by the stench of smoke and burned wood. Atop its small hill, the seat of House Mormont was ablaze. He had twenty-three of his men, as well as Lord Gregor Mormont and two others. The two others appeared to be rangers of a sort. They were experienced soldiers, of that Valorion could be certain. One was ugly, with a nose that looked like it had broken times beyond counting, and a gruesome burn scar marking the left side of his face. His brown hair was dirty and his facial hair was patchy. The other looked a veteran, his bald head marked with numerous small scars. One of his eyes was hazel, while the other was an ugly milky white. He had no beard, but a thin mustache sat on his upper lip.

Valorion stared at the two soldiers before him. There had been six of them, these Northmen. They had ambushed many of the Ironborn parties throughout the night and had eventually attempted to sneak in and rescue Lord Gregor. They had killed seven men before they realized what was happening, and four were killed. The other two now knelt before Valorion, staring blankly into his eyes. Valorion didn't want to question these men, for he knew they would tell him nothing. They were well-trained and efficient. No doubt there were more like them in the North.

"Take these two first. I'll handle Lord Gregor myself." Two Ironborn stepped forward and hauled the men to their feet. They dragged them into the shallows, up to just above waist height. Valorion walked in between the two. "Do it." The Ironborn grabbed both men by the hair and forced their faces to the water. They squirmed violently, kicking and writhing as the salty sea filled their lungs in place of the air. They thrashed around for a minute or so. The bald one went limp first, and the ugly one followed suit a few seconds later. The two drowned men were then hauled ashore. Their skin was pasty and their eyes were empty. The Drowned God had claimed their souls. Valorion trudged through the rolling waves to the shore and grabbed Lord Gregor. He dragged the small man to the water and removed his gag. "Lord Gregor Mormont. On this day, you will feel the wrath of the Drowned God. If you have any last words, now is the time."

"Fuck you, Greyjoy! When Lord Stark hears of this he'll mount your head on a spike outside Winterfell, mark my words! You won't get away with this!"

"Now, that's more like what I expected from the Lord of Bear Island. A bit more aggression. Too little, too late, I'm afraid." Valorion grabbed the man's grey hair and plunged his head into the sea. He thrashed and writhed all the same as the watery tendrils of the Drowned God slithered down his throat and wrapped around his lungs. Soon enough he stopped kicking and his lifeless body began floating. Valorion left it there in the sea as he clambered back into the row boat and headed for the deck of the Dark Valor. Once aboard, he made his way to the ship's bow and looked out again at his fleet. The ships were overflowing with new thralls. Many of the men had taken at least one new salt wife, and they had looted the castle for all the gold and, more importantly, weapons that they could find. They had new hauls of food and resources, and Valorion had set several crews the task of felling the forest on the island to help with the lack of wood they had. Some ships would stay and finish off the looting. But not Valorion's. For Valorion, the day was one, his task completed, and it was time to return home.

“By the Graces…” Jehrilla wheezed with what little breath she could force out “Never have I loathed steps as furiously as I do now.” The winding stone stairway which led up to Alerie’s chosen meeting place would have been quite the climb for anyone not used to such towering ascents, but to the obese slaver it was like scrambling vertically up a cliff face of barbs and hot coals.

Her chunky legs screeched in agony with each laboured step, and sweat poured down her milky flesh. It was a struggle to squeeze her gargantuan bulk through the narrow corridor, and a greater challenge still to muster the strength to pull herself up the next step which lay ahead, in a seemingly endless cycle of whirling, twisting torment. Her heart heaved inside her, it's desperate thumping ringing in her ears as it beat faster and faster and faster.

Jehrilla stumbled, panting and gulping down huge mouthfulls of air, into the chamber, before crashing down on top of a pile of silken cushions. She oozed out into the room around her, and every time her stomach rose or fell it looked as though she would burst right out of her scaley attire.

She listened through a haze of exhaustion as Lady Alerie spoke, using the opportunity to recover both her breath and her composure. By the time the Tyrell Woman was finished, Jehrilla was still dripping sweat, but was at least able to form sentences without pushing herself to the brink of death.

The Wise Master bowed her head respectfully when the young woman called her beautiful, and nodded solemnly when she mentioned her plan to torment this Lord Crakehall.

The red haired woman’s proposition was nothing if not enticing. With a harem of noble slaves from the West, Jehrilla would be the envy of all the other Wise Masters, and would have enough gold to keep her coffers overflowing with coin from decades to come. She ran her eyes over the reachwoman. Whilst she was lacking in a full-figure, and her bust could never dream of matching the slaver’s own generous bosom, she did have a certain youthful physique to her.

If you like bedding twigs which snap as soon as the excitement starts.

“This is an opportunity that I would be foolish to turn down, My Lady Tyrell.” Jehrilla spoke in her usual, soft yet hoarse manner. Her voice had a slight scratchiness to it; silky and comforting, whilst also grating and croaky at the back of her throat. “But backing a single side so early on in this inevitable conflict, without first surveying my options, would be just as foolhardy.”

She extended one fat hand, scraping the gold rings which were woven around her chubby fingers against one another.

“Thankfully, the Western Lords would be no more likely to trace my men back to me then they would to house Tyrell.”

Whilst this might not necessarily be true, Jehrilla could always sell her slaves to another faction somewhere down the line, then get a royal pardon from whoever came out on top, in return for new trade routes and the support of Yunkai.

“None of the other lords or ladies know of my being here, and it seems that shall work in both of our favours.”

Jehrilla had a trinity of slave soldiers and mercenary companies under her command, each fashioned from some of Yunkai’s, and indeed the Free Cities’, greatest fighters.

The Company of the Black Delight were well-built and rippling with muscle; clad in light armour and wielding weapons adorned with crooked hooks and spikes. No fighters revelled in combat so much as those who fought beneath the jagged helms of the Black Delight, nor were any other band of Essosi soldiers surrounded in as much dark mystery and superstition.

The Giggling Griefs were a flamboyant combination of deadly performers and bloodthirsty gladiator's from the most perilous of fighting pits. Many years ago they had been a company of murmurs, who learnt to defend themselves during their travels between the Free Cities. Once their master had discovered that his dancers and jugglers had an aptitude for fighting, he set about building his own mercenary company. Characterised by their extravagant dress and outrageous personalities; the Grief’s danced and fluttered across the battlefield, hacking and slashing as they wove beneath their enemies’ blades.

Finally, came the Bloodsoaked; an unruly rabble of vicious killers, kept in line by captain Vherick, who also happened to be Jehrilla’s most trusted bodyguard. The Bloodsoaked had been infamous during the years after Daenerys Targaryen reclaimed the throne, when they had risen to prominence working as enforcers for the crumbling slaver dynasties.

“With the assurance of House Tyrell, my soldiers could set sail by tomorrow's end.” Jehrilla declared with a delicate grin, painted elegantly across her full lips and slithering up the corners of her mouth.

The Lion In Black

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."

"Princess... Princess Elaina I simply must insist you get up! Court will begin within the hour and if you are late how do you expect that to look in front of all of your Vassals and Common Folk!" The question was followed up by a sigh and from the deep bowels of the blankets came a whooshing sound as they came flying off and revealing a petite Olive skinned woman who was the Princess of Dorne. The nkw revealed Princess sighed again exaggeratingly and stretched as her servants milled about getting clothes out to be selected, placing her breakfast down, and picking up the blankets that had been so unceremoniously tossed into the floor. The Princess stood and went to her breakfast, sampling a few of the bites of food while one of her Handmaidens, a girl from Saltshore, the seat of House Gargalen, named Tala moved to begin brushing her hair, fighting the curly blackish brown tangles and succeeding for a bit before the hair finally flipped into curls anyway and Tala gave up. The woman who had done the waking make a hmphing noise and pried the Princess from the food and moved her to the clothing where the young ruler of Dorne smirked at her and continued chewing the food in her mouth causing the older lady to throw her hands up in exasperation. "Red God knows why the people love you so much." She said as she headed out leaving Elaina and Tala to giggle at each other.

"Why do you cause Mari so much stress? She's only trying to help?" The Princess regarded her little Handmaiden and smirked as she began dressing in a white and gold dress, sliding a tight armlet of a golden snake onto her thin forearm and then the House Martell crest also in gold on her opposite forearm. She yawned again before answering as she placed a elegant gold piece around her forehead a crystal hanging down that was pure white, catching the early morning Sun and gleaming.

"I suppose it's because she's been here for me like that since I was your age Tala, and it's just become our routine." She shrugged and grasped the girls hand walking out of her chambers into the corridors of Martell Palace. She ignored the two guards that flanked her expertly as she walked and greeted everyone she passed smiling and wishing them a great morning. Elaina found that she was quite good at smiling, a blessing with what she endured every morning as the commoners sought her favor or justice. It was one of the many ways she was loved so much by the people of Dorn and commanded such respect as a ruler. With her light breakfast Princess Elaina walked straight into the Palace's 'throne' room and sat herself upon the high seat smiling down at those in attendance. At once she was surrounded by the trainee's of different Houses across Dorne, boys and girls all sitting on her lap or at her feet or right beside her making it a literal pile of children and then the Princess.

The people of Dorne were quite used to the sight as was demonstrated when they were led in by her guards kneeling and seeking her favor, advice, and justice for wrongdoing. One man in particular stole Elaina's attention as he approached limping and weeping. "My Princess, my princess I come from my house on the other side of the city to regretfully inform you of Jaroche's death, he and you played together in the Water Gardens and he told me of what good friends you had been." Elaina was stunned for a moment before a single tear rolled down her face and her voice was soft as she spoke. "Good man, please accept 50 golden dragons as recompense of my actions in not attempting to find him before he was taken from us. I believe you are a smith correct?" The man shook his head, informing her he was a fletcher and she smiled, inclining her head. "I see, my apologies but I do believe that the Household Guard of this Palace is in need of new recurve bows and would we would be honored to also contract you for an order of say fifty? Is that a good estimate Captain Talmen?" A Stoney Dornishment from the Blackmont lands standing in the shadows stepped forward and nodded.

"It is my Princess, fifty bows would ensure that all sentries would have a new one." His eyes flashed as he approved of her moves and the fletcher bowed low a smile on his face. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. He had been the last petitioner and Elaina felt her stomach growl. Somehow time already rushed to lunch time and she stood, her little entourage following her behind the High Seat and into a feasting hall and then to the high table where the group was presented to lunch. It was at this time that her Captain of the Guard placed a letter beside the plate and then stood behind her. Elaina ignored the parchment until the children were eating and she herself had managed to snag a few peppers and then opened the letter with the Crakehall Crest. As she read an amused smirk crossed her face, she of course had heard of Aegon X's death and with all of Dorne she grieved the death of a Targaryen but hearing that Lor- no, His -Grace- Crakehall claimed the throne for himself was quite interesting. She mulled over her thoughts with watered down Wine and watched her wards play. She then nodded to Talmen who placed fresh parchment and a quill with ink beside her...



Elauina shook her head and the Captain smirked knowingly as he sealed the letter and then placed another one beside her unopened with the Tyrell seal. Curious and interested the Princess ensured her wards were still entertained and 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"

Elaina wondered just how he was still Hand of the King to a dead King but figured that it was supposed to cement his desire to 'prevent' bloodshed. She had to admit that recently herself and the Tyrells had a much better relationship than centuries prior and it was no secret that Dorne was one of the most loyal Targaryen Kingdoms, having stayed loyal even when the Tyrells suckled on Lannister gold and plotted for the throne. She clenched her fists remembering her sons namesake slaughtered in the streets by the monster Clegane and she had to exhale a few times before she could nod to her Captain and write a reply.



Elaina blew on the ink and then wrote one each to her husband and Elise Yronwood in King's Landing before leaning back and sighing. It was imperative that the insane Targaryen didn't control the Kingdom and honestly the Princess found herself uncaring who sat on it the Fire forsaken chair so long as they left Dorne alone and it wasn't Daenys. She found herself thinking of Elia's children and wondered if the disappearance of Ser Tristam and the other Kingsguard meant that they managed to save Aegon's son... She smiled to herself and knew that should it become Dornish knowledge that Daenys attempted to kill the lineage of Aegon VI, a Dornish child by Elia that Dorne would throw themselves at the Red Passes to get to Aerys and woe be to who stood in their way.

Shrugging the Princess stood and shooed the children, her wards to begin their lessons a sparkle in her eye as she wondered if her army would get to see the combat they trained so hard for.

It had taken the span of roughly three days for the first of the letters to make their way back via the flight of Ravens. The first to respond was Ser Willas Tyrell, the presiding commander of the Gold Cloaks of King’s Landing. The content of his letter was discussed at length, especially amongst the gathered council of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen II. The letter had arrived early in the morning, a cold Eastern rain storm heralding the start of the day, and with it, the news that everyone had been eagerly awaiting.

With her sister Baela, Rhaenyra had gathered her loyal lords to her, all sitting within the great hall of Dragon’s Rest. The maester has awoken Rhaenyra as soon as the bird arrived, before setting about in his own tasks to summon the council. There they now sat, reading over this letter sent by a former Kingsguard member, Ser Willas Tyrell. Of course, even before breakfast had been served, let alone finished being cooked, there was already a heated discussion, or rather, an argument unfolding at the table.

Rhaenyra sat silently, trying to still wake up from her lingering feelings of fatigue and sleepiness. Lady Mooton and Lord Buckwell were trying to push the fact that Ser Willas had abandoned his duties, as he was no longer a member of the Kingsguard. Of course, one could argue that he was a traitor, but, it was Baela who spoke out first. She was a woman of honor and integrity, and would be damned to see a good knight and man be besmirched because of some old tired men who were not thinking clearly yet.

“Balderdash, listen to yourselves talk. Perhaps you should wake up fully first, before speaking ill of Ser Willas Tyrell. Think about it, long and hard, before you answer. What King is there to protect, let alone guard? King Aegon X was very explicit in his will that Prince Daenys was not to inherit the throne. The alone bars the need for the Kingsguard to protect someone who by all rights is not a king. The Kingsguard who followed Prince Daenys are more traitor than Ser Willas. And yet, I can’t fault them either. They followed in their convictions to what they believed to be the correct course of action, the most honorable and right road to travel down. Have some coffee for the Seven’s Sake, and let us all think this through very carefully. Lady Mooton, and Lord Buckwell, whatever prior qualms you may have with Ser Willas Tyrell, put them behind you, and let us all work together to find the most viable solution.” Princess Baela spoke haughtily, looking at all those assembled at the table before her.

She gave them all a look that dared them to challenge her, to say otherwise than to what she spoke moments before. None of them did, the men, both older than either Targaryen princess, and those who were closer in age, said nothing, in fact, nodding in agreement. Baela had been right, the Kingsguard was at a crossroads. Technically, in such a time, they were to remain by the throne, to protect it for the rightful heir, if said heir could not be physically protected by them at that moment. Either way though, Baela ensured, with a nod from her elder sister, that any more talk about Sir Willas Tyrell in a negative light, would not be tolerated. To ease the tension in the air, Baela cracked a smile filled with compassion and camaraderie. And like a waterskin with a hole, the tension in the air drained away.

Not a moment too soon, as breakfast had just arrived, steaming plates of eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast were brought forth, along with fresh milk, orange juice, and hot coffee. Business would continue, no doubt, but albeit slower, with everyone enjoying their food, to help start the day, and get everything underway. Rhaenyra smiled at her loyal banners, looking at each one, before lifting her glass filled with milk high above her, to raise a toast to her friends and family. “To the most loyal and honorable friends, bannermen, and mentors that anyone could ever have, Blood and Fire.” Rhaenyra spoke aloud with passion. It was true, these men, and her sister, were there for her when her parents died, were there for the Targaryen sisters when they had no one else truly to turn to, excluding King Aegon X, but his station and duty to the realm prevented him from being able to freely travel to them. The Lords, both great and small raised their glasses, repeating the Targaryen family motto, smiling to one another, before returning to their meals with gusto.

With breakfast finished, the councilors of the Targaryen princesses returned to business with earnest. They discussed who to turn to, of who could be trusted, and who should be watched carefully. Ser Willas Tyrell was brought up first and foremost, for he was the closest feasible ally that both Rhaenyra and Baela Targaryen could turn to outside of the Northern Crownlands. Ser Darren Celtigar, former commander of the Gold Cloaks, was forcibly removed, choosing to commit treason and break his solemn oaths and vows to the throne. This could only help to exacerbate the current stability of the realm.

The Celtigar’s were sworn to Dragonstone, which, at least to everyone’s knowledge, still fell under control of Prince Daenys Targaryen. The Narrow Sea Houses had been sworn bannermen to Dragonstone, and with Ser Darren Celtigar’s death, even with the justifications for his treason, this could only spell trouble, unless Prince Daenys was no longer in control of these houses… though, this would have to be investigated further. The gathered council all agreed though on one important thing, Ser Willas Tyrell had acted correctly in removing Ser Darren Celtigar, a pity that he had to die, but no doubt the man brought it upon himself.

But rather, more importantly, was the urgent need to get to King’s Landing with all due haste. Ser Willas was right in that it would be more and more difficult the longer they waited to make the two day long trek to King’s Landing. Whatever unconventional means were used to bring peace and order back to the city could only help ensure the safety of the two Targaryen princesses, or so the council assumed. The capital was paramount to any claim either Targaryen princess had to the throne, and by arriving there first, would help bolster any claims that they may have to the throne itself.

The Tyrells were doing all they could to ensure the stability of the city, and to keep it firmly in Targaryen control. Ser Willas mentioned that there could possibly be a siege, if things did not play out for the better. Especially concerning that Great Uncle Tyget Crakehall had put forth a claim onto the throne as well. He was an honorable man, Lord Crakehall, but in these trying times, the Crownlanders decided it best to begin preparations for the march to King’s Landing.

It was decided that roughly fifteen hundred men would march to King’s Landing, leaving a thousand to defend the respective lands of those present. Lady Mooton, Lords Hardy and Boggs would have the Vanguard, traveling ahead to prepare King’s Landing for the arrival of the rest of the Crownlanders. This would allow for the remainders of the forces to protect the baggage train, and for both Rhaenyra and Baela to prepare their dragons for their new home in King’s Landing. The council spoke quietly amongst themselves, as they waited for the go ahead from their forces to be mustered and ready to go.

Rhaenyra and Baela spoke quietly amongst one another, going over Ser Willas’s letter once more, and in particular his final paragraph. He had served their Uncle valiantly, faithfully, until his untimely death. What concerned them was the man’s guilt over his failure to protect the king, even though more than likely, there was nothing that could have been to prevent it, especially if the rumors were to be believed that Prince Daenys had poisoned him. Ser Willas Tyrell was open and honest in his letter, and from what the two sisters could read, he was not hiding anything. He would face no punishment, nor would he have any shame in his choices. Rhaenyra and Baela both agreed to fully reinstate him, and to thank him for his hard work.

It was at this moment, that a second letter arrived, from the Lord of House Tyrell himself, Lord Garland Tyrell. The maester brought it to the table as soon as he had received it, its seal not even broken yet. Rhaenyra hastily opened it, reading its contents to herself, before passing the letter to her sister, as she thought carefully about what she had read. Rhaenyra looked to her gathered lords, before looking back to her sister, to see what she thought about the letter.

“Well, this is good news, good news indeed. Lord Garland’s support will surely be needed, if as he fears, the realm descends into a civil war. The Tyrells have pledged to support you, sister, this can only help your claim, and our family.” Baela said aloud excitedly, before continuing to speak, “Lord Garland is also a looker, and single…” Baela finished, in a low, playful tone to Rhaenyra. The look on her sister’s face was more than rewarding enough.

Forcing herself to try and not blush was rather difficult, especially in front of her sister, and her council members. Rhaenyra shook her head, clearing the thoughts so deviously put there by her sister. Lord Garland was attractive, that much was true. Rhaenyra had seen him at King Aegon’s 30th name day celebrations, jousting in the lists. But those thoughts were not for here, in these trying times. “Lord Garland Tyrell is still the acting Hand of the Realm. He knows how to best run this Kingdom of ours, and with his help, we can solidify my rightful claim to the Iron Throne.” Rhaenyra spoke to her council, letting the letter be passed about, so that each man could read it for himself.

“Lord Garland is correct, in that the coming times will be a trial for everyone, both Lord and peasant alike. Winter already encroaches upon us early, as reports from the North and the Riverlands are troubling, saying cold winds and early frosts have damaged crops unseasonably early. We will need the Reach to help ensure that famine does not sweep the Kingdom. We will have to thank him greatly for his continued support, and foresight to secure King’s Landing as well.” Rhaenyra spoke aloud to her council, letting them know what she thought about Lord Garland.

The Lord Garland Tyrell, also brought unsettling news along with his good. The Queen Dowager, Aegon X’s lady wife, was brutally murdered. No doubt at the behest of Prince Daenys, the vile bastard. He had committed regicide for sure now, and was a kinslayer no less as well. The Kingdom could ill afford a civil war, especially one that would be fought be the Mad Prince Daenys. He was a mad man no doubt, and whatever happened, he would not go down without a fight. “We will have to make all due haste to arrive in King’s Landing. Prince Daenys is still on the loose, and he has murdered his own sister, if not his own brother as well. The longer he remains on the loose, the worse things will become for the realm as a whole.” Rhaenyra spoke aloud, as she hurried to have the measter fetch her paper and quill to write with. It was best to answer Lord Garland with all due haste, and to inform him of her plans. And, to inform Ser Willas as well.

Rhaenyra busied herself into writing her response to Lord Hand Garland Tyrell, while Baela worked on the letter meant for Ser Willas. The Crownlands lord milled about, chatting about their excitement, fears, concerns, things spoken in small talk. They were overall in good spirits though, proud to be serving alongside their future queen, should fate allow such to transpire. Both sisters focused on writing to their respective recipients, when yet another letter arrived, this one certainly unexpected. Both women could tell by the way the measter held the parchment, almost as if he were afraid to touch it. He set it before them both, before bowing his head, and taking a seat not too far away.

It bore the seal of the Iron Islands, of House Greyjoy. Rhaenyra looked to Baela, unsure of what to make of this. Why would the Greyjoy’s send a letter to them, especially now after being free of the Seven Kingdoms for so many, many years. It was Lord Rykker who spoke first, breaking the silence that hung over the room like a thick blanket. “My Lady, not to sound humorous, but worse case, it is the Iron Islanders declaring themselves as King too…” He smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. It was Baela who laughed first, a loud, hearty peel of girlish laughter.

The rest of the room laughed too, their apprehension leaving them as well. The maester looked to Rhaenyra, who seemed to be lost in a world all her own. She still looked over her letter that she had been writing, thinking of the past when her father was still alive. What we he have done, said, thought about. It was here she was roused from her moment of silent solitude by the maester, gently shaking her shoulder. She smiled up at the elderly man, thanking him for his service, before she stood up, and walking over to the fire place, beckoning Baela to follow her over. In her hands, was the letter from the Iron Born, the Greyjoys of Pyke.

Together, they read over the letter, surprise and caution coming across each of their faces. This was certainly unexpected, the farthest thing from expected. King Talron Greyjoy had contacted them with a peculiar message, something that no one gathered at Dragon’s Rest could have ever guessed. “King Talron is claiming to support my claim to the throne, and that he wishes to offer any and all support that he can in order to help secure my positon firmly upon the Iron Throne.” Rhaenyra would finish, before Baela took the letter and continued reading it.

“Yes, he does offer that, but what he asks for next… well, its definitely not something that could easily be done without angering the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.” Baela shakes her head, moving to the council table to lay the letter down upon, for all to see. “King Talron asks that we help protect his rightful sovereignty to the Iron Islands. How in the blazes does he expect that to happen?” Baela finished, no sooner than the other lords began to speak up as well.

“His kind have been raiding the coasts of the North and the Westerlands for decades now, how does he expect to have us support him?” Lady Mooton asked.

“He is no better than a common pirate… to hell with him.” Lord Rykker angrily said. “I say we let him face the repercussions of his actions. His crimes can’t go unanswered.”

“If we support him, we will create discord between ourselves and the North, let alone the Westerlands. My lady, it is folly to offer any form of support to him. We need to keep the Kingdom as one, not a fractured mess of waring Kings. The war of the Five Kings was a disaster.” Lord Buckwell said, his tone very concerned.

This went on for some time, Rhaenyra listened to the men and her sister debate. They were right about one thing, the Iron Islanders had painted themselves into a corner. Still, she decided that it was best to let them talk for a while. She needed to get back to finishing her letter to Lord Garland. The maester had informed her that the host was nearly ready to leave, and it was important to have these letters sent out before they left. She took a moment to look up, smiling at her sister. Ever the warrior Baela was, she was heatedly arguing with the Northern Crownlands lords, almost seeming to enjoy it all.

Rhaenyra had already figured that this matter could wait until they were in King’s Landing, and would be able to consult with the Lord Hand, current Regent of the Realm. She beckoned to maester over to her, telling him to secure the letter from King Talron for now, to safely pack it away for the trip to the capital. Her lord bannermen were wise, but, to be honest, they only had to worry about their small swathes of land that fell under their dominion, hell, the same went for Rhaenyra and Baela as well. It was hard, being so young, so new to politics. It would have been so different if Prince Jaehaerys were still alive… if mother were alive too, but little good could come from wishing those that had passed were still here. All it could do would bring sadness and uncertainty.

“Let us worry about King Talron once were are securely in King’s Landing. I cherish your council, each and every one of you, but, the Hand, Lord Garland, will know more than any of us. He should be consulted in this matter, and that is the last I will discuss the matter about King Talron, pirate, pillager, barbarian, raper, whatever he is, it is up to the Regent to decide until I am Queen, or someone else is crowned as our Sovereign.” Rhaenyra spoke in a commanding tone that left no room for discussion. She was eager to leave for the capital, and any more arguing would simply hold her up. “I will meet you all out in the courtyard. We will be riding out within hour.”

Rhaenyra walked out of the main hall, from the confines of stone and wood, out into the bright morning sun. It was beautiful, truly a good day. It had been overcast for the last few days, and it was nice to finally see the sun peak through the clouds. She was enjoying the sunlight upon her face, when a familiar hand touched her shoulder. It was Baela, smiling at her elder sister, before giving her a big hug. “You are in high spirits Baela. I could not ask for a better sister.” She smiled, holding her sister close to her as she spoke in a low tone. “I will never leave you… I promise that. I promised mother and father to look after you, and I will keep that promise.”

Baela smiled, hugging her sister back in turn, before laughing and dashing away to her awaiting dragon. Spirited and full of excitement, she even did a cartwheel, which was a sight to see to the men in the courtyard, as she was still in a flowing dress. She didn’t care, to hell with what anyone would say, besides, it was her dragon that she wanted to say good morning to, and it had been too long already since they last rode together. Jadefyre would no doubt delight in taking flight as well having been grounded for the past few days due to storms.

Rhaenyra laughed and shook her head, watching her sister dart away to join her dragon. She would turn to speak to her gathered retinue, going over plans of the trek to King’s Landing. It would be an easy trip, no more than three days in bad weather, a day and a half if they pushed it. She busied herself to listen intently to what Lady Mooton and Lord Buckwell were discussing with her.

She listened to them go over lists of supplies, provisions, troop numbers, road conditions, and a number of other tedious things. Of course, truth be told, Rhaenyra wished she could simply paint, or perhaps write poetry right now, but, duty called, and with it, came its own set of problems. It would seem, even as they were getting ready to leave, problems were already arising. Two wagons had broken axles, and their gear had to be moved over to small wagons that had to be appropriated from a nearby mill. A fight had broken out between two knights and a lowly sergeant, the knights had been drunk, the sergeant trying to stop it. To top it all off, a sheep herder was blocking the road that lead South to King’s Landing, as he was driving his flock to another pasture to graze from.

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile, shaking her head as she listened to the problems, related to her by Lord Cave and Lord Hardy. She thanked them for their reports, sending them to do what they could to speed up the process, and in the meantime, asked to have the three men brought before her. Lord Brune saw to it himself, hurrying off in order to round up the offenders. With a sigh, she sat down at a table in the courtyard, speaking quietly to the remaining lords. She joked with them, and also listened to them in their excitement as well, for it seemed that they, more than her, were more ecstatic for her to become Queen. She shrugged, such is the way of things, but who could blame them, they had adored her and her family for many years.

As Lord Cave returned, he reported in. “The flock of sheep will not take any longer than ten more minutes. The Shepard humbly apologizes for any inconvenience he may have caused you, My Lady, he was just trying to make for the next pasture before another storm is all.” His voice was calm and jovial, as he slid off his horse to kneel before Lady Rhaenyra, “He offers you this as a token of apology. He said it is a blanket made of his sheep’s wool, freshly sewn by his wife and daughter.” Lord Cave held up a soft black blanket, so new it was as though it had just come off the loom. Rhaenyra took the blanket gingerly, holding it close to her body as she inspected it.

It was very fine wool, so soft, so clean, and tightly woven together. It would keep anyone warm, save for the harshest of winters. She smiled, enjoying this new gift that now lay in her lap. “Lord Cave, thank you. I am honored to accept this gift on behalf of our local Shepard. Go relax and enjoy the sun, because I feel as though it may be short lived, especially in our journey to come.” Rhaenyra nodded her head to Lord Cave, the man bowing in return, before walking off to enjoy a sunny corner of the courtyard with some of his own retinue. Only a short while later, did Lord Brune walk up with the three offending men of Lady Rhaenyra’s forces. The two knights were still drunk, judging by their bleary looks and the smell of a brew house rolling off of them. The third man, a lowly sergeant compared to everyone else, looked bloodied and bruised. He knelt down lowly before Princess Rhaenyra, before the two knights did, and did not rise until he was beckoned to do so.

“What is your name, sergeant?” Rhaenyra asked firmly, looking at the man as he tried to stem his nose from bleeding once more. He was of average height, slim build, with light golden brown hair and brownish-purple eyes, an odd looking man, almost as though he came from elsewhere. She looked at him closely, to see if he was in the right or wrong. “My name is Trevan Waters, My Lady.” He spoke coolly, with respect, but dignity. He wiped blood from his nose once more, trying to keep it from oozing down past his mustache. The young sergeant looked at Lady Rhaenyra expectantly, as he was unsure what was to happen, considering the circumstances.

Rhaenyra turned to the two knights, men of her own household no less. To say she was furious would be an understatement. They had dishonored not only themselves with their drunken antics, but also sullied her own honor with their petty actions. One had a black eye, the other a bruised cheek and split lip. “Lord Brune, have both these men removed from the retinue. They plainly showed that they can not handle themselves honorably, or with dignity. They will serve as my stable cleaners for the next three months, as penance for their little indiscretion. Ensure that they understand that this behavior will not be tolerated under my eye.” She spoke with wroth, staring down two of her own knights. These were men that she had dined with before, traveled with, and yet here they were, making fools of themselves.

“Sergeant Waters, tell me what happened, and do not spare any details. Tell the truth, or you’ll end up like these two fools next to you.” Rhaenyra soon turned her attention to the Sergeant. He looked at her with surprise, before bowing his head, and beginning to relay to her what had happened to have the three men standing before her now. He spoke quickly, never stumbling to try and remember something, or make up details. It was all collected and precise. The two knights had been drinking heavily, before things had gotten ugly. They were betting who was a stronger man, when they decided to fight with their fists. Their fight eventually spilled into a neighboring camp of common soldiers, of which Sergeant Waters was a member of. The Sergeant tried to break up the fight, to keep the two knights from causing any more discord, but to no avail. The knights soon turned on him, and gave him a “good” beating, before being seized by a passing patrol of Lord Buckwell. The Sergeant bowed deeply once more when he had finished, awaiting his fate from his liege Lady.

By now, all the other delays had finished, leaving nothing else to held up the host of Crownlanders save the outcome of this camp fight. Rhaenyra beckoned the sergeant to sit down, while she turned and discussed her thoughts with her lords. As the men and Princess spoke, Lady Baela showed up, to see what the heck was taking so long with her sister. She looked at the two knights, before noticing Sergeant Waters, smiling and waving at him, before she sat next to Rhaenyra. “What’s going on Rhae, what is taking so long? You said we were going to be leaving a while ago.” Baela teasingly spoke aloud to her sister and fellow lords. The men and Rhaenyra could not help be chuckle, pointing to the three men that sat before them all.

“Blame them, it seems these two, and that Sergeant decided to get into a fight. Lady Rhaenyra was just getting ready to pass judgement on the Sergeant.” Lord Crabb spoke aloud.

But before anyone else could comment further, it was Rhaenyra who spoke out. She was standing, holding one of the family’s ancestral Valyrian Steel swords. “Kneel Sergeant Waters.” Her tone brokered no room for argument, carrying a tone of command that perhaps few could match. Little could the Sergeant do but follow the command, and so he knelt before Princess Rhaenyra. Baela was shocked, was her sister going to execute this man, even though he had done nothing wrong. All were shocked by what Rhaenyra did next.

“I, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Second of my Name, Lady of the Northern Crownlands, of House Targaryen, do hereby knight you, before the eyes of men and the gods. I dub thee Ser Trevan Waters” as her blade touched on the former sergeant’s right shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave," Rhaenyra moved the blade from the right shoulder to left, "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just," She moved her sword to the Right shoulder once more, "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent," before moving her sword to the left shoulder again, "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women...” And so it went, before Rhaenyra herself offered out her hand, to raise Trevan Waters, a bastard sergeant from what he was into a full-fledged knight.

“You did the right thing, even though it caused you to be harmed in the process. That is something that I will not soon forget. Ser Trevan, you will have the honor of carrying my standard today. May the Seven grant you the strength and honor you need to become the best that you can be.” She smiled, bowing her head to the newly knight man, before dismissing everyone with a wave of her hand. It was time to go, and they had dallied too long already. King’s Landing awaited, and the sooner Rhaenyra and her sister arrived, the better.

All Ser Trevan could do was kneel deeply before Lady Rhenyra, have been lifted from the dirt into a knighthood. He hurried away to his new post, as the courtyard began to ready up for the trek ahead of them. Horses were mounted, soldiers lined up, banners unfurled, and so on, all the preparations for a journey to the capital. Baela hurried to her sister’s side, smiling from ear to ear as she spoke to her. “That was a wonderful thing you did, you know that right? You literally made that man become greater than he ever thought possible, sister. I will be honest, I was not expecting that, let alone anyone else. You will make a great Queen, you know that?” Baela spoke excitedly, still beaming with pride and excitement.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, giving her sister a little push as they both headed for their dragons. “It was the right thing to do. Those two drunken sots brought it upon themselves, and Ser Trevan acted for the betterment of everyone around him, regardless of what may happen to him. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to have another knight, now does it?” This time it was Rhaenyra who had a playful smile on her lips, looking at Baela with humorous delight. “Plus, what he doesn’t know, is that I will also be awarding him one fourth of the other two’s lands, as a penance for them, and a reward for his actions.” Rhaenyra laughed as Baela’s mouth dropped open. She could be a leader when she needed to be, she supposed, but it was tedious work between the parts she enjoyed.

Both women spoke more, before mounting up upon their respective dragons, Visaxes and Jadefyre. Together, they took to the sky as their meager host marched out from Dragon’s Rest, marching Southwest to King’s Landing. The two princesses circled about the sky, flying lazily with their beloved mounts, before following above their host, enjoying the warmth of a beautiful fall day. The forces of the Northern Crownlands set forth, fifteen hundred men altogether, marching to a new dawn, a new tomorrow, one in which they all hoped Rhaenyra Targaryen would be Queen. The Targaryen girls would not lightly give up their claim upon the throne, and they travelled now to officially announce their intentions to claim the Iron Throne.

Three ravens sped forth from Dragon’s Rest, each heading in different directions. One was destined for the far off Iron Islands. The second for Highgarden. The last, was closest of all, King’s Landing. Each bird carried letters finished shortly before the Crownlanders departure, and would herald what new and tidings that were written within.

Footsteps played throughout the depths of the northern Barrowland Woods, resounding off the trunks of the evergreen trees as a rather hefty man stomped his way through the brush. Leaves and pine needles crunched underfoot, crushed into the frosty grass by steel-clad boots, scaring away the few mildly brave forest critters remaining in the area. No other noise made itself present over the cacophonous march, barring the occasional startled cry of a squirrel or bird, and the lack of outside distractions was taking its toll on the travel weary soldier. He scampered off to find a clearing so the signal beacon could be lit. It didn't take him long to find a small break in the trees, large enough to allow the smoke to easily pass through, and he quickly set up a small circle of rocks to contain the blaze. "N-now..., was it two flashes for fall back, or three?" He shifted his coif back out of his view, grunting as it gripped his flabby face before undoing its strap and tossing the chain piece to the ground. "Man I h-hate those things. They don't make this stuff big enough for guys like me."

He loosed a shaky chuckle and lit a small fire with a quick spark from his flint. "Okay, t-two flashes to retreat...." The hefty boy sprinkled a pinch of bright white dust on the flames, flinching back when it flared into a dazzling blue pyre and released a thick cloud of dark smoke. "Always surprises me.... Why do I have to do the signals? It's not like I'm good at it. Takes forever to do. And what if the Ironborn found me? I'd be dead! I can't fight!"

His grumbling quieted to nothing more than mumbles as the flames slowly began to peter out, no longer fueled by the dry grass or magical dust, and tossed a second handful of the powder into its origin. Another burst of energy surged into the mini inferno, momentarily illuminating the area with its dazzling display as the scout shivered in his shoes. "Stupid fire.... I can't see anything...."

"That's not such a bad thing, eh, little dumpling? You won't have to see allll the little things that want to take a bite out of that ample meal you call your gut." The scout screamed, his unusually high voice piercing the air like a siren, and loosed an arrow from his bow in the direction of the voice. A round of disembodied cackling sounded from around the clearing, any trace of their origin lost in the glare of the signal pyre. "Such a funny boy. It's really a shame that we have to kill you and your friends, but orders are orders.... And you're such a tasty looking morsel...."

The scout whimpered, cowering near the fire for protection as a group of twenty Ironborn stalked out from the broken line of trees, sinister grins plastered on their faces. "Please, don't.... I'm not even old enough to marry! I'm only here because I have to be; I never wanted to hurt anybody!"

"No need to worry your juicy little head. We aren't really going to kill you...." The leader, small by raider standards, walked up to the boy and drew a sharp dagger across his cheek, tracing a fine red scratch along the plump skin. "Give us what we need to know and we will gladly let you go."

"Anything! Please, I'll tell you anything I know, just let me go!"

Another round of laughter filled the little clearing as a pungent odour began to overpower the scent of dry pine, originating from the fat scout. "Aww, you really are scared, eh? Poor little chunk pissed in his armour. That's gonna be such a bitch to get the smell out of." He chuckled softly and sat in front of the scout, crossing his forearms across his chest. "Now, if you want to go free like I promised, you're gonna have to tell me what I want.... What does that signal mean?"

"I-I don't know! I just d-do what I'm t-told." He yelped as the tingling draw of the leader’s dagger turned into sharp pain as he pressed it into his cheek, drawing a small line of blood from the puncture point. "It's a retreat signal! It's a retreat signal! We're moving southwest to meet up with the rest of our army! Please stop, I'm sorry!"

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" He cooed softly, lightening the pressure on his cheek and quickly lapped up the small trickle of blood as it ran down his rough digits. "So, what are you doing after you join your friends? What is your next target?"

"I d-dunno. I wasn't told. I just use the smoke signal whenever I'm told something new." He squirmed in his soggy armour, fresh tears streaking down his face as the signal fire slowly died down, sputtering as it reached its final breath. "Please, that's all I know. I'm just a relay scout. I- I don't even know how to fight!"

"Aww, well isn't that too bad? You didn't tell me everything I wanted to know, did you? I'm afraid you didn't hold up your end of the bargain." The Ironborn soldier smirked as the scout's face twisted into a deeper mask of terror and his trembling worsened and slapped the boy's shoulder. "I'm just playing with you, kid. Get out of here, but don't tell your Lord that you met us."

The boy nodded furiously, never taking his eyes off the Ironborn even as he stumbled through the urine-soaked foliage as he backed away, much to his predators' delight when he tripped over a loose root and sprinted off the moment his eye contact was broken. "Give him a second then rip him to pieces. We can't let him tell Tallhart what we know."

The nearest soldiers grinned as they primed their weapons for fight, yearning to tear into the helpless scout and feast on his fatty corpse. Already their stomachs were grumbling, aching for a meal better than the paltry catches they'd had to forage for over the past few days. A twig snapping in the distance was all the signal they needed to take off into the near-black forest, their beserker rage amplified by the thrill of their hunt, but they hardly made it past the tree line before they fell to the dirt, their bodies peppered with the shafts of arrows. Their death cries, horrible screeching throaty yells more resembling grinding metal than animalistic noise, echoed through the immediate area, alerting the remaining Ironborn who immediately drew their curved blades and feather-carved bows.

"Damned pig!" He growled, his throat vibrating in his frustration as a massive unit of archers stepped into the break not too dissimilar to how he and his raiders had prowled out to surround their chubby target. Each of them was clad in a gray, green, or brown cloak and many had branches or leaves plastered on them. "Any chance on letting us go? We promise not to tell our warchief what we know." He held up his hands in the air as if to surrender and chuckled, letting his words draw out in a singsong fashion.

The leader, a youth of twenty with an arrow knocked in his great ash longbow smiled, inclining his head to his soldiers who raised their weapons at the unspoken command. "I'm sure something could be arranged, seeing how kind you were to let our Big Jon go, but we're going to need something from you, first."

Said scout reappeared from the forest, now hefting a great iron cudgel, a knowing smirk on his face as he took his place amongst the rangers. It was a wicked weapon, with a shaft and rounded curved head of iron.

"Hah. As if we, Ironborn, would give in to you Northerners demands." He chuckled and shook his head. "We do not sow! We won't submit now or-" The whistle of an arrow zipping past the raider’s head to be embedded in the eye of one of his comrades ended his rant before he could even raise his voice, instead drawing out a terror-filled croak in its place.

"Well, that's a shame right there. A perfectly good Ironborn, dead before he could even sire his first, most likely. Nice shot, Erik." An older man to the commander’s right smiled and gave a curt nod before stringing another arrow, this one aimed dead center on the leader’s face. “As you can see, I’m much less forgiving than you seem to be. I have no qualms against killing you all right here, especially considering all of the trouble your kind have caused for me and this land.”

A dark scowl spread across the Ironborn’s face, an act mirrored by the commander, until the man began to raise her hand and fear finally registered in the foreigner’s mind. “No! Wait! Okay, you damn Northmen. What do you want to know? Where our raidchief is?” One of the Ironborn behind the leader swore noisily, motioning angrily with his fist as he yelled at him, but he just waved him off with a scoff and angry swear of his own.

"What did he say?"

"The idiot was telling me not to say anything. What does it matter, though? I talk, we're more likely to live. If I don't then we're dead for sure, eh?" The man shrugged and kick some dirt at the Ironborn behind him, silencing his outrage as he tried to clear the debris from his face.
The commander frowned, his jaw setting as he tried to catch some common phrasing, but shrugged it off with a sigh. “Fine. Anyway, you’re a raid leader, so you should know more than some lowly scout. Where is the bulk of your ships? You were suppose to be off the coast of Cape Kraken.”
The raider would have laughed had it not been for the threat of death staring at him from the curve of a longbow, but could not help the small smile that crossed his features. “You haven’t figured it out yet, eh? We never had more than a few raiders in this forest, most of which are gone or dead.” A soft chuckle escaped his throat, but he quickly swallowed her mirth when Erik’s line was drawn taut. “The rest had gone upriver by about a day. They’re headed for Torrhen’s Square and the Tallharts.”

“Gods damned you all!” The commander swore. It was at this moment that one of the Ironborn tried to bolt, Big Jon was upon him in a flash, weight masking his speed, swinging his cudgel in moments. The weapon crushed the Raider’s leg, splintering bones and tearing meat. The Northmen and the Ironborn in the clearing all flinched as the Ironborn screamed, but none dared move. He was silent a moment later as the chubby scout caved his head in like an egg.

“Farsight!” The chain-clad recon troop jumped to attention, saluting more stiffly than before, and stood tall. “Go find our horses and bring them back here, then tell our flanks to converge on the northern bank.” A choked ‘Yes, sir’ was all the response the angered man received before the ranger took flight to fulfill his orders.

“S-so, can we go now? If we don’t report soon, w-we’re all dead anyway.”

“No! I have other questions that need answered before I let any of you sorry lot off. Patronizing and hunting an innocent man doesn’t sit too well with me, so let’s hope your answers are adequate.” The commander sighed and settled stuck his bow back into the ground, frustrated that he had let he emotions loose so easily. “Where are your other ships located? We spotted hundreds of ships off the coast.”

“You really haven’t received any word, eh? Most of our ships are in your North, uhm... Bear Island, I think. Probably killed everything in the area.” The raider watched the younger man, gauging her reaction before continuing on. “The rest of our soldiers that aren’t harassing your villages and docks are keeping your fool Lord busy."

The cloaked commander sighed, kicking the rock dust from his shoe, and turned his back to the cornered raiders. "One final question. Which ship does the one incharge of all of this is stay on and his entourage?"

"I- I don't really know. I heard he was going to attack with our van, but that news is old. I report to my own raidchief. Only he would have new information." Commander Tormin Stark nodded and began his walk back into the dense woods, nodding almost imperceptibly to Erik and his subordinates, a motion that did not go unnoticed by the nerve-wracked raider. "Wait! You said you'd let us go!”

Tormin stopped, glancing nonchalantly over his shoulder at the distraught raiders, and shrugged. “You’re free to go. Let’s just hope you can outfly our arrows.” He scratched his chin and shrugged again before waving the soldiers off. “I’ll even give you a headstart. Seems fair, given the recent circumstances, eh?” The raid leader blanched, her beak moving noiselessly as she stared at the high commander, and backed away slowly, unable to will his legs to run. “You have five seconds. Five....”

His comrades found their strength and took to forest, speeding off into the silver-bathed night. They would never make it in time. “It seems you’re not as brave as you let on. Four.... It’s a shame that you couldn’t keep up your facade. Three....” The commander turned on his heels, and drew the ornate greatsword from his silver scabbard, and hefted it, never once taking his eyes off the petrified raider. “I was looking forward to fighting something of my caliber, but all I’m left with is a boastful pirate with nothing more to his name than a slot between his legs. Two....” Tormin stood in front of the Ironborn, his weapon raised from the ground, and kicked back up onto his shoulder, using his grip and years of practice to keep it steady, and finally came eye to eye with the much older being. “Any final words before I silence you and yours forever?”

Behind his commander, Erik nodded and aimed his bow up towards the boughs of the trees, and shot the projectile into the sky. Overhead, dozens of arrow zipped over the clearing, momentarily blotting out the light of the moon and leaving only the glow of the fire’s embers to illuminate his gruesome smile as he lifted his blade above the terror-stricken man’s head.

“One…”

---

Evan frowned down at the assortment of letters on the sheet of parchment in front of him. He had come to know the individual sounds quite well, but putting them together to actually make words was proving much more difficult. It didn't help that he didn't really understand what the words themselves meant.

He couldn't exactly remember how he'd learned to speak the common tongue as a babe but he knew that already having a reasonably good grasp of speaking the language had made things more difficult.

Valyria. That had been one of the first words he'd learned in this language and it still seemed a strange one to him even after two months of living here. But pretty much all the words seemed strange except some of the people's names.

He looked down at the parchment again, trying to spot any familiar words like 'the' or 'was'. Luckily, it was his mother's turn to read aloud to him at that moment, which gave Evan a bit more time to sound out the words in his head.

"Evan, are you ready?" she asked. The young lord put his hand back down and glanced at the parchment.

"Um, yes." He cleared his throat and focused. "Lo jention mire noomasmi-"

"Nūmāzme," Lady Ellain corrected.

" Lo jention mirre nūmāzme ezi, no, ēza. "

"It’s a hard ēza."

"Lo jention mirre nūmāzme ēza, iderenna …" Evan frowned at the unfamiliar word. "Kw…Kwoo…Kwoopsa…”

"Qopsa."

"…qopsa verdagon issa." Evan breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he had got through the sentence with minimal mistakes.

"Good." His mother commented. "Did you understand what you read?" This was asked pretty much every time her son read aloud, although it wasn't often that he could reply in the affirmative.

“If he did, that makes him smarter than me,” his father accounted from the doorway. In his hands were too heavy wooden swords, and he kicked the door shut behind him. “Suddenly, an assassin! Defend yourself!”

Evan hurried over to his father who held out a practice sword for him. Before Rickard could react, Evan ignored the sword and immediately went for the Lord's shin, kicking it hard with his boot. Rickard yelped in surprise in pain and dropped both practice swords, holding his shin in pain. Evan grabbed a sword, kicked the other away, and swung hard at Rickard's side, whose quick reflexes kicked in and dodged the swing. He did not expect the follow up vial of splattered in his face, courtesy of Evan. Rickard rubbed at his face, trying to wipe the ink from his eyes while his attempted to flank him. It was pure luck that Rickard's flailing prevented Evan from getting a hit in. Rickard finally rubbed the ink from his face and turned to Evan.

"You dirty trickster," Rickard whispered. "Good! Now on guard!"

Evan dodged his father's downward strike and attempted to hit his leg again. Rickard moved his leg and swung his sword low. Evan jumped back as he dodged Rickard's swings and stabs, using his small size and speed to great effect. The study gave little room to maneuver or wield a sword; that was the point of these exercises. However his father drove him back and made him retreat to a corner of the study. He looked surprise when he felt a stone wall at his back and his father blocking his way with a sword raised high. Rickard grinned.

"Well now, what now my boy?" Rickard asked.

The young Stark smirked before collapsing on the ground with crocodile tears flowing down his face. He dropped his weapon and let out a shrieking cry.

"MOTHER!"

"RICKARD WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

Rickard turned around to see his wife's dagger an inch from his face, an absolutely furious look on her face. Gale was at her side, hackles raised and teeth bared as she growled aggressively.

The Lord’s adams apple bobbled, eyeing the knife with non-too pleasant expression. The practice sword dropped from his hands with a clatter and he slowly put his hands up. “Son, would you mind calling back your mother?”

“Do I win?” Evan asked with a smile. Rickard could only grunt, before suddenly grabbing his wife’s wrist, wrenching the knife from her hand as he seized her lips in his. She struggled against him, beating his chest. With a chuckle, Rickard pushed his wife away and dodged her swat, reaching down to rub Gale behind the ears.

“Only because your mother wins your fights for you,” he jested.

“Your father thinks his games funny,” she fired back, as she picked up her book again. “Is there a reason you felt need to ‘assassinate’ him during his studies?”

“I would speak with my son about the tourney. Walk with me,” he offered, and Evan all to readily shot from his seat, despite his mother’s warnings that they would resume upon his return.

Evan kept close to his father as they ascended to the second level of the keep. There was a great history here in these walls, he sensed, far more ancient than what than what any other castle in the Seven Kingdoms could boast. He had seen no ghosts, but a certain feeling persisted that reminded him of their presence. He and his father crossed another gilded arcade, then traversed a rounded hall of gleaming chandeliers, before coming to a set of doors at the end of a bright passage, sunlight filtering through the dozens of windows to freckle the floor. The doors opened to a slender stone bridge that led to one of the mighty stone towers that overlook the innermost ring of Winterfell. Rickard motioned for his son to join him as they gazed out over Winterfell. Down below, from their lofty perch, the lords watched as the smallfolk brought in the last of the winter wheat.

Rickard was silent for a moment, watching his people, before he decided to broach it.

“I have found a wife for you to marry-“

“No.”

Rickard sighed, fully expecting this response. "You will and that is final."

"I don’t want to, and can’t make me." He did not shy away from Lord Rickard’s sharp gaze.

The old wolf's lips grew so thin they seemed to disappear. "Hn," he grunted. "So I can’t." He leaned forward and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, elbows resting on the crestellations of the bridge. "You intend to resist me on this?"

"I will." Evan nodded.

"A Lord has no need of a second son, especially with one as robust as your brother. I suppose the Wall would be as good a place for you," Rickard mused thoughtfully.

Evan's face hardened, and the tension returned with a fervor, teeth clenched so tight his jaws burned. "No, I will not." He would not be so easily dismissed. He swore.

And then he saw the terrible hint of a smile that was awful yet rare, a slight twitch in Rickard's jaw, almost like a nervous tic. "There it is," he said. "You've your mother's hot blood and my own cunning. What will you do to get what you desire? Slit my throat in my sleep? Strangle me?"

Evan kept his silence, teeth grinding. His father had rekindled his anger with by a few statements.

“What is her name?”

"She is the youngest daughter of Lord Tyget Crakehall, Leona."

"Leona Crakehall." Evan repeated the name slowly, committing it to memory. It tasted vile on his lips. "You would have me marry some Southron?"

The northern lord around rumbled his agreement, his hands gripping the stone. "You can refuse the match if you find her unsuitable. And I suppose you might find some third or fourth daughter of some minor bannerman and marry because your heart tells you to." said Rickard softly. "But if you can pull your head from your arse, you might see the same future I do."

“As Lord of Casterly Rock?”

“No,” the Lord of Winterferll admitted. “I would see you as King of the Seven Kingdoms.” At his son’s incredulous expression, he showed his hand. “Lord Crakehall intends to take the Iron Throne. I intend to help him do it. He will help us drive the Ironborn from our shores, and in exchange for bringing the Vale and the Riverlands into the fold he gives us his daughter as his ward. I would see you two married before Winter is upon us, and before others try their bid for the Seven Kingdoms.” he explained.

"You mean Five," Evan replied. "Lord Crakehall is in open rebellion against the Crown, and you control nearly half of Westeros."

His father’s tight smile remained. “His only son, Tywin, is heir to Casterly Rock. I have little doubt that between four kingdoms rising against them, the Tyrells can stand against him. Which makes him heir to the Iron Throne. You will be a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. And should Tywin suffer an accident…” his father trailed off, glancing over the bridge and at the several hundred foot drop below them.

“Mother would not find this honorable,” Evan whispered.

"Honorable?" Lord Rickard scoffed and reclaimed his stance, back to the edge. "There is nothing honorable about murder. I was there as the Boltons skinned Lannister alive on my orders. I held the knife myself. Each of his screams ensured that we would not become a footnote in the annals of history." The Stark lord regarded him with ageless eyes. “Honor is for men who can afford to be fools; for men who can afford to believe in illusions. A boy in your position cannot afford to be a fool. Not any longer. You think less of me because I would remove a threat? You think me dishonorable?"

"I do." There was no use lying.

"Of course you do. You've been raised on whimsical tales and chivalrous songs. I would expect no less from a boy your age. But you will come to learn the truth of the world, in time."

"And what is the truth, father?"

Rickard gave Evan a look so sharp and piercing he felt as if the man could kill with but a glance. "Honor doesn't exist," he said. "It is an idea born of shame – a farce conjured up by men to help them sleep at night. Family is all that matters. Family is all you have. Anything is admissible, in the defense of it, or the advancement of it." His father knelt infront of him, placing his hands on his shoulders. “I will not see you to dally away as a maester, or be resigned to some backwater keep because of a marriage by as something as fallible as youthful love. I will not see my son have less because of the order of his birth. You will have all that your brother will. He will rule the North, and you will rule the South.”

Rickard pulled a raven scroll from beneath his cloak.

“Those lessons should start now. Here, read this,” his father said, pushing the slip into his hands. Evan’s eyes widened in disbelief as he read the message, the damning words burning themselves in his brain.

‘The Iron Fleet have surrounded Bear Island.’

Evan’s worried expression met his father’s neutral one. “What are your orders, Lord Stark?” his father asked.

“Me?! But I don’t-“

“Yes you are. If I and your your brother was dead, you’d have to make this decision.”

“Have you received word from Tormin?” Evan asked, his throat dry.

“I told you, this decision is yours-“ his father tried to restate, only to be cut off with an angry outburst from his son.

“I need to know where my First Ranger is to position him!”

Rickard smiled to himself. “We received word from Torren Square; your brothers patrol checked in a few days ago. Apparently, they have been busying harrying ships along the river. An Ironborn fleet trying to sail inland.”

Evan closed his eyes, he could picture it now. It would take days, maybe weeks, for them to fight against the current and make their way upriver to the lake. And along the way, they would be fighting a guerilla war against the forest itself.

Constant sniping during day and night. Trees felled upstream to impede or damage ships as they floated down river. Arrows covered in pitch tar and lit, embedding themselves in limp sails and dry wooden docks. Day after day, unending. Nerves would be frayed. Morale low. Every inch they sailed, the Ironborn would pay dearly.

“We don’t tell mother,” Evan whispered softly, and Lord Stark nodded in agreement. It was unspoken, but they both knew the fate that would befall the Mormont’s. A small blessing that one of their sons squired for the Boltons, and a daughter served as a handmaiden to the Karstarks. Though Bear Island was gone, the Mormonts would stand again.

“They’ll never hold the island. Its too far north for them to survive the winter, which means they’ll pillage and leave…” Evan mused, gritting his teeth. His father had played him perfectly. By placing the fate of the Mormonts, his mother’s family, in his hands…

“Crakehall swears to drive the Ironborn into the sea?” the boy asked. His father’s look gave him all the answer he needed. Then they needed to begin planning. “Then we send ravens to Torren Square. Ready the fleet. And we welcome them to the North…”

---

Jakkon’s fleet had arrived two weeks later, all the worse for wear. Of their original number, only half had remained and they had been forced to abandon ten long boats along the length of the river.

What they found was a Northern Fleet, armed and waiting for them. With their own ships blocking the path down the river and their ability to turn, it became a bloodbath. Large galleys and cogs turned the smaller longboats the splinters, ramming them mercilessly and turning their decks to matchwood.

Tormin Stark stood on the prow of the Icewind, the lake glimmering in firelight beneath him as ships burned across the lake. Behind him stood a mix of his own rangers, some of Lord Tallhart’s men, and men of the One-Hearth. They shifted uneasily behind him, but the Stark had eyes for only one prize: the Windbreaker.

“Bring me her captain. Alive.” Tormin stressed, as the ship neared.

With a crunch that shook the heavens, the ram slammed into the Windbreaker’s starboard side, rending wood to splinters. Tormin gripped the ropes and kicked off, sending the Stark Lord swinging across the waters of the lake and across the deck of the Windbreaker. He gave a small tumble as bounced out of the flaps with a bellowing roar, leaping upon an unsuspecting Ironborn just below. He grinned down into his face, one hand around his neck with his nails digging into his neck and his other holding his greatsword in place between his ribs. His hips pushed against his weakly flailing legs as he slowly suffocated. “Scary isn’t? That’s what it feels like to drown,” he laughed, pushing his sword deeper into his barrel and through his lung before shoving his nails under his esophagus and ripping his throat out in a spray of blood.

That wasn’t enough.

Tormin raised his hands and buried the sword in his throat, feeling the blade catch against bone. His scream subsided. It was strange how easily the steel parted his flesh. It was like cutting into a slow roasted boar. Hot blood gushed over his hands, and the raider let out a whet, gurgling whine that sounded like the sort of sound a battered dog might make. Or a man whose throat was a gaping red ruin.

Tormin couldn't organize his thoughts. He felt too much. There was sadness and sorrow, enough to crush a man, and fury unlike he known far to well, beyond what he thought it possible to feel. The guilt was the worse, the sure knowledge that this – all of it – was his fault. All the men bobbing face down in the water’s of the lake, screaming as the ships burned and tossed in the bay. If he had been more attentive, more decisive, more knowledgeable, more-

The raider squirmed for several more seconds as the Stark withdrew his sword, revelling in the hot fluids coating his face, before setting his eyes on his next victim. He leapt from the raider, his boots ripping into his flesh for better traction as he left the man to drown in his own blood, and raced at full-speed, his earlier fatigue long forgotten, towards a small boy barely large enough to even hold a weapon. This time, his bloodlusting screech drew his target’s attention and the young raider turned just in time to swipe her cutlass across Tormin’s left cheek, but only served to further the crazed man’s fury.

Sword readied, he thrust his weapon up under the Ironborn’s leg, lifting him into the air and piercing him all the way through before pinning him to the ground with the greatsword. He chuckled madly as his prey cried in pain, drinking in his agony, and dragged his coarse tongue across the younger boy’s tear-stained cheek, licking up the salty tears. Not needing his hands to hold his now-embedded spear, Tormin dug his nails into the other’s stomach as he pressed their bodies together. “You came into my land. MY LAND.”

He dug his fingers deeper into his enemy’s flesh, ignoring the wailing boy’s cries for mercy. He bent closer to the lad and tore into his neck, tearing through flesh and skin with little effort. Eyes wide, the Ironborn boy’s life slowly faded as Tormin tore his fingers from his gut smeared it across his face.

Tormin grabbed the fallen raider’ cutlass and took off across the deck, recklessly tackling another raider mid-fight and sending them both plummeting to the deck. He landed on his back, snapping his spine with the impact and knocking the wind from himself, but staggered to his feet and began hacking into his shoulders, flinging flesh, blood, and bone all around him. Panting, Tormin stepped away from the mane’s corpse only to be hit in the shoulder himself by a friendly-fired arrow.

Pain lanced along his side as the broad-headed shaft ground against his bone, eliciting a howl of pain, and turned his sights on the archer that had struck him. He ripped the arrow from his arm, screaming as his own blood began to flow down his hand, and sprinted towards the offending soldier. Before the Glover acher could react, the Stark slammed the butt of his cutlass into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. “Next time, you’re dead!”

He could feel himself building up to a crescendo, grunting and moaning breathily into the chill night air, only to be charged by a pair of Ironborn, their scimitars pulled back as they rushed above the uneven ground. Tormin screamed in frustration, falling backwards as they converged upon him, and reached for his broadsword still in the boy. The first Ironborn howled in pain as he tore his stomach open, ripping through skin and muscle, and floundered as he tried to pull his intestine back into his stomach.

The second male swung and missed, recovered with a flare of panache, and spun back to face his target only to find the young lord already charging him, his own greatsword slashed in a downswing. He dodged backwards, slipping on his comrade’s slick, steaming entrails, and fell to his back on the dying raider’s side. Tormin’s blade sliced through the air, taking off half of the raider’s forearm before embedding itself in his companion’s back with a sickening slice. Both men yowled in agony, but he was not done with them yet.

Tormin pounced onto the maimed man and slammed his fist into the barely conscious raider’s neck, the sharp barbs along his knuckles puncturing his esophagus and filling his throat with crimson blood, as he beat them to death.

His body was practically screaming for release as he looked for his next victim, but the melee had come to an end as the remaining Ironborn forces retreated into the distant woods, or attempted to sail down river in what few ships remained, leaving his own army to gather up the freshly wounded and lick their wounds and him with the raging inferno in his blood. His chest heaved from the exertion, but his body would not be denied its finale. He turned his eyes to the man his men dragged forth, the original target of his pent up battle lust, and licked up some of the sanguine fluid dripping from his fingers.

The man’s armor was rent in several places, and was slathered with the blood and gore of both his own and Tallhart’s men. This was no Jakkon Greyjoy of Pyke. His men urgently told him that this was the man manning the Windbreaker, that their target was nowhere to be found with him and several of his best.

That was alright.

His predatory grin widened, heedless of the fresh laceration across his cheek, until he stood imposingly over the man, his face inches away.
“You’re no Lord Jakkon, but you’ll do. It is an honor to meet you. My name is Tormin Stark,” he dropped his arms and the greatsword fell at his feet. He breathed deeply and steadily, and as if they had moved all on their own, he found his hands wrapped around the Ironborn's thick neck, squeezing the breath from him. The man’s body had taken on an eerie stillness, stiff as stone, as if his fear had paralyzed him, as darkness claimed his vision. No one tried to stop the young wolf this time. He watched, almost fascinated, as the life bled from the raider's beady eyes.

“Welcome to the North.”

Tyget sipped his wine in his tent, it had been an eventful morning to say the least. First, Tyget had summoned his vassals to the war tent, and had them witness the breaking of Gerald's crow vows. Simple enough, they all understood a King could do such things, and none questioned him. Then, he told them of his intention to split his army, at first they had objections, but he explained that he would destroy the Iron born in order to earn the support of the North, and they mostly died down, especially considering 35,000 men was still more than enough to take Kings Landing. He informs them Gerald will be taking command, that Tywin will split with 2,000 men to Harrenhal, and telling them to convince as many crownlands lords to join them as possible. After this, Ser Robert Lorch would enter the tent, and be raised to Kingsguard. All the lords, as well as Ser Falwell and Lorch would then leave, Lorch to get his armor and Falwell to take him to it, and the lords because Tyget had dismissed them. So now, he sat drinking his wine before he would set off for Crakehall castle, until he heard his son enter the tent angrily, You made Robert one of your Kingsguard? He isn't even the best sword in your army when not including me, Falwell and Payne! Why in Seven Hells have you made him a Kingsguard!", Tyget smiled malicously at his son, "Tywin, you are one of the few people who actually knows why Lorch is on the Kingsguard. Besides, HE is good example of a chivalrous knight, unlike Falwell or Payne here. So, the Tyrells can't say I only put loyal murderers on my Kingsguard.", he sips his wine, looking his son in the eyes, "Now, as for you. You will march with your uncle, and when you reach Harrenhal take 2,000 troops to meet with Jullon Tully's son. You will endear yourslef to him, and convince him you are fit to wed one of his sisters. You will then convince Jullon of the same. And, after that, you will marry one. If you do not, I will dis-inherit you, and when I die after taking the throne, Gerald will inherit.", Tyget casually took another sip, as Tywin gaped at him. "You... you'd... but... I'm your SON!", Tyget glared at him, "Yes, and I expect the heir to the throne to produce heirs, so the Crakehalls may sit on the throne long after my death. If you are unwilling to make that sacrifice, then I will make my heir someone who WILL have children, Your a Crakehall damnit, a Crakehall man hasn't had less than 5 children in twenty generations, I do not think the first heir to the throne should be the one to have no children.", Tywin was stone faced, looking at the ground... before he looked up, "Fine... I'll do it... all of it... I'll marry one of the Tully girls and... make heirs...", he then stalked out of the tent, and Tyget sighed,looking at Ser Payne, "Tell me Terrance, think he can do it?", Ser Payne looked at his King, then to where the prince had walked out, then back to his King, "A lion may wear a sheeps clothes, but he will never be at home in them.", Tyget nodded, knowing the strange proverbial phrasing was all he would get... Payne was touched indeed... he just hoped that was enough for him to be able to protect Tywin.
--------------------------------------------


In the late afternoon glow, the Crakehall gardens were almost like the ones back home in the reach. Tyget really had made it beautiful for her, he had expanded what had once been a small and rather tucked away part of the castle into a sprawling beautiful garden... and in the late glow little in the world was more beautiful to Leonette. Other than perhaps Leona, who sat a short distance away, Maester Illyn was with her, his lesson on the great families of Westeros unable to be heard by the distant Leonette, but she smiled at her daughter nonetheless. As she watched, she heard armored footsteps on the approach, a guard making his patrol no doubt. She lazily looked over, and her eyes shot wide open. It wasn't a guard, but Tyget approaching her, at first she didn't believe it, he had only just left, until he spoke in his commanding voice, Hello darling... I suppose I'm home a bit early aren't I?", she stood and hugged him, she had had no forward information, it was as if he had meant for her not to know he was coming, she looked him in the eyes, speechless for a moment, "Tyget... why are you back? Surely you did not receive your crown by raven... what is it?", Tyget frowned, and took her hands in his, before looking at their daughter, then back at Leonette, "You... may wish to sit down for this... it is hard news.", so Leonette sat, and Tyget explained all that had happened.
----
"Tyget this is not a decision you alone can make!", Leonette spoke quietly, but firmly, she did not want Leona to hear what they spoke of. Tyget responded to his wifes concerns, "She is my daughter Leonette, I cna and will make these dec-", Leonette interrupted Tyget, practically hissing her words, Were you the one to bear her? Or Tywin? Or Shiera, Amarei or Melessa? I bore them, they are our children, Tyget, and you will not choose our youngest's husband alone, especially not before she is even old enough to bleed.", Leonette stared Tyget down, even a flower could defeat a boar over her children. Tyget returned her stare, before sighing, sitting down and placing his head in his hands. For few moments he sat like this, before looking back to his wife, "I did not tell you this because I wished to argue it with you, I simply wished for you to be informed. By making her Lord Starks ward and marrying her to his son I further secure the alleigance of the north. Besides, she would be married in not to many more years, and this ensures that she is married to one of the greatest familieis in Westeros, I am certain sh wi-", Leonette stood, right before her husband, "You wikll NOT send our daughter to the North so you can buy Lord Stark's alleigance... our daughter is not some whore you can sell t-", Tyget stood and grabbed his wife's arm, forcibly pulling her close, a glare in his eyes, "Do not EVER suggest that I am selling our daughter... she is my youngest daughter, but she still has a duty to her family. We will speak no more of this... go.", he released her, "I intend to tell her of her now... you may wish to leave.", Leonette's eyes teared up, where Tyget had seized her was red and bruised from his metal gauntlet, and she stormed away. Tyget sighed... he should not have done that... but it was done, and could not be undone. he turned to look at Maester Illyn and his daughter across the way, and began to walk towards them.
----
"Very good Princess, now, on to the northern horses,", Maester Illyn pointed to a sigil in the North, and Princess Leona responded, "House Bolton, Sigil a flayed man on a pink field, words Our Blades are Sharp.", Maester Illyn nodded, and moved his pointer to a picture of a wolf, and Leona smiled, "Oh this is easy, thats House Stark, sigil a dire-wolf, words Winter is Coming, Maester Illyn, is it true that all the Starks get their own dire-wolves?", Maester Illyn smiled and nodded, "Yes, they have a breeding pin, and have made certain that no Stark will ever go without a dire-wolf, and-", Maester Illyn stopped as he heard armored footsteps, and turned to see his grace Tyget Crakehall, he smiled and looked at Leona, "I believe someone else wishes to talk to you now, litte princess,", Maester Illyn stood, and moved to leave the garden to allow the King and his daughter time alone. Leona wheelsed around in her chair, her face lighting up as she saw her father, rushing to hug him, "Father! Your Home!", he had kneeled, and was smiling as he hugged his daughter, though he sighed as he prepared to tell her what he must, "Yes little princess, I am home... and I have important news for you Leona.", he pulled his daughter before him and took her hands in his, and looked his daughter in the eyes, "Leona... you understand that I love you, but all the members of a family have a... duty to their family, we all have a role to play. I will be King of the Seven Kingdoms, your brother will marry and be my heir... you also have a role Leona, do you know what it is?", Leona thought a moment, then looked at her father, "To... marry a lord? W-when I come of age... right father?", Tyget smiled, and looked down, then back at his daughter, "Yes, my little Princess, but... you have recently gained... another duty... in a months time, after due preparation, you will travel to Moat Cailin... where you will then be... escorted to Winterfell, and become Lord Rickard Starks ward, until you come of age... and then you will marry his youngest son...", Leona's eyes widened, it was alot to take in all at once. She let go of Tyget's hands and stared at him, "I... your... sending me away?... F-father you just got home... I-I don't want to go to the North! I want to stay here with you and mother! I don't want-", Tyget stopped her, "I know... this is all fast for yoou Leona... but you must do this, for your family and me. Lord Staark will treat you well and I have heard his son Evan is quite... strapping...", he saw his daughters tears and had to hold back his own, his face remaining stern, "Maester Illyn will help to prepare you, and... soon you will be at Winterfell, and you will... see the North and... see the Stark dire-wolves...", he sighed and let go of her hands. She ran, crying from the garden, leaving Tyget alone. He stood, walking out of the garden in his own time, to remove his armor and sleep in his own bed tonight.
----
He sat alone on his bed, the stress of the day and of all the days before piling on top of him. He doubted Leonette wished to even see him, let alone sleep in their bed, his daughter was no doubt still distraught, his son was on his way to Harrenhal to lie to lord tully and his son, and the whole Kingdom was on the brink of civil war... when you named yourself King all these problems seemed to carry faar more weight. As he sat on the edge of his bed he heard his door creak open slowly, he turned and was surprised to see his wife in her night gown, he watched aas she entered, closing the door behind her, and coming to sit on the bed beside Tyget, "I... I should not have grabbed you... that was not how I should act if I am to become King...", Leonette simply rubbed his back, putting her hand on top of his, "I am fine Tyget... I understand that... you have alot to consider, but please... do not so quickly give our last shild to the Starks. We talked once, of how you wished she would be wed to one of the Martell boys, we can still-", Tyget shook his head, and looked at his wifes face, placing his other hand on top of hers, "Stark has already been sent a letter, and if I am to be King the Lords must be able to trust me. What sort of man promises such things on parchment only to betray his word? If a mans word cannot be trusted he has no power, no one will follow him, no one will respect, or fear, or love him. I may not be the most honourable of men, but I must keep my word. I am sorry Leonette... but Leona will go to the North, it is done.", Leonette looked into Tyget's eyes, unlike most she had known him long enough to see through his eyes, and she knew there was no joy there, no happiness in giving his daughter to the north. She placed a hand on his face, a soft smile gracing her features, "Very well Tyget... Leona will go... and I will stay by your side. From this day, until my last day.", she kissed him, and as they embraced all went black.
----


Tyget was turned, facing one of the stained glass windows in the council chamber. It depicted Crake the boarkiller, impaling a boar as large as four of him with a spear... Tyget thought it was ridiculous. Behind him were two letters, both unfurled, one Tyrell and one Targaryen. Maester Illyn entered the great room, his long chain clanking as he opened and then closed the door. The top of his head was boald, the rest cut like a monks with hair on the sides and front of his head. He had no beard, and his thin gray hair was held above and aging face, he was older than Tyget by eleven years. He approached his king, "You wished to see me your grace?", Tyget sipped his wine and stood, turning to look at his Maester, and gesturing to the letters, "One of these is from Garland Tyrell, a threat asking me to rescind my claim to the throne. the other, is from my great nieces Rhaenyra and Baela Targaryen, politely asking me to rescind my 'lesser' claim and step aside, and THEN they threaten me with their dragons.", he set his cup down, looking at his maester who had picked up the Targaryen letter, and set it down looking at his King, "Well Maester Illyn? Council me! I asked you here to hear what you would suggest I do. The Tyrells will run to my Great niece and support her. If I lay siege to Kings Landing I will bring the fury of the reach down upon me... what do I do now?", Maester Illyn sat the letter down and fixed Tyget with a cold stare... of all the men under him, Tyget trusted no one more than Maester Illyn, because the man was cold, cold the way an advisor should. He would tell Tyget exactly what he should do, "Though I am but your Maester your grace... I suggest you do the one thing you have not done since this crisis began... wait.", Tyget looked at him confused and Illyn continued, "Let the world drop the pieces where it will, and move accordingly. Focus on crushing the iron born now, do not lay siege to Kings Landing. When four Kingdoms bend to you the remaining three will folow, or be destroyed. Your great nieces have only the Tyrells, the Martell's are more than willing to spport you, as this letter states,", he placed Princess Martell's letter on the table, Tyget took it and smiled at the fact she referred to him as the king, "The Baratheons may be... unknown. But, that will not matter. Garland is a soft man, he will not condemn tens of thousands to death for a chair, your nieces may have dragons, but they are young, and without an army they will not be enough. For now, wait for your opponents to make an error, and then move on them, it is that simple your grace.", Tyget sat down, then turned to Maester Illyn, "Very well, I shall wait... and crush the Iron born. Send ravens to the 20 ships sailing for kings landing, bring them back. Contact our allies in Essos, Mereen, braavos and all other places. Raise as many ships as we can, pirates, mercenary ships, the warships of the Slavers bay, raise as many as we can. Go Maester, and gather my fleet.", Maester Illyn bowed, and left Tyget alone. He smiled looking out the window... soon the Iron born would sleep with their god... and I shall sit on the Iron throne.

Gerald was struck with a feeling of breathlessness, maybe it was the tight clothing he was forced to wear, a long black coat, held together in the front by a silver boar pin, it was near strangling him, and his nipples felt more chafed than they had been in a long time. But it may also have been due to the fact that he had finally returned home, nine years in the cold wastes up north, he thought he'd be happy to be warm over one night.

The Others take the heat.

He had struggled and sweat all night, five blankets and none of them were useful, he eventually fell asleep with half his body under the blankets and the other half out. And even then he sweat like a fat Reachman eating grapes. But hey, he was home, he had explored the castle again, there was still old bottles of his medicine in the cabinets, expired years before he even left for the watch. He stood looking out his window down at the courtyard, where he'd watched Brynn and Tyget training, day after day. The old yellow stepstones still laying under the sun. He smiled to himself, resting his hands on the windowsill and soaking up the sun.

Two knocks rang out from his door, Gerald's eyes looked behind him, but he didn't look for long, continuing to allow the warm sun to beat down on him. He pushed his body down, resting his chest on his arms.
"The door's open." He allowed himself to say, though he was enjoying his solitude.

The door opened with a creak, and a smell of flowers entered the room, it tickled Gerald's nose, he moved it from left to right, trying to stop himself from sneezing, but he couldn't stop himself, and he sneezed loudly, almost sounding like a dog barking.
"Oh my, Gerald M'lord, are you bleeding?" A soft voice, like velvet or silk, the sound Gerald remembered most about his adolescence. He turned around, covering his nose, he looked in her direction, quizzically, and he smiled beneath his hand. Lady Charla Kenning, his wife, well, former wife. He still remembered the first time they met, when the betrothal was announced, he was bedridden, one of his worse days, he had been bleeding from the mouth all day. She had walked in with his father, and they both gasped when they saw the amount of bloody red tissues that laid around him, his father called for a maester, but Charla came over and massaged his chest until the maester arrived, it made him feel better, though it didn't help his cough.

A few years later, they were married, he, a short skeleton, she a beautiful woman, well, at least by his standards, she had a round face and a flat nose, brown hair and a shining smile, most would consider her fair at most, but she was the only one who ever showed interest in him. The consummation was difficult for him, he was barely strong enough to finish himself! Nevermind her. Despite that, she cared for him, he was a sick child, and she was his maester. He was in love, though the toxic environment at home made his visits with her uncomfortable, and he left for Essos.

During the crossing, he cried himself to sleep every night.

And now he was home, and there she was. She was just as he remembered her, considering she was fourteen and he was nineteen when they married, she still had the look of childhood about her, now that she was thirty, her pale complexion had darkened slightly, now she was more yellow than pink, her young face had aged, not to the point of wrinkles, but to the point where she appeared like a Lady, not a girl.

Gerald continued covering his nose, rubbing it a bit to clean off the updraft from his sinuses. He rubbed his hands together to clean his hands and put his chin up.
"I'm not the sick little boy you married M'lady." He said, chuckling to himself as he finished. Charla gasped and was taken aback when she got a good look at him, her eyes going up and down over him. He put his arms akimbo, smirking with raised brow.
"Like what you see?" He queried sarcastically. She continued to scan him, before smiling and walking up to him. They were about the same height, and they looked into each-other's eyes.

Then her face turned cold, the corners of her mouth lowering and her brows near touching through folding skin. She raised a hand and smacked his cheek. It sent his head to the right, his body still straight. Gerald looked back, his face neutral.
"I get that a lot." He quipped, but then she raised her hand again and he apologized with his eyes as he damn near balled up. She looked at him again, the same face of tranquil fury, then she thumped over to his bed, taking a seat and glaring at the wall, as if the wall had hit her or something of the such.

"Why am I mad at you Gerald?" She asked angrily, accusing him with her tone. He stood back up, rubbing himself down.
"Because I left home without a word?" He answered, rubbing at his thighs. She looked back at him, the corners of her mouth nearly touching her chin.
"No, because you left your medicines back here, you barely took any at all!" He immediately felt a fire light in his chest, mixed with a sinking feeling in his abdomen. He gestured angrily, shrugging with open mouth and raised eyebrows.
"Why did you care? You weren't ever going to see me again!" Charla stood, stomping over so that they were two feet away from each other.
"I loved you Gerald! I wanted you to be safe!"
"Did you? Are you insulting me? Are you saying I cannot handle myself?"
"You moan like a babe Gerald! A broken man stood before me, and then he was gone, of course I worried!"
"Broken I might have been, but I didn't need a mother to fuss over me while I lived my life, while I followed what little hope I had." She breathed angrily through her nose, planting a finger in the indent of his chest.
"You were a fool to leave." Gerald could feel his sweat beading on his forehead.
"I was the smartest man in Crakehall to leave, no one cared about me!"
"I cared Gerald!"
"You cared for the weak broken man I was, not the man I wanted to be! I wasn't your husband, I was your babe!" She backed up, still frowning, but visibly calming.
"Then why do I still care?" Gerald opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He threw himself to the side, continuing to look out the window.

"I care about the man, just as I cared about the boy, I love you Gerald, I know it's hard to believe, and I didn't believe it myself for a time, but you're still my husband, as I am still your wife." Gerald's face was still twisted into a growl, but he took a deep breath. He stood back up slowly, turning towards Charla.
"We will have to remarry, I swore my vows and now I have to break them." Charla smiled, rolling her head to the left, then patting the bed beside her.
"Please join me, It's been too long since I last helped that cough of yours." And so he did, it didn't go any further than hugs and chest-rubbing, and Gerald enjoyed their talk much more than any fuck.

---

"Talk of shooting arrows accurately always makes be replace the word arrow with piss." The archer laughed at Daenys' statement.
"I can put piss in a squirrel's eye from ten feet!" The archer replied, putting on a dumb voice as he did. They both laughed, Daenys moreso, to the point that he continued when the archer stopped, getting an odd look. Daenys had found the archer travelling through Dorne, he was a part of a band of miscreants that set upon the "maester", capturing him and bringing him along as they went North. The archer was assigned to guard duty, and eventually Daenys struck up a conversation. The man had an odd way of speaking, his voice drifting along like a stream and never harsher than that, his skin black as the rock that they build Dragonstone with.

Eventually the archer took their gold and fled, bringing Daenys along with him.

He'd told the man of his real identity, and his purpose in travelling, and with promise of wealth when Daenys took the throne, he joined Daenys on his way.

"This weather though eh?" Daenys said, trying to make small-talk, the weather was pretty bad, overcast skies and high humidity, it was cold as well, just an overall bad atmosphere. The archer looked at him, nodding in recognition.
"Yeah, it is very odd isn't it? Isn't the Reach supposed to be sunny?" He asked. Daenys shook his head, looking back at him.
"I guess not." They nodded, then went back to riding.

After a few minutes, Daenys noticed a black bird flying over a nearby forest. His eyes opened wide.
"Shoot that bird!" He yelled, pointing at it. The archer jumped in the saddle, looking up at the bird. He quickly took out his bow, taking an arrow from behind his back and shooting the bird, it fell out of the sky, falling into the trees. The archer looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Why did you have me do that?" Daenys grinned, rubbing his broken arm for a second.
"That was for the Citadel, to send for a maester, looks like that maester is coming sooner than expected." Daenys began to laugh through closed teeth. Eventually transitioning into a full laugh. The archer moved his horse a few feet away, giving a look of confusion and worry.

"I love when a plan comes together."

Alerie looked on, smiling at Jehrilla, agreeing fully. She had that point, indeed.
"Oh, I know. Golden Dragons can buy a man's loyalty, his everything...and if I were you, I would do exactly the same. If you wished to, you could serve the North, they require a navy for fighting the Ironborn...but I would assume your men like these climes. " Alerie nodded. She knew deep down, Jehrilla was a freelancer, and if she wanted to, she could offer her services, even tell the Crakehalls of their plans. If it was mercenaries Crakehall wanted, then he could have them, from Jehrilla or some other Essosi. But Alerie was smarter than that, mercenaries were useful, it was how they were used. And Alerie wanted that raiding to occur because...well, it would be a sharp prick where the Westerlands did not expect it. The Yunkish slavers and their galleys would put up a fight against the Yunkish, but ultimately, the numbers and intermittent of the raiding for slaves was something that Alerie had calculated for. It would work, to the extent that it was required to take eyes away from King's Landing and the Oceanroad, that linked Highgarden to Casterly Rock.

"They do not know of our presence here, not even Garland, he's still hung over. Tell me, how did you find my brother? I know it must strange to talk about these things in front of his sister, but I am very relaxed about it. In fact, I would like to think that he can enjoy himself for the moment. I can imagine you as good at a tumble, Jehrilla. Women as cunning as you, they always are." Alerie said, smiling, aware that she could read Jehrilla. She was just as cunning, and there was no more denying that they both did not know what happened in that bedchamber, Alerie also somewhat guessing that from her every excess, she was good at sex, in some strange way. It felt..weird to say it, but somehow, she could detect it, sense it almost. Like she could with men who were good at it, Alerie was trying to use that strange radar to detect Jehrilla's.
"But yes, that seems agreeable." She said, exhaling, adjusting her dress a little, tightening the string that was around her hip, as she looked around, beyond the tower.

Looking over, she stood up, looking out the huge window, out on the blue day.
"The peasants are taking the harvest in as we speak, the grape season is over, and many of the fruits are off the trees, being picked, made into cider or being stored in cellars. There was going to be a Harvest Festival, to make the peasants happy, but what with this war going on, no doubt there will be some that will be called up before it happens. They may not like it, but they always organize their own little shows anyway." She added, looking out on the wider plains, with a few hills in the distance. To the south, west and north, it was particularly flat, with a couple of rolling hills, whilst on the east, the hills rose a little taller, with the Rosewood, or a large coniferous hunting ground planted by Jamie Tyrell, in this direction. It was no Kingswood, but it was an attempt by Jamie Tyrell to replicate it's mass, for not just wood, but for hunting and artisans to find pine and fir in a land where mostly oaks and other non-coniferous trees grew. It was an interesting addition, and depending how you approached Highgarden, you could entirely miss the sight, or have it filling your view.

It was a thick and an almost Northern forest, unlike the regular oaks and willows of the Reach, the firs having some tracks leading through with deer and boars within it. It's expanse was enormous, given it had been planted barely a few generations ago, the thickly clustered firs growing fast and tall, to offer a blanket over the eastern hills of Highgarden. Beyond the Mander, it was a sight to behold, and it seemed to be a feature that broke up the regular Mediterranean pale greenery, the firs able to cope with the summer, interlaced with other pines and other trees. Jamie Tyrell was a woodsman, some said, and the "Green" Tyrell did earn his name this way, now his legacy was that wood, Alerie thought to herself. Too much thought on trees, Alerie made a mental thought, as she focussed back on her guest.

"These sunny days will pass, it is Autumn, after all. We become rain soaked, our shrubbery returns to greenery, and the roses begin to be picked and die, as they spread their seeds, to begin the cycle all over when winter passes." Alerie said, brushing her red hair.
"So, it is agreed. Garland knows I can handle finances, and so I will have it invoiced that you will be paid your figure to undertake this for us, a mutual benefit. If you get them sail tomorrow, the better, but there is no rush. So long as they sail within a week." She asked, her young face catching the light, brushing across her figure. Alerie was not even wearing her most beautiful dress, yet in this tower, did look very beautiful indeed. She looked at Jehrilla again, her huge gluttony spread across the pillows, sweat running down her body, her huge mass clearly still warm. Garland had defnitely seen something in her, Alerie thought to herself, that enormous chest, or her sheer size was something that could be found in the Reach, albeit with none of the exotic features, and a face like a horse. Jehrilla looked beautiful, young, like Alerie, like despite her gluttony, she looked like she could charm a man like a snake, with the drop of her dress. She made no effort to hide her excess, and that was something that Alerie did like, that she was a woman who stood proud and honest in her own conventions of back home.

"Garland can more specifically organize the numbers of mercenaries he wants, no doubt, he'll like at least 5,000 to bolster his forces as a minimum precaution, and potentially 25,000 if the other banners have to be raised for total war. I'll give that to him to confirm. As for yourself, would you like to see some more of the Reach? I can organize some more wine tasting, or you can sample our ciders...there is many a culinary delight to be had, Jehrilla. The Reach is the breadbasket of the Reach. We are healthy, beautiful for a reason, don't you know? Why don't you find that for yourself....and have an excess of that Reachness." She added, giggling a little as she knew that Jehrilla would take it playfully...or at least, so she hoped before she was thrown out of the window to her certain death.

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

Garland recieved one more letter as the robed man came back from the rookery, Maester Garth leaving it on the table. It had the Martells' seal on it, and the contents of this message in particular were quite interesting. In fact, it was of an unknown quantity. Garland knew that his ancestors had gone through nothing but problems with Dorne, but as he read the letter, he knew that it was probably more of the same. Relations had improved with Dorne, considerably. So much so that trading was viable, that Dornish and Reach wines were traded interchangeably, their tastes and appeal different to whoever you asked. There were problems- the Dornish Marches were still a squabbling area, and often, Garland recieved letters from Lord Tarly to demand that House Dayne stopped it's raids, though he knew the Tarlys still did it back. There was no control, and Garland had let that slide; while it created weathered commanders, Belgrave Tarly being the Reach's greatest general and a mastermind at war, a veteran fighter, it had come at a price. The Tarlys were in petty squabbles with the Blackmonts, across the mountains in regards to, and such a similar thing existed on the other end. Garland had a nightmare in stopping it- and knew that it had been going on for centuries, without stop. It never escalated, remarkably, it was tit for tat, sometimes a Tarly victory, sometimes a Blackmont victory, with a lot of lives spilled, and a lot of weathered, hardened men coming from the mountains and marches. It was something that would never change, it was an inevitability of having vassals that happened to both really like fighting, and when there was no war on, they played games with each other, Garland could only interpret such action as that.



Finishing the letter, he gave it to Garth.
"Send this one quickly. Sunspear is a few days from now, Elaina will want to know of our response." Garland said, as Garth nodded, looking across.
"The faith of the Red God may be something you ought to watch out for, Lord Tyrell. Perhaps these little raids could be a meaning, for something more." He said, as Garland shook his head.
"House Tarly have told me different. It is a petty war, a war I do not concern myself with. If I see no Martell banners involved, then I will assume it is not an attack on us. The Red God may wish to cross mountains, but once he enters The Reach, Dornish forces would be a fish out of water. That is why I don't attack them either. It is a child's play...and Elaina knows precisely the same. Vassal houses of the Marches have nothing better to do than fight when they have gold exchanged for their charcoal and young men who are bored." He said, chuckling.
"Besides, no King or Queen has ever conquered Dorne. They are hardy peoples. Many have disrupted the Lords of the Reach, Aegon I did so by war and let us grow to our standard. But never by marriage. Let that stand as our testament."

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By the next evening of the day, the council had not been called, not just yet. Garland had decided to opt for a small family meal, that was, himself, Alerie and Rickard, all gathered in their quarters, around a table. It was a nice alternative, and Alerie had kept Jehrilla occupied in a way she had devised, a way that she was acertain would work to at least allow her to sample some Reach customs, while Garland had finished much of his administrative work, Rickard his reading.
"I haven't seen Maester Garth around today, he was meant to come earlier, Garland!" Rickard asked, as Garland shook his head.
"I don't know where he went...actually, I haven't seen him much either."
"We shall have to send for another...perhaps he has run away?" Rickard added, questioning, wondering why on earth that would even happen.
"He taught me for the last two years of my tutoring, up to the age of ten and five. And you too, Alerie. It seems wrong. I do not want to assume he has been abducted yet...but if this is a ploy to get into my court, I will not allow it. We shall send for a new Maester, and if he reappears, in enemy or any other hands, we will deal with that problem when it comes to it." Garland simply said, exhaling, shaking his head. It didn't seem right to him, but he had to do it, and Garland guessed that it would be the answer.
"Seven Hells...it seems everyone is going mad apart from us. Never a good sign, is it?" Lord Tyrell said, his cynicism biting a little, as he chuckled, Alerie shaking her head as she smiled.
"Relax, brother. We are sorting this out, one step at a time. Any good word from Willas?" She asked, eating a little bread, a filler before the main course.

"Well...I know he also was written to by Rheynara, and he recently let us know that the Tumbletons arrived safely, setting up encampment within the city. So it seems the path is secure. The retinue is ready to hold the city against siege, and while there's been unrest, Willas says it is nothing he cannot deal with. He could use more men, but I have told him that he cannot receive any more until Rheynara arrives and it is suitable for me to travel." He added, drinking some Arbor, though significantly less than last night. It was to wet his tongue, to make him receptive to the grand meal they would have.

"But what after that, Garland? Surely, we should strike against the Crakehalls now, if we know the real Queen has emerged?"
"Yes...but at the same time, try being the Lord that orders for full scale war between two houses, when we haven't even seen that Queen take her throne yet. If she sits there, and I, as Lord Hand hear her say the words, then we put them to the sword. They are going to offer a hard fight, and if I call all the banners, it will be a war that has to end before Winter, with nothing more than just a symbolic victory, we can let them live. Thousands could die, and the peasants are going to want to ready for winter, not fight a war, just like Tyget's men will. We would win before that Tyget could muster any support from the other Kingdoms, and by this point, the rest will fall behind the Queen that sits on the chair. Yes, this is true. But it is one that I want to avoid, if I can." Garland said, his voice reduced compared to what it would normally be, as he brushed his long hair aside a little, dusting off his arms from his tunic.

"But we know this "King" Tyget, he has no allies, nothing! Seven Hells, he is weaker than ever! All you need to do is send the men up the Oceanroad to Crakehall Keep, seize the damn castle and his family, and he'll throw down any claim!" Alerie exclaimed, just a little frustrated with Garland at this point, perhaps a little short sighted. Garland had four years on her, and it did show- he knew a little more that it wasn't just that easy, but then again, he wasn't wily enough to pull it of, he just didn't believe it so even if it were.

"He will be at his weakest when the High Septon crowns Rheynara, Alerie. Not then. I am a young man against a calculating, ruthless Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. Who has decades of experience....he knows that option already, so I suppose we are playing this game to his rules as long as it keeps him scared." Garland replied, Alerie nodding, half agreeing but wanting to put something into doubt.
"Indeed, but it still does not stand. We have the obvious advantages." She replied, drinkinga little water to interupt, as Alerie continued.
"And that is perhaps for now, we shall play to what he expects. It is a deception we can hold, while you let me deal with any other advantages he has...." She said, as Rickard sat up a little, looking across to the two. It was not often that he was authoritative, but he could raise his voice when he could, the 15 year old clear when he said what he said.
"Brother, sister, enough! They're serving pork tonight, my favourite!"

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The dragonpit of King's Landing had been one that had been partially destroyed, but ever since the Targaryen Restoration, it had been maintained, and it had hosted dragons...albeit none this day. It had taken a few hours, but the pit had been prepared, and it had been cleared of anything that was not needed, and with chains put in, that could hold dragons restored, they were prepared. Willas found it strange, he had seen dragons, but never ridden, never by a Targaryen, just wild and hunting, so far. It was a sight to see, an amazing one, no less. It was an exiting one, as he made his way back to his barrack. He had to write to Rhaeynara, and it would start here.

Looking on out the window, Willas didn't even need to begin drafting his response, as he heard the distant calls, the men exclaiming. He stood up, walking out, seeing a small encampment of Tyrell Retinuemen, alongside Owain Tumbleton's own personal guard. Looking across to Owain, he nodded, the distant sight on the horizon, in the clouds. The sight of dragons could never stop being an amazement, as Willas smirked.
"Open the Northern gate. There will be men following, they are Crownlander. They are joining us. As are those dragons. Relay it down, Ser Maxwell." Willas said to the fellow Retinue Knight, as he moved down the hill, Owain nodding.
"With dragons? Well then...perhaps there is no siege!" Owain did not sound particularly reasoned when he made the statement, potentially because it was the first time he had seen them in the flesh, Willas aware that the dragons that the Targaryens had were exceptionally dangerous. They were beasts without equals, they could burn, kill whatever they wished, with it's fiery breath. Armies could be reduced to pieces, though Willas knew that they could be slain, and indeed,
"I will write to Garland later. He needs to come down...this is his speciality, not mine, to guide the young princesses. Owain, I will take 100 men out of your retinue and welcome her at the Dragon Pit. We have a royal arrival, and this is our future Queen that we could be talking about here. Give Maxwell command of the Gold Cloaks in my absence, he is my deputy, after all. Aegon's body is still unburied, as well as there being business to deal with in the Red Keep. We may still have a fight on our hands...so hold the line as we have." Willas simply said to Owain, as the other Lord nodded, to Willas, who did not even wear a gold cloak, still wearing the same armour as he had conducted the purge in. He had at least opted for a gold shawl over it, but had not opted for a cloak, simply knowing it was not something that he would currently require, not when he had to present himself to Princess Rhaynara. Looking over, he looked to his horse, and with a dozen men that Owain gave the order to, they set off, leaving the Barrack to go back to The Red Keep. There was a gentle rain, and the Red Keep, it's great red sandstone construction standing tall, was mostly vacated, apart from a few Tyrell men. They had infested any corner of the city worth infesting.

"Ser Willas, we've got a Lady Yronwood at the gate, she says she has a command from Princess Elaina to leave the city!" A guard approached Willas, as he saddled his horse, running from the bottom of hill, out of breath.
"Let her leave, Lady Yronwood is nobility, neutral in all this conflict. Tell her that I show my condolences for her delay, and that she will be allowed her way immediately. Let her through with her retinue, but nobody else. Make it clear that I apologise." Willas simply said, as the man nodded, beginning to run back down. The city's gates on lockdown, it meant that Willas had to be careful of who entered....though it had already proved a problem for people leaving. He hoped that it wasn't too large a diplomatic blunder, but none the less, Lady Yronwood would be left to head across to wherever it was she was going to, on this drizzly autumn day.

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A kingkonrad and @Apoalo collab





Beyond the safe walls of Highgarden, the Dornish Marches were a place that at this time of year, were changing once more. The Marches were everything, from a Plateau, a desert, to sheer, sharp and high mountains, with cold. The mountains that seemed to seperate Horn Hill, the residency of House Tarly, with the adjacent House Blackmont in Dorne, seemed to have nothing in them, apart from a sheer verticality, some greenery and snow at this time of year, yet on the Dornish side of the pass, where a horse track ran up through the pass, there was an outpost, one with Tarly men holding the pass for their own reasons. The Torrentine Range of mountains were temperate but snow covered, and still did have hardy mountain goat herders, and cedars growing where they could, among the raging rivers that made their way down. But there was a presence here. So that House Tarly could claim the mountains for themselves, and whatever mines, or trade routes went through them. It was a typical conflict that Garland despised, but it was one that House Tarly was engaged within anyway.

The patrol was watching the defenses, the wooden ramparts set up on the southern side, embedded into rock, providing an overwatch. It was a snowy pass, and in these mountains, getting through would be difficult, but still possible at this time of year, with a winding horse cart track going up to . In the summer, it would offer the greatest view of Horn Hill, and the plains and relatively small hills that surrounded the south-eastern banks of the Mander, but here, they were in the cold, and looking southward.

On the battlements, the Tarly men looked out, freezing cold. Many wore mail, no plate in sight, the pass defended and held by the Reach's forces, though of course, that was an asumption. This was in Dornish terroitory, it was across the line that a map would mark, and most definitely, was at least half a day's ride through the deep snowy mountains to where this battlement was, like a border post. It did not matter that this was the case, but behind it, the mountains themselves were practically the Reach's territory, by the Tarly's opinion. They were looking over the Torrent's source, and the deep valleys below, with even the sight of Blackmont Keep in the distance was something that did indeed remind the commander that they were truly claiming the stake for the Reach.

"Keep vigilant. Belgrave said that we'd get replaced soon. Couple more days now." The commander of the men said, adjusting his quarter-helm a little, as he looked down. The occasional greenery of this lush mountainside, greenery in and among the snow drifts,. The encampment itself perhaps had 20 men, but for the pass, one of a handful that managed to cross this mountainous region into north-western Dorne, it was a significant outpost for the Tarly's control of trade and the disputed Marches.

The wooden ramparts, sitting over the rock, commanded a strong position, and it would be difficult to enter the Reach from any trader's perspective, nor would it be. But it was a blantant transgression, not that any of the men even knew that. They were just occupying these mountains, and that would surely piss off the Blackmonts down below. because they had the control of the pass. The commander did not question it at all. They were here, they were a paid retinue, and they were staying till Belgrave said they could go home and take their grain in. Armed with swords, wooden shields and a couple of archers, it was a simple setup, and it was a patrol post. Below them the snowline ended, with trees and some greenery, where mountain goats were kept.

At Blackmont Keep, things were seeming to heat up, a change to the somewhat cold weather and and snow that plagued the pass during this time of year. Usually all the soldiers attached to the House had to deal with was some traders or possible smugglers that hid in the expansive Mountain seperation of Dorne and the Reach, but it didn't seem like the Tarly men currently occupying the palisade got the memo. Instead they had so unintelligently occupied Dornish Land and with the way Dorne defended itself in recent centuries wasn't a very good idea. In fact, Lord Blackmont sent riders to a Training Camp located a bit farther down the Torentine where General Dickon Manwoody himself held camp.

The General wasn't a very large man or even imposing though the scout felt he was talking to a wraith, he was shaking so much. That was because Dickon Manwoody commanded the Marches with a steel iron grip and his forces were some of the best that Dorne could field, which was natural as the buffer of not only the Reach but Baratheon Lord's from the Stormlands. As it was the General seemed amused more than angry that Tarly men would occupy his mountain and gave the Blackmont's recruits so that they might drive the Reachmen away. The Dornish soldiers were led off through the mountain passes each with eyes ablaze over the occupied land that the Roses sat upon.

Dornish soldiers at the pass wore a camaflouge white and grey uniform, and carried tall shield with well made shields. They marched two by two an archers always beside of a Spearman. In fact that was the basis of all the Military fighting in Dorne, groups of two forming their own independent teams and eviscerating chasing soldiers by using a combination of spear, shield, and recurve bow. But, with the high passes the Dornish couldn't reveal their true and secret weapon, the Cavarly that they had been training with since the Free cities introduced them to Dothraki tactics at the Fire Temple in Sunspear. The Dornish people had adopted the style and now while not matching the Dothraki in horsemanship were coming close. But that wouldn't help them in this battle and as such the Dornish took to another strategy. This one age old, which was letting the enviroment help them.

Blackmont sent one of his better Knights to command the hundred something Dornishmen and the approached the location quietly. The Knight, Ser Alastair of the Prince's Pass was a seasoned fighter of the Marches though with the peace between the two Kingdom's even a seasoned fighter had maybe seen two or three skirmishes since Dorne exiled itself from Westeros and began building up defenses at the passes and around their coastline. They had spent the last 200 years worshipping a new god, adopting an entirely new military doctrine and restructed how they fought all the while making a draft to ensure that each and every Dornish citizen be it male or female was able to fight. Most Kingdom's estimated them at 50,000 which the Princess let them believe.

The White clad men set up on a rocky incline and set to watching the Tarly soldiers. They had only just spotted them a day or so ago and as such it was probable more Roses were on the way. With that in mind, Ser Alastair started the slow process of placing his men in position. The 100 men split with two men following each other. They slowly, ever so slowly got into a position around the small fort and layed still in the snow, the 50 pairs ready to retake this land for Dorne and their Princess. Suddenly the Horn was sounded and Alastair screamed and Blackmont banners joined Dornish and the first arrows from the 50 pairs were let loose the Dornish forming a crescent in front of and to the side of the base, each archer backed up with the Spearmen.

Arrows flooded in, as the Reachmen took cover, at least four getting killed in the initial volley, the pairs rushing in as the archers on the ramparts responded, sending arrows back. They had the advantage in cover, but they were outnumbered, flanked, and were getting screwed over. They yelled across, as the Dornishmen were moving in. The commander yelled out across to his men, as weapons were taken, and they held their line, waiting for them to tire out, taking cover as the barrages of arrows rained down. A couple of men drew swords and shields, using them to cover as best as they could from the arrows, as the spears were going to flood. They had to hold the line, the Commander thought to himself, as he yelled across to his men.

Ser Alastair let his Archers continue to pin the Reachmen down and pressed towards the battlements ever so slowly, the Methodical Legion tactics the Ghiscari has brought to them. It was a Tactic the Dornish ran with their Cavarly letting theInfantry clump them together and then the Horse Archers would form a circle and ride around the trapped enemy while the infantry formed a circular wall to prevent them from escaping. Outside of that circle the Heavy Cavarly would form hammerhead squads which would pelt the enemy with groups of 10 Horses hitting and then retreating letting another 10 hit, the result was that the enemy was unable to defend their trapped soldiers and after the clump was destroyed the battle resumed, the Cavarly racing off to another section and the Infantry reforming or pairing up as needed. But again for this battle all Ser Alastair had was his infantry.

The Spearmen pushed forward in a never ceasing forward motion until they began clambering up while the Archers drew swords and took off small buckler shields from their backs and also began the climb. As they reached the top they would throw themselves upon the Reachmen the pairs continuing to fight together as the Spearman would attempt to push the enemy off balance and the Archer with his scimatar would swoop in for the killing blow.

The Tarly men were going to fight hard, as they saw infantry clambering, some of the men kicking them off the ramparts, but some being cut down, speared and impaled on the Dornish spears, as others used the Poleaxes that they were armed with to disarm and batter the Dornishmen. The Tarlys had superior armour, it would have appeared, and while they did not use plate, their opting for hard leather and mail was working in these climes, not comprimising their defensive position whilst offering a little protection to glancing hits from arrows, though spears tended to go straight through. The commander, a man perhaps aged thirty and five, moved through the snow, pushing a Dornishman onto his knees, and sending his sword through his throat, gruesomely impaling him, as another two appeared, flanking him. He raised his sword and managed to block one of their spears, splintering it, as the other stabbed him square in the shoulder, the commander backing away as another Tarly stabbed the Dornishman, and in turn, the commander managed to kick back, walking away with a limp.

His vision went blurry as blood streamed, the spear kicking into his chest a little, parts of it still impaled, as he collapsed onto the snow. He felt a massive stab through his back, as the spear was rammed through him, tearing through his heart and lungs, then being pulled out as he was kicked onto the floor, blood pissing as the Tarly men continued to keep their valiant defense. They were well trained, and hardy, but the Dornishmen had the numerical advantage, and the element of suprise. 20 against 100 was never going to alst long, as the men fought hard, taking at least 40 Dornishmen with them, the set of Tarlys finding themselves at the top of the rampart, completely surrounded.
"We surrender!" One yelled, knowing full that it would probably be the best way to live.
"You fucking fool!" The other man turned on him for a second, as the other stabbed him in the neck, a Reachman killing a Reachman in that moment. He fell to the floor dead, with his spine visible, so deep was the sword cutting into his neck. The other two looked on, looking around. They were a tenth of the force left, and while they had held the line bravely, they did not want to die in this snow-filled hellhole. They had fought with honour and dignity, at least, as much as they could have in an encampment on the wrong side of the Dornish marches from The Reach.

The Battle ended as it began with the Dornish Archers taking aim and firing arrows into the Tarly men like they were pincushions. It was a systematic slaughter at that point with Archers all around them and Spearmen blocking any retreat. And so passed the skirmish. Ser Alastair had been wounded by a Tarly sword taking him in the shoulder and he left what remained of the force from Blackmont at the Palisade while the recruits returned to report to General Manwoody. It seemed that Ser Alastair had a lot to answer to for storming a wall with men that had no armor. He was supposed to continue to rain down arrows but wanted his glory. As such it costed Dorne many more men than need be. The General sent 20 more units where a unit consisted of a spearman and archer to reinforce that Palisade and would slaughter the new Tarly's when they expected to be greeted by the men they were to replace...

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A kingkonrad and @bluetommy2 collab





(Painted from an eastern view over Highgarden, near the coniferous Rosewood.)

The next day came with a distinct shade of grey, the Indian Summer that had gripped Highgarden and most of the Reach now dying down, as the real shades of autumn were taking hold. The white castle still shone and reflected light, but it could already be seen, that the gloriously sunny days were beginning to fade, and with it, inside, Garland was in thought.

Looking over the groups of fighting men once more, he was alone, and knew he was on that staircase, the same one that he had talked to Alerie with. At the gate, a guard moved up, headed to Garland.
"Lord Tyrell, we have recieved the Maester at our gate."
"Let him in." Garland simply replied, looking over as he headed down the wooden stairs, making his way to the gate. The metal moved up, as he remembered it was where he had been told that there was a box for him. With the Queen Dowager's head in it, no less. As the gate slid open, Garland looked at the figure, taking him in. He would not be as good as Garth, he already had that predisposition about him.

Garland saw in front of him a man with ebony skin, wearing a sleeveless black tunic, tied at the front with dirty white string. Upon his back, he wore a bow, a white bow of some very well polished wood, tied in the middle by flax, but decorated on both of the ends by luminescant flowers of red and yellow, like the parrots of the south. That wasn't maester's robes, that was smallfolk's clothes, Garland recognized that, so what was this man doing here?

The man lifted a corner of his mouth, his square jaw rounding upwards as it seemed to struggle against itself, that was unusual, and it made Garland uneasy.

"Lord Tyrell." He spoke, in a voice deep and strong, like the booming call of a horn.
"It has been too long since I've been here, Highgarden is beautiful, you should be complemented on your gardening."

Garland wasn't sure where he was taking this, but he still felt uneasy. The man rode forwards, before gripping the reins of his horse tightly and thumping off. He pulled it to the side, making a walkway for whoever would follow.

And someone did in fact follow, the maester, wearing a torn black cloak, browned and covered in holes. He wore a green hood over his face, but it did little to hide his purple eyes. He had his right arm in a tightly bound white sling, going over both shoulders. A spot of blood was visible underneath the tight bandaging.

The man surveyed his surroundings slowly, his head turning at the speed of... not something Garland could explain with words, an odd movement, almost inhuman. His head then shot around, and he was looking directly at Garland, with piercing purple eyes.
"You must be Lord Tyrell." His voice was like cracking bark, a sound of rocks hitting the earth, unnaturally overenunciating every word.

Garland looked on, his purple eyes locking in. He did not like this at all. A bowman, and a Maester who looked like something perverse, something strange, something...terrifying. He did not like the man at all, but made no attempt to stop himself. He felt shyed away, but he had to say something. Break the tension.
"I am Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South, Hand to the deceased King Aegon, Tenth of his Name. You're my new Maester, then. You came fast." Garland said with a responding confidence in his voice, as he walked out, in front of the other two, two guards still by the gate, as he looked over both, knowing something was not right.
"Did you get injured on the way here?" He asked, looking at the other man, the Maester looking like he had indeed hurt himself, and something was not right about it. He didn't know what in Seven Hells to make of any of this, but he did not like people who asserted themselves.

The maester gripped the reins with his good hand, stepping over the horse with his left foot, and then falling to the ground. He walked forwards, and the bowman followed suit. He came next to Garland, their shoulders near-touching, he spoke again then, his voice still confusing and not at all how a normal Westerosi would talk.
"I did in fact, bandits trying to steal my supplies, my friend took care of them, we feasted on bandit soup that night." He laughed then, a noise of someone strangled, a dying man.
"I'm kidding of course, if I were to serve man, I would much prefer a Lord."

He turned to the bowman, beckoning him forth with a simple tilt of his head. The large man came forth, his broad shoulders twisting with every motion.
"This man saved me more than a few times, I believe he'd serve you well." The maester spoke well of the man, but his odd face and... overall atmosphere seemed not too appealing. The maester didn't even answer his question about how he arrived so early, instead walking past Garland, and heading for the castle, the bowman following behind.

Garland looked on in suspicion, looking at the two of them.
"That's not how you greet a Lord, Maester. What is your name?" Garland asked, looking over, his voice carrying weight to it, interrogative in the best sense, as he walked over, stopping them before they continued walking across the courtyard. He looked to the bowman, the larger figure clearly like some sort of guard. It did not seem right...Garland could tell chivalry apart from a lie, and this seemed too good to be true. The archer seemed not appealing, not like he could have done such a thing.
"And I never gave you the command either. Now, why is it I feel distrustful of you already, and you've barely stepped within my castle?" Garland asked, looking over at the two, and in particular, the Maester.
"And did you say, serve man?" Garland asked, thinking it over. He didn't even realize what he said, not until now, as he looked him in the eye.
"Seven Hells, are you telling me you would rather eat a Lord? What kind of fucking savage are you?" He said, his voice coming through hard and fast, his youth giving him a real capacity to project from the bottom of his lungs, almost shocked. Was this man mad, or...well, what in Seven Hells was it? He didn't know, but he couldn't add this up, this man couldn't be a Maester, and all too quickly, Garland felt like from first sight, this had gone from bad to worse.

The archer turned around, he towered over Garland, and he seemed to be using that as an intimidation tool, standing damn near an inch away. He chuckled, a near musical noise.

"My only lord is coin, Lord Tyrell, and this maester is offering more than you, so, unless you have a better offer, don't give me orders." He said, crossing his arms, the noise created sounding like a man beating his chest. The maester chuckled, again a horrible sound.
"A savage who knows enough to become a maester, it was a simple jape m'lord, if it offends you, I won't do it again." He placed a hand on his chest, and even though he couldn't see his face, Garland knew he was smiling.

"I don't plan to ask why you are distrustful of us, I seem to exude that atmosphere, but I assure you, I earned this." He pulled on the maester's chain on his neck.

Garland looked into the eyes of the archer, before looking back at the Maester.
"If you have heard the news, then you would understand when a pair of men enter my castle like yourself in such a manner. Now then, I suggest you settle in, if your version of comedy is the way it is." Garland said, his cynical side coming out a little. He had a deep distrust, and definitely did not like this, especially not the archer. In a straight fight, Garland knew he would be challenged, but he had a longsword, and the archer did not...his size would be a problem, but Garland could take a guess that it was height and his confidence to confront the Lord that was going for him. The intimidation worked to some extent, but Garland did not let him get put off by it, as he looked on, exhaling.
"Maester Garth went missing, and so, we need you in our service. I hope your introduction was the last I will hear of it." He said to the maester, looking in. It was as if he recognized him, but he did not understand why the hell he did. Something seemed very wrong about it all, and even though he knew of plenty of stories of perverse Maesters, with strange sexual fantasies, this felt weirder and different. Like under that cloak, something far darker was brooding.

The maester whistled, and the archer backed away from Garland, not taking his eyes off of him.
"I'll have to thank you for your hospitality M'lord, you've been very... well, less distrustful than many I've met." He turned away from Garland, looking back only a second. but as he did, a gust of wind blew by, the maester made a small sound, like a kitten being startled, before gripping the hood up in a ball and holding it tightly over his head.

Garland saw then, the white strands of hair leaving it, and the sheen of dragonsfire in his purple eyes.

The maester quickly gathered the hood, throwing it back over his head, he then walked towards the castle, without another word.

Garland noted it, and saw that sight, those white strands of hair, those purple eyes. He felt like something was connecting in his head, something was seriously wrong. Either he was too paranoid right now, or he was seeing someone who looked too much like Daenys Targaryen. Something was wrong about that. Maybe a Velaryon, his Valyrian features were distinct, but he didn't know what the hell was wrong with this man. He didn't answer his name, and the archer was making moves. A Reachman standing up to his Lord? Paid or unpaid, Garland felt fuming underneath, but had to keep his resolve, his composure kept on his face. Something was seriously wrong with this, as he looked around at the overcast sky, the guards shutting the steel gate.

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Later that night, Garland sat in his study, writing letters as usual, the state of the realm meant that he was consistantly writing letters just to keep his realm together, one lord felt a little too angry at another, if that happened, it could tear his powerbase apart.

Finally he finished, and he stood up to call for Garth, but stopped cold, realizing that he would have to meet with that maester again, he'd rather bring the letters himself, but it was a long ride to the castles of his bannermen, and the maesters were the only ones with access to the ravens.

So, he gritted his teeth, and moved to call for the maester. He opened the door, and to his surprise, the maester was right in front of him, his good hand up as if he had been about to knock. The maester moved his hand down and kneeled, odd, considering he hadn't shown any courtesy before.

"M'lord, I had planned to ask your guards to let me in, but they don't appear to be present, I was hoping to have a word."

Garland looked over, looking at the man kneeling on the floor.
"What is it, Maester?" Garland simply asked, as he let him through the door, into his quarter. There were still letters to be written to vassal houses, among other things. It was strange, how this was continuously happening. He said to himself he had to move on, but things did not feel right at all.

The maester entered the chamber, looking around slowly, as he did when they first met, like a snake preparing to strike. He then looked to the floor, sighing to himself, as he did, the door behind Garland slammed shut, startled, Garland moved to his sword with his right hand, only to feel something cold press up against his neck.

"Hello, Garland." The voice of Daenys Targaryen, a traitor's voice, much less composed than how he remembered, more cold, and like a snake striking with every word.
"It has been too long, much too long. This couldn't have gone any better, you really need to improve your guards, distracted by a simple bow shot to the head! Hah! The others ran after, but my man is a lot faster than his frame lets on, and now, you're mine Garland, mine to do as I please with." He laughed, as if he'd been waiting on this for too long. Then the blade pushed more into his neck, and Garland tensed.
"Struggle and I slit you like a pig, for now, I'd rather hear how you betrayed me, for my brother." He looked over Garland's shoulder, his face one of white rage.

Garland didn't even know what to do, he didn't even know what words to say. But he was thinking, and every thought was coming to a dead end. He had a knife against his throat, and Daenys was prepared to kill him. He knew precisely that it would happen, the man was insane enough. Choosing his words, he could only guess that it would try and give him a little time. But he knew to himself, if he died here, then so be it. He was not going to give Daenys the benefit of knowing he would succumb to him, right here. He would die knowing what he did, but for now, he could try and stop that altogether.
"I followed his will...." Garland simply said, looking over, clasped tight. He could fight his way out of it, and knew that he was far stronger than Daenys, but he had his knife straight against his artery. If he pushed an inch, he'd be a mess on the floor, and Garland could only guess the man was insane. He had to buy time. If he wanted to hear, then he would.
"He gave it to me a week ago, he told me that he had disinherrited you, and he made it his mission to find out what you did with Aerys. I swear, I have no idea where that boy is, all that matters now, the fucking realm is without a ruler!" He said, just waiting for his moment, perhaps assuming that he could do something. He had him tight, and while his right arm was screwed, taking him from that would have a fifty fifty chance of working. Part of him could grab it and force him away in pain, then gut him like a fish, but at the same time, if Daenys did react faster, it would be Garland's blood pouring across the chamber. He didn't think about if for now, waiting, just stalling.

Daenys growled quietly, spitting to his right.
"My brother... he never trusted me, I understand that, but to deinherit me? Why, that seems like something a tyrant would do, and yet everyone fucking loved him!" He yelled, shoving Garland around in his grip.
"They hate me, all of them! I was the second son, I was born a few seconds late and that makes me less worthy? I envy you Garland! I really do, you had everything handed to you, I had to earn it, everything I have, I built for myself! But it's not enough, I am a worthy man, the Others take anyone who doesn't believe me! I am perfect! I deserve respect!" He pushed himself into Garland, near knocking him onto the knife.
"Why, what is it that makes them hate me? Explain it to me Garland! Explain it to me!" He grew more and more enraged with each word.

Garland looked over, looking at the purple-eyed Targaryen, the fires of madness in his eyes, as Garland could barely crack into saying words. But he had courage, and courage in a moment like this was what the Young Rose could have. With a knife still against his throat, he knew that Daenys had moved him into a position where he was far more exposed, and that now, he had a better chance. It would take a bluff, just a moment. He didn't know how, or what it would take. Something, but he had to carry on. The man was breaking down right here, and he didn't
"They...they think you're mad, Daenys. That you have no taste of rulership, or any knowledge that makes you a King! That you have homosexual tendencies and that you aren't worthy of the throne..... Listen to me, Daenys. Loras Tyrell, first of his name was gay, and he was liked. So perhaps Aegon didn't want you because he didn't see you being able to rule Seven Kingdoms." Garland said, looking at his eyes, distinctly, glancing at his arm. It was possible, it was, and it was. But he didn't want to chance it. He had to wait for a moment.
"I was born to the brother to the Lord of the Reach, Daenys...I was never expected to have anything. You're the second born son to the King! You have everything, power, money, Seven Hells, you're going to inherit land and were going to still be on my Small Council!" Garland said, looking at him.
"Don't tell me you have nothing now. You have not got Seven Kingdoms, but you had a power to change things, and you chose to throw everyone you loved into war, killing everyone. That's why people don't like you, because you do this to people, you don't love back when people give you chance." The Lord said, looking up at Daenys.
"Now...let the knife go. Just think. This doesn't have to end this way. Even if you slit my throat, you've got three layers of walls to go through, and your one archer couldn't kill the hundreds of guards of Highgarden without being seen. You'll die too...so just drop the knife go, and I will treat you as a Knight of the Reach would." He said, looking deep into his eyes, his charisma coming through. Under his hair, he was sweating, and he was holding back. He should have stood and thrown him down, took his knife on him and slit his throat himself, but he hadn't. He had seen something else in Daenys's eyes, he had seen perhaps terror of his own, shock. It was the thought that he might of done it, but he couldn't know why, perhaps.

Daenys' eyes tremored in place, two small dragons, shivering in the cold, they shut, and tears ran down his face.
"I loved you once, Garland... I thought you would love me back, but you never showed me anything!" He screamed, his voice cracking as he did.
"I wanted it all Garland! I wanted the love that my brother recieved! I wanted to feel..." The knife left his hand, and he fell to his knees, sobbing into his hand. He sniffed, pulling himself back to his feet, and shuffled away from Garland, resting on the window on the other side of the room.
"Why Garland!? Why would you!? I hate you! I... I..."

Garland looked across, watching him sob, walking across the room. Madness was total, and the knife away from his throat allowed him to breathe. Garland did not know what to do. A simple part of him wanted him to take his sword out and slice through Daenys's back, throw him out the window with a wound the size of his fist through his internal organs. He seemed completely possessed, totally insane, like he was ranting mad. He had some point...but Garland knew Aegon loved his brother very much, from what he saw, he tried his best, and Daenys never took that love back. Garland could see into his reality, but somehow, it was wrong. It was perverse, but not something he could kill him for. He always knew that Daenys was obsessed with him, and why not, after all. Garland was the best looking man in the Reach, and his long hair, his lion's mane of a beard that wrapped round his face, his swordsmanship, women were dying for his touch.

But so was Daenys, and somehow, Garland half understood. The looks were truly because he lusted for him, and he didn't know how to react to that. He remembered the stories of Loras Tyrell. The Knight of the Flowers. He was hidden, loved, but gay. Almost killed for it, and he lived his life with it over his shoulders, though the family still loved him no matter what. In some ways, he could tell, Daenys was sick, twisted, perverse and problematic. But he wanted to kill Garland for that reason, the Lord Paramount had to assume. He was obssessed, in the most sick and perverse manner availible. But Garland knew that even despite that, the fact that he had killed men, he had almost taken his life, that he could not just stab him in the back and murder him outright. No. That wouldn't be his way. It would be one that they would criticize.

He didn't even draw his sword, as he walked up to the window, and with a firm move, exhaled as he took Daenys's head. Smashing it against the window ledge, he knocked him out cold, concussing him for definite, but taking the daylight out of him, as he cried, sobbing, completely deluded. Garland had been fast enough, and Daenys would perhaps understand this later, when he was brought in front of him later again, without a knife to Garland's throat. He would awake in chains, Garland said to himself, as he took Daenys's limp body dragging it to the door. He yelled in the corridors, dragging him through the limestone floor, out of his quarter.
"GUARDS!" He yelled, looking around. There were dead bodies strewn around, as he yelled once more.
"GUARDS!" Finally, what could be heard as the noise of a pair of guards moving from outside could be heard, running in, as they screamed in horror. Garland had blood running a little along his collarbone, and Daenys was on the floor, his full form revealed, no hood, no disguise, nothing.
"My Lord!" One of the guards exclaimed.
"This is Daenys Targaryen, suspected murderer of Aegon Targaryen, Tenth of his Name, the Queen Dowager, Lady Dalla Baratheon, and an attempted murderer of myself. He is the secondborn son of Aegon Targaryen, Ninth of his Name. And he shall recieve a trial before the Seven and a jury." Garland said, exhaling, the guards looking on in total shock, as he saw more guards emerge in the courtyard, running over.
"He is a murdering, lunatic, crazed Targaryen. He almost took my life. But I shall give him the mercy of a trial, for it is the only thing that shall let us know why he did so." Lord Tyrell added, as he saw the guards run in, past the bodies, swearing, yelling, panicked, horrified. It would come to the morrow, as they dragged his unconcious body out of Garland's sight, many staying close by his side.

For a moment, Garland didn't know what in Seven Hells he had just done. He had shown restraint, he could have murdered him. But so could have Daenys. He hated him, and his words said so. Yet inside, he had seen something in the fire of his eyes, the madness had come from somewhere. He did not deserve to die and fade from his sword alone, he deserved to see the reality of what he had done, and take it in his stead. If he was to be a better Lord, he would put him in front of the world and show who Daenys Targaryen had become, why he had done what he did, and for everything, Garland knew he had acted as chivalrously as he could. Some acted with no honour, no courage. Yet at this moment in time, for all that he hated the man and wished to cut his head off, remembering the time he saw the Queen Dowager's head sent in a box to him, placing it on the highest pike in his training yard, he had stopped short. He wanted to see the man bare himself.

Water Gardens of Dorne

The water dripped slowly from Eleina's fingers as she sat in a comfortable chair with a letter in her hand. She was dressed comfortably yet at the same time she was quite uncovered in terms of skin as she had been swimming all day. The Water Gardens of Dorne had become a fable, almost a fairytale to the children of Dorne with all of them wanting just to spend a day or two. That was when Eleina's father formed a new rule that the 15 year old preparing for war would all be given a week to enjoy the Water Gardens before being sent off to camps throughout Dorne. Noble children of course as Eleina's wards were all there as well and as such it was always filled with happy laughter, screams, and shouts. It was one of Princess Eleina's favorite places in the world, if not her favorite. So there we sat, reclined and smiling as her wards splashed happily.

At one particularly gutsy cannon ball by a 15 year old boy Eleina was almost drenched and chuckled to herself nodding to her guards to be taken a little farther away from the side so as not to soak the lovely letter from the Tyrells that even smelled like a rose. She sighed however knowing that this letter had arrived right after another letter, from Lord Blackmont informing her of the border incident. It was frustrating that things happened despite her wishes and she knew that at least this time the Blackmont's had a right to defend their land but she wasn't as Naïve as many would believe her to be, and in fact she knew all about the raiding that Blackmont did themselves. She had managed to ween the Dayne's and Manwoody's off of it but the Blackmont's and Wyl's were the worst. Then again she mused, the Wyl's can do all the raiding they want to the Baratheon lands as she had bene tempted to invade them knowing her favor with the court was MUCH higher than their own.

It was funny thinking about past plots and plans and Eleina felt a smile tugging at her face once again. Garland was right, the time to end the raiding had come and luckily she had the perfect House situated to stop it, the Daynes and Fowlers two of her best and strongest Houses on the Marches border. Yronwood to was strong but Eleina resolved herself to allowing the Wyl's to continue raiding what they pleased. Should the Baratheon's ever get brave enough to attack them to put a stop to them they'd find the Boneway was impassable to those that didn't know it, the Wyl's and Yronwood's having trapped and scorched the earth while filling the stone overhead with hundreds and hundreds of natural Archer holes as the Wyl's had a easy access to the top of said rocky valleys. It was a deathtrap and any General would turn back after a day or two of getting cut to pieces on every two or three steps.

Eleina let her thoughts wander as she fanned herself slightly with the letter. Edrick was off to King's Landing like so many Dornishmen before him. She only hoped he returned, and unscathed. She was still of marrying age, it was true and could even bear more children for whomever she married but she would be lying is she said she wouldn't miss him. Her and Edrick had been together since they were 13, inside a military camp surviving together. She felt her smile widen and leaned her head back letting the brownish black curls fall over the chair and almost hit the floor. Luckily for her, the Tyrell Garland had more sense than all of the other rulers from that time put together. She mused for a few moments at what the two of them had accomplished, unrivaled friendship between the two Kingdoms. Granted she and her Father, and his father before him had all but exiled Dorne from the happenings of the world but still. It felt good to know that such progress was being done.

The real beef and interesting part of the letter however was the mention of Rheynara and Garland's own ignorance of what exactly happened to Aery's and the Kingsguard, with Tristam. Tristam was important to Eleina, having been like a favorite Uncle. After her fathers death she had been comforted by writing to him and he to her while protecting yet another strong and wise King. And now... She shook her head, refusing to believe, refusing to even think of the possibility of him being gone. No, he's still alive. Him and the rest of the Kingsguard, alive and protecting the one true Heir. She seemed adamant that the child that descended from Aegon VI and Daenaery's, the couple Dorn pledged were their lost children was still alive. In fact, she could almost feel it and while all of the petty squabbles seemed to roll around she kept returning to the part in the letter on Rheynara. What would happen should Aery's actually still be alive? The Tyrell's were all to happy to place a Targaryen on the throne so long as it wasn't Daeny's and Eleina felt the same but what if they were placing the wrong Targaryen on said throne?

She felt a wet something on her lap and lowered the parchment to see House Fowler's Heir, seven year old Trenton curling up on her lap. She smiled brightly and rubbed the still wet hair on his head until his breathing evened out and he felt asleep. If only Kingdom's were as easy as children to get to sleep... She sighed and looked behind her for a moment and her ever present Captain presented her with Parchment, Ink, and a board to write with. She was careful not to wake Trenton and send a letter off to Rheynara Targaryen, and two copies of the same letter to Willas and Garland Tyrell...





Eleina finished her letters and leaned back in her chair, her Captain taking them and sealing them before handing them off to another Guard who went off to the Rookery where the Maester was standing by. The Princess continued to sit, letting Trenton sleep soundly while she patted his hair softly and she sighed. She had added into the letter to Garland of her stricter hand on border skirmishes and assured him that Lord Manwoody would begin watching not only the Reach Lords, but the Dornish as well. She was certain Dickon's reputation would keep her bannermen from ignoring the order.

With work accomplished Eleina instead lazed off into a doze as well a small smirk still on her lips as she wondered where Edrick was at the moment.

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Roseroad, Bitterbridge

Bitterbridge was not exactly what Edrick Dayne would call a happy place to visit. He smirked to himself as he remembered the letter sent to him from his wife, instructing and asking him to make haste to King's Landing. He was excited at the oppurtunity to see the Reach and the greenry outside of the Desert and Red mountains of Dorne. But the excitement soon receeded to a more dull acceptance of the fact that the Reach was gorgeous yes, and the land was fertile. He supposed he was just to used to the plain and bland enviroment of Dorne to really get overly excited about terrain but if asked he could without a doubt say that the Bread Basket of Westeros was indeed stunning, and then move on. Bitterbridge however was a oxymoron, a city situated on the Mander river with such lovely terrain around it and yet you had to to really hard to ignore just how many deaths and battles took place at the spot.

But able to ignore it Edrick was able to do, at least in part though those in his escort of some hundred Dornishmen were not, and those that knew the history during tactics talk knew that the town had seen very bloody days, and was the site of King Renly I of House Baratheon by his brother Stannis. It was an unspoken command then that had the troops all huddled together as they shuffled through the town and over the bridge getting many weird stares flying the Banner of Martell with a envoy flag beside of it. The Envoy were all on Horseback and Edrick took his strongest fighters with him to serve as his escort and Bodyguard, the cream of the Dornish military to ensure that this time the Dornish Envoy would have no trouble should politics seek to remove another Dornish noble from the breath of life.

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King's Landing

Edrick smiled to himself as he remembered the trip through Bitterbridge, he and his group rode hard all night through the Kingswood and King's Landing rose up before them now and already the Dayne could smell the stench of shit, piss, and to many unwashed bodies in one particular area. Not that he minded really as he had smelled much worse in his lifetime but it was another way Westeros or at least King's Landing differed from Dorne where hygiene and quality of life was improving through engineering and trade with the Free Cities. As they approached the gates, Edrick dismounted along with his flag bearer that carried the flag flying the Dayne Star on lilac alongside the Martell Sun with a spear through it. Beside that one came the Envy flag and Edrick shouted through the gate. 'Edrick Dayne to see Willas Tyrell or one of the Targaryen Princesses! Emmisary from Dorne!"

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Riverlands

"Really Lady Elise, I can't believe you didn't raise a larger scene about being forced to wait on 'permission' to leave the Capital! Even with an Envoy flag the pathetic guard just stared at you and crossed his spear in front of you. And you a Lady!" Elise rolled her eyes at her handmaiden, a Wyl House girl who seemed to take a slight at everything under the sun. The latest slight -had- been a bother but with the way King's Landing had gone Lady Elise Yronwood wasn't exactly surprised. She knew that her status as the Princess of Dorne's voice, eyes, and ears would be well respected by Willas Tyrell and wasn't concerned as she stood behind the crossed spears while her hand remained low to keep her guards from eviscerating the young Gold Cloak. She smiled brightly at the young man and made small talk while waiting nodding and making an ahh sound as permission was granted and apologies given. She nodded to them all and set off on her journey through the Crownlands...

The ride was mostly uneventful save for the random looks that they received from peasants and farmers who saw the forty strong entourage ride past them wearing and flying the Martell/Dayne sigil proudly. Luckily for them they presented just a strong enough target to not be messed with and indeed the ride up to Harrenhal was quite simple and didn't take long at all. The group rested at Raventree Hall feasting with the Blackwoods and sleeping comfortably to prepare anew for the resumption of their journey.

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Westerlands. Collab of myself and Agentmanatee))
The journey through the Riverlands went better than expected for the group of Dornish folk, the Crakehall soldiers having not made it past Harrenhall it appeared. It took Elise by surprise, having expected with the Tyrells having gotten to the Capital so quickly that the only other contender to the throne other than the mad Targareyn Daeny's, hadn't marched with all due haste. Then again, Elise supposed it was a good thing that he hadn't as Willas and his 'new city watch' had been supported by a strong force of Reachmen, along with Crownland Lords bearing the Targaryen flag. It seemed that actual Targaryen relatives seemed to think they would have a stronger claim to the Iron Throne, instead of a being a distant offspring. Elise wondered if it would affect her talks with Tyget and shrugged, she had her instructions from her Princess and would follow them to the letter and then some. She glanced about and stared at the Red Priest that was attached to her. Linus...

Linus was a interesting young man who grabbed at your attention first thing with his shock of red hair and creamy white skin. He had a look about him that instantly made you want to really stare at him and a charisma to match it. At the moment he was busy sniffing every single flower that they passed and then running to the next. The boy was smart, that was for sure but he acted very odd at other times... It was intriguing really what oddities he found in Westeros and Elise was positive they had only just began scratching the surface with him. She hummed to herself as they continued, her eyes constantly on the Red Priest. He was a cute one for sure and the Yronwood ruler felt herself wishing she didn't have a husband waiting for her back at Yronwood. She smirked as the boy as he was really still a boy at 24 as he certaintly didn't look it. In fact if one didn't know him he'd appear at the very most 18, his face and features very youthful, his skin lacking any hair or blemish. She sometimes wondered how he did it and figured it must be a gift from the Lord of Light.

She glanced away quickly when the young man's head turned and refocused upon the road. They were coming up to a baggage train heading towards the Riverlands proper and Elise recognized the Boar of Crakehall once again and smiled. Linus had finished his foray into the flowers and stood staring at the entourage until his eye caught on a young man to whom the Red Priest smiled at, dimples in his cheeks brighing out the -very- faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. Linus bowed and said in a voice loud enough to be heard by all around. "The Lord of Light and myself greet you Tywin Crakehall."

The journey through the Riverlands went better than expected for the group of Dornish folk, the Crakehall soldiers having not made it past Harrenhall it appeared. It took Elise by surprise, having expected with the Tyrells having gotten to the Capital so quickly that the only other contender to the throne other than the mad Targareyn Daeny's, hadn't marched with all due haste. Then again, Elise supposed it was a good thing that he hadn't as Willas and his 'new city watch' had been supported by a strong force of Reachmen, along with Crownland Lords bearing the Targaryen flag. It seemed that actual Targaryen relatives seemed to think they would have a stronger claim to the Iron Throne, instead of a being a distant offspring. Elise wondered if it would affect her talks with Tyget and shrugged, she had her instructions from her Princess and would follow them to the letter and then some. She glanced about and stared at the Red Priest that was attached to her. Linus...

Linus was a interesting young man who grabbed at your attention first thing with his shock of red hair and creamy white skin. He had a look about him that instantly made you want to really stare at him and a charisma to match it. At the moment he was busy sniffing every single flower that they passed and then running to the next. The boy was smart, that was for sure but he acted very odd at other times... It was intriguing really what oddities he found in Westeros and Elise was positive they had only just began scratching the surface with him. She hummed to herself as they continued, her eyes constantly on the Red Priest. He was a cute one for sure and the Yronwood ruler felt herself wishing she didn't have a husband waiting for her back at Yronwood. She smirked as the boy as he was really still a boy at 24 as he certaintly didn't look it. In fact if one didn't know him he'd appear at the very most 18, his face and features very youthful, his skin lacking any hair or blemish. She sometimes wondered how he did it and figured it must be a gift from the Lord of Light.

She glanced away quickly when the young man's head turned and refocused upon the road. They were coming up to a baggage train heading towards the Riverlands proper and Elise recognized the Boar of Crakehall once again and smiled. Linus had finished his foray into the flowers and stood staring at the entourage until his eye caught on a young man to whom the Red Priest smiled at, dimples in his cheeks brighing out the -very- faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. Linus bowed and said in a voice loud enough to be heard by all around. "The Lord of Light and myself greet you Tywin Crakehall."

Tywin and hiis 2,000 men had split off from the bulk of the Westerlands army at Casterly Rock, as the fastest road to Kings Landing was to far removed from Harrenhal. So 33,000 men marched down the Gold road, most likely already nearing Kings Landing, but Tywin's force was moving a bit slower. Tywin was riding at the front, his helmet off letting the ride wash away his stress in the wind, he always rode to clear his head. The force had only just passed the Gold Tooth, and he had now run apon something quite unexpected.

On the one hand, Lady Elise Yronwood a noblewoman all the way from Dorn, at the gold tooth. On the other... a priest of R'hllor if he had to guess... though that was hardly the first thing Tywin noticed about the attractive young man. He cleared his throat loudly as the attractive priest greeted him by name, "*ahem* um... greetings priest... uh and of course Lady Yronwood, what ehm... are you doing so far from Dorn??", he quickly turned to Lady Yronwood, hoping not to hold the young priest in his eyes for too long.

The Lady of Yronwood didn't miss the exhange between the two young men and a single eyebrow threatened to lift though years of schooling managed to stop her before she revealed such an interest in the meeting between her Priest and the 'Prince'. She bowed her head respectfully and smiled at him. "Prince Tywin, we're on our way to see your father. He sent word to my Princess of wanting to speak and as both are quite busy running Kingdom's, I was dispatched from King's Landing with Linus here..." She smirked as the Priest hadn't stopped staring at Tywin, his head cocked slightly and a mischevous smile decorated his face, his cheeks moving to form dimples right below the faint brushes of freckles, his sapphire blue eyes seeming to shine with the sunlight.

"My Prince, if I may be so kind as to ask where you're off to?" Came the melodic voice of the Priest, a hint of something in the tone.

Tywin was surprised to hear his father had wished to speak with the Princess of Dorn... though he supposed his father didn't tell him much about his plans, he didn't seem to trust Tywin much... he supposed that made since. The priests voice brought him out of his thoughts, the musical tone and lilt mixed with his accent and... whatever else he was adding ran a shiver up Tywins spine, and he laughed nervously at the question, "Heh, w-well, I and the 2,000 men behind me are marching to Harrenhal, where Jullon Tully has garrisoned his son and 10,000 riverlanders,", why was he spilling so much to this man Linus? He wasn't a lord, and he wasn't even a priest of the seven, "and we are to... um await further command once there... b-but its getting late and um... I do believe we are camping shortly, how would you and your retinue feel about joining us? I'm sure we can provide better food, drink and lodging than you have had since beginning your journey.", as he spoke this he was finally able to tear his eyes off the priest and spoke to Lady Yronwood, he could tell why his normally fluid speech was so... unsure.

Linus smirked at the Prince as he spoke and his eyes whined a bit more as he raised his neck and stretched his neck out from riding exposing the creamy white skin. He knew what he was doing and the speech of Tywin confirmed what the Fire God had told him when Linus saw the young man in his fireplace in King's Landing. It was interesting however to see him here. He to looked away, just enough to draw attention and then returned to staring at Tywin, before seeing the locked eyes shift to Lady Yronwood at the request. "My Prince, i'm afraid we ust continue on our way, it's important to have this speaking with your fath-." She was cut off as Linus spoke again, this time his voice losing the melodic tone and instead quite authoritative as he looked to the Noble.

"My Lady, this young man has offered us lodging out the hospitality the Westerosi are known for. Besides it will be night soon, and the Night is Dark, and Full of Terror." Lady Yronwood repeated the mantra and nodded, the Priest smirking again and facing Tywin. "Myself and Lady Yronwood will be quite happy to accept your gracious invitation my Prince, and i'm quite sure that all of the above mentioned will be better, the company as well." He flashed a smile, his teeth all quite straight and honestly it appeared as all Red Priests seemed to have quite good teeth... Irregardless Linus would appear to the Westeros men and woman as perfection, the Asshai people taking great pride in their looks and the art of using those looks to spread their fath.

Tywin was surprised at the authority with which the Red priest spoke to a highborn lady... he had never heard of even a High Septon speaking such a way to a Lord or Lady, even the High sparrow of the era of the Five Kings had spoken softly... clearly the Red church did things quite differently. He gulped loudly and looked back to Linus, "Well... we shall have camp ready in but a few hours... we will provide you with the wine, food and... company you so desire.", he smiled at the priest and Lady Yronwood before turning his horse around and calling for the force to stop... camp needed to be made quickly

Linus nodded to Lady Yronwood in respect as Tywin turned and the Lady nodded in return. The Red God and Temples held quite a lot of sway in Dorne and the nobles respected them quite heavily. Linus walked alongside the Dornish entourage and mixed with the Crakehall soldiers, the men giving Linus a wide berth as if afraid he would spit fire at them.

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a few hours later, the sun now firmly setting and the sky the color of fire, the men had begun to light their fires and revel. In the royal tent sat, around a great Ironwood table sat the high borns in their own revelry. Tywin was known as a charming man, and his last joke regarding his fathers propensity for female heirs had Lord Banefort nearly choking on his food as the three lords and their sons sat in his tent. To his right was Linus, who he had wanted close to him in case he felt the need to... engage in conversation with the foreigner, and his guest Lady Yronwood was to his left. As the Laughter subsided he turned to Linus, pointing to his drink, "I assume you enjoy the Dornish wine Linus? I'm certain it is better than what you and Lady Yronwood have been drinking these past few days.", he was fascinated by the priest, even without having asked him about his religon thus far.

As night fell the Dornish in the company created a large fire as well, this one however was prayed to with Linus himself leading the service. His normally Melodic voice changed to a powerful boom and he wasn't afraid of making himself a spectacle, preferring the Westerosi to watch and perhaps realize that R'hllor was the one true God. At the end of the prayer Linus lifted his hands and the flames roared up higher into the night sky and then the pyre blew out instantly. The Dornish repeated the phrase Linus that Linus said to Lady Yronwood before and Linus then dismissed them. At supper Linus was a gracious guest, his laugh guarded slightly however. But when Tywin finished his wine comment Linus did chuckle, and the melodic sound of his voice was amplified as the laugh seemed like music itself. "Prince Tywin, all wine is pleasing to the Lord of Light. He, like the people of the known Kingdoms of Westeros and Essos are all loved and treated equally." He tilted his head to the left his red hair catching in the light of the tent and sending shines down it. "But I believe Lady Yronwood does in fact enjoy the Dornish variety more." He smiled in Elise's direction and she raised her glass in acknowledgment.

The ceremony before dinner had certainly been unique, and new. Tywin had been surprised at how theatrical Linus had been at the head of the Dornishmen, repeating the phrase "For the night is Dark and full of Terror" innto the fire... as if his god were litening from within the flames. Tywin chuckled back in the tent, he found it strange the way Linus spoke about wine and other things, that all are equal and such... his red hair was catching the light in the tent, it was positively radient, That, along with the fact that every thing he spoke sounded like music only made Tywin desire to... speak with him more. He looked to lady Yronwood as well before turning back to Linus, "So he does? What else is taught by the Lord of Light? I've always wondered what the Red God taught his priests.", he laughed nervously a bit, hoping none of the lords were sober enough to see the looks he had given Linus a few times.

Linus to ensured that the Shadows blocked him and Tywin out, and was content in that the High Table seemed more like the drunk table and as such Linus smiled brightly and leaned in. "The Lord of Light teaches that all life is precious which is why sacrifices to the fire are ones highest praise, though it is quite rare. Some believe we are all murderor's but in only the most trying times are the victims forced. And i've found animal offerings are quite suffucient as well unless you want the true power of R'hllor. My Prince..." He let his tongue dance on the e for a moment, the smile biting it off, and his eyes flashing trying to draw Tywin in more. "I can show you and teach you more. Your father wished to learn of the Red God, and his first lesson will be that R'hllor is stronger than any King. I will be more than happy to join you on your journey to Harrenhal. I will have more oppurtunities to spread the faith that way. And then we can both present outselves to your father." He spoke quietly, but it didn't do anything to kill the melodic tone and he suddenly brushed against Tywin slightly and smirked. "And perhaps I can -show- you some of the skills the Lord of Light enjoys as well."

Tywin gulped loudly, as Linus whispered in his ear, his lilting voice filling the young Prince's thoughts, then feeling the attractive priest brush against him, finally completely confirming his thoughts about him. He quickly glance to the lords, they and the others at the table were far to busy conversing amongst themselves to notice whatever the young Prince and priest may be doing, Lady Yronwood almost seemed to be purposefully ignoring them... and the shadows almost seemed to... bend around him and Linus, like some kind of strange shield. He looked back at the priest, the mans sapphire blue eyes drawing him in, his words swaying him his touch... Tywin placed his own hand on the Priests knee before speaking, "So you can... though... I imagine these... lessons will need to take place... without the presence of the lords, correct?", he stared into Linus's eyes, his own light brown hair glinting in what light reached the two men past the shadows.

Linus stared straight back into Tywin's eyes and his smile grew wider if possible as the Crakehall Prince placed his hand on Linus's knee. He nodded ever so slightly. "Oh yes, these lessons are quite private My Prince, we will need to ensure we aren't bothered." He smirked and beside the drunken Lords Lady Yronwood grinned and figured she'd begin making the excuses up for Linus for when she turned up at to speak with Tyget without him. It was a common thing in Dorne for the Priests who were so passionate and filled with fire to take a well looking lad or girl and show them the gift of the Lord of Light's lust. In fact most of their most furious converts began as such, partners of the Red Priests. It was why the younger men and woman seemed to flock to the faith much easier than the older. Linus loved the way Tywin's brown hair shined in the small light that broke into his shield.

Tywin smirked, before clearing his throat and quickly standing, looking at the small number of Lords at his table, *ahem* My lords, I do believe it is time to turn in, as we cannot become to drunk, lest the good Lord Banefort take another tumble from his horse,", the lords chuckled lightly, though got the message and began to shuffle out, he then turned to Lady Yronwood, "My lady, I do believe Linus wishes to... continue our conversation of the teachings of the Red God, my men have prepared a fine tent for you, and Ser Payne shall escort you there.", he gestured to the Kingsguard who had been standing silently by the tent flap, who stepped forward at his name.

Lady Yronwood grinned wickedly and nodded politely following the Knight indicated with her Handmaiden and her entourage. The rest of the Dornish followed her out to get some sleep as well while Linus just stood beside his chair, the twenty-five year old not looking a day over 17. He stared at the Kingsguard that escorted Yronwood out and in his mind something warned him and Linus mumbled the words as the man left. He would watch that one closely on the road ahead. He didn't trust him and neither did the Lord of Light and those that R'hlorr didn't like tended to get burned to a crisp. Linus ignored it for now and instead wrapped his arms around Tywin pressing against his back and letting his warmth, a much more soothing and sensual warmth than most men begin creeping into Tywin's tunic. They were alone but still, this wasn't the place so Linus didn't get to carried away.

Tywin felt Linus wrap his arms around him from behind, feeling a sort of warmth like never before seeping through his tunic, he slowly put his glass on the table and turned to face Linus, his face radiating like light, "So... I suppose the lesson starts now...", he smirked, and fade to black.

Meanwhile, Ser Payne walked alongside the Lady Yronwood... he was stoic, and unspeaking until they reached her tent, at which time he removed his helmet, turning to the Dornish woman, his face a mask of calm, "Fire may burn bright, but it is just as deadly to those it warms... a broken chain and a head of white accompany all.", with his strange words, Payne returned his helmet to his head, and marched away from the tent, though not back to the Princes.

Elise looked at him quite strangely as he spoke and mumbled the Lord of Light's prayer under her breath. Something was off with that man and she wondered if he was all quite right. Of course everyone knew of the Payne's legacy and Ser Ilyn, the King's Justice was a well known Payne. She shivered slightly until a warmth hit her and she smiled. The Lord of Light was stronger than the darkness. ..

Lord Commander Harys Royce looked over the small island he had been stuck on, it was mostly beach, with a cave of yellow rock in the middle upon a hill, where Drogon's lair was. He'd been here for almost a week now, though he certainly wasn't keeping count... actually... He turned to his right, and yelled into the cave.
"Footly, it's been a week hasn't it!?" He yelled in his commanding tone.
"Yes Ser Royce!" The man yelled back, his thick chest allowing his voice to boom out of the cave, scaring a few birds down the hill. Harys laughed, chuckling as a babe would, though he soon turned cold, he still had no news of Mallister, he was probably dead, pirates or something, only the gods know now. Mallister was like a son to him, he had been Harys' squire, Harys knighted him himself, the proudest day of his life, the two were near inseparable, and Mallister gave up his home, and his abusive father, to join the kingsguard. Mallister had been one of their best, not as good as Footly, but better than Snow. He smiled, remembering their time under Aegon, it had been nothing more than fun times and rebellions then, it was better times. Harys thought of Mallister one more time, than turned back over the island, losing himself in thought about the next thing.

The wind picked up, and he felt his white cloak being pushed to the left, he turned to fix it, grappling with it and pushing against the wind, eventually he managed to hold it down, he smiled to himself, wondering how foolish he looked, before looking up, where the cape had gone, to see a ship sailing for the island. Harys frowned, letting go of the cape, and running back into the cave.

He skidded to a stop, the rest of the kingsguard sitting around a fire, behind them, Drogon and Aerys, the boy shared a bond with his father's Dragon, and the Dragon was known to roar at the kingsguard when they got too close to the boy, that didn't stop him from being dissident however, and it took Aerys re-training him in order for the dragon to finally come to heel. The guards looked at him, their white armor shining a shade of yellow in the fire.
"Someone's landing on the island." Dayne threw himself to his feet, purple eyes glaring at Harys.
"No! There's no way!" Harys looked down and shook his head.
"I'm afraid so, Ser Dayne, looks like we're having guests." Snow chuckled, the noise of a madman coming from one of the softest men in the Seven.
"Then, I guess we'll offer them asylum." He looked up from playing with his knife, smiling at Harys. His square jaw contrasting with his thin frame. Harys looked at Aerys, the young lad had already began to look like his father, handsome, but with haunting eyes that Harys couldn't look too hard at, though the lad had started to bulk up heavily, the Baratheon blood ran in his veins.
"Stay with Drogon, he's the best guard you have, if we fall, he's our last chance." Drogon growled softly, almost in agreement. Aerys nodded, a look of worry on his face.
"Be safe Ser Harys, you promised to knight me when this was done." Harys smiled, and walked over to the lad, messing up his white hair.
"Don't worry lad, we'll be home before you know it." Aerys grinned up at the man, though his worry was visible in his face, his smile near pained no matter how sincere it looked.

The rest of the guard stood up, the last to stand was Florent, who handed Aerys a chunk of his cloak.
"If I don't make it, remember me by it." Florent was the second youngest of the guard after Mallister, and definitely the most emotional, his heart as big as his ears. He was the most attached to Aerys out of all of them, often handing the young king flowers and the such, he was an honorable man, a Florian-type in his youth, he claimed that he made the eight at fifteen, though no one believed him.

Harys met with the full group at the entrance to the cave, and began to descend the hill, as they walked, Dayne began to sing of the War of Five Kings, the love of Petyr Baelish for Catelyn Tully, and how it was shattered. It was a sad song, normally accompanied by lute, but could be sung just as well. Harys didn't know the words, he knew around half, the line about Brandon Stark nearly killing Baelish always broke his heart, no matter the man's morals, he didn't deserve to have his love torn away like that.

Eventually, after a bit of walking, and a bit of singing from the rest of the group, quiet went over the walk, and Dayne finally settled, say what you will, he's greedy, he's prideful, but no matter what, Dayne had a heart, and that heart was filled with song.

The men reached a small lip of rock which led to beach, and stood upon it, swords drawn. The beach was very nice, calm waters, yellow sand, if it wasn't for the smell of feces coming from the ship, it'd be damn near beautiful. Looking out onto the beach, Harys saw seven men in black cloaks climbing out of the ship.

"Crows?" Queried Snow.
"No, Daenys' men."

---

Daenys awoke with a start, bumping his head on the stone wall behind him, it certainly didn't help the immense headache and sense of dizziness he awoke with.

It was dark, incredibly dark, he couldn't see his hand in front of his face, not that he didn't try.

Daenys attempted to push himself to his feet, but instead thumped right back down, he was unable to balance himself for some reason, and every time he tried to think, immense pain racked his head, so, he lay down, and fell to sleep.

When he awoke, his head, while aching, was nowhere near as bad, and he was finally able to think. Where was he first of all? He thought for a moment, deciding to try something, he shook his right foot, the sound of chains echoed around the room. Small enough for an echo, so this was a small room, a shack of some kind? He shook his foot again, and again the noise of chains, this time, he aimed to kick at the wall. It made a soft thumping, stone. He continued to think, where could he be? This time, he tried to move his left arm, only for it to not move. He tried again. Why wasn't this working? He moved his hand in front of his face didn't he? And why did his legs make the noise of chain every time he kicked? He tried again, and again.

Eventually after a few hours of trying, he realized that this wouldn't work, and tried to think of another option, except this time, all he could think of was Garland, he hated Garland now. The bastard, why did he say those things? Why did he black out just after Garland grabbed his head? He thought he was finally going to get that showing of affection he so desired from the man, but all he got was blackness and pain, had Garland drugged him? Given him too much wine as to make him forget? The bastard! Daenys hated wine! Daenys moved to angrily punch the ground as he usually did when he was mad, only to realize, yet again, that he was chained to the wal- CHAINED TO THE WALL?! He was in a cell! Garland had done this! The bastard had kidnapped him! He was a diplomat damnit! It was a peaceful mission! Well maybe not, but he was doing right by him! He was foolish, a moron! He would bring house Tyrell to it's knees! He had to stop him, he had to!

Daenys again tried to move, but turned to screaming.
"GARLAND!" He yelled, drying his throat as he did.
"I AM DOING THE RIGHT THING GARLAND! FREE ME!"
"I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME GARLAND!"
"I HATE YOU! YOU INFRINGER OF GUEST RIGHT! YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN A FREY!"

And like that he screamed, for hours and hours, up until his voice gave out, and then long after.

---

"We are diplomats Ser Royce." The thin one said, bald and skeletal, like a snake.
"Like hell you are, you're the ones who killed Mallister!"
"Daenys killed Mallister, we were only there to protect.
"So you admit you watched my brother die?"
"I wasn't asked, I didn't have a choi-"
"You did nothing while my brother died! And now, you will pay your debts to him, you will pay your debts to The Stranger!" Royce crouched into a fighting stance.
"There's only five of you, Royce, there's seven of us!" Said the largest one, In a tone of pity. Fat and with a red beard, he looked like he could eat the rest of 'em and still have room for more. The thin one turned to him;
"Calm Seaworth, if they want a fight, a fight's what they'll get, Paterick! Seaworth! Take Dayne! Massey! Take Florent! Umber! Farwynd! Take Snow! Westerling! Take Footly! I'll handle Royce."

The rest of the black kingsguard yelled 'Aye!' and ran past Royce, sounds of swords ringing out behind him. The thin man circled Harys, his sword in one hand, pointed towards the sand. Near instantly, Florent drove his sword through Massey, pulling it loose and swinging towards Seaworth. The thin man looked towards this. Immediately Harys capitalized, swinging towards his left while stepping forwards on his right foot. The thin man parried easily, driving the sword up into the air, and following up with a speedy thrust. The man was thin, but he was stronger than any of Harys' own men. Harys threw himself to the right, slipping in the sand and landing on his back. He quickly rolled through, his cape going over his head, but then being cut in half, one portion of the cape falling away to reveal the thin man preparing for a backhand swing. Royce threw himself into a kneel, catching the rightwards blade, and pushing it away. The thin man continued advancing, an infuriated assault, horizontal swings and thrusts, Harys was driven further and further back, with each blow getting closer and closer to breaking his guard. He felt his movement stop, and his back collided with something hard, he glimpsed to the side, to see rock. It was now or never. Harys entered low guard, the opponent swinging high, a highly telegraphed swing. Harys capitalized, leaping forth, and swinging with all his might. He fell to a kneel, his sword in his right hand touching the sand. He heard the thump which signified that it had worked.

Harys took many deep breaths, no noise seemed to enter his ears, the pure speed of battle overcoming any thought he might have had. Before he looked up, to see three white cloaks standing tall, over a pile of black, with a single white cloak laying bloodied on the sand.

Harys gasped, dropping his blade and running to where the man laid, rolling him off of his back, and cradling his head in his hands. It was Snow, his throat still with a dagger stuck in it, his eyes gazing off somewhere he didn't know, his mouth open but eyebrows lowered, how he looked when they were just talking. Harys' hand shook, as it did, so did the body. He grasped it tightly, embracing it as a mother would an infant. Harys wept then, his adopted brother laying dead in his arms.

Surely there would have been a number of people aware of his presence here, in Old Town. Every city had their share of spies, lookouts. Hurrying through the alleyway, having gotten this new pair of boots back on, these gold and green clothes of the Reach was a lot lighter…thinner, which was probably for the best, with regard to this warmer weather. There was…wonder, as to what sort of mention would have been attached to his name, at this point. First night in the Reach, bedded two tavern wenches, and woke up tied up with no clothes, no coin…and the falcon, the bloody falcon gone! Had half a mind to leave and return to the Vale, having failed dishonourably and all that. Sorry lord paramount Ellion Arryn, but someone else wanted your bloody bird and my britches, and happened to get lucky. Why doesn’t he just sit on a fucking egg for a month and see if he can’t hatch another. Fuck all that.

But his job wasn’t done at just that. No…it wasn’t. Making his way around again, the directions were just as vague as this quest, but he was going to find the bloody place. His uncle, Maester Sringer, had wanted him to check in with some of the trade hereto carry over the case of candles to a certain maester…the same maester he was supposed to bring the bird to. The bird, if Arryn was right, might have very well been a lost cause. But, during part of the explanation of his task, he had become certain that the man had bloody well lost it. This escort mission of a sky rat, to him, seemed nothing short of alleviate the man’s fears and paranoi—and more than half way to the Reach, this debacle over a throne that was allegedly painful to sit on. Should chucked these, hidden himself in the hills, wait for a good amount of time for all this to blow over, and then return to with the ‘robbed by mountain clansmen’ ‘barely escaped with my life’. Of course, that wouldn’t be possible, either…

Coming out from an alleyway, just after catching right of a funny looking man stood off to the side as if acting sentinel, Brendan grimaced at this nth turn around before making his way back to the other half of this adventuring party. The man in his armour and furs, jogging back over impressively. By the seven kingdoms, how did the man not burn alive in his plates?! This not-hedge knight, who claimed to be of a dead noble house of the north…it felt like a death mission, he didn’t particularly feel like he could trust the man, and he didn’t seem smart enough to lessen his armour. Sure, he didn’t lose a portion of his coin, or the clothes on his back…

“W-well m-m…et, g-g-g-good to s-s…ee you ha-hav…en’t run off, Ser Fo-Fo-Forrrrrrrrra…sterrr. Forrester.” Nodding at the other grown man, giving the man a rather sarcastic thumbs up, grinned at Ser Illifer Forrester when he noticed the slight look of impatience. Taking the yellowed map he had borrowed from the man, and holding it up for his companion to see, “Th-the mmmmmap is wr-wrr…ong.”

The armoured man motioned at the map, “Maybe you have it upside down…sideways, again?”

Narrowing his eyes at with scrutiny, then carefully unfolding the map…then turning it…

“W-well, shit.”



Letting out a low whistle, the various birds of prey swopped down from the high perches of the high hall, out through the moon door. One by one, till only the one on his arm remained. Gesturing, he lifted himself off of the throne. Descending the stairs, the Moon door shut soundly to his left…he felt it shut, the fresh breeze choked off in an instant, and the air of the room staling instead. The smaller windows didn’t let as much draftiness through, but there was much of a difference to him. It was already beginning to darken dramatically outside, night fall crept up on him. All the matters of the Vale had been attended to hours before the small feast, and now, to the matter of this unopened letter. Turning his head down, his gaze flicked to the bird on his arm, before rising to his sister whose presence had always been. Arecel stood in the shadows at the end of the hall, her arms crossed over her chest as she spoke privately with the Maester. Noticing his approach to the door, her voice lowered to a hush, though she did nod curtly at him as he passed through. The door creaked heavily on its hinges behind him, before they were shut. She would speak to him later.

Without further delay, Ellion continued on. Instead of his room, or even the rookery, down the hall down a flight of stairs, and making his way around, candles were being lit as he made his way to the garden. It was cool enough, nothing had frosted or frozen over yet, there was a peculiarity, though. The weir wood tree sat in the middle of the garden, and sitting beside it was yet another valley pumpkin, a face carved in it's orange skin and flesh. The person who carved this face wasn't any good, from the jagged mouth and stiffly shaped eyes. This odd bit of interest was enough to amuse him, though this too passed. Making his way cross to sit on the cool, stone bench, still towering over the child lighting the candle of the lantern beside him, he waited for the servant to finish the job and leave, before reaching for the letter attached to the peregrine’s leg.

After a moment of reading and mulling over the contents, he released the bird to go off on its own, felt the bird push off of his arm with an admirable amount of power and weight. The Young Rose was not being unreasonable…though much seemed like plain flattery, it was not mindless. Tyrell’s interest in falconry was well enough known, genuine. Turning and finding a servant where he had been expecting one to wait on him, he beckoned them forward with two fingers. Crossing the stone of the garden and coming to stand before him, the girl had to be in her midteens, waifish in a dress that seemed to have more color in it that the person who wore it. Before she could ask, “Go to the rookery. Bring me parchment, ink, and a quill. Go.”

Tyget sat, reading the myriad of letters on his desk. Most were from ships, fleets, mercenary companies, pirates and slavers agreeing to muster at Lannisport as he asked, offering gold and the right to pillage the lands they would soon be raiding. He wanted the Iron born to feel exactly what it meant to be on the recieving end of their 'Iron price', and he would burn lord Greyjoy alive... for no other reason than he wondered how the drowned god thought about burnt corpses. Regardless, none of it mattered in the end as the most important letter had yet to arrive... the alchemists had yet to send their response to his inquiry on wildfire, which he was going to need in order to succeed against the huge Kraken fleet. he rested his elbows on the table, cracked his neck, and rested his head in his hands, he was understandably stressed.

The sound of screaming outside his chambers force Tyget back to reality, he shot his head up, looking around his room, before standing, he yelled out, trying to understand what in seven hells was going on.
"Who's there?" No response came. He called for his kingsguard, again no response. Was Gerald playing at something? Was someone being assassinated? Whatever the case, Tyget didn't like his odds. Grabbing Widow's Wail, he opened his door slowly, scanning the hall, there was no one present, not even his kingsguard, Tyget cursed them under his breath, then walked towards the stairs, he'd have to go see Gerald, maybe he was doing something stupid, or maybe he heard the noises as well.

Tyget opened the door to Gerald's chambers slowly, not even knocking. What he saw... well, he had no clue what to make of it. Gerald knelt on the floor, a red cloth worn as a sash over his usual wear, he was in a praying posture, hands together and head down, and in front of him was a burning fire, a human body visible within.

Tyget's eyes widened at the sight, the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose, he coughed lightly and looked at his brother praying to the burning man, for a moment unable to form words at the spectacle before him, before he gulped loudly and spoke to his brother, "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?", he would look down the hallway, and seeing no one he closed the door behind him, placing one hand on the hilt of Widow's wail and staring intently at his brother, "Who is that? And why the hell are you burning them in my castle?", he couldn't take his eyes off the pyre or his brother, rapidly switching between the two.

Gerald continued his prayer, a low droning noise, speaking in multiple languages, one of which, Tyget could identify as High Valyrian.
"Daery Halleys, Kinron Deareo!" He yelled, spreading his arms and leaning back as he did. From what Tyget could understand, it was High Valyrian for... some nonsensical sentance that didn't even sound like the common tounge, 'Righteous Purge, Usurper Dead' or some nonsense to that effect. He then yelled out in common, even louder than before.
"For the night is dark, and full of terrors!" The fire then crackled loudly, and the flaming head of the body rolled off of the corpse to Gerald's knees, before burning out. Gerald placed his hands on his thighs and then chuckled.
"That's never happened before." He then moved to one knee, pushing himself to a stand, turning to his brother with the same amicable smile that he usually took.

"You know, it's polite to knock." He said, chuckling a little as he did. Then his smile disappeared and he crossed his arms.
"I'm offering up a sacrifice, he is a prisoner, trial complete, about to be sent to the wall, I thought he'd be of more use as a sacrifice, to empower the Lord of Light's abilities. And finally, I'm burning them in your castle, because it makes it easier to hide it, if I burned them outside, then half the smallfolk in the Westerlands would know." He walked over to the corpse, holding out a hand, as he did, the flames slowly died, though Gerald visibly twitched as he did so. He turned back to his brother, chin up, and eyes intense.
"Are your questions answered?"

Tyget slowly relaxed his grip on Widow's Wail and raised an eyebrow at his brother, "You're a follower of the Lord of Light? You managed to come across a Red priest all the way up north and they converted you?", he let go of his blade and stalked over to the burnt corpse, amazed at how quickly the flames had faded at Gerald's touch. He wheeled around, looking his brother in the eyes.
"Or is it something else? You said you were sacrificing him to 'empower the Lord of Light's abilities'... what in Seven Hells do you mean by that? Burning this unlucky bastard... what, grants you sorcerous powers?", his eyes narrowed, he was now unsure if he had mistakenly brought a mad fanatic obsessed with burning people alive into his keep, with no Red Priest to leash him.

Gerald held his mouth open for a second, before his face visibly brightened, and he walked over to his table, gripping a knife from off of it. He walked past Tyget, quickly, not slowing down at all dispite the small quarters.
"I was a mercenary in Essos, you're eventually gonna find a Red Priest there, they talked of 'Saving the West from the dangers up North', I thought it a bunch of nonsense, the Crone gave me wisdom enough to see through their lies." He grabbed his sword from near the door, pulling it out of it's sheath and laying it before him, looking his brother in the eyes.
"But, you know how it goes, a dying man prays to any god that he thinks would help." His face turned very cold, a frown that Tywin Lannister would be proud of.
"I prayed to the Seven for days, all I got was pain and suffering. A mummer's farce of worthless prayers wasted on some god who doesn't exist. I prayed to the Drowned god, hoping that he'd bring me an Ironborn with magic powers, or a giant squid man. Nothing. I prayed to all of them, and I got nothing in return."
He put the daggar on the palm of his hand, his fingers splayed, but still pointing at Tyget.
"Then I prayed to the Lord of Light, he brought me a healer. He at first simply prayed over me, and I felt like it was worthless, I was dying damnit! Do something! And then... I died. I died then, and then I awoke again, the red priest standing over me. He told me of one of R'hllor's priests, his most powerful, resting on the wall. So I went, and I prayed at her tomb. I saw visions in the fire. But it still wasn't enough for me, I was firmly on their side, but nothing to make me pray for them more than when I was dying. Then I went ranging, got cut, and..." He pulled the daggar over his palm, blood leaving through scarred skin, he closed the hand, and a single drop of blood landed on his sword. It burst into flames.
"That happened." He picked up the flaming blade, and placed it in it's sheath, which didn't burn, he then placed the sword back where it had been. He turned back to Tyget, his face neutral.

"Any other questions?"

Tyget had placed his hand back on his blade as Gerald had taken up his dagger and blade, but had listened intently... then he heard it... so... a priest could bring you back... back from death. He was about to speak when Gerald drew the dagger across his hand, and ignited his sword with his blood. Tyget had jumped back then, surprised by the suddenly aflame sword. He stared in awe as it burned, seemingly from nothing, before Gerald extinguished it... for a few moments Tyget sat, his face in a neutral look, but his eyes in shock.
He looked to his brother, "You're a red priest? A servant of R'hllor? And... he grants you... that? You were brought back from death?", for a few moments Tyget stood, releasing his grip on his blade, before his rasping laugh escaped his lips. He had to lean back on a table for support as he laughed, then looked back to his brother, "Brother, you have no idea how long I have waited for a Red Priest, and now it appears the 'One true god' has seen it fit to provide me with one. *Rasping chuckle*, ah, come brother, we have much to discuss now.", Tyget opened the door and found a servant there, eyes wide, Tyget jerked his thumb back to the headless and burned corpse behind him, "See to it that that corpse is removed from here immediately. If you tell no one, I'll pay you and any who help you 30 silver each, and if I discover you have talked regardless, I shall burn you like that poor bastard.", the servant nodded, and moved into the room, as Tyget gestured for Gerald to follow him as he began wlaking down the hall.
They would walk for a short time, until they were in the Castle garden, where Tyget looked at his brother and stopped, "So, a sorcerer now eh? Quite a step up from a regular crow. How did you learn all this... magic?", his face was not accusing or judging, simply interested.

Gerald looked around the gardens as Tyget talked, his body still looking at him, but his eyes elsewhere, he looked back at his brother and smirked.
"I am no sorcerer, I am simply a devoted follower of the Lord of Light, and this 'magic', is only his blessings, and those are only due to my belief in the great bringer of light, with sacrifice, I can do much more, though I found it easier on the wall, some magic bullshit that Brandon the Builder put into it." He spit at the ground, wiping off his face with his other hand.
"It took a while to gain access to these miracles, the 'lightbringer' miracle, was, as I said, an accident, while control of fire had to be learned, it took a while, and my hand still bears the scars from some of my burns, but eventually, with enough faith, I was able to, though I'm not at the level of throwing fire from my hands yet." He scratched his beard, stray hair follicles falling from it.
"I still haven't done Dondarrion's kiss yet, that one is apparently for the truly faithful. Apparently I'm not yet." He blew out through his lips.
"Whatever the case, The Walkers seemed to fear me when I came upon one, he burned real nice, just like his pack of human dogs." He looked to his right, then walked over in that direction, picking a flower and looking it over.

Tyget listened as Gerald spoke, as he watched him move to pick up one of the many flowers in the garden and inspect it. He mulled over thie information a bit before walking to his side,"Sorcery, spells... miracles I suppose, and the Lord of Light gives them to you... so this 'Donarrion's kiss' is the one the priest used to brinng you back to life? ... so it is true... amazing... certainly more than I've ever seen the Seven do. Tell me Gerald, how does one... begin to worship this Lord of Light? I watched you turn a blade to flame, and douse a burning man... truly this Lord of Light is... powerful... I wish to ally myself with Dorn, and such a thing could help. How do I enter his worship?", he looked down at Gerald, intently watchiing his priest brother.

Gerald continued examining the flower as he listened, looking to the sky as he heard Tyget's words. Upon hearing his brother's query, he laughed to himself, turning and putting a hand upon his brother's shoulder.
"You cannot become an initiate for want of power brother, in order to gain the Lord's blessing, you must truly believe, truly and entirely. You must devote a portion of your mind to praising him, only then, can you gain the Lord's favor." He turned away, grasping the flower to his chest, he then dropped it, leaving it on the ground. He then turned to Tyget, a hand running through his beard.

"Well, I guess you could aid me in a ritual, perhaps that may gain R'hllor's favor." He turned away, placing his knife upon the ground. He looked at his brother with a smile.
"Place Widow's Wail next to my knife, only then can the ceremony begin." He gestured for his brother to approach.

Tyget scowled slightly as Gerald explained that the Lord of Light required more than a wish for power, before he asked him to place Widow's Wail next to his own blade. Though Tyget gave an incredulous look, he wanted the support of the red church. So he drew the Valyrian steel blade, observing the rivulets of black and red running down the blade, before carefully placing it next to the dagger. He stood and looked at Gerald, his look asking, "Alright priest, what next?"

Gerald smiled, he seemed to actually be surprised by the fact that his brother had actually gone through with it.
"Good, now, kneel before the sword, as I will to the knife." He said, slowly descending into a kneel, beckoning his brother to do the same.

Tyget, still apprehensive slowly followed Geralds example, uncertain of what this ceremony entailed or what he had gotten himself into. As he kneeled he watched Gerald closely, waiting for further instruction.

Gerald nodded, he grabbed the knife, placing it to his hand, slicing it open again. He looked over at Tyget, eyes closed and a look of tranquility on his face.
"Your turn, don't use the sword, if you cut yourself with that, you may cut right through." He then handed the knife to Tyget, nodding silently, beckoning him to take it.

Tyget took the blade, still covered in his brothers blood. He held it to his hand, but hesitated... he had long heard tales of blood magic in the east, and of its ill effects... he ground his teeth, deciding the pain was worth it and slit his own hand oped, whincing slightly at the pain, looking at Gerald now more than a little angry, but saying nothing.

Gerald held his hand out over the Valyrian blade, it burst into flames as his sword did earlier.
"Hopefully, if I did this right, the flame should turn blue, like the sword was made of ironwood, so, do that." He pulled his hand back, nursing it. He held his other hand out over the blade.
"I'll try to help as best I can, but this will be mostly you." He explained.

Tyget stared at the flame on the blade... it was strange for some reason... shadows danced in the flame... but he obeyed, and held his hand above the blade in a fist, squeezing blood for the open wound

The blade burst out in chaotic blue flame, rings of blue flame extending from each side, the ground below the sword blackening. Gerald cringed, twitching as he attempted to contain the flame.
"Well, there's the power in Nggh... kingsblood... It's a lot harder to... control... you may... want to... pick it up..." He said, his body shaking more and more with every passing second.

Unlike Gerald, Tyget had not flinched, he had watched as the blade burst out blue, the fire now raging and chaotic and... powerful. Power in Kingsblood... and his caused the flame to fight the priest who spawned it... Tyget snatched the blade up by its hilt, raising it above his head, marvelling at powerful blue flames, he said nothing but stood, wishing to swing his flaming blade.

Gerald looked on, as Tyget marvelled at the blade, like a child with a new toy. He seemed awestruck, but Gerald could tell by his grip on the blade that he wanted to try it out. Gerald laughed loudly, the flame continuing to bite the air, with Tyget's hands shaking out of his control. He was having trouble holding it, but he was doing better than Gerald would have, was this a good sign? He assumed so, though that was a big assumption to make.
"Go ahead, give it a swing." Gerald said, standing and cracking his neck.

Tyget felt the blade... fighting him, tugging hard against his grasp. He fought it back, and upon Geralds request, he swung the blade, going through several of his trained sword strikes, fighting the ghost opponent he always did when training with no target. As he swung the blade was easier to hold, but still seemed to rail against his will. He eventually stopped, panting from both controlling the blade and using it, looking to Gerald, "Brother... what does all this mean?", the excitement from the ceremony still in his eyes, the eyes of a much younger man.

Gerald grinned at his brother playing like a kid, he was always so mature, and to see someone near fifty years playing around like a young child. Then he finally finished throwing his sword around, he stopped to gasp, asking Gerald what was happening.
"It means you have kingsblood, it makes my rituals work better, and apparently, lets you control my abilities better." He chuckled at his brother's sudden change in temprement.

Gerald walked over to Tyget, placing his hand near the blade, and the flame slowly dissipated, though it caused Gerald physical pain, he cringed, grinding his teeth together as his whole body convulsed. The flame finally died down, leaving a valyrian blade, just like usual, but Gerald was now incredibly tired.
"God that hurt, what in the name of The Lord of Light...?" His hands continued to spasm, he held his wrists, but it continued. He grimaced.
"I should be fine, but... dear R'hllor that burned."

Watching as Gerald doused the flames on his blade, and then convulsed with pain. As the blade no longer fought him Tyget turned to his brother, putting the blade in its sheath, and placing a hand on his shoulder, a look of concern on his face. He listened, and nodded but gave a questioning look, "You're surprised?", he snickered lightly, "Perhaps the blood of all kings is not made equal... I certainly never heard of Stannis Baratheon's Lightbringer bring blue flame... or any for that matter. Nor did I hear it pained the lady Melisandre. Must be a good sign eh?", he looked at his brother, attempting to do what he did and make light of the situation.

Gerald frowned, his brother thinking that he had achieved something past lightbringer. He continued massaging his wrist, his hands still lightly trembling.
"Well, first, you're wrong. Second, Lightbringer is much more powerful than that ritual. Third, Melisandre was a sorceror, so she could control her rituals much easier. If you had Lightbringer, it would be much harder to control, the only reason Stannis was even able to hold it, was because he had months and months of training." He walked over to his brother, placing his dagger back onto the ground.
"We could do it again and get the same result, Lightbringer couldn't be turned on and off, and they only had to do the ritual once, and even that was half as powerful as Azor Ahai's Lightbringer, if you think you're so great, kill your wife and come talk to me." He crossed his arms, a frown over his face.

Tyget frowned, clearly he'd struck a nerve with that one, hard to do with Gerald. "A pointless joke brother, won't tell it again... I've never had quite your way with humour I suppose. I understand it's not Lightbringer and no one has declared me Azor Ahai like Stannis so I doubt I'll ever have it. Now stop frowning, it does not suit you like it does me, I'll settle for a blade with blue flame, and I won't force you to pain yourself again, though doing so would make the blade easier yes?", he kneeled before Geralds dagger again, unsheathing his blade, the Valyrian steel had no sign of previously being engulfed in magical flame, he looked at Gerald, "If it will, then I'm ready to continue if you are. R'hllor is looking more and more real every second... and the Seven fade from my mind.", hopefully THAT at least would aleviate Gerald's sudden rage.

Gerald seemed pleased by Tyget's statement, apparently he had been converted, the faith had been spread, he'd succeeded in his mission, or at least, that's what it took to actually become a red priest, not an acolyte anymore.
"You really wish to do this again? I'm still bleeding, so that'll make it easier, are you bleeding?" He knelt down, and lit the blade again.

Tyget nodded, looking at his hand, "Mother always said there were two types of pain, the worthless pain...", he squeezed his wound again, wincing slightly as he did, and the blade burst into the wild blue. This time he picked it up swiftly, and moved into his dueling stance, "... and the pain that makes you stronger.", and he began to go through the motions, though now the joy of before was a mere glint in his eyes, as now he practiced to perfect himself, to be able to hold the blade until it no longer fought his will.

Gerald watched his brother practice, he smiled, then thought to himself for a second. The only real training he'd get would be in a fight, so...
"Tyget, prepare yourself!" He drew his blade, it slid across the leather, making a soft noise. He then rubbed his bleeding hand over his blade, it smeared over the flat, and then it burst into flames. His brother had less experience in a fight, but Gerald didn't have a blue-flame sword of power or something. No matter what, he'd allow his brother a little more practice with the new weapon. He ran forwards, swinging his sword towards Tyget's neck, fully prepared to hold back once he came close.

Tyget turned to see his brother charge him with his own blade, aflame in the thinner red, yellow and orange of a milder fire. The blade came for his neck and Tyget quickly parried it to his right, he may have had less true combat experience than his brother, but it did not change the fact he had been trained as a Knight by a Knight. He brought his own blade in a downward arc, a purposefully telegarphed attack to allow Gerald an easier time blocking it.

Gerald looked up at the telegraphed attack, the sword leaving a blue arc in the air as it descended. Gerald threw up his blade, but the valyrian steel bit into it, chipping his sword near in half, he groaned, pushing it to his left, and following it up with a rightwards swing, both hands on his blade.

Tyget brought his blade to block Geralds, feeling his own valyrian sword and Gerald's ordinary one clash, Gerald's ordinary blade giving even a little more. He pushed the blade back up, and telegraphed another swing at his midriff, prepared to pull should Geralds blade break against his own.

Gerald looked up to his blade as it flew up into the air, still in his right hand, it was very chipped, a further hit to it would probably chop it in half. looking back at Tyget, to see him again swinging at him. Gerald frowned, jumping backwards, the blade nearly slicing through his stomach. He decided that he wasn't going to win like this, so he crouched to the ground, setting the flower he had dropped earlier on fire, then forcing the blaze larger and larger, to the point where it was basically a wall between the two of them, allowing Gerald time to think. He thought that he might try to put more of his blood on the blade, but he doubted that that would work. He crouched, rubbing through his beard.

Tyget backed off from the wall of flame, beggining to worry about setting the garden he had spent so much gold on alight. Tricky bastard had put it up to gain space, to hell with that. He stalked on the other side, the blade fighting his grip, harder to hold without fighting, but he stood, taking his maesters advice, and waited.

Gerald continued to think, every time the flames bit out towards the garden, he prevented them from doing any real damage. Then he finally decided what to do, so he lept through the flame, stopping from the tongues of fire from touching him. He slid to a stop, using the momentum to swing from below towards Tyget's right hip.

Tyget had been ready, but even still hopping through the flames was a surprise. He only just moved out of the way, the blade skewering the air inches from his hip. Tyget pressed Gerald, bashing his blade towrds the ground with his own and swinging for his borthers neck or collar, ready to stop should he be unable to stop it.

Gerald groaned frustratedly, that was everything he had thought of, if he wanted to fight any longer he'd have to put the flame back up again to think, and he didn't want to burn any more of his brother's garden.
"Yield." He said, not yelling, but saying it loudly enough, he dropped his sword, the flames of it not burning the ground below his feet.

Tyget stopped his sword short of Gerald's collar, his hand was shaking. He drew back his blade and held his wrist to stop it, sweat poured from his brow from fighting the sword and Gerald... but it had gotten easier as the fight had progressed. He looked at his brother, "Good... *pant* but... how do I... *pant*... stop the flames..."

Gerald picked up his sword, looking at his brother having difficulty controlling the flames.
"Hold your hand to it, think of a calm stream, it may hurt, but it will eventually work, if that doesn't work, then hand it to me."

Tyget let go of his wrist, his hand shaking again. He carefully brought his left hand over the blade, a calm stream... a calm stream... it burned, hot like fire was. He grimaced, but slowly, the blue flame calmed, shrank, and eventually disappeared completely. Tyget tiredly sheathed the blade, his panting had slowed, he looked back to his brother, "Well... that is one of the most... ex-exhilaring duels I've had in a while. How... often shall we hold these bouts brother? And what else would you have me do to please the Lord of Light?"

Gerald chuckled, eventually it transitioned into a full-on laugh, he walked past him, towards the castle, the sky had brightened while they had spoke and later fought. He looked back towards Tyget, sheathing his blade.
"I don't know, just practice with the normal flames for now, it will help with control. Maybe we can practice every few days. The second one... well..." He scratched his chin.
"Burn a few prisoners, that should help." He then turned away, and walked into the castle.

Tyget watched as his brother returned inside, and looked around. Some of the ground was scorched, but other than that there was little evidence of their duel... good, less questions. Burn a few prisoners? Simple enough, and the fact that soon he imagined he'd be wielding a blade wreathed in wild blue flame as he carved through the Iron islanders filled him with joy. He to walked back inside, he needed a drink, and there was much more work to be done.

"Ready!" shouts one man, standing in front of many. The many, all dressed in blue coats, hold up metal tubes. "Aim!" The many point their tubes at another line of people, this time in red coats. "Fi-" Gris suddenly wakes up. He realizes he had fallen asleep sitting at his desk in the lab. He looks around at the acids, alchemists fire, and explosive essences all around him, and realizes with an amused grin that had he dropped his head, he wouldn't live to see tomorrow.

The door unlocks, then opens behind him. Only two people have the key to that door, and one of them was him.

"What do you want now, Alyssa?" Gris asks, slowly saying out the sentence in a tired, sarcastic voice.

"There are matters of great urgency, Gris, that you must attend to. Or have you forgotten your duty to Mother and Father?" Alyssa replied. Her voice was laced with anger and fear. "The rebels have 'liberated' another town. If you don't keep the angry populace in line, then Storm's End could be next."

"You're daddy's little commander, why don't you do it?"

"The same reason why you are Lord of the Stormlands and not I. Listen, Gris. You need to get out of the lab. The people need you now. You can't ignore them forever." Alyssa strode out of the room, leaving the door opened. Gris saw this, and quickly closed and locked it. Then, He sat down in the old chair behind his desk, and rubbed his eyes. Women.

The next few days, Gris worked tirelessly, attempting to unlock the secrets hidden away in his mind, while a few towns away, Alyssa was struggling with a line of angry civilians.

"The kingdom continues to grow restless. Every day, hundreds of citizens tire of your brother's ineffective rule, and clamor to join the rebellion, my lady," reports a battle weary general. He has quite obviously seen the horrors of war, and has no doubt felt the sting of the blade.

"I understand. I have sent appeals to the Tyrells. They are indebted to us, and if the Gods deem it, we shall see thousands of Knights of the Rose ride over the hills to flank the rebels. Until then, we cannot let the port city fall to the enemy. That would give them a clear path to Storm's End." Alyssa commanded to the general. He nodded gravely, and left to tell his men. But before leaving, he turned around one last time to say one last thing.

"We won't stand this forever. If you don't get your brother ruling properly, Westeros shall have six kingdoms."

(For the Battle Of Craster's Keep)

The wildlings had gathered quickly, under a king they called "The Walker", who apparently avoided a bowman's arrows just by walking backwards. Howland was not so sure of that notion, hold that thought. Howland thought, as he speared the throat of a wildling.

The man's eyes widened, and he struggled for breath, a splattering of blood geysering from his throat, onto Howland's face. It was warm, but it would soon freeze in this horrible cold. Howland cursed, before drawing his blade loose by slashing through one half of the man's neck. The man stood for a second, feebly trying to stop the bleeding with his hands, before falling back, his legs flailing as he died. Howland scanned the immediate area.

A small group of crows were engaging a giant, who threw them away like a babe would with their toys. To his right, another group of crows challenged a snow bear, it's movements too uniform to be natural, signifying a warg was in the area. Frantically looking for anyone vulnerable, he noticed a tightly strung ring of wildlings, surrounding what Howland assumed was the wargs. Howland frantically scanned the area, noticing a few crows that weren't occupied, though there were few, it would have to do.

"RANGERS!" Howland yelled, raising his sword to get their attention. The occupied ones continued fighting, but a few looked back, only to get an axe in the throat for their troubles. The Crakehall men mostly lay dead on the field, rushing out too soon in their eagerness, most being brutally maimed by the numerous enemy. Those that survived fled North, probably to be killed by Others. So what they had left was either veterans or green bloods, so old infirmity and youthful incompetence, just what Howland wanted.

"WITH ME!" He yelled, using his "Lord's voice" that his father had him perfect, allowing him to yell, heard, across the battlefield. He pointed his sword towards the concentration of wildlings, then dropping the tip towards the ground and running forwards.

He heard a soft "Aye." ring out amongst the noise of blades and death, and the stomping footprints of other crows filled his ears. He continued running forth, in front of him, one of the wildlings raised his spear, pointing it directly at Howland's head, a foolish move, as he could easily just duck under the thrust, as he did, stopping for a second, and swinging his blade into the man's leg, severing it at the knee and sending him sprawling.

He turned, to see a group of men kneeling, eyes rolled back, heads tilted up towards the sky. He heard the crows that had followed him engage the guards, allowing him the chance to simply kill the wargs. He walked forwards at a brisk pace, chopping off head after head of the defenseless wargs. Hopefully that would lead to their animals stopping, though he didn't quite understand this whole warg thing. As he chopped off the last head, he heard a guttural growling behind him.

Howland turned to see the snowbear staring him right in the face, blood from it's previous kills dripping from it's mouth. It stood on it's hind legs, and roared, a noise of pure hate, directed right at him.

Howland yelled, turning and running, they're too big to keep up with a human right?

He felt his legs come out from under him, a stinging pain going up and down his left one.

That'd be no then.

Howland slammed back first into the snow, and the snowbear proceeded to lumber forwards, just as it about reached him, Unfrey leapt onto the beast's back, the shadowcat biting into the scruff of the beast's neck. As the bear threw it's body violently, attempting to remove the beast from his back, Howland moved into a sit, he nearly fell, using the twisting motion from his fall to telagraph his next right handed thrust. He thrusted forth, and his blade speared through the bear's right eye, Howland looked at it for a second, before yelling and pushing the blade in deeper. The bear collapsed in a heap of fat and white fur.

Howland pushed himself away from the corpse, his blade still lodged in the beast's eye, as he did, he left a trail of smearing blood from his injured leg. Howland cursed to himself, before pushing into a crablike posture, and then into a stand, hopping in place for a second, just to keep his balance. Unfrey walked over, growling under it's breath, but that was just how it sounded when a shadowcat purred. Howland raised a hand, tiling his head and closing his eyes.
"I'm fine, I can still fight." He gasped, still barely aware that he had won.

Howland scanned the battlefield, most of the wildlings were dead or had fled, though the Watch had taken casualties as well, the entire detachment of Westerman soldiers had routed, probably to certain death, many of the new recruits were injured or counted amongst the many bloody corpses littering the snowy ground, white flakes falling over their eyes, forever open.

Howland was afraid however, he could not see the Lord Commander, who had been by his side at the start, back when they had horses, funny how long they lasted.

A ranger ran up to him, his face one of fear and surprise.
"Lord Commander Tyron followed the Westerman, he's trying to bring them back!" Howland's eyes opened wide, then shut again, as a foul taste entered his mouth.
"Maegor's teats, we have to follow him, he's running into a trap!" The ranger nodded, running over to the rest and gathering them, immediately, Howland set off in the direction of the Westermen.

A few minutes later, Howland heard the noise of steel hitting steel. Moving to a brisk walk, Howland saw Tyron behind a patch of trees, fighting off three wildling spearwives, one lying dead at his feet. He swung towards one, only for the other to stab through his back, he turned around on his heels, slashing across her face, only for another spearwife to impale him, left hip to right shoulder.

Howland's heart dropped so hard he nearly felt it melting the snow below his feet.

"TYRON!" He yelled out, running forwards as he did, his mind running faster than a Targaryen after his sister revealed she was pregnant. He ran towards the impaler, who grabbed a new spear from her back, readying it, only for Unfrey to pounce on her from the left, beginning to maul her brutally, one of her hands flying out towards Howland. The other spearwife moved to attack the cat, only for Howland to run her through at full sprint, throwing her off of his sword, and leaving a crescent of blood in the air.

(For Tyron dying)

He turned back to Tyron, who laid on the ground, the spear brutally impaling him, a lake of blood surrounding him. Howland's face went white, and his wound began to ache again, he hobbled over, kneeling before Tyron, who looked at him, the color in his face completely drained.
"...Ly...man..." And then he let out one last breath, and died, his head slowly falling back, into the snow.

Howland didn't know what to do, the Lord Commander was dead, he just knelt, for about an hour before one of the rangers finally spoke up.
"We should bring the body back... It's what he would have wanted." Howland nodded, holding an arm out, allowing for one of the rangers to aid him to his feet.
"Then we shall..." Howland said, shakily.

Tyron Lannister's body was burned on the morrow, upon a pyre of any wood they could get their hands on, a bit of ironwood mixed in made the fire glow a strange mixture of orange and blue, as Tyron's body laid, hands on his chest, gripping a broken sword because they couldn't afford to lose an intact one.

And with that, Howland Forrester was elected Lord Commander.

"And thus his watch... has ended."